The Baipehi danced around one big fire. A jig of victory. The big silver moon and the tiny silver stars reflected the red and yellow flames against the clear night sky. The Baipehi: those who had placed themselves. During the day, they had marched with pieces of rusty corrugated-iron, cardboard boxes and plastic sheets, and had allocated themselves a vacant piece of land on the outskirts of Mahlatswetsa Location. They had constructed a number of shacks, about fifty or so, establishing instant homes. Tonight more than a hundred men, women and children were celebrating with songs and dances around the winter fire. Singing and dancing to a lone guitar.
The establishment of this squatter camp had caused bitter divisions among members of the Movement. Viliki, His Worship the Mayor of Excelsior, was greatly exercised by the Baipehi. They had no right to divide among themselves chunks of council land and to build shacks on it. His council was housing the citizens of Excelsior in an orderly manner. New houses were being built every day — Reconstruction and Development Programme houses to which every family was entitled. Yes, there was a long waiting list. A backlog of a hundred names. But no one had the right to take the law into their own hands and set up shacks, which marred the landscape of Mahlatswetsa Location. For a long time, the township had prided itself as one of the very few in South Africa that did not have an eyesore of a shanty town attached to it. And if Viliki had anything to do with it, it would stay that way.
The activities of the impatient Baipehi had generated heated debates in the council chamber. At first, Popi had argued that people should be given the power to do things for themselves rather than have the government build houses for them. The Baipehi had taken the initiative in the correct self-help direction. She never forgot to remind the honourable members that she had refused an RDP house, and was slowly building herself and Niki a big house of their own. A mansion with many rooms. It had not progressed much in the last three years. It was only waist-high. But she was confident that one day she and Niki would live in it. The rusty shack that needed to be patched with anthill mud every other week would not be their home forever.
Sekatle — the rich businessman who had now purchased a big house in town only two houses from Adam de Vries’s English bungalow — adopted the Baipehi and made himself their spokesman. He drove around the new settlement in his new Mercedes-Benz, making fiery speeches through a hand-held megaphone. He assured those who gathered around his car that the Movement would stand with them. The Movement had fought for liberation so that people could have roofs over their heads and bread and butter on their tables. The Movement would see to it that they were given title to the land they had already allocated themselves. The Movement would give them water and electricity and paved streets. The Movement. The Movement.
The destitute were given hope. Here was a man who stood with the people, even though he himself was so wealthy. A man who never forgot his humble origins. A man who had transformed Maria’s RDP house into a gleaming palace. If he looked after his sister so well, surely he would look after the interests of his destitute brethren and sistren just as effectively.
But the members of the Movement in the council did not see things with the same eye. Whereas Viliki wanted to take a hard line against the Baipehi, others felt that they should be allowed to stay. Or that, at the very least, the council should offer them alternative land on which to build their shacks. Popi agreed with this latter position.
“I do not think we have an obligation to give them alternative land,” said Viliki. “Where did they come from? Surely they must have lived somewhere before. They must go back there. We are not going to have a shanty town in Excelsior!”
“That is very callous, Comrade Mayor,” Popi argued. “These people are homeless. We cannot wish them away. It is our duty as the council to see to it that they are housed.”
“The land those people are occupying is earmarked for more RDP houses,” Viliki insisted. “The Baipehi must vacate it.”
This, of course, was a new development. The Pule Siblings/Pule Comrades no longer spoke with one voice in the council chamber. Their voices had separated into two. Distinct. Often shrill. They no longer confined their bitter disagreements to Niki’s shack or Viliki’s RDP house. They started by disagreeing publicly in the caucus of the Movement, then at its branch meetings and finally in the council chamber. These little tiffs embarrassed other council members of the Movement.
Lizette de Vries and her National Party members agreed with Viliki’s hard line. Tjaart Cronje, on the other hand, rejoiced at what he saw as the failure of the “affirmative action people” to govern the town in a civilised manner. He repeated that he had known things would come to this. They were definitely going to mess up a town that had been run efficiently for so many generations. The founding fathers must be weeping in their graves.
“This degeneration started three years ago when Popi Pule imposed English as the language of this chamber,” said Tjaart Cronje. “From then onwards I knew that things would go downhill.”
The members of the council had heard this line of argument before. Tjaart Cronje always found a way of linking any issue that arose in the council to the marginalisation of the Afrikaans language.
“Mr Cronje is out of order,” Viliki declared. “We are discussing the problem of the squatters here, which has nothing to do with his Anglo-Boer War.”
“It is true that the Afrikaner is still fighting the Anglo-Boer War,” Popi said, laughing. “His problem with English is a problem with the English. He would have no problem if we said the proceedings in this chamber should be in Sesotho. Indeed, Tjaart Cronje has even said that the only two languages that people speak here are Afrikaans and Sesotho. He is prepared to accept Sesotho even though it is a black language and he hates black people!”
Her three years in the council had taught her to analyse things in a manner that we had never thought possible.
“I do not hate black people,” said Tjaart Cronje in a pained voice. “The chair must protect me from this woman’s vicious tongue.”
“Ms Pule will have to withdraw those words,” said Viliki.
“I withdraw them, Your Worship,” said Popi, with a silly smirk in her voice. “But the point has been made.”
The council members of the Movement laughed and cheered.
“You have to withdraw unconditionally, Ms Pule,” insisted Viliki.
“I withdraw them unconditionally,” said Popi. “All I was trying to say is that when we say the proceedings must be in English, the Afrikaner feels that English is being promoted at the expense of his own language. He sees it as another victory of the English over his people in the ongoing Anglo-Boer War saga that has lasted for a hundred years. You cannot destroy the Anglo-Boer War mentality in the Afrikaner.”
“I object!” yelled Lizette de Vries. “You cannot generalise about Afrikaners.”
“Since when did she become an expert on the Afrikaners?” asked another council member of the National Party.
“You are all out of order,” screamed a frustrated Viliki. “We resolved that matter three years ago. Today all our minutes are in English — broken as it is. A person is free to speak the language of his or her choice in the chamber. That is why Mr Cronje always speaks in Afrikaans and Ms Pule always addresses this chamber in Sesotho. Our constitution allows that. Why should we go back to that issue now? We are talking about the squatters.”
“It is because Mr Cronje is still smarting over the fact that we write our minutes in English instead of Afrikaans,” said Popi, hoping that hers would be the last word on the matter.