“In rotten English!” said Tjaart Cronje. His had to be the real last word.
While the council was quibbling over irrelevancies, Sekatle had become the hero of the squatters. Not only did they sing his name, they danced it as well. In their chants he acquired the stature of the heroes of old: Moshoeshoe and Shaka. And of the stalwarts of the liberation struggle: the men and women who had languished in the prisons of South Africa and who had wandered in exile in foreign lands. Fighting for the very freedom now being denied to the Baipehi.
Sekatle is our new Mandela! Sekatle is the Father of the Orphans! Sekatle is our new Oliver Tambo! Sekatle shall free us from the pangs of hunger!
Viliki’s hard line began to soften. He told his comrades that he was prepared to compromise. He would find alternative land for the squatters if they vacated the land that had already been earmarked for RDP houses.
Popi was happy at this change of attitude. She took it upon herself to go to the squatter camp to negotiate with the Baipehi to accept an alternative piece of ground.
“We cannot leave this land,” a woman said. “We have paid for it.”
“Paid for it?” wondered Popi. “But you just gave yourselves this land. It belongs to the government for the new houses. How can you claim to have paid for it?”
“Oh, yes, we paid for it all right. Sekatle’s people collected the money from every one of us. They say it will make it possible for Sekatle to protect us from the likes of you.”
“From the likes of me? I have been on your side all along.”
“You are on the council, aren’t you? Sekatle says we can’t trust the town councillors any more. They are only looking after their own stomachs.”
It dawned on Pop that Sekatle’s interest in the squatters had not been fired solely by his community spirit. His keen business eye had spotted yet another moneymaking scheme. She walked to Sekatle’s shop and confronted him. He denied ever sending people to collect money from the squatters and challenged her to dare remove the Baipehi even if alternative land was provided. They wanted the land they had taken occupation of, or nothing.
“Do not alienate your allies, Abuti Sekatle,” pleaded Popi. “You know that in the council chamber I have supported the Baipehi. I have fought for them to be given land of their own which must have all the infrastructure.”
“An ally who accuses me of stealing money from poor people is no ally at all. And please, there is the door. I am a very busy man.”
Popi left the store fuming.
Viliki was alarmed when she arrived at his house at night.
“Is there something wrong with the old lady?” he asked. Although Niki was only fifty, he called her “the old lady”. And she indeed looked much older than her years. It was because her face had been eroded by the skin-lighteners of her youth.
“There is nothing wrong with Niki,” said Popi. “Can’t I visit my brother without him getting suspicious?”
THE NEXT DAY the council was taken aback when Popi moved that the Baipehi should be removed immediately. By force, if necessary. Lizette de Vries seconded the motion. There was a division in the chamber. Popi, the three members of the National Party and Tjaart Cronje voted for the motion. The four members of the Movement opposed it. And lost. Viliki gleefully announced that the services of a private company would be engaged to remove the squatters and their camp.
The Baipehi were given one week to vacate the land. Under the revolutionary leadership of Sekatle, they stood their ground. The deadline was extended twice — by one week each time. Still they refused to move. Instead they cultivated their gardens to demonstrate that they were there permanently. Viliki seemed to be wavering.
“You cannot show signs of weakening now, Viliki,” Popi egged him on. “No one will ever respect you again if you don’t take action against those arrogant Baipehi. Sekatle needs to know that you are the mayor, not him.”
The following month, bulldozers came thundering down the dusty roads of Mahlatswetsa Location. Men in orange overalls descended upon the squatter camp and systematically uprooted the makeshift houses. They loaded the corrugated-iron and plastic sheets, the poles and cardboard, onto a truck. Those structures that were stubborn were flattened by the bulldozers. Men, women and children ran helter-skelter in the mushrooms of dust to salvage their precious belongings. Others pleaded with the men in orange overalls to be merciful.
“How can you do this to us?” they asked. “We are black people like you.”
“It is not for us to be merciful,” said their foreman. “We are paid by your town council to remove this squatter camp. Go ask them for mercy. We are just doing our job.”
Sekatle called an urgent branch meeting of the Movement. The Pule Comrades had gone too far. They had to be sanctioned. They had to be disciplined. Everyone was accusing the Movement-controlled council of resorting to the tactics of the past.
“We had thought that bulldozers were history,” said Sekatle at the branch meeting. “Today we have seen what we used to see during the worst excesses of apartheid. We never thought we would see the day when a town council that was controlled by the Movement would vote with the Boers to drive away our people from their own land in their own country!”
“We have no blood on our hands,” said the other four council members of the Movement. “We voted against the motion.”
“Obviously Viliki and his sister think that they are bigger than the Movement,” said Sekatle. “They forget that in the same way that we made them what they are, we can unmake them.”
WE LOOKED at these events with foreboding. We all accepted that a war had been declared against the Pule Comrades.
THE MEMBERS of the Movement wanted to table the issue of the forced removals once more in the council chamber. But Viliki ruled that there was no point in discussing it. It would be a waste of time. There were other important matters on the agenda, such as the construction of the new library in Mahlatswetsa Location.
“Does the mayor think that a library is more important than the lives of our people who have been treated worse than they used to be in the days of apartheid?” asked a councillor from the Movement.
“We voted on the matter, Comrade,” said Viliki, “and this council passed a motion that the squatters should be removed. We gave them ample warning. The question of the library is very important.”
“Indeed a library is important,” said Lizette de Vries. “The plans to build one in Mahlatswetsa have been there for a long time. from the time when my husband was the Administrator of the township. It is now time for action.”
“The library we are talking about has nothing to do with your husband, Mrs de Vries,” said Popi sneeringly. “We are talking of the library that this Movement-led council plans to build for the people of Mahlatswetsa.”
“I think even before you can talk of a library, you must get your people to pay for services,” said Tjaart Cronje. “The white citizens of Excelsior cannot afford to subsidise your people. Like everyone else, you must pay rates, you must pay for water, you must pay for sewerage.”
Tjaart Cronje had raised a sore point. Almost every household in Mahlatswetsa Location was in arrears. Even the town councillors themselves. Except for the Pule Siblings who wanted to lead by example, and paid on time every month.
“This culture of non-payment was cultivated by the Movement,” said Lizette de Vries. “Now that the Movement is in power, it must bear the consequences.”