Apartheid and the Making of a Black Psychologist

A Memoir

N. Chabani Manganyi

• Publisher: Wits University Press
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781868148639
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

This intriguing memoir details in a quiet and restrained manner with what it meant to be a committed black intellectual activist during the apartheid years and beyond. Few autobiographies exploring the 'life of the mind' and the 'history of ideas' have come out of South Africa, and N Chabani Manganyi's reflections on a life engaged with ideas, the psychological and philosophical workings of the mind and the act of writing are a refreshing addition to the genre of life writing. Starting with his rural upbringing in Mavambe, Limpopo, in the 1940s, Manganyi's life story unfolds at a gentle pace, tracing the twists and turns of his journey from humble beginnings to Yale University in the USA. The author details his work as a clinical practitioner and researcher, as a biographer, as an expert witness in defence of opponents of the apartheid regime and, finally, as a leading educationist in Mandela's Cabinet and in the South African academy.
Apartheid and the Making of a Black Psychologist is a book about relationships and the fruits of intellectual and creative labour. Manganyi describes how he used his skills as a clinical psychologist to explore lives – both those of the subjects of his biographies and those of the accused for whom he testified in mitigation; his aim always to find a higher purpose and a higher self.

1Early days in Mavambe

When I remember the years gone by, especially the years of my childhood in a place called Mavambe (situated in what is now the Limpopo province), it is often visual images of people and places which come to mind. I remember the sombre darkness of some winter nights, when it was too bitingly cold for anyone to linger outside. I have memories of my mother carrying out everyday household chores in our yard or planting seed for a maize and vegetable harvest in the summer. Such memories are vivid enough. However, they are remarkably difficult to put into words.

I have always known and accepted the family history which says that I was born in Mavambe on 13 March 1940. If you were to insist on concrete evidence of my date of birth, neither my late parents nor I would be able to provide it, but I believe that date to be accurate because, at the beginning of the 1947 school year, when I started attending the one-teacher, one-classroom school across the river from our home, I was believed to be seven years old. With the exception of the year 1948, the most memorable and happiest part of my childhood was spent in Mavambe with my mother.

In 1948 I was sent away to live for a year at the home of my mother’s brother, Jim Manyangi, in Nwamatatani (many kilometres away) to attend the Assemblies of God school at the Caledon Mission, where I completed Standard One. The most visible figure at the school was a short, plumpish white woman called Miss Nash, who appeared to be in charge of everything that happened at both the small mission and the school. At the end of that year I returned home to attend another Assemblies of God school, which had classes up to Standard Six, the national qualification level for entry into high school. At both schools there was much praying and talk about Christianity, Jesus and God – talk which was unheard of at my home and within the chief’s village where we lived.

It was just as well that I was whisked away after only a year at the Caledon Mission. My uncle’s children showed little enthusiasm for learning to read and write and I was fortunate to have been rescued from the prospect of a lifetime of illiteracy and ignorance. Back home I found myself burdened with a daily walk of a few kilometres to and from Shingwedzi Primary School. It was a lonesome journey because, at some point, my cousins from the chief’s family had been allowed to drop out of school.

Over the long years of my adult life I have been unreservedly grateful to my parents: my father had made it clear both to my mother and to me that attending school was an obligation that had to be met. The message was conveyed to me firmly by my mother whenever I showed signs of wanting to play sick in order to stay home. It was under the resolute guidance of my parents and under the watchful eye of dedicated and exemplary teachers – very different from the highly unionised teachers of contemporary South Africa – that I completed primary school at the end of 1954.

That almost did not happen, however. Just before the final Standard Six examination I crossed paths with the head of the primary school, a Mr Mahlale. A short man with a serious turn of mind, he acted decisively when my classmates and I showed signs of boyish delinquency. My father had left his brand-new bicycle at home after his last visit and I thought I could put it to good use by cycling to visit relatives, such as my aunt at Xikundu, some distance away from our home. But this youthful waywardness became costly when I stayed away from school for a whole week. When I returned Mahlale summoned me to his office and proceeded to cane me so hard that the memory is still vivid in my mind.

Looking back at that experience and at the fact that children were dropping out of school at will, without the active intervention of their parents, I realise that what happened in Mahlale’s office was a life-changing event. I say this in all seriousness because even today I still ask myself what would have happened if the principal had spared the cane. After all, I had watched my cousins and others drop out of school without the sky falling from its heavenly heights. It is not difficult to play down the lifetime significance of isolated events of the ‘what if’ variety. But I have accepted the fact that a hiding in a school principal’s office in a small unknown village called Shingwedzi contributed in no small measure to the long and challenging journey that made me the man and the intellectual that I am today.

Mphaphuli High School in Sibasa (now Thohoyandou) looked recently built when I arrived there in January 1955 to begin my high school education. In those days parents did not discuss their choice of schools with their children. Nor had the teachers told those of us in the final year of primary school about the need to apply for admission to the high schools in Elim near Louis Trichardt and Sibasa.

The fact that I had done well in the final examinations was nearly undermined by the fact that I had not applied for admission to any secondary school. I was fortunate to have a distant relative, Constable Maluleke, who was stationed at police headquarters in Sibasa. In all likelihood he had approached the authorities at Mphaphuli High School to secure my admission as a student for the first of the three years of study towards my Junior Certificate. I, together with another boy, Xihala, was to live with Maluleke and his wife in the police compound adjacent to the office of the native affairs commissioner.

Thanks to my good school record in Shingwedzi I experienced no difficulties settling in at school. However, settling in with Constable Maluleke and his wife proved emotionally demanding and the first months of 1955 were nerve-racking. The husband was a friendly, warm, older man who kept out of one’s way. The hassles Xihala and I experienced arose from the demeanour of Maluleke’s wife. She was a heartless, childless woman who treated the two of us as though we were slaves. Thinking back to those days, I wonder about the fate of Xihala, who always looked so sad and subdued.

The Maluleke family left Sibasa long before the end of the 1955 school year as a result of Constable Maluleke’s transfer to a different police jurisdiction, and I was compelled to move on to live with Ramaite, an unmarried clerk employed at the commissioner’s office. At his home I did not have to wake up at dawn to make a fire and boil the hot water for his bath as Xihala and I had done for the Malulekes. Yet it soon turned out that I was destined for a short stay. Ramaite made intolerable demands when he arrived home late at night after his regular drinking sorties in the village. In his state of intoxication he would call for food, though he knew there was often none in the house.

Luckily I did not try to find my way back home when my living conditions became intolerable. Perhaps a greater being was watching over me – I was much happier with the two families I lived with during the second half of the year. Overall, I still relish the fact that, demanding as the first year of high school was, the experiences of that year turned me into a more self-sufficient young man, one who could cook simple meals, iron a policeman’s uniform, and polish his big boots and brass buttons without missing a single day of schooling in the process.

Once again, my success at high school, and later at university, was assured by good teachers. The best among them made the classroom a very interesting place to be in, and learning became a challenge and an adventure. The brother-and-sister team, the Dzivhanes, who had university degrees, was the most memorable pair of teachers in my life, and I know now that all such individuals at both high school and university were able to engage my curiosity and interest in learning, encouraging me to learn even more by reading outside the classroom.

What I found most admirable about the memorable men and women who taught me at different stages of my life was their ability to engage my curiosity and interest in such a way as to leave an enduring disposition – a love of knowledge – that served me well for the rest of my life. Consequently, on looking back now, I am intrigued by the way in which certain people’s lives, their knowledge and achievements, as well as their example and their confidence in me at certain critical moments, has meant so much in the story of my life. To admit our indebtedness to others is a strength and a virtue. No one literally took me by the hand, but my favourite teachers enticed me with their intellectual brilliance and through gestures of confidence in me and what I was doing. I always admired their self-confidence, skill and the dedication with which they carried out their teaching.

Some aspects of my childhood and youth have puzzled me a great deal. One thing that still intrigues me today is how I and other infants born at that time survived both birth and early childhood without the benefit of regular visits to Western medical practitioners. There were neither clinics nor hospitals for miles in any direction from our home, yet here I am, still up and about a little more than seven decades later.

Our home in Mavambe was adjacent to the homestead of our chief, whose first name was Morris and his surname, like that of all of us in our extended family, was Manganyi. In common parlance he was Chief Mavambe, as were several of my ancestors who had been chiefs before him. According to information I found recently, our family was part of the migration from Mozambique to the then north-eastern Transvaal. In the course of my research I came across a brief, tattered document dated 25 November 1957 and written by N J van Warmelo, a South African government official of note. The document, signed at Sibasa, was given to my cousin Chief George Mavambe, who was investigating the land claims of his people after the democratic elections of 1994. It contains information about various chiefs and their descendants in Mavambe after their forebears’ arrival from Mozambique. In it Van Warmelo pronounced:

This chief has no jurisdiction as yet and some of his followers live on land adjoining the location. As with other smaller Shangaan sections south of the Levhuvhu river, the people of different units live interspersed, the farm boundaries on the map are unknown and not to be found with survey, and therefore meaningless for administrative purposes, so that a good deal of census-taking and other ground work will have to be done before defined areas can be set aside for different chiefs and headmen – if at all possible in some instances without causing hardship to the people who have either to move or transfer their allegiance. Alternatively, they may be left where they are, and amalgamation and abolition of headmanships can be resorted to. The need for attempting to do all this at once is not apparent and I would recommend getting Bantu Authorities started and working in the other bigger first [sic].

The everyday consequences of policies briefly referred to in Van Warmelo’s document are still evident today in Mavambe.

When I was growing up I never heard anyone refer to Mavambe as a location. What people talked about was a chiefdom, headed by a chief (‘hosi’ in my vernacular), not the character Van Warmelo calls ‘kaptein’. Van Warmelo confirms our Mozambican ancestry when he reports that the first three chiefs – Bungu, Mukhanwe and Khutla – were sub-chiefs at a place called Bileni in Mozambique. We learn also that the surname of all the chiefs had always been Manganyi. After migration from Mozambique to South Africa the succession involved Mavambe, Chabani, Muhlava, John Muhlava Mavambe, Morris Manganyi, Patrick Manganyi and John Magezi Manganyi, and I, too, was given the name Chabani – Noel Chabani George Manganyi.

Van Warmelo concludes his account by stating that the majority of the inhabitants of Mavambe were Tsongas. He is probably right; yet, during my boyhood in the 1950s and 1960s many Tshivenda-speaking families lived in our midst. Sadly, as Hendrik Verwoerd’s apartheid policies started to take hold during the 1960s, large numbers of Tshivenda-speaking members of our community were forced to move to predominantly Tshivenda-speaking areas across the Levubu River. The national loss of ethnic and cultural diversity involved in the separate development policy of the 1960s planted the insidious seeds of cultural and political fragmentation, which the independent homelands policy brought to fruition over the next several decades.

I do not know when my parents were born. My grandfather, a man I never set eyes on, was one of the many chiefs who were descendants of the family from Mozambique. His name was Chabani and I was dutifully named after him, though I had no prospect whatsoever of becoming a chief. I learnt when I grew up that there had been succession disputes in the past and my father was determined to stay out of the fray. He lived, worked and later died in Johannesburg, as though he was at pains to demonstrate his rejection of the chieftainship throughout his life.

Mavambe Store, named after the local chief and still in existence today, is a stone’s throw away from my childhood home. I remember the sedentary shopkeeper, Jerry Khangale, who became my first adult friend of a kind in Mavambe in the early 1950s. A short distance away from the shop and along the road to Phunda Maria stood a ramshackle brownish building that was called a hotel. I remember some locals meeting there to buy and drink home-brewed beer. Nwambhangini, a short, dark-skinned, enterprising woman, was the power behind this thriving but illegal undertaking.

My memories include regular meetings of the chief and his councillors under the big tree at the chief’s homestead and the comings and goings of men from the mines in Johannesburg being transported home to Mozambique and Malawi on buses owned by the Witwatersrand Native Labour Association. The miners would stop over on Saturday afternoons and drink more alcohol than was good for them in Mavambe Store.

At Christmas time, when most migrant workers, including my father, were home for the holidays, there were plenty of sweets and chocolates, new school clothes and shoes for me, plus the melodic sound of the His Master’s Voice gramophone. Our single-room house contained a sizeable double bed, a wooden table and chairs. Cutlery was brought into daily use only when my father was home.

This rural tranquillity was shattered briefly and our village and the neighbouring communities put on edge by a murder in one of the local forests. Fortunately for all concerned, a citizen’s arrest brought welcome relief. A story spread throughout the village to the effect that the murderer, whose identity remained a mystery, had been tied to a tree until police from Sibasa arrived to fetch him. For some time after this incident I remained fearful at night because there were only the two of us, my mother and me, at our home.

Well before I went to high school, my father had decided, like so many African men in those days, to marry a second wife. She was my mother’s niece. It was not long before there were consequences for the four of us. Instead of maintaining only the one home that he had so successfully supported in Mavambe, he joined the increasing millions of African migrant workers who were making the cities and towns of the Witwatersrand their second home. My father moved out of the single-sex hostel in which he had lived for many years to find a bed in a shared, single, all-purpose room in Sixth Avenue in the bustling Johannesburg township of Alexandra. At one stage in the mid-1950s two couples and a boy my age lived in the room.

My father must have known that he would struggle to support two families – he was biting off more than he could chew. No matter how well intentioned he was, the wife in Mavambe was going to play second fiddle to the one who spent most nights with him in Johannesburg. Remarkably, he made sure he had a job to wake up to throughout his working life, but it took several years of living in single rooms in Alexandra township and in Sun Valley in Pimville, Soweto, before he qualified for a cramped, three-room, semi-detached house in Zone 5, Diepkloof. On the few occasions that I visited him in Johannesburg, I was struck by the unfamiliar signs of naked poverty that surrounded the place in Soweto that we called home. The solid wooden furniture, double bed, crockery and cutlery of my youth in Mavambe were a thing of the past. It took me some years to gain an understanding of our family’s plight as well as of the levels of poverty which had overtaken our people in the cities and the countryside.

Regrettably, I took a very long time to accept and understand the troubles that had befallen our family. The easy way out was to blame my father for his decisions. By the time he died, in 1981 in Soweto, he was effectively left with one wife – the one with whom he had continued to live in Johannesburg. My mother had moved to a cottage I had built for her next to her sister’s home in Olifantshoek, near Giyani in Limpopo.

It was only during my participation in the Second Carnegie Inquiry into Poverty and Development in Southern Africa in the 1980s that I gained a better understanding of our fate as black South Africans as the apartheid racial utopia took shape in town and countryside during the late 1950s and 1960s. I had innocently decided that my contribution to the inquiry would take the form of an essay titled ‘The Worst of Times: A Migrant Worker’s Autobiography’, which focused on the working life of a labour migrant from Limpopo.⁷

I researched the life history of my mother’s elder sister’s husband, Chipa Hlengani Mkhabela. Like my father, he spent the major part of his life working in Johannesburg. For him, too, life had been good in the early years of his career as a migrant. I had seen him back home at times, at a place called Barota in Limpopo, when my mother and I visited her sister. There were no alarm bells then about hunger and poverty. Yet, by the time of the inquiry I was compelled to describe his life as one of misery and struggle. Excerpts from the Carnegie paper provide some interesting insights into a migrant’s dilemma with regard to some of the most pressing problems of those days.

What I discovered during my conversations with him was that in the course of his protracted working life between the 1930s and 1983, when ill health compelled him to stop working, the conditions of his life had changed dramatically. Now, at 70, Mkhabela, like my father and thousands of his contemporaries, lived what I described in the essay as the ‘marginal life of the seasoned but permanent migrant who is neither a townsman (proletarian) nor a village peasant’. Like millions of his African compatriots, he had been compelled by our country’s racist laws to move back and forth between his home in the Northern Transvaal countryside and the urban residential ghettoes known as hostels in Johannesburg.

As though that were not enough suffering for one lifetime, his family and tribe back home were faced with government-enforced migrations from one part of the Northern Transvaal to another, mandated in the interests of Afrikaner farmers as well as to achieve the ethnic segregation of black people in the rural areas. Sadly, I concluded after my conversations with him that his life and work history illustrate the kind of social alienation, displacement and rampant impoverishment that accompanied the roll-out of the everyday practical applications of Verwoerd’s policy of separate development. Indeed, the conditions of his life and work were so onerous that it became increasingly difficult for him to support himself and his family in the countryside.

Revisiting Chipa Hlengani Mkhabela’s life story still makes me indignant. In it I recognise a replay of the life story of my father and the cruel fate that our family endured as separate developm...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Award from the Psychological Society of South Africa
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Foreword
• Preface
• 1. Early Days in Mavambe
• 2. Baragwanath Hospital and Beyond
• 3. A Place Called Umtata
• 4. Curiosity Did Not Kill This Cat
• 5. In the Soup: Courtrooms and Witnessing
• 6. The Psychology of Crowds
• 7. Justice and the Comrades
• 8. Working for a Higher Purpose
• Notes
• Appendix
• Index
• Photographs