By Mmathabo Maebela and Thubelihle Mathonsi
How was the idea for this book born?
It was supposed to be a one-page article. I had gone out drinking with some of my students, and we were talking. I’ve kind of got a history of being involved with the ANC and the Communist Party. One of them said, “Do you know my grandfather?” Later, I discovered that he should have said ‘my grandfather and my grandmother’ because in fact his grandmother was also involved in the struggle. But she kind of hid it, pretended that she was this housewife, although they both went to jail. So we got talking and I thought, this sounds really interesting.
How long did it take to complete the book?
Ten years – yeah! I was teaching at the time. What helped me to finish it was Covid.
I did interviews and I got access to the family papers. Usually if people are giving you their private papers, they want to influence what you write. I said, ‘if I write that these were terrible people you just have to accept it, yeah,’ and obviously I didn’t write they were terrible people. But I kind of said you can’t exert any control.
I also interviewed old communists who knew them. And, since they had both ended up in jail, I spoke to their lawyer who was still alive.
Did you learn anything new about yourself during the writing process?
I’ve wholeheartedly supported the SACP for a long time, so I still find it difficult to talk openly about certain tensions. You don’t want to air your family’s dirty laundry in public, you know? Even though I’m no longer a member of the party, it’s still hard to write about the conflicts within.
Back then, the struggle was the ANC, the Congress Alliance, the PAC and, crucially, the community itself. Without them, there really wouldn’t have been a struggle at all. So, writing about the negative aspects feels almost disloyal.
That said, there is a part in my book I couldn’t leave out. It’s this fiery exchange between two characters – they’re so rude to each other, I just had to write it. One tells the other, with biting sarcasm, to write a report on the conditions of black people – then tear it into tiny pieces and shove it up your ass, as far up as you can imagine. It was brutal, but too powerful to ignore.
What new information did you uncover about the movement?
I always knew that the so-called “Moscow millions”, as the Apartheid Government used to call them, were a myth. The Soviet Union never poured millions into the liberation struggle. There was never really enough money for the movements.
But what I didn’t realise was just how much ordinary people – shopkeepers, community members – were actually subsidising the struggle. That really struck me.
There was one woman in particular. I would have loved to meet her, but she passed away long ago. She was a bit eccentric, known for having this orange farm. Apparently, she once told the Communist Party they could sell her entire orange crop one year and use the money for the struggle. I mean, that kind of selflessness is just incredible.
Did any writers influence your writing style?
Probably every author I’ve read. I’m the product of every student I’ve taught.
I started reading Marx and Lenin, the big guys. The kind of people who challenged early communist writing like EP Thompson. And the people who started writing about social and micro history. I’m not saying this to be cool but you’re a product of everyone you’ve ever read.
I mean, in one of the lines in my book on Venda, I actually plagiarised from a black journalist called Casey Motsisi, who described something as being “a bright faced ball” and I thought I have to use that line in a book.
I think the biggest lesson I’ve learned in writing is: write simply. I can give you a kind of suitably socialist inspiration for that. If the taxpayer is funding what you write, the taxpayer should be able to read what you write.
How did you know that the book was finished and you had produced a final product ready to be published?
I thought I had the final product, and the publisher made me shorten it. I’m glad they did; it’s a much better book, and they made me contextualise the struggle for people that didn’t know that history. I took it for granted that people would know what the Freedom Charter was and what the women’s march was. Your audience doesn’t know that, so write about it but, on the other hand, cut it by half. I’ve always said to my postgraduate students, you never actually finish a project, you abandon it. You get to a stage where it is enough.
How did you feel when you received the VC’s award ?
The award was great, it’s the one I’ve always wanted to win. It’s the one academic award I’ve truly cared about, the only one that’s really mattered to me. For me, it’s because publishing is what academics are meant to do. That’s the core of it. So, in my view, this award is the most important one there is. You can only submit within four years of first publishing your book. I submitted once before, but I didn’t win that year – it was Siphokazi Magadla. Yeah, that book. And I remember thinking, “I hope mine is as good as that one.” Then I resubmitted with this book and this time, I won. So yes, it really means a lot to me.
What does this award signify to you?
It kind of marks the end of my busy academic career. I’ve started another book. I’m writing with one of my students. It’s the big thing. You’ve got to go out with a bang, and you’ve got to know when to get out. You have all these people who sort of hang around being old and senile. I mean, I retrained as a mediator and I’m now mediating disputes. I can’t sit at home and do nothing, so I’m researching and meditating. It’s time for other people to teach. It’s going out with a bang, and it’s the bang I always wanted.
