JACOB MOTSAMAI MAKHOBOKOANE
In late 1967 I was working as an agency teller at Phillippolis. About six months into the job, a call from Staff Department in Bloemfontein revealed that I was being transferred to …….STERKSPRUIT! They called it great news because I was being posted as Check Clerk/Pro Accountant. This was promotion, surely. How could it be anything other with a title like that? But wait a minute! No salary increase? And where in heaven’s name was this Sterkspruit place?
An atlas was produced and the town found – just across the Orange River from Zastron, in what was then a district reserved for African people. As details emerged about the place, I made up my mind that I was going to refuse this transfer. How did the bank expect a young man from a conservative Free State background to cope with the shock of being plunged into what was a totally strange culture to him? I could not even speak any of the local languages – Sotho and Xhosa. Staff manager, Brian Cross was aghast that I could refuse promotion and assured me that my sojourn in Sterkspruit would be quite short; mere months rather than years. (So much for THAT promise – I served there for SEVEN YEARS)
Eventually, mollified by the thought that this was a “stepping stone” which would be of short duration, I agreed to go. For the uninitiated, Sterkspruit lies in a really majestic and beautiful mountainous area with the twin high peaks of Majuba Mountain overlooking the valley. I was enchanted by my first glimpses of the district but less so by the dusty, unattractive main street of the town. The town’s buildings were uniformly drab and down at heel, while the street was thronged with hundreds of black folk, going about their business. I felt a bit more cheerful when I saw Barclays Bank as it was the most attractive building in town at the time and better still, it included a two bedroomed flatlet which I would use. On a small hill behind the bank perched the Hilltop Hotel, where I was to take my meals and liquid refreshments for the next seven years.
My first cultural shock came when I was introduced to the staff – one of the tellers was a fellow by the name of Jacob Makhobokoane, a black man! He was the very first black bank clerk I had ever met! It may sound preposterous now but then the divide between black and white was so wide and prevalent that a black man in the Bank, who was not a cleaner or messenger, just didn’t exist. Jakes and I eyed each other warily. He was much older than I was, having been a teacher originally, prior to filling a post at the Magistrate’s Office. He spoke both English and Afrikaans, as well as Sotho and Xhosa and “amazingly” was doing a good job as teller. It was a shock, it really was!
Sterkspruit was a sub branch then with an Accountant-in-Charge and Check Clerk/Pro-Accountant – the Manager of Lady Grey was also our Manager and all Head Office work was routed through Lady Grey for his signature. The reality was that we had all the duties of a normal Manager and Accountant but neither the titles nor the pay! Damn cheapskate bank…. I suddenly found myself doing the job of an accountant, without ANY prior experience of the duties. I had gone from junior clerk to teller to this job in about a year, all without formal or ANY training for that matter.
I had no idea how to be in charge of people except for what I had learned in the army, where I had earned stripes. The iron discipline of army life was still fresh in my mind and I’m afraid I didn’t take kindly to backchat when I gave orders. Soon after I had started, I suppose Jakes did not like the idea of this young “boy” (I was 23) shoving him around in such a peremptory, brusque manner so he simply ignored my order. I bristled and loudly repeated my order and when he gave me some cheek from within his teller’s enclosure, I saw red and found myself leaping onto a table next to the box, preparatory to jumping in and THUMPING him. Fortunately, Tom Wiggett came out of his office when he heard the ruckus and pulled me off the table. I received a serious talking to as did Jacob as well but that fellow hardly moved out of his box for the rest of that day! My hair was a rusty colour back then and even my black name, Ndevu Ebomvu (Red beard) was indicative of a shorter than usual fuse so I think the staff got the idea that I should not be confronted, unless they were prepared for swift reaction.
Jakes and I quite quickly settled down to a situation of mutual respect. I had been warned that the bank, contrary to Government policy at the time, intended that black folk were to be engaged to replace the white staff and that we would have to see to the engagement and training of such people. Jakes was culture shock no 1 but many more would follow in the 7 years I spent there.
I recall with amusement the day when Jakes decided to pick up the ringing phone, as he was nearest to it. Instead of announcing that the caller had reached Barclays Bank, he loudly proclaimed, “Jacobmakhobokoaneontheline”. The caller had no idea what Jakes had said so asked for a repeat, which Jakes supplied in an even louder voice. I suppose this would have carried on for a while had the caller not decided to give up and ring off. I took Jakes aside and gave him some pointers on telephone etiquette – He was NOT to announce his own name unless (foolishly) asked to do so and had to assure the caller that they had indeed reached Barclays Bank.
In later years, Jakes had emerged from his teller’s box to perform back office duties and we decided we needed to teach him to use the combination lock on the strongroom door in order that we could occasionally relinquish control for weekends and holidays and hand over co-custody of the vault to him. I started him off early on the fateful day, so that he could get ample practice at spinning and setting that combination. I stood him in front of that door for more than an hour while he practiced . To my surprise, he seemed to pick it up quite easily and opened the lock dozens of times without fail. At the end of the day, I let him close the door, happy that he would open the door without fail the next day.
I told him to come in early the next day and watched as he approached the combination confidently. Spinning the dials like a pro, he waited for that click which would signal his success but it never came. Smiling a bit ruefully he tried again…… and again…. and again….. After ten minutes, Jakes was sweating buckets and so was I, so I got the combination from him and had a go myself. No luck. The manager came and tried but he did no better. We had visions of the wrath of the then Chief Inspector descending on us as it would entail a Chubbs locksmith having to come out at great cost, to open the door. In the meantime, we had opened up the emergency hatch which had only key locks and brought out what was needed for the branch to open for business.
All the while Jakes spun that dial, alternating with the manager and I when he ran out of steam. He had aged visibly and his face was grey and sweating profusely. We had concluded that he had inadvertently spun an extra turn while setting the combination, so we were systematically trying such alternatives. All of a sudden, as the manager was on the point of phoning Inspection Department, the lock clicked and at last the door was open. Once open, we could access the back of the lock and set a fresh combination for Jakes. Then I sat him down in front of the door and had him practice the procedure until he could almost do it blindfolded. Needless to say, we never had another problem with Jakes carrying a combination.
A year or two later, Mrs Erika Botha, our then manager’s wife, pepped up our bit of garden at the branch, with plants and flowers. It all made a lovely display but the patch of unkempt kikuyu lawn spoilt the effect and a petrol driven lawn mower was bought. I was keen to try it out, so one morning before opening time, I brought the new mower out and tried to get it going on the grass. However, the grass was so long, the motor kept stalling, so I decided to start it on the cement path which led up to the front door. This time, it roared into life without a problem and I just needed to lift it, still running, over the flower bed onto the grass. It was too heavy for me so I motioned to Jakes, who was standing watching this impressive beast, to help me lift it. Imagine my horror when instead of grabbing hold of the front wheels as I thought he would, he slipped his hands under the body of the machine, where the blade was spinning madly! There was a nasty grinding sound and the mower shut off. Jakes stood there ashen-faced, eyes like saucers, holding his ruined middle-finger which was gushing blood like a fountain. I quickly found some car cleaning rags and wrapped them round the ruined hand and jostled Jakes into my parked car. He was so shocked he would not even move at first.
I rushed him off to Empilisweni NG Hospital just outside town where one of the first people to see Jakes, was his wife, who was a senior sister at the hospital. She was remarkably calm, unlike poor Jakes who was just staring numbly at his finger. The tip of his middle finger was a ragged mess of bone and flesh and it must have hurt indescribably. He lost the bit of finger and came back to work all bandaged up but could not go on the counter. A leather sheath was eventually fashioned for him which he wore fulltime once the wounds had healed. I can still feel that thrill of horror the noise of Jakes’ finger stalling that mower caused.
Just about a month later, I was best man at the wedding of one of my friends and I’m afraid I rather overdid things at the reception and got solidly on my ear. Feeling distinctly DRUNK, I got into my beetle and drove back to my flat and as I turned into my short driveway, across a deep ditch, the right front wheel left the little bridge and left me stuck. In my befuddled state, I got out and got my hands under the front mudguard and tried to lift the car back onto the bridge. Inside the mudguard, a sharp edge caught my middle finger and almost ripped the tip off. I felt very little at the time but as it was bleeding copiously, I left the car with its lights still on and went into my flat for a piece of plaster. I had no idea how serious the wound was but recoiled in shock when I glimpsed the white of bone when I lifted the “flap”. I must have gone into shock and started shivering, so I turned on a heater and did my best to staunch the blood with a bit of plaster.
Friends passing by saw the car with its lights still shining, came to investigate and following the blood trail I had left, found me sitting shivering in front of the heater while my dripping blood was pooling on the floor. More sober than I, they hustled me off to Empilisweni Hospital where a doctor was woken and who came to do some first aid. He decided only a surgeon could help me so the next day, my boss took me off to Bloemfontein for repairs. Once the booze wore off, the pain hit me and conspired with my hangover to make my life utter misery. The fingertip was saved but grew back on a bit skew but I went back to work, wearing the exact same finger sheath that Jakes had, much to his amusement.
(For a while I had no use of my right hand so I did as much as possible with my left, even signing my name and eating lefthanded. The very worst problem arose when I visited the loo though. It wasn’t so much having to use the left hand as trying to balance on the “other” cheek ……..)
Jakes was a good man. He was a staunch Catholic and a committed family man. He had been given a piece of land a few kilometers outside of town and built a house for his family. This was a properly designed brick building, not a shanty, to which he could add as time went by and funds became available. He neither drank nor smoked and every cent he earned went towards keeping his family happy. He had a borehole drilled on the property, installed a petrol-driven pump and started a vegetable garden. I watched these developments with much admiration and hope for the future. Here was a black man successfully building an enviable life with excellent prospects, on a modest salary. In contrast, I was squandering my hard-earned money on alcohol and tobacco, with not a single plan in place for my future.
As the years sped by, Jakes and I became firm friends, probably the first black friend I ever had. I had been quite successful in training up black staff to just below my level and I realized that if I was ever going to get out of Sterkspruit, I would have to groom somebody for my job. Jakes was the obvious candidate and I did everything in my power to prepare him for the role. However I discovered to my dismay, that Jakes was more of a follower than a leader. He’d pick up a routine job pretty well and do fine but the moment something out of the ordinary happened, he would be at sea. Time and again I tested him when some emergency occurred but he just could not improvise and think for himself. Every time Head Office asked whether he was ready to take over I would demur, much as it pained me to have to do so. I was finding the job increasingly stressful and needed to leave Sterkspruit. Eventually hypertension and a letter from my doctor, finally broke me out. Someone else was brought in the fill my shoes and Jakes stayed where he was. I hated having to let him down but felt it better that way than having him fail at my job and lose his position altogether.
Jakes was eventually transferred to Butterworth as sub accountant in charge of the savings depot in the town. He kept his house in Sterkspruit where his wife and kids stayed while he was away in Butterworth. It was really not an ideal situation but when I eventually turned up at the branch for an audit a number years later, Jakes seemed quite well settled. I made a point of walking down to the extraordinarily busy depot which had its own complement of tellers and clerks, to renew my acquaintance with my old friend. I was most pleasantly surprised by the warm, over-the-top welcome he gave me. He called the whole office to a halt to introduce me, his friend, his mentor, his boss etc until I had the decency to blush at the effusiveness of his welcome. Jakes obviously liked and respected me as much as I did him and we whiled a happy hour away then and there, talking about the good times in Sterkspruit.
That was the last time I saw him. I know he retired to his home In Sterkspruit eventually where he died of causes unknown. Whenever I’m really depressed by the awful state this country has fallen into and the future looks hopeless, I recall Jakes and tell myself that there MUST be more people like him around and if there are, our future is assured.
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