I SPENT a morning in court in Vereeniging this week and came out convinced that if people can turn in their graves, the gods of apartheid must be spinning in theirs.
Observing what was happening around me it was clear that, surely, this was not what Malan, Verwoerd and Hertzog meant to bequeath to the volk. Something must have gone horribly wrong with the grand plan.
I sit in Court D waiting for a relative's case to come up. On the bench sits a black (Indian if you like) magistrate. The prosecutor is an indigenous African as are the court orderlies.
As accused after accused file in in front of the magistrate, he addresses each of them as "Sir" or "Madam".
Rewind to the magistrates court in Port Elizabeth in the early 1980s when I cut my teeth in this craft (or racket, depending on which side you view it). The magistrates and prosecutors were all white, not by coincidence, but by law.
There was one particular burly magistrate whose court dealt mainly with petty offences such as drunkenness and dompasses.
The courtrooms throughout the country were separated with entrances for whites and blacks. Nothing amazing. So were the trains, post offices, restaurants and so on.
As the accused, invariably black, were processed conveyor belt-style in front of him, he had a whale of a time literally swearing at the hapless folks. Words such as bliksem, donner, voetsek and even kak-storie, were the patois of the court. It was generally suspected that he was perpetually drunk, and on his really off days he would lurch from the bench, come down to the dock and threaten to donner an accused.
When I left the beat after a few months he was still there. He probably survived that long because the proceedings were not recorded and he was serving the bigger cause effectively.
Court D this week: "Sir, do you want legal aid?" Hm. "Sir, please do not contact your wife or you will be arrested ..." Sir, sir, sir.
A scrawny fellow sidles into the dock to answer charges of (I surmise) assaulting his wife.
"Sir, have you got money for bail? Have you got family here?"
A mammoth mama of generous proportions who later turns out to be the wife, stands up from the public gallery and hollers: "No. I don't have money to feed the children. I ..."
"Sorry, ma'am, we will not have a discussion with you," the magistrate cuts in.
The man eventually gets free bail after a strict yet polite warning not to contact the wife in any way.
The court adjourns. I dash from office to office trying to trace the case I have come for. I come into contact with an amazing paradox: the white officials I encounter are so friendly I almost feel patronised. Most blacks are stony and don't even respond to greetings. They simply look you up and down a la pass office and if you are lucky to get any soundbites out of them, it comes out in mono-syllables.
Are the whites grovelling? I can't tell. I don't care, I like it.
I make for the main entrance and as I join the throngs outside, the auntie with the skinny violent husband I had encountered in court, her face a mixture of a scowl and a victorious smile, walks past with the tiny hubby in tow. I can almost see the tail between his legs, and her heart dancing up and down to an imaginary tune titled I Fixed You Up (Damn It).
Just a few minutes ago they were warned not to make contact, but well, the courts should understand that all is well that ends well.
Later on, as I sit in the shade outside the court building waiting for my relative to come out, a white Afrikaans-speaking toppie, who could be my father's age, joins me and engages me in conversation. I am a new South African and I engage him in Afrikaans too.
He tells me how hard times are for 'n man, seeing as he has to pay for his car, rent, food, and even his sister's debts. Jislaaik. He is not begging for money - just having a friendly chat and catching his breath from the sweltering heat. I like him - nice guy. This is normal - not the Vereeniging I grew up in.
The only problem is that he keeps calling me oom (which is probably why I like him).
But oom?
- One of Charles Mogale's column previously published in Sowetan.
Apartheid Gods spinning in graves
I SPENT a morning in court in Vereeniging this week and came out convinced that if people can turn in their graves, the gods of apartheid must be spinning in theirs.
Observing what was happening around me it was clear that, surely, this was not what Malan, Verwoerd and Hertzog meant to bequeath to the volk. Something must have gone horribly wrong with the grand plan.
I sit in Court D waiting for a relative's case to come up. On the bench sits a black (Indian if you like) magistrate. The prosecutor is an indigenous African as are the court orderlies.
As accused after accused file in in front of the magistrate, he addresses each of them as "Sir" or "Madam".
Rewind to the magistrates court in Port Elizabeth in the early 1980s when I cut my teeth in this craft (or racket, depending on which side you view it). The magistrates and prosecutors were all white, not by coincidence, but by law.
There was one particular burly magistrate whose court dealt mainly with petty offences such as drunkenness and dompasses.
The courtrooms throughout the country were separated with entrances for whites and blacks. Nothing amazing. So were the trains, post offices, restaurants and so on.
As the accused, invariably black, were processed conveyor belt-style in front of him, he had a whale of a time literally swearing at the hapless folks. Words such as bliksem, donner, voetsek and even kak-storie, were the patois of the court. It was generally suspected that he was perpetually drunk, and on his really off days he would lurch from the bench, come down to the dock and threaten to donner an accused.
When I left the beat after a few months he was still there. He probably survived that long because the proceedings were not recorded and he was serving the bigger cause effectively.
Court D this week: "Sir, do you want legal aid?" Hm. "Sir, please do not contact your wife or you will be arrested ..." Sir, sir, sir.
A scrawny fellow sidles into the dock to answer charges of (I surmise) assaulting his wife.
"Sir, have you got money for bail? Have you got family here?"
A mammoth mama of generous proportions who later turns out to be the wife, stands up from the public gallery and hollers: "No. I don't have money to feed the children. I ..."
"Sorry, ma'am, we will not have a discussion with you," the magistrate cuts in.
The man eventually gets free bail after a strict yet polite warning not to contact the wife in any way.
The court adjourns. I dash from office to office trying to trace the case I have come for. I come into contact with an amazing paradox: the white officials I encounter are so friendly I almost feel patronised. Most blacks are stony and don't even respond to greetings. They simply look you up and down a la pass office and if you are lucky to get any soundbites out of them, it comes out in mono-syllables.
Are the whites grovelling? I can't tell. I don't care, I like it.
I make for the main entrance and as I join the throngs outside, the auntie with the skinny violent husband I had encountered in court, her face a mixture of a scowl and a victorious smile, walks past with the tiny hubby in tow. I can almost see the tail between his legs, and her heart dancing up and down to an imaginary tune titled I Fixed You Up (Damn It).
Just a few minutes ago they were warned not to make contact, but well, the courts should understand that all is well that ends well.
Later on, as I sit in the shade outside the court building waiting for my relative to come out, a white Afrikaans-speaking toppie, who could be my father's age, joins me and engages me in conversation. I am a new South African and I engage him in Afrikaans too.
He tells me how hard times are for 'n man, seeing as he has to pay for his car, rent, food, and even his sister's debts. Jislaaik. He is not begging for money - just having a friendly chat and catching his breath from the sweltering heat. I like him - nice guy. This is normal - not the Vereeniging I grew up in.
The only problem is that he keeps calling me oom (which is probably why I like him).
But oom?
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