BOOK EXTRACT | Family's quest to reclaim its 'stolen' land

Makgobole mountain rose from the grassland southwestern of Sutwane, its gentle slopes covered with fog from the top to base.

It was no more than a koppie really, but on that particular morning it rose so high that it stood like a sentinel, silent witness to our homecoming.

Multiple sharp-edged sprouts branched off from the trees, peeking through the fog.

It was as if the entire Seale ancestry had converged on the mountain, scrutinising every move we made as we surveyed the land as we waited for our host, Jupie Pohl.

I was completely overwhelmed by guilt, that sense that I had failed in my mission to get the land back and restore our rights.

A white 4x4 bakkie screeched to a halt, and a young, stout man sporting khaki shorts, a matching shirt and knee-high socks climbed out. Jupie.

I thought about the white farmers’ children we used to wave to while on their way to school in town. Jupie couldn’t have been one of them.

Now in his early 30s, he had not been around in the mid-1970s. Yet, here he was, owner of a vast portion of the land.

Not only had he inherited the land but was thriving on that "generational wealth", a phrase that seemed foreign and remote to us.

Jupie seemed to be in a hurry, and there was a deep sense of suspicion and mistrust in him.

I was eager to find out whether he and other farmers whose properties are located on our land understood that restitution was a national imperative – one that could not be ignored or deferred forever.

Was this something they were embracing, or were they, like other conservative farmers, sticking to the idea that this was a dangerous move that would send the country’s economy into collapse?

I also wanted to specifically ask him about our land claim, to find out whether he had any recollections of the Seale family – the rightful owners of the land he was enriching himself from.

After a brief introduction, I teased him about his khaki outfit. He glanced at me slyly and a wry smile creased his face.

And then we got right to the heart of the matter, into thick of things pertaining to SA’s land reform conundrum.

His face suddenly tensed and sobered. For the better part of the interview, he spoke in the Khelobedu language but occasionally switched to English.

"Yes, land reform should be done, but that must be in a sustainable way," he said. "The person who claims the land must be given a title deed and after five, 10 or 30 years, if he doesn’t want to use the land, he should be allowed to sell. It must be a choice."

There was a noticeable emphasis on the word "sell", and I couldn’t help but sense in the way he said it that it was fait accompli: that selling was the only viable option for those who wanted their land returned.

I knew what he meant: It was not a black man’s thing, this business of farming.

As he continued, agitation rose in his voice, apprehension mixed with exasperation reaching a crescendo.

"Right now, I am left with a small piece of land, yet they are claiming it. Do you believe it is right or not? I am not from another country; I am an Afrikaner and from South Africa. It’s the place I was born – I live here.

"There is nowhere I am going. My father, my grandfather and my great-great-grandfather lived here. I know this place. I speak Sotho better than English… I am not going anywhere."

There was brief silence.

When he continued, his voice was shaking, and he was full of anger. I so wished I could understand his indignation at what I considered a fundamental principle of justice and national equity. He then essentially repeated himself as if to emphasise his earlier point.

"This tiny place where I live, they have claimed it. So, where am I supposed to go? I was born here. I give people work. I don’t bother anyone. I love farming; it’s our passion.

"There are others who want to go to university, some who want to work at the bank, fly an aeroplane, and those who want to be engineers. If they give such persons [sic] a farm, what will they do with it?"

I recoiled and, for a moment, fell silent. Jupie’s words remind me of my mother. It was as if I was hearing her voice and not Jupie’s.

"Other people have taken money, but you still don’t have your land because you insist on trying to get it back. What will you do with it? What do you know about farming?"

* This is a book extract from One Hundred Years of Dispossession: My Family’s Quest to Reclaim our Land by Lebogang Seale. It is published by Jacana Media