2009/09/17
THIS is the winning story from our Memories of 1994 election competition. We received more than 50 entries from all over the Eastern Cape and from all ages. We thank you for sharing your stories with us.
THE interesting thing about post-apartheid South Africa was that it came promptly for most of us. Madiba was not too old to lead a torn nation, and there was a generation that had not been exposed to the brutality of the regime. I didn’t vote in 1994.
After the 3am bell, my grandfather was ironing his polo striped shirt. Medicus brown suede shoes sat polished, eagerly waiting for the trip to Bulumko Primary School.
I peered through the door and marvelled as my granddad, four years Madiba’s junior, was about to make his first step to freedom.
That night, my grandfather held my hand and told me he was going to vote.
My young mind reasoned that this was a customary practice in our society.
Mdantsane was a different place during the early 90s . Though times were tough economically, there was an evident social divide between European and non-European classes.
We were buoyed by inexplicable excitement. The township stood like fertile land, looking up at the sky, waiting to be drenched. I remember seeing a determined, thrilled look on my grandfather’s face – a look that knitted both desire and relief in one expression.
Our four-bedroom home housed no fewer than eight people. No one complained. No one ever moaned for leg-room.
Kahlil Gibran once said: “Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” Hence we indulged in simple pleasures.
Upon returning in the middle of the afternoon from what was the greatest day the natives of this country had ever seen, my grandfather, Jacob Kepeyi, a bus driver for over 25 years, sat down and began telling his grandchildren about his experience – casting his first democratic ballot.
I don’t remember much of what he said that afternoon. But I do know that, when he took to the long lines at the primary school, in his hand he carried the hope of his children, grandchildren and future great-grandchildren.
The suffering that he carried on his shoulders was washed away by ink, comforted by the Constitution and alleviated by freedom.
I was present in his voting booth that day.
Now, for the first time, on April 22, 2009, I too will iron my polo shirt, I will put on my grandfather’s shoes and walk on the very path he embarked upon. - By SBU H MJIKELISO, East London
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