Black Consciousness: A Love Story

Introduction

I often think about how I am going to tell my children the story of their grandparents, the ups and downs of their relationship, and the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of the Black Consciousness Movement (BCM) and the birth of their father. At some point, all children learn that death is an abrupt conclusion to the journey of life, yet I dread the prospect of describing to them the mortifying details of the death of Steve Bantu Biko.

For Luthando Bantu Biko and Imani Mamphela Biko, the 1970s will probably seem like the distant past. Naturally, at their young age, they don’t have a sense of who their grandfather really was and what it was about his life that made it well lived. However, in six years for Luthando and 18 years for newborn Imani, they will reach adulthood and no doubt begin to ask some of the questions that led me to write this book.

Why didn’t their grandparents get an opportunity to enjoy the freedom they fought so very hard for? What impulses caused their grandfather and his many colleagues to launch the BCM? What did he originally mean by the term ‘Black Consciousness’?

I suspect they will also want to know what happened to Black Consciousness in the 21st century. Why are relationships between people still colour-coded in South Africa? Is this colour-coding the reason why social relationships seem to be deteriorating so badly? Furthermore, why is their grandparents’ original vision for this country so radically different from the country we live in today? Given the socio-economic circumstances that most South Africans face, was their grandfather’s death worthwhile?

These are questions that all South Africans should be asking.

In some way or another, we are all beneficiaries of the BCM. Without Black Consciousness, we would still refer to black people in South Africa as ‘non-whites’. We would have neither the language nor the inclination to articulate the patronising behaviour some whites display in their feeble attempts to help black people living in material poverty. We might also have agreed to a post-apartheid dispensation that retained the demeaning concept of ‘homelands’. Most importantly, black people would find it even more difficult than they currently do to express and harness their self-love.

I am a child of the Black Consciousness Movement in both a physical and a spiritual sense. I am privileged to be the product of my parents’ uncompleted union. As with all South Africans born in the 1970s, I have been both blessed and cursed to grow up in the dusk of the movement, when its light shone the brightest and then rapidly faded into the violent darkness of the 1980s. I grew up in a family that has always tried to live the principles of Black Consciousness, and, like my siblings, I have been conscientised through the presence in my life of many of the founding members of the BCM. I am fortunate that I can rely on the wisdom and working memories of these individuals to help answer the challenging questions raised above.

Anyone who has met one of these extraordinary Black Consciousness leaders – for all of them were (and are) leaders in their own right – will feel they have interacted with spiritually and emotionally complete people who share a secret. In speaking to these heroes and heroines over the years, I have discovered that their shared secret was an intense love of self, and of others. This self-love was a source of energy that was used to propel a movement towards the goal of building a free nation. To have loved as they loved, despite the apartheid government’s attempts to humiliate, demean and intimidate them, is one of the greatest achievements one can hope for in life.

We tend to equate love with soft emotions and intangible actions. This is not the type of love I am referring to. This love, or self-love, was an emotional and intuitive construct directly the opposite of what apartheid attempted to create among black South Africans. The architect of apartheid, Hendrik Verwoerd, imagined an outcome that would see black people hate themselves and what they saw of themselves in each other. In Verwoerd’s vision, this self-hate would translate into a future where indigenous people would enslave themselves to the idea of white superiority. For Verwoerd to be successful, indigenous South Africans had to imprison themselves, to be forever classified within a racial category laced with the idea of inferiority.

Black Consciousness challenged Verwoerd’s vision of the basis for white superiority over indigenous South Africans. In fact, the BCM argued that given the moral deficiencies of white right-wing racists and the moral complicity of white liberals, only black people held the moral high ground necessary to set the tone for what the new South Africa should look like.

The founders of the BCM had an indomitable spirit that rejected any restrictions on its right to full expression. Central to the BCM leaders’ experience of self-love was an aversion to the oppression of any individual South African’s spirit. This instinct was embedded in them at a young age when each of them answered, separately at first, the call to fight against apartheid oppression in both its petty and its grand manifestations.

They found the courage to start the fight against discrimination in their own communities and at institutions of learning. This enabled them to espouse a moral standard that many South Africans felt compelled to meet. They built up what Malcolm X described as an ‘internal restraint’ against the learnt instinct to submit to white people. Popularising this internal restraint is the ultimate legacy of the BCM; without it, we would be living in a very different country.

All countries have citizens who love one another and their nation. What Black Consciousness gave its adherents was a deep sense of human connectedness and the awareness of the individual’s capacity for change based on self-knowledge and pride in the preservation of the dignity of all men and women. This gift is one that still helps people today to find a way to live in peace in a country where so many have so little in the midst of abundant material wealth for a few.

Self-worth is what many South Africans have continued to bank on despite the attempts by some, in both business and government, to bankrupt their country. That this sense of self-worth survived the brutal psychosocial onslaught of the apartheid era is part of the legacy of Black Consciousness.

South Africans, like people all over the world, tend to idealise people who commit great acts of courage. We attribute to our heroes and heroines traits that we convince ourselves are unavailable to us. Our heroes therefore seem larger than life, and it is easy to turn them into legends.

The problem with this is that it creates distance between us and those we admire, which can make us think that it must be difficult to follow their lead. This distance can create an excuse for us not to live courageously.

We may not all have access to the examples set by some of the most courageous people walking this planet, but we can overcome the distance between us and them every time we share in their documented wisdom. This will allow us to internalise the spirit of freedom, expressed most loudly on 16 June 1976.

There is an obligation on all of us to make their story part of our and our children’s consciousness. When we do this, we will discover that these Black Consciousness leaders are just like us. The young people behind the BCM were ordinary people, most of whom came from humble beginnings. They were not perfect, and had faults, weaknesses and personal struggles, as we all do.

In their struggle to free their country, these young men and women were driven by the courage of their convictions and their sense of what was right and what was wrong. They were hardened by the pressure they felt to fight a form of tyranny that was as much psychological as it was physical.

They distinguished themselves by creating lasting human connections in communities where they previously didn’t have any direct relationships. They were shaped by these human connections and were guided by them to fight to the bitter end for the material freedom they knew had to accompany the spiritual freedom they had attained.

I hope that you will learn as much from their story as I have. It is one of the greatest untold love stories. It is a love story not only of two individuals – Steve Biko and Mamphela Ramphele – but also of thousands of young South Africans who, by learning how to love themselves, set a new standard for how to love each other. This love story starts in townships and villages scattered around the country and climaxes, in tragic Shakespearean fashion, at a funeral held in eQonce (formerly King William’s Town) on 25 September 1977.

My wish is that when you put this book down, you will understand how self-love and a love for your fellow human beings are like super powers that will allow you to invert what is scarce and what is abundant in life. As it did for the BCM leaders, time will teach us to cherish the abundant things that are nonmaterial in nature. We need to recognise the spiritual poverty suffered by many South Africans today who live with excess material abundance, which often manifests in the abuse of power, in the abuse of drugs and alcohol, or in an intense sense of loneliness. This is the price of pursuing money at all costs.

I hope you will appreciate how some of those who are born into difficult life circumstances compound their difficulties by embracing the narrative that they are poor. Being materially poor should not be a permanent state of being. I trust that the emotional and psychological tools used by the 15 young people at the heart of this love story will be useful in helping those who feel overwhelmed by material poverty. Benchmarking our lives against material wealth obscures the abundance of nonmaterial social capital that we can all freely tap into.

It is critical to create a shared understanding that this inversion of what is scarce and what is abundant can only take place in an environment in which we embrace self-love and self-reliance, value the importance of family – beyond the construct of the nuclear family – and try to restore complementary Black Consciousness programmes in our own communities.

If I succeed in my job as an author and as a parent, my son and daughter will grow up knowing what a powerful tool self-love is in releasing our natural capacity for empathy. As citizens of South Africa we need to use this empathy to build a nation that embraces the knowledge of how trivial the differences are between us as human beings, while recognising the critical importance of bridging the material divides that our past has bestowed on us.

Inspiring urgent action from this shared understanding is the most important task we as parents and citizens can take on. This is the only way to ensure a future for our children that will bring wellbeing, sustainable livelihoods, safety, security, empowerment and shared opportunities.

Steve Biko and Mamphela Ramphele, East London, 1977.

(Daily Dispatch/Arena Holdings Archives)

1

Living with loss

On an overcast morning at the beginning of the summer of 2019, I hurriedly left my home in Cape Town at 5 am, caught an Uber and headed to the airport. As I settled into my seat on the plane, I recognised several passengers who were joining me on the journey to East London. Matters that had seemed urgent and important a few days ago now faded into the background. My beloved Aunt Nobandile Biko had passed away ten days earlier, at the age of 70.

At the time of her death she lived in Cape Town, but, in keeping with family custom, she wanted to be buried next to her brother, Steve, in eQonce. I had attended the memorial service earlier that week, yet for reasons that took me some time to understand, it had still not sunk in that Aunt Bandi was no more. I felt completely at sea after losing my aunt, as she was my last direct connection to my father. She had been a constant source of family oral history and inside jokes and insights; she had created a sense of continuity with my father’s life that had suddenly come to an end.

A few weeks before her untimely death, Aunt Bandi had told me how she had never got over the pain of losing Bantu Biko at such an early age. On that occasion we had held, in the Biko tradition, what we jokingly call a ‘meat meeting’. This is where we share a good bottle of wine or two over some braaied meat and plenty of boisterous conversation. Aunt Bandi was particularly reflective that night, and had regaled me with stories about my parents that, at the age of 41, I was hearing for the first time.

She was always so proud of the fact that my parents were alike in that they never let themselves be defined by how much money they had in their pockets or what someone thought of them. Her favourite stories were about how my father had stood up to policemen or other figures of authority who had tried to bully him or people around him. He would be polite in telling them what line they couldn’t cross while firmly assuring them of his ability to match the level of violence they were threatening to inflict. It was the calm delivery of these warnings that shook the confidence of would-be bullies.

In retelling these stories, Aunt Bandi communicated what she thought was a missing trait in many young black South Africans she had encountered since the end of apartheid: she couldn’t get over how unwilling they were to stand up for themselves against clear abuses of power.

My ponderings on my last meeting with my aunt were interrupted as we approached East London. Because of low cloud cover, it took the pilot three attempts to put the plane on the tarmac. The first two were abandoned at the last second when, in both instances, the pilot realised he was flying over buildings instead of the runway. I was quite relieved when I could finally feel the ground beneath my feet again, and was soon in a taxi on my way to eQonce.

My driver was a chatty Afrikaner gentleman called Frikkie who had lived in Pretoria for most of his life but had in recent years moved to the Eastern Cape. He had married a Xhosa woman and wholly embraced the Eastern Cape version of African culture. Children had been born of the union, and Frikkie told me about the stares his multi-ethnic family would get from racists whenever they were in a shopping mall.

Frikkie’s ‘kill them with kindness’ approach to these people initially struck me as a mature and conscious approach to his new life. However, the longer we spoke, the more I got the sense that Frikkie carried his marriage as a badge of honour for which he craved acknowledgement. He seemed slightly uncomfortable with the nonchalant way most people reacted. What he was experiencing is something that people who spend time in the Eastern Cape quickly learn: it takes a lot to draw praise from amaXhosa. They will certainly not hand out brownie points simply because you have fallen in love with one of their own.

Eastern Cape people are genuinely of the salt-of-the-earth variety. There is something special about this part of the world, where rural meets urban and township meets suburb without the harsh boundaries set up in the rest of the country. The rolling hills that are so typical of the region’s topography are as gentle as the even-keeled approach to life of its inhabitants. This relaxed, easy-going culture masks a stubborn determination, displayed by the amaXhosa throughout the Eastern Cape’s long history of resistance to any assault on their way of life.

Aunt Bandi was born on 21 February 1949, just a year after the National Party came to power. In many ways, her life was emblematic of the professional and emotional cost of apartheid borne by black families across the country. She lost her father at a young age to an avoidable death caused by a disease that was not treated because he was black. Aunt Bandi would lose one of her brothers because of apartheid state-sponsored terrorism, and another because of alcohol abuse, which was an almost inevitable consequence of the lack of intellectual stimulation in the township he had to live in. She also lost a husband because of mental illness triggered by trauma suffered when he was tortured by the security police.

My aunt was systematically denied education opportunities from early in life, and only through sheer tenacity and willpower was she able to complete her graduate qualification, focusing on youth leadership development, in the United Kingdom. After receiving her master’s degree in the early 2000s, she returned to South Africa. However, her unwillingness to yield to white superiority made it difficult for her to get or keep a job. When she died, she was working as an estate agent, severely underpaid and hopelessly underappreciated.

Aunt Bandi found comfort in her ever-growing faith in God. This allowed her to bring a serene and jovial demeanour to any interaction. The life I had come to eQonce to celebrate was characterised by a series of triumphs over adversity.

When I arrived at the church, the ceremony was already under way. The choir was singing at the high-octane levels African choristers reach so effortlessly. The priest gave a moving sermon that displayed both his grasp of scripture and his in-depth knowledge of Aunt Bandi’s life. My elder brother Nkosinathi was expertly playing the role of family patriarch, comforting those who needed it with a hug and coordinating the efforts of those who were composed enough to perform key tasks. Nkosinathi has always performed this role well; when we were growing up, it meant that my siblings Samora, Malusi, Bulie and I had the luxury of acting our age. The cost to Nkosinathi was that he did not have much of an opportunity just to be a child or a goofy teenager.

African funerals serve a social purpose that is not well understood in the