Some weeks ago, on 13 February 2023, I received a message from my friend Joseph Seakamela, the Sepedi translator of Martie Preller’s beloved children’s book, Babalela (Sepedi edition, Lapa Publishers, 2009). Joseph informed me that his story, Mphenyašilo (The bully), had been adapted for the stage and would be performed at the State Theatre in Pretoria during March 2023.
I was suitably impressed and thought to myself that Martie simply had to be told. I knew she would be thrilled. Isa Steynberg, a Facebook friend of Martie’s daughter, undertook to forward the message, as Martie was no longer communicating by herself.
Only a few weeks later, on 6 March, I learned of Martie’s death on Network24. When I broke the news to Joseph, we were both deeply saddened.
Many years ago, when I met Martie at a workshop and subsequently became friends with her on Facebook, she encouraged me to complete the manuscript of my novel Verlorenkop and to persevere when I received yet another request for rewriting from the publisher.
“A rabbit has to do what a rabbit has to do,” Martie said.
“But I’m a struggling would-be poet; I can’t write prose,” I complained.
“A rabbit has to do what a rabbit has to do,” Martie insisted.
***
But let me return to the beginning, to the early years of my friendship with Joseph Seakamela: the turbulent 1990s. That was before the amalgamation of what is currently the City of Tshwane Metropolitan Municipality, before the unbanning of the ANC in 1992 and before the dawn of democracy in 1994. At the time, Joseph worked as a security officer at the Security Division of the former City Council of Pretoria, in the Munitoria Building.
Joseph was at his station promptly at the break of dawn every day and greeted me jovially when I walked in bright and early on my way to my office in the language bureau of the city secretary. He often accompanied me patiently, having to unlock my office door, as I habitually left my office key at home – never complaining once, least of all to the intimidating head of security at the time.
One day, Joseph dropped by the language bureau’s library during his lunch break and told me he also liked books. He showed me a piece of paper. “Do you know how to spell this word?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “We can look it up in these huge white books called the Oxford English Dictionary.”
“Yes, do have a look in the OED,” Joseph said, evidently hiding a smile behind his hand.
I loved looking up words in the OED. The smell of the oiled teakwood bookshelves, the polished top of the yellowwood reading table, the parchment-thin pages that unfolded softly like silk fabric beneath one’s fingers. All part of an almost sensual experience.
As I paged through the dictionary, Joseph asked, “Did you know I also write books?”
I forced myself out of my dream world. “Really?”
“Yes, and one of them has been prescribed for schools. But I want to write many more books,” Joseph Seakamela said.
“I also want to write a book one day, but only one,” I said. “Every person on earth has one interesting story to tell; after that, it’s just a repetition of the one told.”
Joseph burst out laughing. Laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. “Where did you hear that nonsense?” he asked in between fits of laughter.
And right there, our friendship around books started – about and with books.
Over the years, Joseph often popped in at the language office and we talked about stories, publishers, the general state of the country, and the many changes that had become part of our work environment – for the better, because Joseph quickly moved up the career ladder with his transformative vision and infectious laughter.
***
Then, in 1997, our lives were changed in a profound way. During a catastrophic event in March of that year, the west wing of the Munitoria Building burned to the ground. The irreplaceable limited edition books, the unique language library, the solid wood bookcases, the floor-to-ceiling teakwood bookshelves, the yellowwood reading tables, the new computers ....
That infamous late afternoon in 1997, the fire spread quickly through the building. By the time the firefighters arrived, the blaze was already out of control. I learned about the fire over the radio, and my dad and I went to have a look while the fourth floor, the part that housed the language office, burned like a lighted matchbox throughout the night.
It took more than 200 firefighters almost four days to extinguish the fire completely; it was the largest fire of its kind the country had seen up to that point. In the end, nothing could be saved. The damage was estimated at R350 million, with thousands of public records having been destroyed. The building was 44 years old, did not comply with the South African national building regulations SANS 10400, and had been known to pose a fire hazard. Fortunately, there were no casualties, as the fire broke out after hours. In 2013, the building was imploded following an extended public debate about a new municipal headquarters.
The day after the Munitoria fire, the language bureau staff were able to meet at the municipal training centre to discuss our work situation. Although the municipal head office no longer existed, communication had to continue. Language staff continued to work from home on their personal computers, at that time without the modern-day internet and only limited email access. Important documents such as electronic terminology lists and thousands of pages of translated text could be retrieved via backup systems at the Pieter Delport Disaster Centre. Some 23 years later, during the COVID-19 lockdown, the City followed similar emergency procedures. Indeed, there is nothing new under the sun.
Fortunately, at the time of the fire, the language office had just completed the process of carting its books and dictionaries in trolleys across the street to and from the Sammy Marks Library, where they were retrieved and catalogued via the central municipal library system. This meant that every title of the more than 1 000 books was included in an electronic list of titles that could be presented to the insurers after the disaster. The books were subsequently replaced over time and according to need. Certain very old titles from the 1920s and 1930s were out of print and thus lost forever.
Sources such as the OED, the leather-bound set of Woordeboek van die Afrikaanse taal (Dictionary of the Afrikaans language) and many others, too numerous to single out here, were purchased in CD format simply because the hardcover editions had become too expensive. This also created the opportunity to expand titles in the other African languages, following the appointment of Tshwane Metro’s first translators for the indigenous South African languages in the early 2000s.
And Joseph Seakamela continued to walk in and out of the language office, which was re‑established at the Saambou Building in 1997. I carted my plastic patio set from my parents’ camper from Pretoria North to the city centre, and parked across two lanes while we carried the large plastic table and chairs into the empty office space.
Joseph still came to visit over the years, but because the new offices were decentralised we systematically saw less of him.
***
Some years later, in the early 2000s, he reappeared at my office in the Saambou Building.
“I have written another book,” he said. “And you?”, not even bothering to say hello.
“No, can’t you see? I have a brand-new multilingual office to run,” I said. “Language audits, language legislation, language conferences, language policy, language implementation plans, language budgets, interpreting services – and I’m on my way to an international conference on language rights in Puerto Rico.”
Joseph yawned. “You should try to write that book,” he said, plopping down in a visitor’s chair.
I picked up the phone, calling my secretary into the office.
Joseph started laughing, and laughed until the tears flowed.
“Okay, let’s take a tea break,” I said.
As always, his infectious laughter turned an ordinary day into one of immense pleasure.
“Jong, I’m struggling with one of my children’s books,” he said. “I’m having trouble getting my story together.”
I watched him carefully. “I guess Martie sent you,” I said, as I reached for the half-read morning paper on my desk.
“Who’s Martie?”
“The fairy godmother of children and adults alike,” I said, pointing to the newspaper and giving Joseph the gist of the article.
Well-known author Martie Preller was offering interactive story-making workshops for aspiring Afrikaans and English writers across South Africa. The workshop focused on the core of her writing correspondence course, the idea that the author is the source of the author’s own stories. According to Martie, that offered authors the possibility to self-explore and to experience the therapeutic value of writing. And Martie was on her way to Gauteng.
“Therapeutic, nogal,” said Joseph.
I chuckled and grabbed the phone again. “You’re going on an adventure, Joseph; I hope you have some leave due.”
And that is how Joseph ended up attending Martie Preller’s writing workshop in Joburg, and the two became firm friends.
Joseph’s story-writing skills improved substantially following Martie’s workshop, and in 2002 I encouraged him to translate Babalela from Afrikaans into Sepedi. One of our municipal translators, Mirriam Monisi, took care of the editing. We were fortunate in that Miemie du Plessis, publisher at Lapa Publishers at the time, agreed to have a limited number of Sepedi copies printed together with the Afrikaans reprint. The Sepedi copies sold out almost overnight.
Joseph continued to pop in over the years, and upon my early retirement in 2013 we agreed to remain in contact, which regrettably has not been often enough.
When I called him in 2016 to say that I had managed at last to complete Verlorenkop, he gave one of his infectious laughs and said, “So, when’s the next one due? You’re way behind, girl!”
***
These are the memories we revelled in when Joseph and I attended his play, Mphenyašilo / The bully at the State Theatre on Sunday, 12 March.
I can honestly say that I loved the performance, which drew a full-capacity audience for the entire run. One simply could not walk away from the small theatre without a sense of wonder and a song in the heart. The story of a modern-day human being portrayed as a bully of nature – in this case, of the insect kingdom – was told by an old woman who moved around the stage and interacted with the audience. Ultimately, one was left with an important question: is bullying part of human nature, or is it simply a learned trait?
The young director and the production manager deserve applause. And my friend, the author – such talent, such vision, such a wise man who evidently knows the heart of a child.
For me, the play’s thriller element came from the close bond the characters (actors) forged with the audience. I sat on the edge of my chair, mouth half open. The music, the fun costumes, the actors’ energy and sense of joy. All in all, a superb production. Afterwards, the entire audience danced together with the actors on stage.
I am one of those people who spend too much time in their inner life, reading. I can fall in love with a book and read and read, and often I do not want to leave that world. Well, I can tell you, I did not want to leave that small theatre on 12 March.
Who could have guessed that my friend Mr Seakamela would sit so relaxed and content in a fancy theatre one day, reaping the fruits of his writing talents in such a wonderful way? I was overjoyed that we had the chance to sit in that intimate space and talk about storytelling.
Joseph is still fleshing out the Sepedi and English scripts (Mphenyašilo / The bully), and hopefully we will have an Afrikaans version, too, ready by 2024.
Among Joseph’s plans are the booking of Mphenyašilo / The bully at the Market Theatre in Johannesburg, approaching the Gauteng Provincial Department of Education to engage the play at schools as a way of curbing the effects of bullying, and who knows what else!
“A rabbit has to do what a rabbit has to do.” Martie’s words linger in my mind. She would have been incredibly pleased with the results of her “therapy”, I think.
Dankie, Martie! Re a leboga!
Koop die Babalela-boekpak by Graffiti.
Lees ook:
Hulde aan wyle Martie Preller: Sy het gedoen wat sy moes doen