(*1935)
They call me Petey. I was born in Brickfields, Bulawayo, as the fourth eldest out of thirteen children – the naughty one. We spoke Afrikaans at home, as my parents and grandparents came from down South [South Africa] by ox wagon in the early 1900s, looking for greener pastures. Until now, I don’t know who my great-grandparents were…I’ll never know. Look – two Blacks can’t make a Coloured, two Whites can’t make a Coloured. Only a Black and White can make a Coloured.
Umzingwane Drift crossing on Zeederberg road Bulawayo-Fort Tuli, 1895. Photo courtesy of Rob Burrett.
My father had a sjambok [raw hide whip] he used to hit us with. My mother used the shoe brush with spikes…but I'm not sorry about the way I grew up. I learned. We were a big family. If our shoes finished, we walked barefoot to school.
At some of the shops we had to go buy at the window. We weren’t allowed to stand by the counter. They served the Whites first. Coloured people needed a permit to buy beer. We only had one ‘scope house [cinema] to go to…the Honkeys [Whites] had three!
Where Coloureds and Whites were involved, it was always a problem, you know. If you fight with them, the White man comes on top because the police take their part. But the Blacks can also insult you, and call you a Bushman, ja.
Her name is Laura – the guitar. While working at the Chronicle, I bought my first one. I used to buy country music records and sing and play in concerts at Davies Hall. My favourite country singers are Jimmy Rogers and Gene Autry.
You see, we are not White enough. We not Black enough. Coloureds are just in between, like a sandwich.
My siblings, children, grand-children, and great-grandchildren are spread out around the world – in Zimbabwe, South Africa, New Zealand, Australia, and the UK. I have more photos of Kyle than anyone else…he kept me going, he kept me alive.
