Not quite singing for my supper, only that sometimes the heroes also happen to be the ones who are keeping the lights on. You write not to suck up but simply because they have proved to be more than deserving of the feature.
One such a toppie was trundling in his Mahindra jeep – ‘the king of four-wheelers’ – and I was rushing to meet him before we’d wiped our respective brows, shook hands and sat under the shade of a mulberry tree at a kasi speakeasy. For people from a certain corner of the woods, this might be a moment of consternation, nervous glances and twitching fingers. Maeder Osler however sat calm and collected, exchanging pleasentries with those who’d occasionally hobble over to say hello. He’d done this second nature routine many years as a teacher at Umso High School. The though on my mind: why the heck has this pensioner left the serenity of the farm, his second love after Mrs Oz (tannie Les to those who know her) at Hanglip, to pay a visit to an unemployed writer in the township of Kuyasa, Colesberg.
Freelancer writers are often regarded with a wide berth, ostensibly because they are perpetually broke or frustrated. Maeder Osler, on the other hand, wanted to sit down, talk and say that the writing should continue, the financial uncertainties notwithstanding. In his eighties, the man has lived through some interesting, if not tumultuous years. He’s celebrated through the better days and protested against the uglier aspects. Amid the turbulent political climate of a certain time, he was one of those idealistic, slightly crazy liberals who couldn’t really sing the songs but were always punching the air at the anti-apartheid gatherings. He revered the BC philosophies of Steve Biko. He cleaved to those liberal notions of all men being created equal, bacj then not exactly the position to take if you didn’t want to create faceless enemies.
There were informants everywhere and people often disappeared, including Osler’s comrade at the National Union of South African Students (NUSAS), the late CJ (Jonty) Driver who was detained and tortured for his radical anti-apartheid leanings. Osler was head-deep in the defiance, standing in for Driver during his incarceration before taking over as president when Driver left the country for England. This is the search engine history of Mr Oz but ask anybody who grew up in Colesberg and expect intimate personal recollections, usually told by a motley that cuts across both race and class. Everybody seemingly has a tall tale about the former sheep farmer from Hantam and, if you don’t mind listening, they’ll labour it at length, not without a moderate layer of embellishment.
There is an ex radical political learner from Umso High School where Mr Oz was principal for many years. This learner’s years at school were characterised by disrupting class, smoking dope in the toilets and a serious problem with authority. Despite numerous attempts, teachers could never get through to him but he remembers that it was Osler’s patience, motivation and even humour in his office that always inspired him to try and be better. If nothing else, Osler could also be described as a restless developmentalist at heart. The sort of quiet philanthropist who hates it when people’s potential goes unused, where things aren’t happening. And often, if you have an idea, and it looks like it could be of benefit to the community and broader society, chances are he’ll tell you that if you’ll run with it, he’ll stand by you as best he can. He’s been a prevalent footnote in a few of Colesberg’s success stories, even the ones that may not have been afforded their due credit.
The Toverberg Indaba, inarguably a groundbreaking paper in a conservative town where the narratives were often created by, and for a particular people. The Indaba often took these marginalised, voiceless communities from short back page pieces into comprehensive front page features. The times were indeed changing and this paper was among the first to embrace the new way of doing locally. If you’re reading this, then it means he’s never stopped, not even at the ripe old age of 80-odd, he’s still unearthing those who want to give it a go, parting with a chunk of his life’s savings while at it.
Umthombo Wolwazi receiving an award at a national choir competition. Image: Supplied.
In auntie Les, Mr Oz has found a complementary partner. Part of a troika of farmer’s wives, they created the Hantam Community Education Trust, which includes ‘the miracle Karoo school’ Umthombo Wolwazi Farm School which nowadays sees hundreds of children across the Colesberg area converging on the farm on school days. What had started out as a modest idea for a playschool has seen Nelson Mandela awarding the school the President’s Award for Community Initiative for the Northern Cape in 1997. They have since bagged many more, and the school has garnered a reputation as a place of genuine, life-changing learning in the most unlikely setting. Just a couple of months ago this writer was enjoying a few libations with an alumni of the school who nowadays drives around in a top-shelf German saloon and is a chartered accountant.
Last month, Andile Ngqandu, now an employee at the Department of Correctional Services in Goedemoed, returned home to perform a cultural ritual. Speaking of Osler, he recalled an old man who was frustrated that the young Ngqandu was sitting idle even though he had an undergraduate qualification in agriculture. As a result, Osler hired him on his farm so he could draw a wage whilst receiving invaluable on-the-job training. In these spaces, marred by poverty and hopelessness, such gestures one ‘marks on his knee.’ He never forgets them.
As he has ridden into the sunset, choosing to retire in the Western Cape, the toppie still touches base with his charges in the Karoo and is always on the lookout for new recruits. The relationship with the old man has not been without its differences and disagreement. But there have also been constructive discussions, laughter and a bender (on my part anyway) or two. There have been videos exchanged, one of my favourite being the old man, cross-legged on a couch blowing a harmonica next to one of his buddies, the trombonist Jasper ‘Jaz’ Cook. Mr Oz looks contented, blowing fiercely and wildly into the instrument. That is how I’ve always remembered him; restless, eager, always looking for the next adventure or cause to take on. A man who’s given many people a chance, and its only befitting that we give him his flowers whilst he’s still here learning to play an instrument and still writing.