Mandla Seleoane's No Holy Cows

Problems that come with having three names

WHEN I was born, birth certificates were not in vogue among black people. In fact the whole idea of registering people’s births had not taken root substantially among black people.

When I was in matric a good number of us used to joke that since our existence could not be doubted, it must border on lunacy to ask for proof of it. Of course the joke missed the point that it was not our existence that needed to be proved, but the date on which it kicked in.

One of the problems that flowed from my not having a birth certificate was that, when I applied for a reference book, the policeman at Bantu affairs argued about my names. In his view I could not have three names.

I definitely needed a “Christian” name, and so he had no problem with Clyde. Since I carried a Sesotho surname, he had no problem with Lebohang.

He drew a solid black line on Mandla to emphasise the end of the argument.

The consequence of his action, among others, was that all official documents that referred to me from that day on, had to be styled Lebohang Clyde. Similarly, when I was old enough to open a bank account, Mandla could not feature on the bank records – God forbid that banks should use a name that is not in my “book of life”.

My everlasting existential problem is that most people who know me, call me Mandla. To be quite honest, I do not respond quite as naturally on the rare occasion that people call me by any of the other names.

Sometimes I get cheques issued to Mandla. Most letters addressed to me are also addressed to Mandla, and I think it would require a bit of an effort to open a letter addressed to Clyde and, though to a lesser extent, one addressed to Lebohang.

The bank used to give me hell every time I had to cash or deposit a cheque issued to Mandla. I couldn’t bring myself to ask people to issue my cheques to Clyde or Lebohang, for I am proud of Mandla.

I have often thought of going to home affairs and ask them to give me an identity document with the name Mandla, but the idea of standing in those long queues and the general incompetence of government officials must always be a deterrent for anyone who has work to do. In fact I do not know any person who has dealings with government officials unless he or she absolutely has no choice.

I honestly had a lot of empathy for Baleka Mbete-Kgositsile’s reluctance to obtain her driver’s licence in the manner that we lesser mortals have to subject ourselves to.

In the end I told the bank that I would close my account if they did not want to add the name Mandla on their record so that we do not have to argue about my name all the time. They added my name and there was peace ever after.

The post office is a little different. I think that the officials there bear scars of State officialdom.

Every time I have to collect an item addressed to Mandla, it is one huge rigmarole.

It’s not, mind you, as if they are meticulous in doing their work. Often they have given me parcels addressed to other people and, by the look of the wrapping, a lot more valuable than what they should have given me.

I never fail to return the parcels they erroneously give me like this. It would appear they don’t even look at your face when you return such parcels and try to establish your honesty with them.

Interestingly enough, these are black people.

The other day I insisted on seeing the postmaster after I had repeatedly knocked my head on a concrete wall. She happened to be a white woman and she instantly remembered my returning a huge box her staff had wrongly given to me and thanked me for a second time, and then released my parcel.

Last week, when I had a similar problem, the black guy who helped me, took the trouble to tell me that if the postmaster had not helped me the previous time, I would have fixed my identity document up. In the end, of course, he gave me my parcel.

I have often experienced excruciating frustration with them, for they leave you with the distinct feeling that they are not allowed to think. But I consider that this would not be a bad idea.

Every time I have heard them try to think, I thank heavens that most of the time their job requires them to do near mechanical things like selling stamps and nothing more demanding.

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