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The fascination with “The Defiant Congregation and other stories” is their reflection of a little-known side of South Africa. Commonly, the category of people who consume and participate in public discourse deal with issues at a rarefied level. We know there is a segment of society that dances to a different tune.

That segment includes many rural people, many of whom do not read English and many of whom do not speak it with confidence. We know that this segment exists.

In the abstract, we find it fascinating. It represents much of what makes Africa interesting and mysterious. But very seldom do we hear its tales, and very seldom do we gain an insight into its mind and soul.

The author of the book “The Defiant Congregation and Other Stories,” Thapelo Masilela, gives us an insight. With these stories, one is going to acquire some sense of humility. Here are stories with a rare exposure to a world at work behind the scenes.

Our middle-class urban society is thrilled with the thought of Africa as unique and different; Thapelo Masilela was unique and different. He is apprising the reader of the life behind the smiling faces the middle-class encounters daily but understands minimally.

This anthology of short stories will represent a valuable, distinctive hilltop upon the South African publishing landscape.

-By Denis Beckett, Renowned South African writer and journalist.

The congregants picked up Motau high on their shoulders, singing the chorus, “Kae kapa kae, Motau re ya le wena.” They took him outside the church building and brought him back inside the church while singing. The mood smelt of victory in their struggle to retain their priest was conspicuous.

Upon taking the floor, Motau said, “Thank you, Lord, thank you, Jesus.”

“The Dean has said he would evict me from the mission house, whether I liked it or not. He boasted that it was his right to transfer or fire priests at random. But what do we see now?” asked Motau; his eyes were full of tears, and he wiped the tears with a pure white handkerchief.

“I have furniture accounts to pay. I asked the Dean to give me a grace period until I finish paying. He said I should let the shop repossess my goods and I must buy new ones in Venda,” continued Motau.

“When the Dean said that, I got a sharp pain in my heart. I imagined that the church did not pay her priests well. It did not buy them cars or houses. Now here it is, it did not buy the furniture for them as well. I saw the reason why some of them misused church monies,” added Motau.

The priest continued,

“I was not a bit satisfied with this transfer because it did not come about through a Godly spirit.”

He stopped once more. His eyes were red and full of tears, and then he went on poetically:

“I agree that it is true

I do not have teeth to bite like lions
I do not have horns to stab like cattle
I do not have guns to shoot like soldiers
I am defenceless

But.
I refused to succumb like a sheep
I said to the church hierarchy; I am going nowhere.
Let them bring the police if they can
Or fire me if they can
I am going nowhere.”

The priest then sat down, and every member of the congregation shook his hand and that of his mother. His speech had reinforced their resolve to defy.

During the friction amongst the congregants, there was a certain member of the Congressional Council who was dispersing information to diocese secretly through SMS. After the priest had given his speech, he could not contain himself. He wanted to cough out what was eating him up.

He stood up and rushed to the podium and asked for an opportunity to give a talk. He was allowed to do so. He said.

“Dear congregation! I was touched by what our priest had just said. I have to reveal what I have engaged in ever since this morning. I was communicating with the Diocese secretly, per SMS. Telling them about everything that was happening. Do not blame me for what I did. A decision was taken to cancel the transfer as it would tarnish the reputation of the church as a whole. I was asked to pass the message to you. A formal letter reversing the transfer will follow. That is all I was asked to tell you.”

The transfer never materialised. There were ululations and celebrations.

The Afrikaners say, “Die appel val nie ver van die boom af nie.” This proverb is the same as the English one: “Like father, like son.”

The rebelliousness of the congregation was in line with the Protestantism of the founder of the church, Martin Luther. The ways of Africa converged in resistance when the authorities wanted to transfer the priest willy-nilly.

The church, as the conscience of society, should be resolute, like when Martin Luther said, “I cannot and will not recant anything, for to go against conscience is neither right nor safe. Here I stand, I can do no other, so help me God.”

“I beg to disagree, let us not bluff ourselves. There is no purity in culture. The route about what we were supposed to do, should have been taken when this precious ceremony was arranged. In other words there was no proper planning,” came a voice from the crowd.

Another supportive view came from the crowd; “We are not going to move up and down like a yo-yo. Where have you seen clowns making sense of what they are doing?”

“Yes it does not make sense. We move three steps forward and two steps backward. There no such a thing as a perfect wedding. Do not be bluffed by what you see on television,” said another.

“Indeed it is so. Even our African cultures are no longer static. I mean we can no longer keep our own culture purely African. We mix a lot with other people of other races and in the New South Africa the situation is worse. As an example at school we mix with children from different backgrounds,” she continued.

“Do you mean we have a mixed race?” another question yearning for clarity came about.

“Yes certainly. Culture has always been dynamic. It does not stay the same, It changes with the times,” came a relevant answer.

“What about Heritage Day in September where the South African tribes exercise their different and original traditions?” came yet another question?

“No! Heritage Day is just for that day. After that they forget about what they wore or ate on that day. It is just to teach youngsters what the elders in Africa used to do in the past. That is all,” so it goes.

“So there is this separateness which is tantamount to Apartheid?” it was asked.

“Yes the word is beautified or coloured into what is called diverse culture,” so said Vusi

“This is terrible,” a comment came from the crowd.

Another learner added;

“I usually hear my father sing an old song which goes like this;

Sikhalela izwelakithi

Elathathwa ngabamhlophe

Mxhosa, Msuthu, Mzulu hlanganani”

“I now understand why he likes singing like that. Ag it is even worse these days. We have different nationalities at our schools. Joo! Humanity is one, nothing we can do about it. Even God is one,” he wrapped up.

It was not a real cock crowing but a ringtone of his cellphone. The sound was like;

“Kikirikiiiiiiii “ or “Koekelooe koeeee”

This reminded Vusi of the sound that was bellowing in his fellow learners stomachs after they stole some eggs during the mock wedding of Tshidi and Tshitiso a day before. He became more shocked. He was even hesitant to reply but decided to reply at any rate.

“Vusi……Vusi…….Vusi…” screamed Tshitiso on the other side of the line.

“Tshitiso what is wrong?” asked Vusi in a troubled voice.

“That sound of the crowing cock keeps bellowing in my stomach,” said Tshitiso.

“What could be wrong,” questioned Vusi.

“I do not know,” answered Tshitiso.

“But is it painful?”

“No, it is not,”

“That is better,” said Vusi.

“I also had a shock of my life,” continued Vusi.

“What was it that troubled you?” asked Tshitiso.

“My phone produces the sound of a crowing cock. It is worrying me too much. Where have you seen technology having a link with matters of the spirit? I do not have enough airtime right now. Let me communicate with you and others through whatsupp later on,” Vusi dropped the call..

He was like a camera out of focus.

“Now we are forced to do forced labour by reluctantly digging up graves in the middle of the night. That is exploitation. Why does the local municipality not hire people to dig up the graves at normal hours and pay them that?” Joseph inquired from his heart.

  On the way, traditional songs were sung. Joseph could not make out what the words were. The weather was cold. There were no stars. It was very dark. Some men with torches led the way when we reached the graveyard, up to the spot where the grave was to be dug.

After the measurements of the grave were taken through the use of strings, not a measuring tape, Joseph heard a voice say, “Wa lolapa ga atle go ntsha lekote,”.

It was explained to him that it meant, “Let a family member come to dig the first spade of the ground.”

  One middle-aged man exclaimed, “Pula…Pula…Ga badimo ba gabo, ba mo amogele ka Kgotso” –”Let his ancestors welcome him in peace.”

Another man disagreed; “Aowa bagaetsho. Re nale monna wa leisimane mo magareng a rena. Ga re hlakantsheng badimo ka go mo letlella gore a ntshe lekote.” – “We have an Englishman amongst us; may we do the ritual of merging his ancestors with those of the tribe by allowing him to dig the first spade.”

“We can do that if the member of the family permits us to do so,” came a voice from behind the group.

Before Joseph could be given the opportunity to proceed with the allotted duty, he was given a short lecture on the culture of African burial by the Chairperson of the group.

“You should not be afraid; be relaxed. This is just a gesture of welcome by these men who call themselves diphiri.  Diphiri is a Tswana name for jackals. Jackals usually operate during the night. In the olden days, when a person had died, the only explanation given to the younger kids was that ‘O tserwe ke phiri.’– ‘He has been taken by the jackals during the night.’ That was how it came about that they should be named diphiri. There were no mortuaries; corpses had to be buried the same day in the cattle kraal,

“Our elders used to relate stories of how primitive funerals were conducted. They would slaughter a cow, and the skin thereof would be used to wrap the corpse. There were no coffins. Not so long ago, there were people who were still using planks and nails to construct coffins. In the olden days, there were no graveyards. The cattle kraal used to be the burial place. Most of these cultures have died out a natural death, but the diphiri practice lives on,” thus explained the Chairperson.

“Lesogana le la leisimane, le ntshitse bogadi ke mokgonyana wa Rena – This English young man is now a Motswana by virtue of the fact that he has paid the dowry. We have captured him in our community. Let him start by digging the first spade,” continued the Chairperson. There was some ululating as Joseph was given the spade to dig first before anyone could do it,Joseph dug the first spade for any other person to follow suit.

As he was doing so, he thought to himself, “When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do. I am just doing it to avoid being necklaced. If you disagree with what the rest of the community is doing, you are labelled a sell-out, and you are worthy to be necklaced.

While the grave was being dug, others sang softly around a fire made of wood. It is common practice that if you attend the digging session, you should bring along a piece of firewood. Others were drunk. It is unlawful to drink liquor inside the graveyard, but booze and drugs were easily available. Culprits pour liquor in cold drink bottles and pretend as if they are drinking soft drinks, only to be found drunk like sailors later on.

It sometimes happens that when the grave is dug, it takes a V shape or form, which needs to be straightened up. Usually, teachers or the elites are told to perform that job. The instruction goes like this: “Moruta-bana ngatolla moshima, Teacher, straighten the V shape into a square one.” When the teacher does not understand that they mock him with lots of sarcasm. They laugh at him. Some would even say, “You are a teacher. You claim to know everything but do not understand the meaning of “Go ngatolla moshima.” When teachers talk English among themselves, they are told, “Did you ever hear white people talking Tswana among themselves? Whites have brainwashed you.” 

Now the ‘ngatolla moshima ‘ task was assigned to Joseph, even without explain to him first.

“Hela! Monna wa lekgowa ngatolla moshima.” – “Hey! Whitman straightens up the V shape of the dug grave.” Joseph did not understand that they were referring to him.

“What is the problem?” asked Joseph.

“The instruction is referred to you,” one man explained to him as he was given the spade.

“What must I do?” asked Joseph as his question was met with a lot of laughter as if there was something wrong with him.  This type of behaviour is not done to Joseph because he is a white person. It is directed at any other person who appears to be educated and does not understand the culture of the midnight grave excavators.

There were those members of the grave excavators who were sympathetic and tried to guide Joseph as to what he was supposed to do. Joseph cooperated as he was scared of the repercussions of non-compliance.

Joseph persevered until the V-shape of the grave was straightened. He was given a pass mark and applauded that he was now an expert in performing such tasks.