Thoughts on a man called Mr Oz

By PHAKAMISA MAYABA

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 proven to be more than deserving of the feature.

Just recently, one such toppie trundled into town once again in his Mahindra jeep – ‘the king of four-by-fours’ — and I rushed to meet him before we wiped our respective brows, shook hands, and sat under the shade of a mulberry tree at a local 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, was calm and collected, exchanging pleasantries with those who’d occasionally hobble over to say hello. He’d done this for many years as a teacher and eventually headmaster at Umso High School, and it had become second nature.

The thought on my mind: why the heck has this pensioner left the serenity of Hanglip Farm, his second love after Mrs Oz (Tannie Les, to those who know her), to pay a visit to an unemployed writer in the township of Kuyasa, Colesberg?

Maeder and Lesley Osler with Andile Ngqandu on Hanglip Farm. Photo: eParkeni.

Freelance writers are often given a wide berth, maybe because they are perpetually broke and/or frustrated. Maeder Osler, on the other hand, wanted to sit down, talk, and say that the writing should continue, the financial uncertainties notwithstanding.

Now in his eighties, the man has lived through some interesting, even tumultuous, times. He has celebrated the better days, and protested against the uglier ones. In 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, but also clung to those liberal notions of all men being created equal, back 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 C.J. (Jonty) Driver, who was detained 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, told by a motley that cuts across both race and class. Just about everybody has a tale about the former Hantam sheep farmer, and if you don’t mind listening, they’ll tell it at length, often with a moderate layer of embellishment.

They include a former learner (and radical) from Umso High School where Mr Oz was principal for many years, whose years at school were characterised by disrupting class, smoking dope in the toilets, and a serious problem with authority. Teachers could not get through to him, but Osler’s patience, motivation and even humour 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 benefit 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 persistent footnote under more than a few of Colesberg’s success stories, even the ones that may not have been given their due credit.

This includes Toverberg Indaba, inarguably a ground-breaking newspaper in a conservative town where the narratives were often created by and for a particular people. The Indaba took its marginalised, voiceless communities from short back page pieces to 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 — 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.

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’ of Umthombo Wolwazi, on which hundreds of children from across the Colesberg area converge on school days. What started out as a modest idea for a play school saw Nelson Mandela awarding it 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 enjoyed a few libations with an alumnus of the school who drives around in a top-shelf German saloon and is a chartered accountant.

Andile Ngqandu, with the blanket over one shoulder, is among those with fond memories of Maeder Osler. Image: eParkeni.

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 by the fact that the young Ngqandu was sitting idle even though he had a degree in agriculture. As a result, Osler hired him on Hanglip Farm so that he could draw a wage while receiving invaluable on-the-job training. In these spaces, marred by poverty and hopelessness, one marks such gestures ‘on the knee.’ You never forget them.

As this toppie rides into the sunset, choosing to retire in the Western Cape, he 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 or two (on my part anyway).

There have been videos exchanged, one of my favourite showing 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 fitting that we give him his flowers while he’s still here learning to play an instrument, and still writing.

FEATURED IMAGE: Maeder Osler (left) with the eParkeni/Toverview team: the author, Janco Piek and Mbulelo Kafi. Image: eParkeni. 

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This is an edited version of an article that first appeared on Phakamisa Mayaba’s website, eparkeni. Used with permission.