Peter Abrahams (1919-2017), a South African-born writer of international reputation penned powerful works about the injustices of apartheid and institutionalized system of racial oppression. His early work Mine Boy (1946) was the first to depict “the dehumanizing effect of racism in South Africa on black and mixed-race people and was the first South African book written in English to win international acclaim”.

Mr. Abrahams was born March 19, 1919, in Vrededorp, near Johannesburg. His father was from Ethi­o­pia and his mother was of mixed French and African parentage, making their three children “colored,” according to South African racial classifications then in force.

In Tell Freedom (1954), a compelling memoir of his youth, Abrahams relates about his Ethiopian father, who settled in Johannesburg to work in the gold mines, and about his death when Peter was quite young, leaving the family destitute in “the worst slum in the world”. Excerpts.

My father came from Ethiopia. He was the son of landowners and slave-owners. He had seen much Europe before he came to South Africa. In after years, when my mother talked about him, she told wonderful stories of his adventures in strange parts of the world.

I recall a time when she made me recite, like a catechism, my father’s family tree. It went something like this: I am Peter Henry Abrahams Deras, son of James Henry Abrahamas Deras whose name at home was Karim Abdul, son of Ingedi (e) of Addis who was the son of somebody else who fought in some battle who was the son of somebody else, who was the son of somebody else who was with Menelik when he defeated the Italians….’It went on for a very long time. And the ‘Deras’ or ‘De Ras’ was the family title.

My mother was the widow of a Cape Malay (a product of the East Indies strain of the Colored community ) who had died the previous year and left her with two children. She was alone except for an elder sister, Margaret. My mother and her two children were living with her sister, Margaret, when she met the man from Ethiopia. Margaret was the fairer of the two sisters, fair enough to “pass.” Her husband was a Scot. He worked on the mines. They had a little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. They lived in 19th Street, Vrededorp. And there, in the street, the two brown children, my brother, and sister, played with their cousin, the little white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.

To this street and this house came the Ethiopian. There, he wooed my mother. There, he won her. They married from that house. They found a house of their own further down the street. They made of it a home of love and laughter. From there they sent their boy and girl to the Colored School above Vrededorp. From there the Ethiopian went to work on the mines each morning. To that house, he returned at the end of each day. In that house, my sister, the third child in the family, was born. And there, early on the morning of 19th March 1919, I was born.

It was there, in that house, one rainy day, that a voice said : “Lee.”

And I turned from the raindrop world and saw my family; my mother and my father, big brother Harry, big sister Margaret, and not-so-big sister Natalie; that was the beginning of awareness. I do not know exactly how old I was. Three, perhaps; or four; or perhaps a little older.

There are sharp, clear-cut flashes of memory....

I found a stray kitten in the street one day. It had hardly any fur on its body, which was dotted with sores. Thick yellow matter oozed from its eyes. Its left front paw was cut and bleeding. I picked it up and took it home. Only my mother and Natalie were at home. The other two were at school, my father was at work. I went through the muddy lane to our back door. “Look, Ma! ” Natalie cried. My mother turned from her washing. What have you got, Lee? ”

A name for the kitten flashed into my mind. “It is Moe, Ma.” He made a sound like that. “ Well, get him out of here at once! ” I stood my ground at the door. “ No. He’s mine !” My mother came nearer and looked at the kitten. She shook her head. “Where did you find him ?” “The street.” “Well, take him back there.’ ‘No’

‘Go on, put him in the street and come back so that i can wash you. The thing may give you some disease.‘

‘No.’

‘I said go, Lee! ” That was the voice of authority. I began to whimper. I held the kitten tight. Nobody was going to part me from Moe. He was, quite suddenly, the most important thing in my world. Half-fearful, half-defiant, I screamed: “ I won’t! I won’t! I won’t.’

That was the beginning of a battle that lasted, intermittently, throughout the long day. It flared up again in the afternoon when Harry and Margaret returned from school. It reached new heights when Harry managed to get Moe away from me. I screamed and raved like one gone mad.

In the end, it was my father, the law-giver of the family, who solved the problem. He said I could keep Moe provided he was bathed in a strong disinfectant. I wanted to get into the tub with Moe, but the family would not allow it. Nor would they permit us to eat out of the same plate. We did, however, have two identical little enamelled plates and ate side by side on the floor. And often, when the others were not looking, we ate out of each other’s plates. The food was much more tasty that way.

My brother Harry made a coffin out of an old fruit box; my sister Margaret made a little white dress for Moe. One Sunday morning we took him to the Ottoman’s Valley above Vrededorp and buried him. While I prayed with tears streaming down my face, my brother and sisters were in hoots of laughter.

There was a sudden thunderstorm. I had to cut my prayers short, cover Moe quickly, and run for shelter. This amused the others more. I did not forgive them for a long time.

There are flashes of memory.

I remember the family picnics on Sundays. My mother and father would lie on the grass talking. We children would play about on the grass. The grass always seemed very green, the sky was always far away. On Sundays, in the Ottoman’s Valley, my mother always had a basket filled with things to eat. And the sun always shone on our picnic Sundays. I remember the cool sweetness of an orange after I had run myself silly.

I remember going to Sunday school with my sisters, and the special kind of quiet the place had, and the special kind of voices in which people spoke and prayed. And I remember the beautiful cards I was given as I went out of the Sunday school.

I remember the stirring music of the salvation Army Band.

I remember the marching children in the Band of Hope, and seeing my brother and sisters marching among them with their broad purple sashes, and crying because I could not wear a sash and march with them.

I remember the peaceful laughter of our house. Everyone in it seemed to be happy. I remember my first experience of crime and punishment. Fresh milk was unknown in Vrededorp. Those who could afford it used tins of sweetened condensed milk. Two holes were made in the top of the tin and the milk was poured out. The first time, the tin of milk was left within my reach on the table. There was no one in the room so I tasted it. It was good. After that, I bided my time and stole milk whenever I could. The safest thing was to take the tin under the bed. I could not be surprised there. I was caught by my mother one morning. She pulled me from under the bed and beat me till I could not sit on my seat. And while she beat me she wept. It made the beating all the more painful.

I remember my mother and father merging into each other in my mind. Together, they were my symbol of peace and laughter and security.

Then my father died.

I remember the shadow that was over our house: the solemn faces of my brother and sisters; the new strangeness of my mother. It surprised me to see her crying.

I remember the many people who suddenly invaded the house, making me feel a stranger in my own home. My mother’s sister, Aunt Margaret, became a real person for me then. It was she who did the things my mother had always done. She fed and clothed me, and when I wanted a piece of bread I asked her, not my mother.

I remember someone lifted me up and I looked into the coffin where my father lay. Because he did not smile at me, and because my mother cried, I cried too.

Then they took him away. And i never see him again.

With his going, the order and stability that had been in my life, dissolved. There was no bread-winner so we had to leave the place that had been our home.