My parents made a decision that would shape the next five
years of my life. Instead of sending me to one of the local high schools in our
feeding area, they chose something very different.
The schools in our area struggled with serious social
problems. Teen pregnancies were common, many students left school early, and a
large number never obtained matric exemption required for university admission.
I would not say that quality education was necessarily lacking, but these
schools were located in environmentally challenged communities with deep
socio-economic difficulties. Many of the girls I had gone to primary school
with would later become pregnant while attending those schools.
My father held a university degree, and although we lived in
Mountain View, we sometimes struggled to identify with many of the families
around us who had no higher education. Most were hardworking blue-collar
workers—plumbers, electricians, mechanics—people who worked with their hands
and made an honest living. But my father feared that I might be absorbed into a
culture that placed limits on ambition. He wanted something different for me.
So he made a decision.
He sent me to a boarding school in eastern Pretoria.
The school was Afrikaanse Hoër Seunskool, better
known simply as Affies, an Afrikaans boys’ high school and one of the
oldest of its kind in the world. In January 1987 my parents drove me there to
enroll. Before the school year even began, all the boys who would live in the
hostel had to arrive early for induction.
At that stage of my life, I was confident—perhaps overly
confident. I spoke my mind freely and was not afraid of confrontation. Some
might even have called me cocky.
I had no idea what I was walking into.
'Ontgroening' (Initiation)
Affies had traditions—old traditions. One of them was called
Ontgroening, the initiation process for all Grade 8 students.
The school operated according to a strict hierarchy. At the
bottom were the Grade 8s, the newcomers. At the top were the matrics, the Grade
12s. Between them stretched a ladder of authority and submission that governed
daily life.
As a Grade 8 you were at the very bottom.
You had no status, no authority, and very little dignity.
The matrics had power over us. We had to address them as
“Master,” and each of us received a nickname that we would carry for the rest
of our time at Affies.
Mine was Quaffer.
The name was deliberately humiliating. It combined Qua-Qua,
a region in the Free State where black people lived during apartheid, with Kaffir,
a deeply derogatory racial slur used by whites in those days. Today it is
rightly considered hate speech, but in the 1980s it was thrown around casually
without much thought.
For the next five years, that was my name.
Quaffer.
Initiation—or Ontgroening, as it was known in
Afrikaans—was common throughout apartheid South Africa. Newcomers in many
institutions were subjected to degrading rituals meant to remind them of their
place in the hierarchy. It was not limited to schools. Universities practiced
it. The military practiced it. Even workplaces sometimes practiced it.
The purpose was simple: break the newcomer down, strip away
pride and individuality, and reshape him into a loyal member of the system.
Once you reached the top of the hierarchy, you were expected to do the same to
the next generation.
The cycle continued.
Serving the Masters
Each Grade 8 boy was assigned a matric master. Our job was
to serve him and meet his needs, especially if we lived in the hostel where
escape was impossible.
The duties ranged from the ridiculous to the degrading. We
warmed toilet seats for them during cold winter mornings. We carried their
books and furniture. We made them coffee and ran errands whenever they demanded
it.
If they were displeased, they could beat you.
Whether you had served them well or not did not really
matter.
We also had to wear large cardboard signs around our necks.
On these signs were written our humiliating nicknames along with other
degrading information. We walked around the school grounds with them hanging
from our necks so that everyone could immediately recognize us as belonging to
the lowest rank.
During break times all the Grade 8 boys were required to
gather in the hall. There we were taught the traditions and culture of the
school and instructed how to behave within this rigid structure. We were
frequently rebuked for supposed arrogance or pride.
Sometimes the lessons became something else entirely. We
were forced to sit on the floor and repeatedly lift our backsides before
slamming them down again while chanting in Afrikaans:
“Harde gat word sag.”
The phrase cannot be translated perfectly into English.
Literally it means “a hard backside becomes soft,” but the deeper meaning was
obvious. Pride and stubbornness would be beaten out of us until we became
submissive.
It was a systematic process of psychological
conditioning—breaking us down so we could be reshaped into members of the
school’s subculture.
The Culture of Affies
Affies was more than a school. It was a social world with
its own unspoken rules and hierarchy.
Most of the boys came from wealthy families in the eastern
suburbs of Pretoria. Their fathers were lawyers, doctors, business leaders, and
senior government officials. They occupied the upper tiers of society, and
their sons carried themselves accordingly.
There was an unspoken belief that they belonged to a higher
class.
An Afrikaner nobility of sorts.
Boys like me—coming from the western side of Pretoria—did
not quite belong in that world.
Humiliation
Some memories refuse to fade.
One night in the hostel a group of boys grabbed me and threw
me onto my bed. They held me down and pulled off my pants. While several of
them restrained me, another shaved my pubic hair.
I remember the laughter more than the pain.
The next day I had to play rugby, and the itching lasted for
weeks, but the humiliation lasted far longer.
Another boy, nicknamed Potiphar, was forced to stand
against a wall while matrics threw tennis balls at him. If he flinched or tried
to dodge them, he was punished.
Scenes like this were common.
Entertainment.
House Pannevis
I lived in House Pannevis, an old hostel building
located some distance from the main complex. The rooms were enormous
dormitories. Ten boys slept in each one, with five beds along each wall.
Every morning at 6:30 we stood inspection in military
fashion. Beds had to be perfectly made and uniforms immaculate. Any deviation
resulted in punishment.
Lights-out was at ten o’clock each night, and if you were
caught outside your bed after that time there were consequences.
Often you had to perform errands for your matric master late
at night. If you refused, he punished you. If a teacher caught you doing it,
the teacher punished you.
It was a perfect no-win situation.
You simply chose the option that hurt less.
I spent three years in that hostel, and one thing became
clear: if you escaped punishment during the school day, you would almost
certainly receive it in the hostel.
Sometimes punishment was used simply as a preventative
measure.
Punishment and Discipline
Today corporal punishment is unconstitutional and considered
degrading and humiliating. In those days it was simply part of daily life.
You bent over and felt the sting of the rottang cane
across your backside.
Even the matrics had their own informal systems of
punishment. So even if you escaped the wrath of a teacher, you might still face
discipline from senior students.
In Grade 8 I once lost my temper with the captain of the
first rugby team after he threw water at me during break time. I pretended that
I was going to hit him.
It was a foolish moment.
Later I was summoned before the matric disciplinary
committee. After some deliberation they sentenced me to receive ten “krokodille”,
or lashes.
The punishment worked like this: a matric lifted you onto
his back so that your own back was exposed. Several other matrics then took
turns slapping your back with the open sides of their hands as hard as
possible.
Crowds of boys gathered to watch.
It felt like a public flogging.
Rugby Obsession
Rugby was the religion of Affies. I was a reasonably good
player but always played in the B-team for my age group.
Our A-team was exceptional. Over three years they never lost
a match and eventually won the Transvaal Administrator’s Cup for under-15
teams. Seven players from that squad later joined the Northern Transvaal Rugby
Schools team.
At most other schools I probably would have played in the
A-team.
At Affies I was simply an average fish in a very large pond.
I liked rugby because it was a team sport where cooperation
mattered more than individual brilliance. But I lacked the aggression required
to dominate. Looking back, I suspect that years of bullying had quietly
conditioned me to believe that I simply wasn’t good enough.
 |
| Rugby match between Boys High and us - 1988 |
Teasing & Bullying
In a high-testosterone environment, gentler boys were often
targeted by more aggressive ones. Bullying was common. Older students bullied
those lower in the hierarchy, and stronger, athletic boys often picked on those
who were more artistically or culturally inclined. Teasing and humiliation of
weaker boys happened regularly, and learners were not the only culprits.
I had a Grade 9 mathematics teacher who seemed to take
particular pleasure in humiliating me in class almost every day. His treatment
shook my confidence so badly that I eventually had to take mathematics on
Standard Grade.
Boys who fit the expected profile—athletic, confident,
competitive—were treated with more respect by teachers. Those who were not
rugby players or sports stars were sometimes targets of teachers themselves.
The rigid hierarchy of the school, combined with the belief that being number
one was the only acceptable place to be, pushed many average boys back into
their shells.
Fights occurred on the school grounds almost every break and
became a major source of entertainment. Boys often manipulated others into
fighting. One would tell a boy that another had insulted him, simply to provoke
a confrontation. Fortunately, I usually managed to stay out of these
situations. I was not the fighting type. The only time I had ever been involved
in a real tussle was back in Grade 7 in primary school, and even then it
happened only after the other boy pushed things too far.
There was one boy in particular, Henri Rex, who
seemed to have his knife in for me. He went out of his way to insult and
humiliate me in front of others. To my regret, I never confronted him. I simply
endured it. Looking back, I suspect many boys lost respect for me because I
refused to fight him. At Affies, respect was often earned through violence, and
a peacemaker—or someone who believed in “turning the other cheek”—was seen as
weak.
It was almost like a prison subculture: eat or be eaten.
Rex was a tough boy and one of the best fighters in the
school. Even though we were in the same grade, he was a year older than me.
Realistically, I never stood a chance against him. Still, I regret not standing
up to him at least once.
From early in my schooling I was also teased about my
physical appearance. Some boys mocked my ears, my feet, and my small eyes.
There was nothing actually wrong with me physically, but children can be cruel
and often exaggerate minor features until they become defining traits.
At that age I was already self-conscious, like most
teenagers. But the constant remarks left a deeper mark than I realized at the
time. Over time I began to believe that I was unattractive. I never had a
girlfriend during my high-school years, largely because I did not feel good
about myself.
We occasionally had social events with the girls’ school
across the street. Even when I noticed that some girls seemed interested in me,
I never truly believed that I was good enough.
In many ways, this captures the theme of my entire
high-school experience. Over five years I was slowly broken down by a
subculture in which I never truly fitted, until I began to believe that I was
nothing—that I was not worthy.
Social Status
Your socio-economic background largely determined your
position in the social hierarchy at Affies. Because I came from the western
part of Pretoria, I was automatically excluded from certain social circles
within the school.
One of the first questions boys asked when you arrived was
simple:
“Where do you come from?”
I will never forget the expressions on their faces when I
answered.
Once your background was established, you were categorized.
Your status was assigned, and from that point you were either included or
excluded.
I was never truly accepted by the elite group at the school.
It had nothing to do with personality or attitude. I simply did not belong to
their world. My father was not a lawyer, a doctor, or a government minister. We
did not live in a large house in eastern Pretoria, nor did we drive luxury
cars.
My greatest embarrassment came on Monday mornings when my
father dropped me off at school in our old, worn-out 1977 Toyota Corolla.
To reach the hostel he had to drive across a large section of the school
grounds where many of the other boys gathered.
I never knew where to put my head.
As we drove past them, I could feel their stares.
The Naughty Years
After three years in the hostel, I asked my father to take
me out. He agreed and removed me at the end of Grade 10. A few months later I
regretted the decision and asked to return, but he refused. The early years in
the hostel were the hardest; things became easier later as you gained
seniority. When I saw that my former roommates were enjoying themselves, I
wanted to be part of it again.
But my father would not reconsider.
Instead, I became a day scholar. Every day I had to take two
buses from Mountain View to Affies and two buses back home again. The journey
took nearly three hours daily.
It was a different kind of trauma.
The buses had their own bullies, and life there could also
be difficult. Still, commuting did bring a certain degree of freedom.
During our Grade 10 year my cousins Marcu and Francois,
who came from Ermelo, moved to Pretoria. For the most part they were a bad
influence on me.
In Grade 11 I began sleeping over more often at their house
in Centurion. Many mornings Marcu and I would get dropped off at school and
then immediately board a bus to Sunnyside to watch movies and eat out.
We both worked part-time at Pizza Hut in Arcadia,
very close to Sunnyside. We earned R2.32 an hour on weekends and during
holidays. I worked as a runner in the restaurant, assisting waiters, while
Marcu worked in the takeaway section.
Sometimes we bunked school. Marcu would treat me to movies
and meals at Wimpy, and I assumed his parents were simply generous with money.
Later I discovered the truth.
Marcu had been stealing from the till at Pizza Hut.
Eventually he was caught and fired. I was given his job. Not
long afterward, one of the waitresses stole R50 from my till. That day I
had worked a sixteen-hour shift and earned R37.12. Because I was
responsible for the till, I had to repay the missing money.
Instead of making money that day, I lost R12.88.
In a strange way, it felt like karma. I had unknowingly
benefited from Marcu’s thefts before.
During that year I skipped more than sixty school days
to go on these escapades with my cousin. Eventually the school discovered what
we were doing.
One afternoon my cousin and I were playing video games and
smoking at a café in Mountain View when my father walked in. He simply waved us
over and told us to get into the car.
It was Friday afternoon.
We had to wait the entire weekend for our punishment.
On Monday morning I was called to the principal’s office
over the intercom. As I stood up from my desk, my classmates laughed. The walk
to the office felt long and lonely.
You could almost hear the words:
“Dead man walking.”
The punishment was four lashes on the buttocks. I took it
without complaint, but my backside burned intensely. I hurried out of the
office as quickly as possible, trying not to show the pain.
Social Rank
One of the first questions boys asked when you arrived at
Affies was simple:
“Where do you come from?”
It was not casual conversation.
It was classification.
When I answered Mountain View, I saw their
expressions change immediately. In that moment my social status was determined.
My father was not a lawyer or doctor, and we did not live in the wealthy
eastern suburbs. We did not drive luxury cars.
My greatest embarrassment came on Monday mornings when my
father dropped me off at the hostel in our old 1977 Toyota Corolla. To
reach the building he had to drive across the school grounds where other boys
were gathering.
I never knew where to put my head.
The Scars
By my final year I had faded into mediocrity. Years of
bullying and rejection had quietly eroded my confidence. I had become too
cautious, too emotionally bruised to stand out or attempt anything remarkable.
But somewhere inside me a silent determination began to
grow.
One day I would prove them wrong.
Ironically, many of the boys who had been the stars of the
school achieved very little after graduation. At our ten-year reunion it felt
as if many of them were still living in the glory days of high school. The same
cliques remained, still divided along the same social lines.
Meanwhile, many of the so-called “uncool” boys had become
lawyers, surgeons, and successful professionals.
Affies had been a nightmare in many ways. The bullying and
rejection left scars that remained long after school ended. Yet those years
also taught me resilience and perseverance. They became part of the foundation
that later drove me to succeed in the real world.
Looking back now, I can even see the hand of God in that
painful chapter of my life. Like Joseph in the dungeon, I survived.
And perhaps those difficult years were a kind of
preparation for the life that lay ahead.
 |
| School photo - 1990 |
At my ten-year reunion, it seemed that very little had
changed for many of the boys. They appeared stuck in the high-school phase of
their lives. Many had reached the pinnacle of success during their school years
and had lost the motivation to achieve much afterward. At the reunion, the same
boys who had belonged to the “cool” clique in school gravitated toward one
another, still reluctant to socialize with the so-called “uncool” kids.
The irony was striking. Many of those “uncool” boys had gone
on to become lawyers and neurosurgeons, while some of the “cool” kids had not
even managed to complete a college degree. They seemed trapped in a time
capsule of earlier success, still riding on the wings of their former fame,
still living in a world where they remained the cooler “kids.” Perhaps their
social status and stardom had been so inflated by fellow students, teachers,
and the system itself that they came to believe they were almost untouchable.
But once they entered the real world—where birth and socioeconomic status
matter far less—they struggled to cope. They had never truly learned how to
survive in a tougher environment.
Affies was, to a large extent, a nightmare for me. The
trauma of bullying and rejection still affects me to this day. It taught me to
see myself in a certain way and to understand my place within a rigid social
hierarchy. Being in a school where competitive success was the only thing that
truly mattered—where personality, character, and heart seemed to count for very
little—left me feeling completely devalued. Success and worth were measured
only in external terms. You were considered successful only if you excelled in
sport, academics, or cultural achievements.
Social status and acceptance were reserved for winners.
In an environment like that, a sensitive boy with a good
heart—someone who believed in teamwork, in uplifting others, and in
relationships that mattered more than winning at all costs—could not easily
thrive. Regardless of my intentions or character, I was rejected and bullied
because I was not cut from the same “rock” as the others. I was a foreign
concept to them, and they did not know how to deal with me. In many ways, I was
simply the wrong person in the wrong school. I expressed this to my parents countless
times, but they refused to listen or help.
When my younger brother later attended Affies, he became the
anti-Henry. He gained status and acceptance because he succeeded in everything
the school valued—sport, academics, arts, and culture. My parents gained social
standing within the parent community through his achievements. He was
competitive and he won, and the school’s culture of success embraced him fully.
That is, until he contracted the Coxsackie virus and could
no longer compete. After that, he too faded into mediocrity.
Despite everything, I remain grateful for the things I
unconsciously learned during my painfully traumatic years at Affies. Those
experiences taught me how to endure adversity and persevere through trials.
They became the foundation of my determination to succeed later in the real
world.
At the same time, those years affected my social
development. Single-sex schools bring certain challenges. When I arrived at
university, I initially struggled to relate to women. I felt socially awkward
and did not know how to approach them. These are skills that many young people
naturally develop in mixed-gender school environments. Instead, I went straight
from an all-boys school into military service, which was also an entirely male
environment. I was nineteen before I truly began interacting with women in my
own age group.
Do I regret my time at Affies?
In many ways, yes. I never reached my full potential during
those years, and that will always remain a regret. But I also experienced good
moments and created some wonderful memories.
If I had the choice to go through it again, I would probably
choose differently.
Yet I can also see the hand of God in it all. He allowed me
to pass through that painful process so that I could become the person I am
today. Those experiences shaped and molded me—for better and for worse, but I
believe mostly for the better.
God was with me during that time of rejection and fear, just
as He was with Joseph in the dungeon. Like Joseph, I survived.
And perhaps, much like Joseph’s imprisonment
prepared him for the life that lay ahead, my years at Affies became a kind of
“school” that prepared me for the road that was still to come.
Next in chapter 4, you will read about my military service in the South African Army.
