The King's Journal: From the Horse’S Mouth

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© 2014 Kgafela Kgafela II. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 7/7/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8581-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8582-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8583-5 (e)

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CONTENTS

1   The King’s Journal

2   The Royal Leopard Hunt

3   Enthronement

4   The Defender

5   My Horse

6   Traditional Initiation Schools: Mophato

7   Eye of the Storm

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Book

CHAPTER 1

THE KING’S JOURNAL

Confucius said, "When I was fifteen I set my heart on learning; at thirty I took my stand; at forty I was not confused; at fifty I knew the mandate of heaven; at sixty my ear was obedient; at seventy I could follow my heart’s desire without stepping over the line." (Analects: Chinese Wisdom on the Dao or The Way, compiled by Edward L. Shaughnessy. London: Duncan Baird, p. 137.)

Dear Reader:

Time and experience have taught me many things about life.

One man goes for a regular walk in the wilderness and gets lost. He spends the next fourteen days struggling for his life on a nasty path to find home. A second man is locked up in a jail in China, where he cannot speak the language. He faces a capital offence for a crime he has not committed. He needs to climb himself out of the dark hell hole of prison. The third man goes on an LSD trip. He comes back to tell the stories of what he has seen on the other side of visible reality. These adventures of life share one thing in common. They serve to concentrate the mind in a truly remarkable way: you grow very fast and see life clearer. I have experienced such adventures as I graduated to my forties.

Mine were mostly adventures with the law, politics, and society in Africa, where decisions are made and fate declared. It is a level of challenge where you confront the entities of the spirit world, called principalities of nature. They are discussed in various cultures of the world and in the scriptures, as in Ephesians 6:12, where it says

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. (KJV)

That field of engagement – where you lock horns with the powers that be at the law – initiates you to withstand the full might of corrupt government and envious public opinion. You lose your life easily whilst everyone watches, unless you pass the tests of initiation to tell your story. I tell my testimonies in The King’s Journal. I tell them a conversation style, by way of letters addressed to my readers. Let me kick off by introducing myself.

My name is Kgafela Kgafela. The name Kgafela means: A tribute or sacred gift to God by society delivered through the mediumship of a monarch in my traditions. The plural is Di- Kgafela. I live in a black society in South Africa. My society knows me by the name Kgosi Kgolo Kgafela II. The name Kgosi Kgolo stands for king in my culture. I am the king of a Sotho-Tswana-speaking tribe called Bakgatla Ba Kgafela.

The tribe lives in a territory of land called Kgatleng. The tribal land uniquely straddles two countries, namely South Africa and Botswana. It stretches from the Pilansburg area, where Sun City and the Pilansburg National Park tourist destinations are located, to Mochudi Village in Botswana and its surrounds.

The people in my society know me by various names. My most popular name is Kgosi Kgafela II. Some called me KK when I was a lawyer in Botswana. In my family, I am called Raagwe Matshego. The word raagwe in my language means father of. My first-born son is called Matshego. Thus, Raagwe Matshego means father of Matshego. We have a tradition where married men and women are named after their first-born children, as I have described. As such, my wife is called Mmaagwe Matshego, meaning mother of Matshego. These names are only used within the inner family circle.

The totems of my tribe are the primate monkey and the flame. Both are known as the kgabo. It is an honour therefore to refer to a senior tribesman of the Bakgatla tribe as Kgabo or Mokgatla when addressing him. Persons outside my family circle are expected to address me as Kgabo or Kgosi Kgolo. The manner by which one person addresses the other is really a matter of choice that reflects his or her standards of decency.

I was born on 28 July 1971. That makes me a Leo. I was born in Washington DC, in the United States of America. I was born in Washington when my father was the ambassador for Botswana to the United States; he served from 1970 to 1972. That was during the presidency of Richard Nixon, the Vietnam War, and a general awakening period that was taking place in America at that time. My father’s service in America and my birth there were key points of my destiny. The reason is that the geographical location where you enter Mother Earth at birth and the things that take place at the time determine your destiny. The energies of nature at that point in place and time plant something in you that follows you all your life. That is partly why national identity documents always show your place of birth. The United States, therefore, is my spiritual home, whilst South Africa (the origins of humankind) is my physical home. I am an African American in the literal sense, presently living in South Africa as a South African citizen.

I am descended from a line of kings of Bakgatla Ba Kgafela. The lineage stretches back from my father to Kgosi Molefi Kgafela, Kgosi Linchwe I, Kgosi Kgamanyane, and his father, the famous Pilane, the father of Kgamanyane. My forefathers were freedom fighters. Kgosi Kgamanyane struggled against the oppression of Boer commander Paul Kruger in the mid-1800s. Kgosi Linchwe I was co-founder of the African National Congress (ANC) of South Africa, which was later led by Nelson Mandela. My father, Kgosi Linchwe II, continued the struggle of the ANC underground movement in Botswana from about 1975 to 1991. He accommodated the freedom fighters and distributed their arms. He was in charge of the Botswana-South Africa war pipeline that was used by the fighters to enter into South Africa and then exit into exile after battles. Whilst in America, my father met respectable people of the black consciousness movement. He loved literature about the struggles for freedom.

My father was born in May 1935. He died in August 2007. Kgosi Linchwe II was a great king. His greatness is revealed in our stories. My father valued fairness and justice. He did not care much for money or wealth. He was a man who preferred to be alone and not bothered by people with their issues. I noticed later in life that he had actually studied society so well that he had reached a point where he kept quiet and simply observed.

My grandfather was Kgosi Molefi Kgafela. Molefi’s father was called Kgafela but he did not rule. He died before his father, Linchwe I, who died in 1924. His father was Kgosi Kgamanyane. The tribe migrated from South Africa to Botswana (then called Bechuanaland Protectorate) between 1869 and 1871 under the reign of Kgosi Kgamanyane.

My mother’s name is Mmarakau Kathleen (Kathy) Kgafela. She was born in 1943. Her maiden name is Motsepe. She is a South African citizen, born and bred in South Africa by the Motsepe clan. Her father, Dibaga Motsepe, was a honourable man. He was a senior in the extended royal family of the Bakgatla Ba Mmakau, based in Garankua area, near Pretoria. My grandmother was affectionately known as Nkoko Mma Motsepe. She was a strict, religious woman. I used to observe her constantly reading the Holy Bible when I was a child. My sister is called Seingwaeng Kgafela. My two brothers are Bakgatle Kgafela and Mmusi Kgafela; they both are married with children.

I am married with three children. My wife is Oshadi Margaret Kgafela. She originates in royalty of the Bakaa tribe in Botswana within the Mosinyi clan. Her father is Gotlhomame Ted Mosinyi. He is the younger brother to Goareng Mosinyi, who ruled the Bakaa tribe as chief until he passed away in 2012. Her mother is called Keegope Mosinyi. She is a retired teacher, whilst Mr Mosinyi is a retired education officer. Oshadi’s siblings are Ishmael, Masego, Moemedi, and Kabo (KB) Mosinyi. I met her at university in 1993. She was a first-year student of humanities: nineteen years old and stunningly beautiful.

We married in the year 2000. Our children are all boys. The first is called Matshego Kgafela, born in September 2001. The second is called Tebele Boago Kgafela, born in June 2003. The third is Sedibelo Kgafela. He was born in October 2007, a month after we buried my father.

I had my primary education in a Muslim school in Lobatse, Botswana, called Crescent Primary School (the school was open to non-Muslims). I schooled there between 1978 and 1985. Crescent was a boarding school. I lived there the entire seven years of my primary education. I have pleasant memories of growing up in that environment, where there was no Mummy or Daddy and you had to fend for yourself in the small community of students and teachers. The school holidays usually lasted about three weeks and six weeks; we had a maximum of about twelve weeks at home in the whole year. I remember moments in my childhood when I lay silently in bed in the dormitories at early dawn; I used to hear the voice of the Muslim imam calling from the mosque, located about two hundred metres away. That voice had an eerie feel to it, as it boomed across the town of Lobatse at dawn. I used to wonder what he was saying in his chants. His call became our daily alarm to wake up in the dormitories to make ready for school or the day’s activities.

Crescent was an elite school. Some of the families who sent their children there include Kgosi Leruo Molotlegi of Bafokeng tribe in South Africa. He schooled there with all his brothers and sisters. The Masire family also sent their children to Crescent. I schooled with Tshepo Masire, Mothapi Masire, and Fino Masire, all sons of Basimanyana Masire, brother to the former president, Sir Ketumile Masire. Many wealthy and famous residents of Lobatse schooled their children in Crescent. We had a caretaker in an old woman called Mma Mmesisi. Mma Mmesisi was quick with her whip. She called spankings "go bata." Many of today’s public figures schooled at Crescent; they all tasted her whip.

I had a Muslim friend called Ibrahim. Ibrahim was a quiet child who did not want to be bothered. I was curious about a small book that he carried. It was the Quran. He told me not to touch it – because I was not of their faith – and that if I did touch it, I would turn into a pig before sunrise the following day. One day, I secretly touched the book with a friend called Pius Keakopa. Ibrahim caught us in the act. He announced the curse with so much confidence that we believed we would be pigs the following morning. I did not sleep that night. I waited in tremendous fear and anguish overnight for the moment I would transform into a pig before my eyes. Pius suffered the same agony. I met Pius at the ablutions at dawn; our eyes were bloodshot, where each of us scrambled for the mirror to see if we had turned into pigs or retained our human form. It was a long night of anxious anticipation. Ibrahim laughed at us the following morning in class. He was a day-schooler; thus our interactions were mostly in class during the day. I felt so stupid yet happily relieved that it was a practical joke. I had not turned into a pig. I never touched the Quran again (until the day I landed in jail in Botswana in 2010 on a political challenge, which I will describe in a future volume of The King’s Journal).

I was a prefect for my house at standard seven in Crescent. Our house was called Khutse, named after the Khutse National Reserve of Botswana. Our house colours for sports were red. I have loved the colour red since then. I was a fast runner and often took the lead in races of my group. The sports day was always my favourite time because I did well. I took my schoolwork seriously. At standard five, I scooped the school trophy for the best student of the year. My teacher then was a beautiful Hindu woman called Mrs Shanti Swaminathan. I loved Mrs Swaminathan with all my heart. I had a childhood crush on her. I loved her like a mother, sister, girlfriend, and all, to a point of feeling jealous at times and wanting her all to myself. I passed my standard seven results with straight As in 1984.

My secondary school education was at Moeding College in Otse Village, which is located about twenty kilometres from Lobatse. I schooled in Moeding from 1985 to 1989. I loved history and became the best student in that class. I passed my junior certificate examinations with a first class merit that had straight As. That result was the best mark in the whole country of Botswana in 1987. A few other students around the country obtained the merit grade in my time. I was a prefect at form four and five in hostel number House F.

Our principal in 1985–86 was a good man called Reverend Malthus Smith. Mr Smith was strict and fair. There was a student strike when I was a form one student in 1985. The students were complaining about many things that I did not understand. The striking students converged at the football pitch, chanting revolution songs. The senior students coerced many of the new students into joining the strike at the football pitch, and I was there.

Mr Smith walked up to us in the pitch to tell us just one thing. When he approached, he told us politely to go to the student dining hall immediately; if anyone was not in the hall by the time he arrived, such students would be expelled from the school. I recall how we scrambled towards the dining hall. The whole group, save for a few, ran past Mr Smith as he gracefully walked back to the dining hall. I remember sprinting by, wondering how I could face my father if I were to be expelled from school on account of a strike I did not understand. The terror of facing my father after expulsion zapped me past Mr Smith like Sputnik. He must have laughed seeing a cloud of dust behind our heels in the dirt football pitch, as many of us scrambled past him. I never had trouble with the school authorities after that. I learnt early how easy it was for people to betray a common cause, as in a strike.

I was generally playful at form one and came in second from the bottom in my class examinations. My parents were very disappointed with my results, and I was humiliated. But I recovered instantly at form two after my father admonished me in a manly talk about life. He told me straight that my future was for me to take charge of, and that I would certainly clean up after my age mates, if I played about. He gave me a vivid description of how that cleaning would pen out in life to someone destined to become a king. I did not want to experience such a reality as he described and woke up instantly.

Mr Smith had a deputy called Mr Motswagole. Mr Motswagole was quick with the whip. His whip preceded dialogue. He believed in whipping first and talking later. It worked for him and the students. We accepted his principle, because he was right most of the time. He did not have issues with obedient students. Those who received his whip were usually the naughty ones. Mrs Kwape took over as principal after Mr Smith. She was a good woman who also liked discipline. Mrs Kwape was a real mother at heart. She had an Asian deputy called Mr George. Mr George was a wise man.

I had very good teachers at Moeding College. My favourite teachers were a Shona woman called Mrs Mdaya and a Motswana man called Mr Molelu. Mrs Mdaya taught English in her strong Shona ascent. We liked it that way. It was authentic. She paid attention to detail in the English language and taught us to do the same. At times, Mrs Mdaya would pause midway in a literature class reading for us to examine a word like nice – when and where it should and should not be used. Mr Molelu taught us history. He was a good teacher. I got along well with him.

My closest friends at Moeding were Tino Phuthego and Leina Gabaraane. We loved to jog in the wilderness outside the school parameters. We called it roadwork. We also liked to climb the nearby hill and roll boulders down it. We were always excited to see the rocks tumble and explode down hill. There was always something profoundly symbolic about the entire exercise of rolling the boulders. We climbed the famous Baratani Hill in Otse. There are legends about people disappearing and never returning after climbing Baratani Hill. I climbed the hill twice with Tino. Tino, Leina, and I used to do many things together. I had a girlfriend at Moeding College. She became my first taste of love at adolescence.

I was involved with the school nature conservation club. Our supervisor in the club was a teacher called Mr Lebonaamang Mokalake. I liked Mr Mokalake. We called him Thanda. We worked together in a national nature conservation project to protect the vultures of Manyelanong Hill in Otse Village. I played social football and club chess at the junior level. I played board three in our chess club. At form four, I experienced cannabis at the school’s nature reserve, affectionately called the evil forest. The evil forest was a patch of wilderness located at the corner of the school. It was a special place where adventurous students did their secret stuff. Some students used to have sex there. The sex scenes were often embarrassing, yet irresistible to glance at when accidentally observed.

When a couple reached the right spot in the forest, the boy would take off his overcoat (we called it a dust coat) and neatly lay it on the ground for the girl to lie on, back to the ground. He would then mount her missionary style, as she spread her legs wide, dress drawn up to the belly. Then you would hear them both moaning and mumbling words. When you caught a glimpse of such episodes in the evil forest, it would arouse the erotic feeling you get when watching a donkey thrusting his mate with pure animal pleasure. The bloke would walk back to the hostels, bouncing in happiness like a relieved cat. There was a culture within the student community where sex was asked for, and given, like merchandise, depending on the style and charisma of the pleader. Other students smoked cigarettes or cannabis, whilst a few others drank alcohol in the evil forest.

It was always quiet and peaceful in the evil forest. Everyone minded his or her own business. The teachers gave us a break. None of them walked into the nature reserve. I used to spend days in the evil forest over the weekends, reading history or a novel against the trunk of a tree. I used to see things in my position against the tree trunk where no one could see me, as they passed by and did their stuff. When I look back, I see that the park was not evil after all. It was our little peaceful haven at high school.

I have loved heavy metal music since form two. We enjoyed a few rock parties at the evil forest, where we played Uriah Heep (Whad’ya Day and Woman of the Night and Come Back to Me) and Foreigner (Urgent and Head Games). We danced to these songs in those days. We did not have CD players or i-Pods in the early 1980s; we had cassette tapes. We used to rewind the cassette using a pen in order to save power in the radio batteries, because the batteries were scarce. Sometimes we struggled to repair a chewed tape. The first two tapes I owned were Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits and Number of the Beast: 666 by Iron Maiden. I also loved the Scorpions’ Love at First Sting.

We used to clean our own hostels every Wednesday and Saturday. The worst part of the work was pushing the blocked shit down the pit latrines we used as toilets. We used a pole or log to push down the blocked murky stuff of toilet paper, newspapers, and piles of faeces accumulated over the week, and then drained it with a bucket of water. It was awful work that was unpleasant to do or even supervise as a prefect. The worst part was manoeuvring around the swarm of cockroaches that lived down the pit latrine toilet; they often came to the surface to cool off. The cockroaches formed a mat on the toilet walls that we had to get rid of before the cleaning work began. We handled that life nonetheless. I passed my O level examinations with a high first class of aggregate 12. My grade was one of the highest marks in the country of Botswana in 1989.

In 1990, before commencing education at university, I worked as a journalist for one year in the Chobe District of Botswana. I worked for the Botswana Press Agency (BOPA). In August of that year, I travelled the world with a group of youth put together by the Findhorn Foundation of Scotland. The trip was a cultural exchange world expedition that took us to Siberia and other places in Russia. We camped at Lake Baikal in Siberia for about two weeks. We also camped in various places in Sweden, Scotland, and Wales. In Glasgow, our group painted a mural at the community hall of EasterHouse. The mural was a picture of the world in peace. We camped in the mountains of Glen Afric and around Loch Ness in Scotland. I hoped to see the Loch Ness monster, but we did not.

In February 1991, I went on a nature conservation awareness expedition with two white friends. Their names were Philip Tetley and David Parry. Over a period of six weeks, we rode horses across the Central Kalahari Game Reserve (CKGR) of Botswana, the Nxai Pan National Park, and the Chobe National Park. Philip and David proceeded with the journey all the way to Sudan on horseback.

I studied law at the University of Botswana (UB) between August 1991 and April 1996. My favourite subject was jurisprudence. Professor Sanders and Mr Omphemetse Motumisi taught me jurisprudence. I liked them both. I liked the way Motumisi spoke. In October 1996, I graduated with an LLB law degree at the University of Botswana. My legal career stretched from early 1997 to 2012. I was a trial lawyer in both criminal and civil litigation. I represented people on death row. Human rights law was my speciality. After fifteen years with the law, I became a king of Bakgatla Ba Kgafela. I was enthroned on 20 September 2008 at a public gathering in Mochudi Village, Botswana.

The first five years of my reign as king have been a roller coaster. In Botswana, I found myself in the middle of a fierce conflict of cultures that has been simmering within my society as between the traditional way of life and modern culture, called Western democracy or republicanism. My status as king of the Bakgatla Ba Kgafela tribe thrust me innocently into the eye of the storm of social turmoil that unfolded into court litigation, challenging the authenticity of the Botswana constitution. In May 2012, the conflict escalated to dangerous levels, and I had to relocate to live in South Africa. I obtained my South African citizenship in November 2012 as a necessary step to fulfil my duties in safety. I write about these challenges of Botswana in Book Two of The King’s Journal, titled The Last Frontier.

My leadership challenges in South Africa between 2012 and 2014 are recorded in Book Three of The King’s Journal, titled The Regent. The challenges in South Africa involved litigation in courts to demand accountability within our tribal office in Moruleng, South Africa. The litigation was also about protecting the throne from unwarranted usurpation by the incumbent regent and politicians.

My father installed the regent in 1996 to rule as caretaker over the section of the Bakgatla tribe living in South Africa. The regent became too powerful, and a lot of tribal money was at his disposal, but he refused to account for it whilst entrenching himself in the royal seat. At one point in our challenges of South