The Power of One

I was born with the songs of Zulu rainmakers in my ears.

They sang to end the great drought...

...which burned the land of South Africa for 10 years.

My mother gave birth to me three weeks after my father died.

He was trampled to death by a bull elephant in the bush.

She gave me his name. Peter Phillip Kenneth Keith.

But from the first day, she called me by my initials, P.K...

...just as she called my father.

"--and never breathe a word about your loss.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew...

...to serve your turn long after they are gone...

...and so hold on when there is nothing in you...

...except the will which says to them, 'Hold on'...."

I remember my mother telling me that she was a child of England...

...where she grew up with books and music.

But I was a child of Africa and woke to the smell...

...of jacaranda blossoms...

...and fell asleep to the sound of the weaverbirds...

...nesting for the night.

"--you'll be a man, my son."

Nanny's son, Tonderai, was my best friend.

From the time we were born, we did everything together:

Games, chores and lessons.

Mother taught us about England.

Nanny taught us about Africa.

Mother said life was perfect...

...except it never rained.

Madam! Come quickly! Come!

It's bad! The cattle. The cattle dying.

My father was a farmer. My mother was not.

Because she loved us so much, she tried hard to be one after he died.

But when the plague killed our cattle, something inside her broke...

...and never mended.

Nanny said the doctor insisted my mother have complete rest.

He said I must go to boarding school.

For the first time in my life, I felt afraid.

I'd never been away from home before...

...away from my mother, away from Nanny.

I wanted to cry, but I held it in.

I was afraid it would hurt my mother even more.

P.K.

Mommy's giving you the bracelet Daddy gave Mommy when we first fell in love.

I love you, P.K.

She gave me the ostrich shell bracelet...

...my father gave her when they first fell in love.

Be a good boy, darling.

Bye-bye.

Be good, P.K.

We were poor.

The only school we could afford was run by Afrikaners...

...the oldest of the two white tribes in Africa...

...the other being my people, the English.

The English drove us into the wilderness...

...but we returned stronger than before.

They spilled our blood across the land...

...but we returned stronger than before.

Because this land is ours...

...given to us in holy covenant by Almighty God!

It is our responsibility...

...to rise up and push out the English!

To put down the black!

For the Holy Scripture tells us, Joshua 9:20:

"The children of Ham turned black for their sins.

They shall be unto the rest, hewers of wood and drawers of water.

They shall be as servants unto you."

It is our responsibility to redeem that covenant...

...to repossess the land...

...to be stronger than before!

Let us pray.

I remember my first lesson.

In 1896, the Afrikaners had tried to overthrow...

...the government of the English...

...but the English army was too strong.

The English locked up 26,000 Afrikaner women and children...

...into what they called "concentration camps."

Many of them died...

...from malaria, typhoid, blackwater fever.

As the only English boy at school, I took the blame for all those deaths.

This was made clear to me by the oldest boy at school...

...Jaapie Botha.

But deliver us from evil...

...for Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory...

...forever and ever.

Amen.

Know what "P.K." stands for?

Piss Kop !

Piss Head.

No, it doesn't. It stands for Peter Phillip Kenneth Keith. That's my name.

Let's piss on the Piss Kop.

Piss on the Piss Kop.

Let's go.

The Englishmen love to be pissed on. Lovely Piss Kop !

He's ready! Aren't you, rooinek ?

We've been saving this all day for you.

-Tasty, eh, rooinek ? -Look up, mate!

Come on! He's had enough.

Don't feel bad, Piss Kop.

We'll give you some more tomorrow. Won't we?

Whether it was fear or shame, or both, I don't know...

...but just after the bullying in the shower...

...I began to wet my bed.

Your mother is dead.

I never should've left.

I should've stayed to help take care of Mother.

Then she would've been better. I know she would have.

Since my only other living relative, my grandfather...

...was away in the Congo...

...it was decided by our solicitor that I return to boarding school.

A decision which terrified me.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I confided in Nanny what had happened...

...and how I'd become a bed wetter.

She did what any good Zulu mother would do.

She called on the greatest medicine man of her tribe.

A man who, Nanny said, could make sick men well...

...and scared men brave.

I had never seen anyone like him before.

I said a silent prayer...

...that his magic was stronger than my trouble.

His name was Dabula Manzi.

Dabula Manzi said my troubles came from fear deep in my heart.

He would send me on the journey to discover courage...

...and bury my fear.

He drew three circles of magic powder on the ground...

...placed a chicken in each one.

He said the chicken who broke out of the circle was the bravest.

He would be my guide on the journey to find my courage.

Dabula Manzi said the spirit of the great Zulu warriors lived in me.

I'd faced the most powerful creature on earth.

A creature I'd feared since hearing about how my father died.

I'd earned his respect for my courage.

There'd be no more problem with night water.

Dabula Manzi said I was a man for all Africa, bound to her by my spirit.

Bound to her by my dreams.

He said I was no longer a Piss Kop.

He gave me back my name...

...and he let me keep the chicken.

I named my chicken Masibindi.

In Zulu, that means "Mother Courage."

During the day, she would hunt for bugs outside.

At night, she would nest above my bed and keep a sharp eye.

She was my best and only friend.

A month later, war broke out in Europe.

This caused me more problems than bed-wetting ever had.

Hitler had vowed to crush Great Britain and drive the English from South Africa.

The Afrikaners waited for that day with excitement.

I said Dabula Manzi's words over and over to myself:

"Try not to be afraid."

We have the rooinek !

Silence!

Silence!

Piss Kop.

God has sent Hitler to deliver us from you English bastards...

...who stole our country and killed our people!

Heil Hitler !

You will swear a blood oath.

When Hitler comes, we'll rise up...

...and kill the verdomde rooineks !

We swear allegiance to Adolf Hitler!

Death to all Englishmen in South Africa!

Heil Hitler !

God bless the Fatherland!

For crimes committed against the Afrikaner people...

...I, Jaapie Botha...

...the judge and Überführer...

...sentence your rooinek Kaffir chicken to death. Heil Hitler !

Not my chicken! Not my chicken! No, no, no!

Now!

Not my chicken!

Silence!

Hang him up!

Hang him up!

Hang him up!

You will pay for the deaths of our grandfathers and grandmothers.

All English will pay.

And you will be first.

Heil Hitler !

Silence!

In the name of Adolf Hitler and the Fatherland...

...I sentence you to die, Verdomde rooinek !

Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!

You dumbkopf !

I buried Masibindi the very next day.

It seemed I was to lose everyone I'd ever loved or had ever loved me:

My mother, my chicken, and now Nanny.

Tonderai and Nanny had to return to their family...

...in Southern Rhodesia.

I knew I'd never see them again.

Loneliness birds seemed to fly into my heart...

...and lay large stone eggs.

My whole body hurt with sadness.

My grandfather came home from the Congo to his house in Barberton...

...where English people lived.

I was sent to live with him.

Children, he said, were a complete mystery to him.

I did not think I'd ever feel better again.

I did not know how to chase the loneliness birds away.

Then one day, Grandfather sent a friend of his to see me.

You know, my donkey, Beethoven, once told me a remedy...

...of curing sadness in little boys.