Gershwin and the cats

The International 4900 was a brutal, temperamental machine that every driver hated – except Gershwin. It was fitting, then, that one would eventually strand him on a mission farm and introduce him to two hubcaps full of milk and a lesson in grace.

Among the seasoned drivers at our busy provincial distribution centre, we had an Umfundisi (preacher), Gershwin Tsabedze, who also happened to be the shop steward.

THE MAN

We often clashed during disciplinary hearings. He would defend his employees valiantly, bristling with anger if he felt one of them was being treated unfairly. He was quick to lodge a grievance and stand up for employees’ rights. But he could also see reason. If he felt the employee was in the wrong, he would say so – albeit in a very roundabout way.

Our relationship was complex, but I like to think there was always mutual respect. One day, we’d argue for hours over the merits of a final written warning. On another day, when the chips were down and we were desperate for a driver to deliver goods on a public holiday, the same man would unstintingly step up to the plate and work – uncomplaining and dependable.

The customers loved him as well. He always had a twinkle in his eye and would crack jokes about eternal life, before leaving them with a short Bible verse or a simple homily. He was a rarity: one of those teetotal, experienced grey heads, able to drive anything in the yard from a simple delivery vehicle to a complex truck and trailer combination – any make, any gearbox, in any configuration. Drivers like that were worth their weight in gold. No matter how late it was or what the route entailed, you knew that you could count on him to cheerfully deliver the load.

In short, Pastor Tsabedze was a burly, cheerful, bearded character, with a great weakness for fruit cake – a confectionery he used to buy and consume in vast slices (which could have been used as doorstops). Selected and trained as a peer educator, he had understood early on that HIV/Aids was no distant threat and he took it upon himself to make sure others understood that too.

I would see him loudly berating the labourers and wash bay attendants about their risky behaviour and the casual liaisons they had with ladies of doubtful repute. In those early days they all believed AIDS was a white man’s disease that would never affect them. They were proved tragically wrong, but he did his utmost to educate and warn them, urging them to stay alive by taking precautions – topics that most preachers considered taboo to address from the pulpit.

Although we clashed on many occasions, I became very fond of him and there was no rancour.

THE TRUCK

Gershwin’s favourite truck was a vehicle everyone else disliked: an International 4900 12-tonner. These were dreadfully uncomfortable trucks, badly converted from left-hand drive to right-hand drive, with a difficult Fuller gearbox. They had heavy steering, brutally unyielding suspension and questionable brakes. Super-heated air would blast through the holes in the floorboards past the massive turbocharger, straight onto the poor driver’s shins. Drivers wore kidney belts because the ride was so hard.

They did, however, have one thing in their favour that the elderly leader loved: they went like the clappers. I think they were fire engines in the US, with high-speed differentials. They could certainly move as though rushing to a fire, on the days they ran well (usually before breaking down again).

THE BREAKDOWN

Despite our frequent clashes, moments of camaraderie sometimes emerged outside the boardroom. After offloading one Friday, Gershwin’s truck broke down and he was stranded on a tiny missionary farm, staffed by an order of nuns. 

The cellphone signal was weak. His truck was as dead as a dodo. Those evil motors displayed a rapid three-digit fault code via a flashing LED. If you could identify the code, you could sometimes ascertain what was wrong with it.

We tried to get him to explain the code, but discerning from him whether it was a 3:3:7 or a 4:5:9, via a weak connection, proved to be impossible. The pastor’s familiar voice roared over the connection: “Boss, it’s on again, now it looks like off, now is shining again, now is blinking like anything.”

It was late that Friday evening with no breakdown teams available. The earliest they could help us was the next day. We had to wait for help.

His phone had died, so he sensibly asked the nuns if he could stay the night. He was given a spotless guest bedroom and was well cared for. They treated him like royalty. When I collected him on the Saturday to bring him home (technicians couldn’t get the truck running), he looked like he would have happily spent the weekend there, relaxing in the Midlands, surrounded by peaceful mission sisters.

My abiding memory, apart from his beaming smile when he realised I had come to rescue him, was of the mission cats at feeding time. Two hubcaps, filled to overflowing with creamy milk and mealie meal porridge, served as bowls for about two dozen strays the sisters kept. They surrounded them like multi-coloured spokes on a wheel, heads down, ears back, tucking into breakfast.

Gershwin had been given a hefty cooked breakfast with lashings of tea. Bacon, eggs, tomatoes and bread, all made on site. He seemed rather sad to leave, despite there being no fruitcake. We finally recovered the truck on Monday afternoon, after its unplanned farm sojourn, and he often spoke of the kindness the nuns showed to their unexpected visitor.

A humbling lesson in hospitality. Some breakdowns, it turns out, happen exactly where they’re supposed to.