Professor. Pundit. Public nuisance.

Distinguished Professor of education at Stellenbosch University Jonathan Jansen is prolific and likes to speak his mind about schools and universities, race, politics and our complex South African society in his columns, books and on social media.

He has brought incisive analysis, compassion and a sense of humour to some of the most controversial issues in our country for many years. Breaking Bread goes back to his early years: growing up in a loving, fiercely evangelical family on the Cape Flats, being put on the road to purpose by an inspiring school teacher and becoming the first of his generation to go to university.

His gift for story-telling and interactions with people from different walks of life offer moving insights into the intricacies of South African society, filled with wisdom and leadership lessons. It’s a tale of learning the value of “breaking bread” with others, of finding mutual recognition in our different fears and faiths, our fumbles and fortitude, our hurts and our hopes.

Relieved of administration, he now does what professors are supposed to do: think. His family makes him possible and he lives for his two amazing granddaughters.

Extract:

One man, however, inspired a measure of fear among my senior colleagues.

He was inspector Africa. I was puzzled by the nervousness about his upcoming visit. The principal warned us that this was a very difficult character and that we were to be on our best behaviour and not provoke him under any circumstances.

The day of his visit finally came and it was announced: “The continent is on his way.” Except, Africa did not ascend the sharply rising set of stairs to the admin section of the school for some time. This was strange. Word later reached us that Mr Africa got out of his car and saw a Standard 6 girl standing outside her classroom. The Standard 6s studied in half-submerged classrooms at the front of the school which were referred to as the dungeons.

The child had been put out of her class for being disruptive.

At that point, the story goes, the haughty inspector approached the youngster and said in a loud voice: “And WHY are you not in your classroom?”

The poor girl, clearly not briefed on the arrival of this self-important man, stood up to him, put her hands on each side of her head with thumbs in ears, stuck out her tongue, and said “where-where-where-where-where”, which in Cape Flats lingo meant get lost (there are stronger terms for this).

Oh. My. Word.

The continent flew into a rage, choking as he gasped for air, and asked the poor kid the equivalent of “Do you know who I am?” He dashed up the stairs to the principal’s office and spluttered out what had just happened.

With a straight face, the principal apologised and lied that the sternest action would be taken. After Africa left, the teachers were told the story and we roared with laughter.

What I did not tell my colleagues was that the continent had come to my lab and opened the door, inviting himself in. I was in the middle of teaching and, pretending I did not know this was Africa, told him firmly that he could not come in since I was busy and that he should wait outside.

To my relief, Africa left and I never saw him again. I suspect there was some understanding on his part that you do not disturb a teacher in the middle of teaching and, if that was the case, I would have respected the man.

One way in which I responded to the gloom of those times was to devote myself to the whole lives of the students for whom I was responsible. It was a practice I had started at Vredenburg Secondary. I would visit every student in my register (homeroom) class in their homes.

The problem was that my family home was in Retreat, on the other side of Cape Town, while most of my students lived in and around the city in places like Walmer Estate, Woodstock, Salt River and Bo-Kaap; others, of course, in Mitchells Plain much further away to the south. On these night visits, I would sleep over at Brethren friends, the Hankeys from Walmer Estate assembly, so I did not have to make the long trip home then back to school early the next morning.

The home visits were revealing. I found out who the spoilt brats were with state-of-the-art music stereos in their Bo-Kaap bedrooms. I discovered why students like Shaik hardly did their homework but also spent far too much time with his beautiful classmate, Abdea. I could talk to his parents and was surprised by their generous agreement about a spoilt son.

Then there was Marlene, who begged me not to come to her home in Walmer Estate. When I got there, I could understand why. There was not much in the house and I had little sense of the parents being present in the lives of their two daughters. Years later, Marlene called me from the UK to tell me she had earned a master’s degree. She thought I should know. I was overwhelmed with emotion.

You teach differently when you know where and how your students live. Such insight brought respect at the interpersonal level but also affected teaching strategy. However, home visits almost cost me my life.

On a Saturday morning I was visiting the home of one of my students in a small fishing town, Velddrif, about 24km from Vredenburg. The fisherman father was alone and it was painfully clear that there was nothing in that home besides the sparsest of furniture. Suddenly, the burly fisherman brought to the table a bottle of strong wine and two glasses; this was around 10am. Since the evangelical brother had never tasted wine in his life, except for communion (and then it was often grape juice because of unresolved disputes in the Brethren), this was going to be a major challenge. I remembered that episode from my youth when with my father I was at the home of farmworkers where pap with flies was on the menu. I recalled Abraham’s unspoken message with his eyes: if that is all a poor family can offer, eat it – or in this case, drink it.

During feedback on his matric daughter’s academic progress, I sipped slowly from the glass, feeling the unfamiliar burning sensation down my gullet. “Who the hell drinks this kind of poison?” I asked myself. The fisherman watched me and must have been amused at the slowness of the swallow. I tried to distract his focus on my drinking with discussion about his daughter’s marks in a biology exam.

Eventually, I was done. At that very moment the fisherman grabbed the bottle and was about to fill up when I made an excuse about having to be back in Vredenburg as soon as possible.“‘Is jy seker?” Oh yes, I was seker, I told the man wielding the bottle.

What happened next was reckless in the extreme. I started to steer my yellow Ford Cortina back to Vredenburg and the car went swerving across the road as trucks rushed by. I was drunk, sleepy and only half-aware of how close to death I was. The little consciousness I had told me to get off the road and so I did, and promptly fell fast asleep. A few hours later I woke up and continued the drive to my hostel on the school grounds feeling simultaneously miserable and guilty. I woke up sometime on the following afternoon.