They shot at his mother for shouting, “Power to the people.” The apartheid government. The bullet crashed through the window and shattered the wardrobe in their living room.
During that period, men like his father, Zulu men, unaccustomed to being subservient, lived under the thumb of other men. As a result, there were copious amounts of drinking and violence as coping mechanisms, and men like his father brought back the violence into their homes.
For years, Horace Manqoba Mpanza knew nothing outside that life. Then he discovered a world outside Soweto and that education would be the magic carpet to get him out of there. So he pedalled it to the floor and eventually went to university to study psychology and human resource management at the University of Johannesburg and a Master of Business Administration at Stellenbosch Business School.
As fate would have it, after ADvTECH—a company he was working for then—gained 90 percent of Makini Schools’ shareholding in 2018, he moved to Kenya two years later as their managing director, overseeing Makini Schools and GIS in Botswana.
He’s an entirely different man, which means he’s almost the same man because everybody carries their fathers in them even when they distance themselves from them.
What has surprised you about Kenya and Kenyans?
A friend used to joke that in South Africa, when somebody says, ‘I’ll kill you’, they’re not kidding; they actually will probably kill you. In Johannesburg, a single traffic altercation can quickly get violent, fatal even.
I know of an incident in Santon where two gentlemen – educated, well-to-do, driving Mercs- after dropping their children off at private schools got into a traffic altercation that led to one of them shooting the other. Happens quite a bit, this level of aggression.
For a South African who’s used to that sort of environment, coming to Kenya I was surprised at the mildness of Kenyans. I noticed that Kenyans don’t hoot. There’s just a certain sort of patience on the road.
There is no anger. If somebody has cut you off, you don’t see that level of aggression and anger that you see in South Africa. Guys drive off, sometimes not even looking at the other driver, forgotten immediately.
In South Africa, if someone cuts you off, you will forget where you were going and drive and follow the guy and confront him. [Chuckles]. It’s so different there.
You are Zulu. Where do you think that Zulu aggression comes from?
From our past. Our past is exceptionally violent. The Zulus who mostly come from KwaZulu-Natal are seen as warriors. You know, on a light note, if you want to get rid of somebody chances are the person you’ll hire is from the Zulu tribe. But violence for us is a culture. Boys are taught how to fight from a young age.
Our violence is always looked at with pride and admiration. I think South Africa, in general, is suffering the consequences of apartheid which was brutal.
Do you feel that sometimes you have it in you, this violence?
Interestingly, not really. Growing up in Soweto, I wasn’t exposed to the intense violence some others experienced, especially those from regions like KwaZulu-Natal where Zulu culture is prominent.
Makini Schools Regional Managing Director Horace Mpanza during an interview at Makini Schools in Nairobi on November 5, 2024.
Photo credit: Bonface Bogita | Nation Media Group
Soweto was cosmopolitan, a mix of cultures and tribes, which shaped a different outlook. Crime was present, but it wasn’t as intense as in KwaZulu-Natal. I lived in what we called matchbox houses, surrounded by both the educated and the uneducated. Despite the underfunded schools, they managed to deliver.
In Soweto, you’d find some of South Africa’s most notorious criminals, but also internationally recognised leaders. It was truly a melting pot of people from various regions, all converging to be close to Johannesburg for work. We’re descendants of those people. Soweto was one of South Africa’s most volatile places in the late 80s and early 90s, right when apartheid was ending.
I spent my early years there, knowing very little of life outside Soweto. I remember an incident vividly: my mother, ever fearless, once shouted, “Power to the people!” at apartheid police stationed outside our home.
Saying “power” was illegal then. They shot at her, and the bullet went through our window, lodging in our wardrobe—a wardrobe that still stands in our Soweto home. That was our reality, enclosed in Soweto, with no mentors to guide us on career paths or ambitions. Only at university did I encounter people from different parts of South Africa and even other African countries.
Some believe trauma passes down through generations. Did your father, who grew up under apartheid, impart any of that trauma, and how did it shape your upbringing?
My father grew up under the rule of white authorities, who he was subservient to. Though I never saw him in those contexts, I’d hear about his experiences. It must have been especially difficult as a Zulu man to navigate that dynamic.
Growing up, he was harsh, even abusive toward my mother. That experience shaped me deeply—People ask me why I never drank, why I don’t drink. It’s because of him. It influenced me profoundly; I tried to be the opposite of him in many ways.
With time, I came to see his life’s complexities: the cultural expectations, limited educational opportunities, and the societal pressures he faced. That understanding spurred me to work hard, knowing that education was my path to change.
Are you guys cool now?
Yes, we are cool but it took a while.
What had to happen for your guys to be cool?
My mother’s passing played a role in that. While she was alive, I felt compelled to protect her, which complicated things between him and me. In his 40s and 50s, he was tough, embodying the strength and pride of a Zulu man at his peak.
But now, at 76, he’s mellowed. With her gone, he perhaps realised life’s brevity, and that I am the family he has left.
My mother shaped me, a true Zulu woman, drilled discipline and the value of education into me. I owe my discipline to her—it’s my strongest achievement. No matter what, I won’t fail on that front. It’s why I’ve refrained from drinking; she helped me see the dangers of certain choices and the importance of resilience. She’d says “just keep on what you are doing, you will be fine.
Does this discipline ever feel limiting, boring, even rigid?
Absolutely. Discipline can make life feel a bit predictable.
Do you have any regrets, things you missed out on because of this sense of discipline?
None, really. I’ve made peace with the choices I’ve made. I’m risk-averse and I take calculated risks. Perhaps that cautiousness cost me some opportunities, but I accept it. I live a quiet life—a bit of a boring introvert, honestly. [Chuckles]
Looking back, what’s the most fearful moment you’ve faced?
When I lost my mother. In many African cultures, there’s an expectation that a child will “close the eyes” of their parent in death. For me, that happened in 2011. I literally closed her eyes as she passed, an experience so vivid that it feels as though it happened just this morning. She was everything to me, and her loss left me feeling exposed, like a shield was suddenly removed.
Her passing made me braver, though. I had become her support in her later years, and that responsibility transformed me. Time heals, but such a loss leaves a lasting impact..
What does an introverted foreigner do outside work?
Introverts are, admittedly, a bit dull! I’ve been in Kenya for five years and love the Maasai Mara. Sometimes, I think, “I’ve seen the lions; let’s explore something new.” When I see something online where there’s physical activity or whether it looks like there’s rock climbing safely, I’ll do that sort of thing.
Walking has become a way to clear my thoughts. I also enjoy watching stand-up comedy. It’s fascinating how much truth can be wrapped in humor—it resonates with me.
Are you married?
Yes, I am, with two children. My son recently turned 16 and towers over me now, and I have a four-year-old daughter. My only hope for them is that they contribute meaningfully to the continent. I have a passion for Africa and believe we may not see the change we desire in our lifetime, but it’s crucial we lay the groundwork for future generations.
You’re 39. How do you feel as you approach 40?
It’s funny—my son keeps reminding me I’m “so old” now. I can remember being at his age fairly recently. It feels like yesterday. I recently sent him a picture of my university student ID, and he was shocked at how young I looked.
Seeing him grow up so quickly, and surpass me in height, makes me feel old because it was only the other day when he was a baby.
In the last couple of years, I’ve had to deal with no longer being the youngest MD in the group. Reflecting on ageing doesn’t worry me. I consider reaching milestones like 40 a privilege, something many didn’t have. I hope to make it to 50, 60, and beyond, and whatever God has in store for me.
Finally, what’s your weakness as a man?
I’m highly reflective, which means my weaknesses are often rooted in that introspection. One of my biggest fears is failing.
I’ve tried to ensure there’s a safety net between me and failure, but the fear is persistent. It ties back to my risk aversion and is connected to my upbringing. Even though I’ve failed before, I still carry an irrational fear of returning to where I began.
