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RECONSTRUCTION
ed. by MOTHOBI MUTLOATSE GOLD AND WORKERS
(Staffrider Series No 8) A People's History of South Africa Vol 1
by LULI CALLINICOS
90 years of Black Historical Literature. A bumper edition of
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WAITING FOR LEILA

Stories by ACHMAT DANGOR
(Staffrider Series No 7)
Winner of the Mofolo-Plomer Award 1980

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 Stories Columns/ Features
Hell in Azania by Mothobi Mutloatse 7 STAFFWORKER
The Barrier by Farouk Asvat 16 Two stories by Bheki Maseko 4
The Rose Patterned Wallpaper by Gladys Thomas . . . 23
The Umbrella Tree by Rose Zwi 37 DRAMA SECTION
The Coffee-Cart Girl by Es'kia Mphahlele , 42 Mhlaba's Journey, A new proemdra by Mtutuzeli
Matshoba 10

Poetry NOTES FROM A BLACK WRITER

Kimberley: The Prohibition Years by Ronnie Joel . . 20

Ingoapele Madingoane, Nthambeleni Phalanndwa, MODDERDAM

Keith Adams, M.F.K. Ramovha . . . . ' . ' . 2 Death of a Shanty Town by Andrew Silk 26
Senzo Malinga, Peter C. Chipeya 9
Celestine Kulagoe . . 22 ART AND SOCIETY
Mabuse A Letlhage, Zakhele C. Ndaba Art is not neutral — Whom does it serve? by
Farouk Stemmet 29 Dikobe WaMogale Martins . . 30
Frank Mkalawile Chipasula 32
Allan Kolski Horwitz, Robert Greig . 40 STAFFRIDER PROFILE
Omarrudin, R. Camhee, Wonga Fundile Tabata, Literature in Africa by Ngugi wa Thiong'o 34
Nicolette Thesen 46
DOORNFONTEIN
There goes the Neighbourhood by Masilo Rabothata . 44

Gallery/Graphics
Percy Sedumedi
Mogorosi Motshumi
3
7,8 Photographs
Mzwakhe 15
Mpikayipheli 19, 32 Lesley Lawson 3, 6, 11, 48
Tracy Dunn 20 Judas Ngwenya 3, 6, 20
Toots Kleva . 23, 24 Gavin Younge 28
Manfred Zylla 25, 26 Biddy Partridge 4 1 , 44, 45
Dikobe WaMogale Martins 30 Paul Weinberg 1, 44, 45
Siphiwe Koko 33 Kevin Humphrey 45
Jacqui Nolte 38, 39 Mxolisi Moyo 48
Goodman Mabote 42
FRONT COVER PHOTOGRAPH:
BACK COVER DRAWING: Workers on the construction site of the Ellis Park
'Healing Force' by Fikile Stadium, Doornfontein, by Biddy Partridge
 Poetry Ingoapele Madingoane, Nthambeleni Phalanndwa, Keith Adams, M.K.F. Ramovha.

KHUMBULA MY CHILD HOW DO YOU FEEL?

Department was its name you remember the rains

Abantu its targets falling gently
eStande was the place softly
Khumbula my child i crossed the vomiting rivers then
That's where you were horn heading for the mountains
and from there
iKhaya lakho eSkom i saw my brothers
That side of the Pimville cross exchange their pride
Department came with caterpillars for silver buttons
And said he was the boss in the barracks
Khumbula my child my sisters
That's where you were born betraying my love
in the tents
Masimong a matalana i saw mushroom
It was ha-Mmamokoto overnight
Re hlopilwe ke mekotoyi
Ntja di bitswa bo gcoka sihambe shall we talk about it now
Khumbula my child now that you have done it
That's where you were born how do you feel
tell me
Ekhaya — suka maphepha how do you feel
Kliptown Chiawelo Midway Lenz or should i ask
Platform one and two the stars and the moon
Ngena naye — Phuma naye that were witnesses of it all
Khumbula my child tell me
That's where you were born how do you feel
when your insides neigh and roar
Bashonile abay'akhile and there is no permanganate
O Dunjwa no Lebona of potash to dissolve and drink
kanye no Skota when life has to end
Basa phila abay'diliza before it begins
O mlungu no baas and the accusing fingers
Khumbula my child keeping shivering at a distance
That's where you were born tell me
how do you feel
Ingoapele Madingoane
Nthambeleni Phalanndwa

THOUGHTS COLLECTED IN A GHETTO JUST NOW

Batter the body! Just now

Shatter the nerves! the sun will sink deep
children pregnant with hunger into western seas
teeth rotted in skulls, after crawling across the sky
mothers with aching loins casting brightness upon this
scarred by labour. world of unhappiness
throughout the day.
Knives gouging out eyes
drunks smothered in vomit, Just now
lovers embracing cold earth. I will close my eyes
hordes of flies sucking after a fruitless.strenuous search
a festering wound for a future of darkness
dirt mingling with food that holds nothing for my soul
watched by tongues dried of saliva. but tantalising dreams.

A continual running of sweat, Just now

an uncensored language accepted by all. I will lie down
Disease, hovering, seeking out victims and sleep eternally after struggling
a world isolated so hard
where violence sits on a throne. to achieve nothing but
outside, the sun shines. sweat and tears.

Keith Adams Munzhedzi K.F. Ramovha

2 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 Photo Diary Lesley Lawson, Judas Ngwenya

Where people l i v e . . .

Thomsville, Lenasia, February 1981. Tired of sharing a two-roomed house with fourteen other
people, she built her own house in the back yard.

After six months in hospital following an accident, the old man returned to find that the Kliptown
Shanty where he had been living had been 'removed'. The unsuccessful search for accommodation
led him to this place, where he made his 'home'.

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 3

 Staffv/orker: Two Stories by Bheki Maseko
Mximbithi rat fears a cat. There was nothing the
old miner enjoyed more than the
pleasure he derived from the gossip he
went to the hospital occasionally for
treatment. One time he fell ill and had
to stay there.
Mximbithi was tall and dark, powerfully gathered on his supervising rounds. He It was then that Mximbithi offered
built with a heavy, bearded face. If it was always going to fix someone. T m to drive the van, since he had a licence.
wasn't for his drooping shoulders and going to fix him, he thinks he's a boss When Sithole came back after two
bandy legs, he would have been hand- too.' weeks, he was given a broom to clean
some. Mr Lawrence enjoyed Mximbithi's with. 'He is not fit to drive, he must go
When Mximbithi first came to company very much. The old gossips and clean,' said Mr Lawrence, embark-
Cadbury Steel, he was employed as a were beginning to lose ground with ing on his rounds with Mximbithi sitting
cleaner. From that day on cleaners Mr Lawrence. They envied Mximbithi proudly at the wheel.
never rested. He was always backbiting who was gaining strength every day; he Everyone felt sorry for Sithole. it
them. The caretaker, an old retired was coming closer to the 'Baas', every was believed he had been bewitched by
gossip miner, accepted everything Mxi- time. Mximbithi who was after his job. A
mbithi told him and seemed to enjoy it. Sithole was the driver of a van that month later Sithole died, which tencie 1
Mr Lawrence (the caretaker) talked collected rubbish, cement, paint and to confirm these suspicions.
non-stop. He supervised the cleaners, many other things, and took Mr Law- Mximbithi was now a driver and
gardeners and painters, who called him rence on his sometimes aimless rounds. swaggered about as never before. He was
Makhulumanjalo. They feared him like a Sithole was a very sickly, thin man who even closer to Mr Lawrence, and they

4 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

had wonderful trips together. They
enjoyed the panic of the workers as The Digger's Closing Day
they scrambled for cover or pretended
to be busy whenever they saw the blue Sipho Sithebe was in good spirits. Their want is that trench dug now. Or else
van. 'Ho-ho . . . a typical cleaner,' company, Paddy's Construction, was
Mr Lawrence would say, smiling know- closing for the Christmas holidays. It Sipho felt hot. He felt like digging nis
ingly. was also pay (and bonus) day. fist into Mnr Verkyk's fat face, and
The workers' hatred was growing for For the first time since Sipho had telling him to keep his dirty job. But he
Mximbithi. The rumour that he was re- started working for the company four couldn't do it. He had a family to
sponsible for Sithole's death spread like years before, the black staff had been support.
wild fire. Very few went on fine with invited to participate in the braai. Reluctantly, his appointed co-workers
him. One exception was Mathonsi, a There's no need to bring your overalls,' took off their jackets and prepared for
cleaner who was also his home boy. the manager had said, 'since you are work. No one had brought an overall.
coming to collect your pay and to be They had been told they were coming
There were four drivers at the stores of served with food and liquor.' for their pay and a braai. Not for
Cadbury Steel. Their boss, the transport Sipho was going to show them that the purpose they were now being asked
manager, was a boastful Mr Pieter who though he was a trench digger, he could to serve. Their fellow workers watched
walked like a western cowboy. He was dress. Unlike his manager, a Mnr Verkyk with sympathy. They could do nothing
always shouting when he called the who wore yellow Safari suits every day. about it.
drivers, looking at them as if they were He would show them. Sipho slowly took off his jacket and
His Alba suit had cost him a hundred tie and then, followed by his counter-
Continued on page 47 and twenty rand. In order not to spoil parts, took the pick and went to the
it, he sacrificed and bought a shirt half-dug trench.
worth eighteen rand, and nice shoes to Baas Verkyk was back in the office
match it. Sipho was the kind of person with his fellow whites. The missuses'
who did not go for cheap stuff. He shrill, annoying giggles were becoming
would rather go without than buy worse and worse.
inferior material. It was his motto to Now and then they (the appointed
'accumulate enough and buy good four) peeped through the windows to
quality.' see what their counterparts were doing.
The black members of staff stood in They still had the beer cans they had
small groups in the workshop, while been given two hours before. Some still
their masters, chatting loudly, conferred had the empty tins in their hands and
in offices with beer cans in hands. others had put them down on the floor.
The wait was long and nothing was The scorching sun beat mercilessly
said about the braai. upon them.' Baas Verkyk and friends
Some of the whites were already peeped now and then through the
drunk, and they were all talking at the window to tell them to dig, not play. By
same time. The missusses were full of a the time they had finished the trench,
constant shrill laughter as they went Sipho's white shirt, grey trousers and
from one hand to another. black shoes were yellow with dust.
Every time a baas came out of the The beseeching smile was gone as
office, Sipho and the others would they queued for their pay. Baas Verkyk
stand attentively with beseeching smiles, sat at the desk like the King of the
hoping he had come to call them for Barbarians. He gave them their pay and
their share. But each baas would give a can of beer each. Those who were
them an approving smile, nod his head, digging were given two each because
and make his way into the toilet with they had not had last time.
unsteady strides. Some of Verkyk's drunken counter-
It was eleven o'clock when baas parts sat on the tables, advising boys not
Verkyk, his face chilly red, a beer can in to be mischievous during the festive
hand, came confidently towards them. season.
They waited hopefully, beseechingly. Sipho felt like opening the cans,
'Jy en jy en jy en jy,' said baas pouring them onto Mnr Verkyk's face,
Verkyk, pointing at Sipho and three and telling him to drink that as a
others. 'Take your picks and finish the Christmas present. But he found he
trench at the back.' could not do it. If only he had as much
At first Sipho thought he had not courage as Thami, who once threw his
heard right. Or that maybe the short, passbook into baas Verkyk's face.
fat, bull-fighter-like Mnr Verkyk was Once outside, having taken the cans
joking. unwillingly, he smashed them to the
The appointed four stood there ground.
smiling respectfully, exchanging the There were no showers for blacks,
same beseeching glances. and besides, his clothes looked horrible.
'I said go and finish the trench you Fortunately Ntate Moloi had brought
four, can't you hear?' bellowed baas his old Cortina car. He was saved from
Verkyk. curious stares.
'But, baas, we did not know . . . ' The digger's closing day had also
started Sipho in an amicable voice. been his most humiliating. •
'I want no excuses, understand? All I

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 Photo Diary
. : ' . • - . . - . - • • • ' • • • • • .

Lesley Lawson, Judas Ngwero

puuuu

January 1981. A steam-iron operator in a textile factory in Jeppe, Johannesburg.

May fair, Johannesburg, May 1981. Municip rs take a break.

6 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 students, in black and white and grey,
seated on the right-hand side.
This small episode inspired the first
speaker who, quickly judging the
expressions of defiance and boldness on
the young faces, raised his clenched
fist, however comically, and chanted in
a shrill male voice: 'Azania! Mayibuye!'
He was greeted only with murmurs
of, 'He's trying to copy us, joo!' And,
half embarrassed, the Elder, one of six
priests perched in the pulpit as if they
would wake the dead, related how he
had known the boy personally and how
A Story by he had been shocked to hear that he had
Mothobi Mutloatse passed away . . .
'He was murdered!' shouted the
Illustrated by Children of Power.
Mogorosi Motshumi 'He was killed . . . ' the Elder blush-
ingly corrected himself. He also told
how he had seen European farmers, not
older than 20, sjambok black men old
enough to be their grandfathers, for
refusing to work overtime — without
extra pay — on the farms.
'I cried tears when I saw this,' he
said, almost in tears. 'I could not
believe that Europeans would treat
blacks like that. I have never forgotten
that incident till this day.'
'And what have you done about it?'
one of the students shouted at him.
'I know,' replied the Elder, 'God will
take care of them,'
'Rubbish!' shouted another student,
this time a girl. 'God is dead. If He was
alive He would not have allowed such a
thing to happen.'
'But,' protested the Elder, 'God
knows best.'
'Wrong,' said another student, 'the
European knows. He knows what's best
for the black man. That is why he has to
'Amandla . . that Siphiwe had, in fact, hanged him- kill him before he realises what's best
'Ngawethu!' self with his jeans. for himself.'
'I-hippo?' Jeans? But he wore no jeans when 'Amandla . . . '
'Eyabo!' he was detained. He wore his soccer 'Ngawethu!'
The atmosphere was tense, black and trunks, hurriedly, as the law had refused 'I-hippo . . . ?'
lacking the usual drabness of a township to give him time to dress properly. 'Eyabo!'
funeral. This was certainly going to be Oh yes, yet another correction, 'Niyabasaba na?'
an unusual church service at the small Siphiwe hanged himself with his trunks. 'Hai! Asibasabi, siyabafuna!'
Apostolic parish. And it could not have When the church service began, there By this time students were fil-
been otherwise as the young brave lying were no more than 100 mourners, and ing in by the hundreds, chanting other
quietly in the coffin had died very among them only 20 to 30 high school protest songs.
unusually — at the hands of the law — students, the deceased's classmates. 'Amandla . . . ?'
tragically. All he had done to be re- It looked like the symbolic burial 'Ngawethu!'
warded with death was to be black was going to flop. Where were all the 'Maatla!'
and brave and outspoken as a youth other students from the rest of the high 'Ke a rona!'
leader. schools? The whole church shook at the
There was no question that he had 'Let us sing hymn number . . ' but chanting, whose volume had increased
not died accidentally. But the black the Elder's voice was suddenly drowned tremendously. Even the whole island of
community was not prepared to listen by a booming voice from the back, Azania could feel the anger of the
to claims from high office that Siphiwe 'Maatla, ke a mang?' youth. Its inhabitants, approximately
Mothowagae had taken his own life by The younger members of the congr- 20 million, were divided into two
hanging himself with his own shirt. egation — obviously students — roared camps: the natives and the settlers.
Shirt? Isn't that funny? He wore no proudly: 'Ke a ronaV The Azanians and the Europeans.
shirt on the day he was picked up from And thus came the first alteration to The poor and the rich. The vanquished
his home by the law, only a T-shirt with the church service. The hymn was never and the conqueror. The pacifists and the
the words, 'I Shall Be Free Soon'. sung. Only trying silence, with the older soldiers. The voteless and the voters.
A correction was given to the effect members staring wide-eyed at the The peacemakers and the gunsmiths.

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 7

 The socialists and the capitalists. and where they are Electric and emotional shocks. I forgot
And when the master of ceremonies and why we won't give my own name. I was unsure of my beiny
called upon a representative of the up the fight alive. I thought the world was dead
school the deceased had attended, a for our rights Cockroaches and matsese were my
youth wearing dark glasses and a cap and surrender our country only companions. At first I regarded
slowly walked up from the back to the to countryists — them as pests, menaces and enemies to
pulpit, and with a raised clenched fist Collectors of countries at any price be killed, but as time went on, I
chanted, 'Amandla!' as a hobby since changed my hostile attitude towards
'Ngawethuuu!' retorted the students, the struggle will them, playing games only detained
by now overflowing, some having to go on and on people play.'
listen in through the windows from out- until we are all The youth, lean and with a hard face,
side. free! a bitter face, stopped for a moment to
The might of the townships had regain his composure as he was already
arrived! The speaker ended his impromptu poem getting worked up. Coaxing him, the
It was the dawning of a new era. with a salute and the promise: 'Azania student fraternity chanted: 'Amandla!
The elderlies were frightened for shall be avenged. It matters not when, Ngawethu.'
their children. For being so outspoken. even if it means avoiding the police by He repeated it, wiping the sweat
For being so forthright. For being just not sleeping at home at one place every off his brow with his white shirt.
themselves. For lacking fear. time. Amandla!' 'Ya,' he went on, 'this is what our
The youthful speaker didn't mince 'Ngaweeeeeethuuuuu!' brother here might have suffered too.
his words. As soon as he had sat down, another Or maybe worse. I was interrogated
'1 would like to appeal to our pa- youth jumped up from the front to until I collapsed — 72 hours non stop. I
rents,' he admonished innocently, 'not address the congregation, which by now told them to kill me if they wanted to
to keep on saying, Modimo o tla re was ripe for some politicising, as the because I had nothing to hide except
thusa . . . or, Modimo o tla ba bona. orator put it. cowardice. You should have seen me
Why avoid pinning down the person 'I am from detention, too. Nearly after I was told that Siphiwe had died in
responsible for the tragic — I would like two years. And no charges have been detention. I was really shaken up as this
to reiterate — the tragic death of my brought against me,' he blurted out had happened three days after my
colleague lying over there,' pointing at angrily. 'I was detained for no apparent release . . . Therefore, I wish to ask our
the coffin, 'when we know very well reason, but I can guess why: because I parents to support the struggle as much
that even Modimo cannot bring him happen to share the same surname with as they can and not give in to harass
back from the dead. And it is nonsense our leader who was forced into exile a ment, no matter how hard it may be. In
to say Siphiwe,whom I didn't know very few months ago by the law. any war, there must be casualties. And
well though he was a schoolmate, had 'I was placed in solitary confinement if Azania must be free, then we must all
not died but has rested. If he was going for most of the time. I had relapses in be prepared to die so that others may
to rest, and he knew about it, surely he my cell . . . I could see Azania, in blood live in peace as free people.'
would have first informed his friends, and free at long last. I could see myself 'Amandla!' shouted a young girl.
classmates and his parents about it, not at my own funeral with my friends, all 'Ngawethu!' retorted the whole
so?' ghosts, as pallbearers. It was frightening. church.
The congregation feebly answered in I heard people discussing my death 'I-hippo!'
the affirmative . . . during nightmares. I heard other people 'Eyabo!'
'Niyabasaba na?' the speaker asked, screaming. I suffered numerous shocks. Thereafter, the master of ceremonies
disappointed at the poor response.
He need not have asked further.
'Hai! asibasabi, siyabafunaaaaaV
'Thank you,' replied the speaker
confidently, pacing about the pulpit.as
if he was a lion about to spring onto its
prey.
'I would also like to tell our parents
that there is no such thing as a life
hereafter. When you are dead, you are
dead. And why should we have our fun
after we die instead of while we live;
why should we be happy in a hell that is
Azania and Europeans have a heaven on
earth?'
The challenge was out.
Why should man die in order to fulfil
his life? And should death mean the
achievement of eternal life and happi-
ness? Why couldn't these be obtained
on earth by all human beings, the
speaker wanted to know.

We know what we want.

We know what's best for us.
We know ourselves better than anybody
else.
We know our leaders

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 8

 asked two other teachers and an elderly unnatural death. Linwiinngly, Ma-Juffrou went to
priest to read some of the wreaths. He explained: 'I cannot, due to the open the door, and avoid a rude knock.
But the students were no longer circumstances in which Siphiwe met his 'Who is it?' she asked, opening the
interested. They began slowly to move death. It just would not be fitting to door slightly, recalling her husband's
out, to continue chanting more protest perform the last rites.' prediction.
songs outside, and asking, matter-of- And thus Siphiwe w7as given a hero's 'It's the police!'
factly, motorists nearby to ferry burial, next to the graves of two other 'Modimo waka!' she sighed in fright.
nourners to the cemetery. The drivers, victims of deaths-in-detention! Who'd She gazed back worriedly at her hus-
fearing studentpower, which in those planned that? band, with tears filling her eyes.
Ash and Flames days was Potent Power, Was it coincidence, or was it delibe- 'See, I told you, my dear wife
beckoned the students to quickly hop rate? The earthy village for those who Holding his head, with his face
in. Even motorists who had not been had died in detention? buried in his hands, Rev Shimane calmly
summoned, offered their services freely. announced: 'Let them in, Mother. The
And curious residents, unasked, When he got home, the priest, Rev Mbu- students were right. . . '
formed a guard of honour leading from lelo Shimane, knelt beside his bed and
the church gates to the main tar-road, broke down and wept like a child, for Four months later, Rev Shimane was
chree streets away. the first time in his 40 years. He had released uncharged, looking a complete-
It was just 'Amandla! Amandla — always advised his congregation to take ly different man, with his long beard
Ngawethu! Ngawethu! — Amandla! — tragedies as they came and not lose their which he had steadfastly refused to
Ngawethu!' by young and old alike. By heads or tempers, for they would be shave while in detention as he did not
political and apolitical alike. There was rewarded for their patience. But now, want to leave behind any part of himself
a spirit of brotherhood. And sisterhood. he had lost his head. It was only a in a cell.
And peoplehood. matter of time before he also lost his On returning home, he was shocked
the arm of the law was also temper. He had truly been moved by to see how much weight his wife and
mere — in private of course — probably the youth that afternoon. four children had lost due to anxiety.
observing who were the so-called His wife, hearing this unusual sob- They had heard from someone that
agitators or ring-leaders. But they failed bing from the dining room of their he had been beaten to a pulp at one
in their mission because each and every mission house, rushed to the rescue. stage, and from someone else that he
youth was a leader. Anyone was free to 'Ntate,' she inquired, almost breath- had lost an eye at another stage, after
make suggestions — and that's how lessly, 'what's wrong? Why are you cry- they had originally been refused permis-
things really turned out because of the ing?' sion to see him. They had simply been
suppression of the natural national Rev Shimane looked up at his wife told that he was being kept in solitary
leaders. and said: 'It is true, Fikile . . . ' confinement.
Soon, the three kilometre-long con- Just then came a knock at the door. 'I've got one big announcement to
voy sped off through the dusty streets And it was definitely not a polite make,' he told his weeping family,
of the townships towards the graveyard, knock. friends and relatives who had welcomed
with mourners hanging out of car 'See, I told you,' said Rev Shimane, him with tears, 'I no longer have faith in
windows, precariously, chanting and quietly, 'I know who our visitors are. the Bible first. I now believe in myself.
raising clenched little black fists to by- Go and open the door, my wife. These And I want you all to do the same.
standers, the positive ones returning the are hard times for us all.' Believe in yourselves first. There is no
salute. 'What do you mean, Ntate?' she greater weapon than self-reliance in
And at the graveside, the priest asked worriedly. spite of who may say what. Badimo
refused to perform the customary last 'You open the door and you'll see ba rona ga ba re latlha. Ke rona re ba
rites for the deceased, owing to his why.' latlhileng.'a

oetry* Senzo Malinga, Peter C. Chipeya

SONG OF THE FALLING TOWERS SAD BROTHER

I place my watch on the river crossings paradise

I roam the night
With spirits of the dead and the living o my beloved brother
At the fords
The night sings a blue song i seek no
You should have heard it paradise
When it stole our cries
As we looked to the threatening sky paradise is the future
Sweeping for a reconciliation abode of angels
Gathering for the dead manana
i am
Oh, the night
Comes a-running a sad brother
Singing its blue song
The song of the falling towers. looking for justice.

Senzo Malinga Peter C. Chipeya

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 9

 An excerpt from a proemdra by Mtutuzeli Matshoba

Mhlaba's Journey
MHLAB'UYALINGANA origins.
This evening, in the smoky gloom of the dormitory in the
The children cry when he leaves home to work so that they hostel where Mhlab 'uyalingama stays (coats, jackets, overalls,
may survive. Their mother comforts them and cries too, but sorghum sieves, a bicycle and dry maize seed hanging over-
always tries to hide it from him, for she knows that he must head, bound to the rafters with wire and string) several men
go so that they may not die of famine. They leave before the are sitting on the sleeping bunks and conversing, one strum-
first cock crow. ming a guitar, one cooking on a one-plate stove, and another
She carries his suitcase to the bus-stop where she waits with ironing on a bunk. It is the usual after-dusk hostel scene.
him, vowing to keep the home intact, look well after the Mhlab 'uyalingana joins them with a pleasant salute:
children and above all to suppress the longing of the flesh MHLAB'UYALINGANA: Sanibonani nonke ekhaya.
and remain loyal; making him swear in the name of his father HOSTEL DWELLERS: Awu, yebo Mhlab'uyalingana.
in his grave that his heart will not be stolen by the wonders KHUZWAYO: You're already home? Seeing it was getting
of the city while he is away; that he will return to grace his late I was about to ask the other men to arm themselves so
home. They wait until the bus to the railway siding comes that we might go and await you at the station. On Fridays it
and takes him away from her into the sunrise, leaving*her is not safe, mfowethu.
standing in the morning long after it has gone and the dust it MHLABA: Yebo bafowethu, I am back. I was lucky the train
raises has settled. The same occasion has repeated itself over was full. There were many others coming this way and I felt
many years in his many journeys to the city, and at the end safe among them. But how are you all, bakithi?
of his many journeys home he has found her there where he He flops tiredly on a bunk, removing his hat and the jacket
has left her, each time looking older, as if she aged away at which he wears over his overalls.
the bus-stop. The bus-stop is the meeting place and the ANOTHER: Cha, we are well Mhlaba. How are you?
parting place, the bridge between his dual urban and rural MHLABA: A-a-wu, exhaustion! If I were not going to work
lives, the bridge between his life and that of his wife. They tomorrow I would sleep the whole of tonight and tomorrow.
hate the bus and the bus-stop because the bus takes him This overtime of mine is really backbreaking. (He stretches
away and the bus-stop is where they part. They love the bus himself, takes off his jacket and transfers the contents of its
and the bus-stop because the bus brings him back home and pockets to the overalls. In one of the pockets he finds a
the bus-stop is their place of reunion. sealed letter, exclaiming) Hawu! I had forgotten that I
The last twenty years of Mhlab 'uyalingana ys life have been received a letter from home this morning.
spent far away from home so that most of the time those ANOTHER: (Jocularly) What is the good news from home?
whom he calls his people are only memories of when he last Must you go back to impregnate again?
saw them, and each time he sees them again they have some- MHLABA: Ha, ha, ha. I haven't read it yet. Man, do you
what changed. After many months at a time people change. think that I could still have more children on top of the six
They remain themselves inwardly but outwardly they that I already have with the cost of living so high and our
change. A child that was crawling the last time is now pranc- wages so low?
ing about, and wonders at the stranger who is called his ANOTHER: That's true Mhlaba. A man works all his life just
father. When a new member has joined the family whilst he to keep his family's bodies and souls together. In the old
has been away it is an exhilarating experience to come home days men tried to have as many children as they could
to a bigger reception. It has always been like that ever since because a big family was a man's wealth, since a large house-
he first left home and it looks as if it is going to be like this hold provided the labour to till the soil and look after cattle.
until labour saps all the strength out of his limbs. Then his ANOTHER: Ehene. That was why people married more than
right to work will be withdrawn and he will return home to one woman. My own father had so many . . . (He raises three
wait for his time to take his place among his ancestors. fingers.) During the ploughing and the harvesting seasons he
Mhlab'uyalingana, Mhlaba as they call him, knows well what would bring us, fifteen of his children, together to tackle one
loneliness is. field belonging to one of our mothers at a time and proceed
Back home Nonzame his lonely wife awaits his return.- to the next within no time at all. Today the bigger the family
Bringing up the children alone takes up all her time but in the poorer the man. What you are saying is true.
her heart all her people have their places in which they are MHLABA turns the letter towards the faint light of the
irreplaceable. At night when her flesh is burning and her smudgy naked electric globe, squinting at it and holding it at
soul longing, her only relief is tearful prayer that her man different angles as he tries to make sense of it. At length he
return safely back home to her from beyond the many gives up and seeks aid from one of them.
horizons over which he migrates like a bird, away one season MHLABA: He Siphiwe, will you come to my rescue, mfowe-
and back another. thu. The scrawls on this paper mean nothing to me. Only you
Nonzame and the children wait for him at the bus-stop when can decipher them.
he returns. They carry his baggage home and there is jubil- SIPHIWE: (Putting down the guitar and proudly going to sit
ation for many days after, until in sorrow he leaves again. next to MHLABA, takes the letter.) Ya, give it to us who at
In the city Mhlab'uyalingana sleeps in a hostel with other least saw the inside of a classroom.
men who have also gone from their homes to work for their He also squints at the letter.
families. They tell the same story as he, namely that you MHLABA: (Impatiently) Go ahead and read so that we may
cannot live from the soil any more, because there is not hear what they say.
enough land to till. They come from all the corners of the SIPHIWE: (Starting to read erratically) Mhlaba o-th-a-n-de-
world, from the East, from the West, from the South and kayo, ua othandekayo! I hope that you are still well where
from the North like him, and he travels with them to their
homes on the wings of his imagination when they relate their Continued on page 12

10 STAFFR1DER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 Hostel scene, photo Lesley Lawson

11
STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981
 you are. I am grateful for the money. Fortunately it arrived south and north; all the spokes that here meet the hub of this
before the affliction with which we are now faced and helped city life.
to make ends meet when it was most needed. I do not want MHLABA and other passengers are waiting for the train that
to be very long but I think that it is right that you must will pass eNyakatho on its long journey. Some of the
know so that you may not be shocked. The village has been strangers who will be travelling the same road with MHLABA
destroyed by the police. If it is possible, hurry back home to are quiet. Possibly there is trouble back where they come
see for yourself. The children are still well. Until we meet. from, maybe a close one has passed away, maybe their stock
Owakho othandekayo, is dying, maybe there is no rain, maybe they have been
Nonzame. declared undesirable and endorsed out of the big city. Come
An audible hush has descended upon the gloom as the to think of it, maybe they are being uprooted too. MHLABA
men listen uninvited to MHLABA's home affairs, but this and KHUZWAYO, his closest clansman (who, coming from
does not matter among them, children of the same fate. eMzamo, has not yet been directly affected by the ordeal
They all observe MHLABA for his reaction. His head hangs back home) are sad and silent. But others are jovial and
on his chest. He takes the letter and studies it vacantly, drunkenly singing: Alia, alia, alia dikeledi, alia alia, alia
as if he does not believe that what he has just heard is what dikeledi... ' as if alluding to MHLABA whose eyes have run
all the marks on the piece of paper mean. dry of tears.
MHLABA: (Slowly lifting his head) Who else can read? One of them jumps up and dances to the rhythm of the song,
The men silently stare at him. apparently happy to be about to meet his folk again. He
ANOTHER: Hawu. Mos you know that among us all in this stops dancing and starts strutting about in front of the others
house it is only Siphiwe who reads and writes our letters. If like a praise singer until the song and the clapping are over
you do not believe what he says is in the letter, find another whereupon he pivots on his heel and faces his mates.
person next door and see if he will read the same thing. THE DANCER: (Facing his mates, excitedly) When I arrive
SIPHIWE: (Putting his arm across MHLABA's shoulders) at home, I greet the elders, leave my baggage and cross the
Yebo Mhlaba, it is so. I would never say such a thing if it was valley to where I left my heart with the girl with the attrac-
not what the letter says. Truly it is so. tiveness of a dark prize horse.
MHLABA: (Rising slowly from the bunk as if his body had ANOTHER: Say that again my friend. At home the village
increased in weight, his face revealing deeply-felt grief) O does not go to sleep when we have come, especially if many
Nkulunkulu wami! Awu, whatever have I done for my folk of us arrive at the same time, like in December. There is beer,
to turn away from me in such a way. What is it I have done song, dance and general merrymaking by the contemporaries
to fall into disfavour with you? Why turn your backs on me who have not seen each other for many seasons.
so suddenly? ANOTHER: As for me, if there was still expendable stock
The men do not know what to say. He is talking to them, to the first thing I would do on arrival would be to tell the boys
himself, to his ancestors. They know how he must be feeling to catch a goat to be slaughtered in thanksgiving to my
and they feel together with him. ancestors for bringing me back alive to my people . . .
MHLABA: Awu bakithi, what sin have I committed? My MHLABA: (To KHUZWAYO) Ya, the man is telling the
home, my home which I built from nothing, out of my own truth. It is a long time since I also remembered my people.
strength; my children, Nonzame. The many years of self- Maybe that is why it is so. When I have gathered my family, I
deprivation in order to build myself a place in which to die. should slaughter a sheep and go to weed my forefathers'
All lost in one sweep. graves where I left them when we were driven out of the
He falls back on the bunk and buries his face in the palms of white man's farm.
his hands, convulses, seems shattered inside. KHUZWAYO: That you must do, mfo-kababa. Make atone-
ment to your fathers that the cloud of misfortune must
be shifted from above your head . . . (There is the sound of
THE TRIAL OF MHLAB'UYALINGANA an incoming train) Here is your train, mfowethu. Let us be
ready to jump in quickly, otherwise you will not find space.
At any time and on any day the big station buzzes like a bee- Seems many people are going home.
hive with people milling about, more so in the evenings. MHLABA: You're right. I will jump in and you will hand
Some of these people are going, and their friends have come over the baggage through a window.
to see them off; others are coming and their friends have All passengers gather their baggage as the train pulls in and
come to meet them. There are also the ragged, ignorant men screeches to a stop.
moving in large groups, consigned as cheap mine labour. The
rest are there for many other different purposes, like illicit
trade in anything from peanuts, fruit, watches which will LOST IN THE WILDERNESS
stop forever within an hour of being bought, liquor diluted
with water, pinafores for the women and children at home, MHLABA has made it to eHlanze, the wilderness and the
coats, gumboots, blankets and whatever you care to name. place of the gnashing of the teeth, where no man chose to
There are also those who are busy sneak-thieving the travel- live until the powers that be saw fit to banish the people of
lers' baggage and pickpocketing, regardless of the uniformed eNzilweni there. For kilometres around there is nothing but
and disguised police mingling with the multitudes. It is not earth scarred over the years by merciless natural elements.
easy to leave the big city with all you have earned and saved Where the people are expected to make homes are rows of
because there are many others who want to earn from you. tents occupied by the minority that has been moved, and a
In the city there are daily migrants who come from the short distance from each tent is a corrugated iron bucket
surrounding townships, weekend migrants who live close latrine. MHLABA prays that he should wake up to discover
enough to their work to travel home every or every other that what he sees is not reality but a nightmare in which he
weekend, monthly migrants, quarterly migrants who work has been walking towards a camp which had been set up by a
further from home and lastly, those who like MHLABA visit ravaged army on the retreat. The closer he approaches the
their folk only after a stay of at least a year. All of these are scene the more desolate it becomes. He comes upon a grief-
the people who throng the big station; where trains are stricken woman nursing a baby around whom flies from the
departing and arriving all the time to take them away to, and latrines are humming in front of a tent filled with houseware.
bring them in from, all parts of the country — east, west, As he puts his baggage down the woman dejectedly looks up

12 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 at him. before sunset, while there is still a chance of stopping a
MHLABA: Good afternoon Nosiyoni. passing bus.
NOSIYONI: (In a weak voice) Yebo baba Mhlaba. The sun that has followed him on his quest since daybreak
MHLABA: Nisaphila kodwa mama? like a searchlight has begun to tilt slightly to the west of
NOSIYONI: Yebo baba Mhlaba, yes because here it is zenith and he wishes that he could hold it and suspend its
that our souls are still contained in our bodies. But I do not setting, if not race it to reach the west before it does. What if
believe that we will last for long. The poor infants, the sickly there are no buses? Will he sleep in the open or return to the
and old will die first and we shall soon follow. There is no camp? No. He would rather sleep in the open. There are two
food, no clean water. The children have lost their zest for blankets in his baggage. He tries to brush the thought aside
play. I used never really to believe when they spoke of the but it keeps coming back at him like an affectionate dog.
end of the world but today the truth has caught up with me. There can't be many buses around these parts.
MHLABA: Awu. The loneliness of the wild makes him feel desolate. Except
NOSIYONI: There is nothing more that Lean relate to you for himself and the birds and the thirsty fauna and the
baba, nothing more than what you see with your own eyes. mountains and the sun, all life seems to have ceased to exist.
(She waves a weak hand over the land around her) Look, tin He wonders what NONZAME and the children must be doing
toilets and tents. That is all. This is where Mbuka has led where they are. His house must surely have been reduced to
us. He is a leader to be remembered long after we are dead. rubble by now. Nkulunkulu, they are heartless! But if only
MHLABA: (His sad eyes slowly absorbing the scenery, he can find his people first, then perhaps he can start again
feeling ready to shed tears) Awu, awu bantu bakithi. Where- and build a new home for them. The problem is: where?
ever could my family be in this wilderness? (He turns im- Definitely not at eNzilweni because there they are not
ploringly towards the woman) Where are they Nosiyoni? wanted; nor back at the camp because there it is impossible
Have you not seen them? to start a new life. The people there have been buried alive.
NOSIYONI: Cha baba. They cannot possibly be here. That I He is now trudging across a shallow valley and at the crest of
know because only a few of us came. the elevation towards which he is going is the junction of
MHLABA: But where could they be? Mos I received a letter roads. The sight of people there gives him a sense of belong-
from Nonzame saying that everybody was being forcibly ing. There is a man crouching on his haunches next to the
moved. So I thought that I would find her here. road. A woman and some children are sitting motionlessly as
NOSIYONI: (Shaking her head) Cha baba. I have not seen if they are part of the scenery. When he comes upon them
them or heard anybody mentioning them. There was chaos at they observe him indifferently.
the village on the day when we were being driven out. All MHLABA: Sikhulekile, my people.
that I can remember is people escaping to the neighbouring OLD MAN: (With eyes fixed somewhere across the road and
villages, the bushes and the mountains. (She slowly shakes extinguished pipe in his mouth, without looking at the new
her head from side to side.) I thought that the world was arrival) Mh.
coming to an end. MHLABA: Kunjani kodwa Mkhulu?
MHLABA: Where would you suggest that I go and look for The children s eyes are bulging. MHLABA guesses that they
them then, Nosiyoni? They must be somewhere. have not had anything to eat for a long time. He feels stupid
NOSIYONI: (Again shaking her head) Cha, I do not know for having asked how they are when he can see what it is like
baba. I can only advise that you go and trace them from for these people.
where they were last seen, at eNzilweni. WOMAN: We are well, baba.
MHLABA: And you people. Did you not escape? She looks expectantly up the road.
NOSIYONI: We never had a chance, because they started at MHLABA: It is me, baba. Don't you recognise me anymore?
the lower end of the village, where we stay. They loaded the The old man remains uninterested. The woman takes a closer
trucks and demolished the houses while we stood transfixed look at him, and her pathetic face transforms into a surprised
both by the atrocity and the fear of the police, the guns and smile.
the dogs — until we were ordered to get onto the trucks WOMAN: Awu? Ubab'uMhlaba! Is it truly you baba?
which brought us here. MHLABA: Yebo, mama. (Putting his suitcases next to their
MHLABA: Mh! (For some time standing and considering the bundles) MaMlangeni have you already forgotten me after
woman's advice) Yes you're right Nosiyoni. I must go back hardly a year?
home to eNzilweni. I see nothing else that I can do. A-awu MAMLANGENI: But what can you expect, baba, with our
maAfrika amahle, only those who have been through this hearts so full of sorrow?
experience can really tell what it is like. (Picking up his suit- MHLABA: I know, I know very well what you mean, mama.
cases) Salani kahle Nosiyoni, those who meet once may meet I know because I happen to be one of you.
again. MAMLANGENI: What made you leave your family behind
NOSIYONI: Kulungile baba. The Lord be with you on your and come all the way here to this hell?
way. MHLABA: Where behind? When I do not even know where
MHLABA leaves along the same road that had brought him they are, mama? I am wandering in the dark hoping to
there, a twisting and winding, ascending and descending road stumble across them. Perhaps you have some idea of where
from a peopled world to nowhere, his heart heavy. they could be?
MAMLANGENI: They never came here, which means that
they remained behind — possibly went elsewhere, because
A RAY OF HOPE the last that we saw of eNzilweni was the houses being
destroyed.
When he looks at his watch MHLAB'UYALINGANA has OLD MAN: Nevertheless we are going back there, my son.
been walking for two hours from twelve noon on the dusty We are not prepared to perish in the wilderness when we have
lonesome road from eHlanze, without resting. Before him a place that we used to call home. (Looking thoughtful) Do
lies another hour to the junction where his road connects a you know Mlandu?
better one, which leads on to the one that will take him back MHLABA: Yebo baba, I know him. The one who is a
to civilisation. The soles of his feet are already aching, his cripple? If you mean him, I know him very well.
body ready to crumble under the burden of his luggage. Yet OLD MAN: He is no more. He has left us.
he must continue to walk if he is to reach the main road MHLABA: What?

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 13

 OLD MAN: Yes. His whole family remained behind and as arrived.
we speak they do not know where he is or what has befallen The sun is resting on the western horizon, slowly sinking
him. behind it. MHLABA feels that it is setting forever for him,
MHLABA: What are you telling me, baba? How did his and that once it is gone he will live a life of perpetual dark-
people remain? Why did they let him come alone to such a ness; not the darkness that you may associate with blindness,
place? but one in which he will retain his sight but see nothing
OLD MAN: How did they remain? They escaped during the because of the opacity of the world.
invasion. Being a cripple as you know, Mlandu was found by MAMLANGENI: Bab'uMhlaba, it will soon be dark.
the police marooned in his house. He did not last long here MHLABA: (Jerking back to consciousness) Awu! I am
before he decided to desert this world of sorrows to find his thinking. You're right, let us go.
rest in death . . . Ya, he is resting peacefully where he is now. They carry their loads and set out for the village. It is nearly
MAMLANGENI: But how could you say such a thing, baba? dark when they arrive at eNzilweni. The ruins are silhouetted
How do you think that his soul can find rest when he left us against a night sky illuminated by an early moon, creating
in the way in which he did? the impression of a ghost village.
MHLABA: After death all is oblivion, mama. He neither feels OLD MAN: During the war of the nations back in the forties
nor sees nor hears any of this harsh life anymore. Awu whole towns looked like this after an attack with bombers
bakithi; the pangs of this life! But . . . but . . . until when and canons. I . . . wish that I had died in that war, fighting,
shall we live like this? and not lived to face another one when I am so old and
OLD MAN: It shall always be so if we allow it, son. That unarmed.
much I have learned from the people of eNqabeni nase- MHLABA: Ce, ce, ce. It looks like there has been a real
Mzamo who resisted with all their might and are now still battle, baba. I wonder if the walls of the ruin of my home are
occupying their homes while we who were divided find our- still standing so that I may go there and talk to my fathers.
selves in this predicament. I am going back to ask one of Awu, the sweat of my muscles! Awu Nkulunkulu wami.
those worthy chiefs to put me under his wing. I have vowed Tears well up in the woman's eyes and start rolling down her
to myself not to remain loyal to a coward! (He shakes his cheeks. The others notice that she is crying from her voice.
head) No, not I my son. MAMLANGENI: But what sin did we commit by building
WOMAN: (Rising to look where the transport is expected to ourselves homes in the land of our forefathers? What sin did
come from, dubiously) What is causing that dust? A whirl- we commit?
wind maybe? No, a whirlwind cannot follow the road like OLD MAN: (Putting his arm around the woman's shoulders)
that. It cannot be. Let us pray that it is the bus that passes Be strong, my poor child. Tears will not solve anything. Our
here twice a day, once that way and once back towards people have now been crying for centuries and that has not
eNyakatho. We have been here on the road for many hours helped them in any way. Let us go back home to collect the
without seeing a single vehicle now, baba Mhlaba. remains and see what we can do. Mh, the place shows no
They all stand up to look, their breath held in hopeful signs of life and, strangely, now that I have arrived here I
prayer. begin to regret coming back instead of moving on to Vikeli-
MHLABA: (Shouting excitedly) It is the bus! Ya, it is the sizwe's village where I can die in peace. I hear the two
bus indeed! Quick, start putting the baggage together! I will chiefs are setting up refugee plots. I really never thought that
stand in the middle of the road and wave it to a stop. my life would literally end up in ruins.
They gather their parcels and wait while MHLABA tries to MHLABA: Nevertheless let us venture into the village and see
stop the bus long before it arrives where they are. what we can find, baba.
MAMLANGENI: I can see a girl there. (Shouting) Heyi,
ntombazana, come here!
HOME, BITTER HOME The GIRL, carrying a bundle on her head turns and
approaches them.
Again life is like a nightmare to MHLABA, one that is even GIRL: Sanibonani mama.
more horrible than all those that he has lived through up to MAMLANGENI: Yebo ntombazana.
now, for here he is back home on the solid soil from which GIRL: (Comes straight to the point) Whom are you looking
he has drawn his life since he came to eNyakatho, a discarded for?
farm labourer, akin to a tramp, 25 years ago; on the solid soil MHLABA: Seems there is nobody here at home — where are
from which his family has drawn its life since he began to the people?
have a family. This time NONZAME and the children are not GIRL: My people stay at my uncle's eNqabeni baba kaNo-
waiting at the bus-stop to welcome him and carry his parcels themba. Nothemba and your people are staying at the
home. The pattern which had been established over a period shacks in the woods beyond the village.
of two decades has been broken. MHLABA: Shacks! Come and show me where, my child! (He
A strong determination to meet NONZAME and the children picks up his baggage.)
has driven him thus far and their conspicuous absence at the OLD MAN: Just a moment, ntombazana. Did you chance to
meeting place destroys his courageous optimism that he will pass our home?
find them still well, a faith which has sustained him since the GIRL: Yebo mkhulu. The house is locked and still standing
letter brought him out of the big city on his quest. Courage although a number has already been painted on the door.
to start on the last path home alone forsakes him. The words MAMLANGENI: And what is that supposed to mean?
that SIPHIWE read from the letter return to his mind; 'The GIRL: It is the number of your stand at the forwarding
children are well.' If they were well when it was written it place. Your house is marked for demolition.
does not necessarily follow that they are still well now for, if MHLABA: (Impatient to leave) It is fine, mkhulu. Let us
they are still well now, they should be at the bus-stop to pay part here to see what can be done. Thanks for directing me
their family homage to him. But they are not there! Then this way, maMlangeni! We shall meet again. Let me also go to
where are they? O Nkulunkulu wami, these people are really this place that the girl is talking about. Come ntombazana.
cruel. . . They part and go their different ways.
OLD MAN: Let us go, Mhlaba.
MHLABA: Mh?
OLD MAN: Let us go. What are you waiting for? We have

14 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 ES'DAKANENI

In his eagerness to be reunited with his family

MHLAB'UYALINGANA walks ahead of his guide, now and
then looking over his head for confirmation that he is going
in the right direction, a sixth sense drawing him nearer and
nearer to NONZAME. He keeps asking the girl whether she is
sure that they are there and the girl answers that they are.
MHLABA: When last did you see them?
GIRL: We fetched water at the stream together with No-
themba before sunset. I see them all the time.
MHLABA: All of them?
GIRL: Yes baba, all at different times.
MHLABA: Do they go to school?
GIRL: Many of us children from eNzilweni schools have
applied for space at the schools of eNqabeni and Mzamo.
Some have already been accepted, others are waiting. No-
themba and I are also waiting. (A pause) Oh I nearly forgot,
Maqhawe and other boys are hiding in the mountains from
the police.
MHLABA: (Jolted to a standstill he puts down his baggage,
turning to face the girl, incredulously) What, makoti? My
boy Maqhawe a fugitive from the police? What have they
done?
GIRL: Eight people including a relative of Mbuka have been
singled out and arrested for refusing to move. It is said that
they told the people to resist. We protested that the removals
amounted to a destruction of our education, and 'GG'
responded by physically demolishing the schools and de-
taining fourteen people, some of them pupils from our
schools . . .
MHLABA: But what is this child saying? Ntombazana, I am
asking about Maqhawe. You say he is staying in the moun-
tains? What do they eat there, where do they sleep?
GIRL: We take food to them every day, baba. They have also
built shacks with materials with which we supplied them.
MHLABA: Mh! (Shaking his head and picking up his suit-
cases) Nonzame is going to tell me why she left my boy to go
and live in the wilderness like an animal. She just must
explain. Let us go mntanami.
They resume walking. The girl decides that she needs to
explain further in order to prevent baba MHLABA from
substituting his own people for the real culprits.
GIRL: They fear that the police will be coming after them
next.
MHLABA does not answer.
GIRL: (Stopping and pointing to some brushwood about
half a kilometre from the edge of the village where they are)
They are there in those bushes, baba. Continue there and
inquire.
MHLABA: I am grateful ntombazana. Hurry back home, it is
getting late.
The girl leaves him standing there as if his limbs have ceased
to function. Again he puts down his baggage, sits on it and
broods. Tears roll unchecked down his face and wet his
beard. He cannot remember when he last cried. It was long
ago when his father passed away from this world leaving
them at the mercy of the farmer who was to brand them
squatters and show them the road to nowhere when he
decided that their labour had become redundant. Yes, that
was many years ago. He was seventeen then, and after the old
man was laid among his ancestors he had felt that his eyes
had been completely dried of tears, that he would never cry
again because nothing would ever gore his soul that deep
again in his life. Now he is feeling as miserable as he did on
that day, if not more so. He is sitting there on his luggage
crying because he does not want to break down before
his family who must be expecting to lean on him as their

Continued on page 47

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 15

 6 . . . he preached black exclusivism, yet inexplicably

THE BARRIER loved a white woman, one who epitomised the ig-
norance of her breed. For so long he had yearned
for someone special . . . and now he had found her.
She understood the darkness of the soul, the silence
A Story by Farouk Asvat between the sentences. But now he was lost.9

Rashid sat silently suppressing his button on his panel. As they descended, as there was no urgency to the matter.
apprehension, his senses on full alert, Rashid scrutinized the cream safari suit, Right now he felt too tired to get a
master of the situation, it seemed. He the black comb tucked in the cream crowded train, and then stand squeezed
looked at the monstrous man across the sock, the lean emaciated face of a all the way to Soweto. Besides, he
table: he saw a gorilla stripped of its fur, platteland predikant, the greying wasn't sure he would find Mzoxolo or
its pink paws toying with a tiny-looking cropped hair of Lieutenant Van Vuuren. any of the others in. He just hoped
baton. Rashid wished he had been one In the basement, Rashid followed his there wasn't a general round-up that
of those suave security guys dressed in a limping guide through the maze of morning. In any case, he had to catch
trendy grey suit and pink shirt; there corridors he had come to know quite up on lost sleep, having been so rudely
was at least something reminiscent of well. He took note of the Lieutenant's awakened that morning.
humanity in those cold steel eyes. But gun as he led him through the under-
the reality faced him. His massive ground carpark to the exit. Rashid felt It is the interlude between the smashing
antagonist leaned forward and moved relieved, but suppressed his optimism — of indigo waves against sepulchral rocks
his pudgy face: 'Now,' he began in just in case. Van Vuuren explained they and the next crash in the eternal battle
Afrikaans, 'why were you banned?' were letting him go this time, but that between the forces of liberation and the
Rashid felt like laughing, but smiled they would be keeping a watch on him; statuesque monuments of bondage. It is
within himself, and replied with a he'd better watch his step. In a conspir- the cold wind the moist air the silenced
straight face, in English: 'I don't know; atorial whisper he told him that some of hush between the thunder and the
you people never told me.' his friends were informing on him. Van storm. It is the time of the brave few:
'Jou bliksemse, fokken koelie! Speel Vuuren then added some friendly those who hold candle during periods of
jy die gek met my?' The creature advice: 'Your people and my people can fear between mass uprisings. It is an
went all red, lunged forward, and work in harmony. The Indian people intense time for sensitive souls.
grabbed Rashid by his shirt with its ugly have always worked hand-in-hand with Rashid tried to capture these images
big fists, and pulled him halfway across us. We can achieve much more that in motion and transform them into
the table. Rashid had thought it in- way.' Rashid smiled, knowing better. musical rhythms. His flute wailed; but
capable of such movement. But the But Van Vuuren burst out, 'Wat die somehow it sounded staccato. A feeling
Lieutenant standing in the corner with donner wil jy te doene he met die of utter despair and loneliness entered
his arms folded nodded his head, and kaffers?' Then he controlled himself, him. He put the flute away and stepped
the gorilla shoved Rashid back into his 'If you know what's good for you, outside into the nippy night.
seat. Rashid pulled himself together, you'll listen to me.' Rashid decided it He meandered through the streets of
straightening his shirt, eyeing the angry was time to take a slow walk out of the the hostile, impersonal city. Once he
creature. He was terrified but gave yard, before the Lieutenant changed his had rushed around these very streets
the impression of being unafraid, almost mind. organizing and also celebrating life. But
defiant, (strengthened by an ingrained He headed for the cheap side of town now the streets were empty. The air was
conviction against his persecutors). and asked the time from a passerby, icy and he blew steamy breath into his
The creature continued with what he wondering if Mzoxolo would already be palms. His intense face stared back at
called 'just routine questioning' in a waiting. But he didn't head for the him from the shopwindow displaying
monotonous tone that would've put rendezvous. Instead he went to Fords- the latest in ladies' fashion his haggard,
Rashid to sleep in any other circum- burg, past the bioscopes displaying their bohemian aspect reflecting the bitter
stance. But here he had to be very violent and sentimental wares, past the years the pain of friends keeping away;
awake, remembering the maxim of a silent discos that would throb with the hurt of jilted love; the despair of
friend: 'Tell the obvious; know the gyrating bodies in a few hours, past the political frustration. And yet, there was
limit, and then keep your mouth shut.' bars where they were having heated determination in that stare; a sense of
'Are you still a member of BPC? And arguments, a prelude to Saturday night. belonging with those who suffered
SASO? What is their link with the ANC? He bought some fish and chips, and sat worse fates; a feeling of camaraderie
When last did you see Zebulon Thalaza? on the pavement to have his meal and a with other activists, many known only
What did you discuss with him? Don't can of Coke. He had spent more than by name, but who were hope for the
lie! Are you still staying at this address? seven hours up there and he was famish- leanest hours, fortitude for the soul.
Then why did you not sleep at home on ed. He was lucky to be out and alive. He And yet he felt empty, as if his solar
Tuesday night? Where were you? With watched a few games of pinball, listened plexus had been numbed. He needed
whom?' And on and on and on. to some of the funny incidents being something more than this comradeship;
Finally, the Lieutenant put a stop to related, and then headed for Fietas. He he needed the soft touch, the silly jokes,
it, and asked Rashid to accompany him. meandered through the narrow streets the heart that would understand better
Rashid braced himself for their next and festering alleys, greeting people he than the head.
move, expecting workshop treatment. knew as he went. Struggling with these feelings of
He followed the Lieutenant — a thin He headed back by another route to belonging and not belonging, he crossed
man with a slight limp in his left leg — town. No-one was eyeing him. When he the streets, passed the occasional pede-
out of the office, through the corridor, reached the remote streetcorner where strian, the watchmen-cum-pimps, the
and into the lift on the tenth floor. On he was to have met Mzoxolo, there was ladies of questionable character on
the ninth floor the lift stopped, the only a hobo in a tattered army coat streetcorners, hoping with alcoholic
senile security officer controlling the lying on the pavement, lost to the smiles for an expensive pick-up. He
lifts looked Rashid over, and pressed a world. He would meet them tomorrow wanted to be taken in by one of them,

16 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 to be wrapped in her wet passion. But did not know how to write music; he night. I'll fetch you.'
he had had enough of filling that void. just played. Also, he had no intention of He felt like going, but checked him-
When he returned to his room it was being recorded by any of the companies self: 'Well, the thing is, I have to see
late, or early morning: it didn't matter. in the country: they were only bent on someone on Saturday.' He was doing
The walk had freshened him, cleared making profits. Rashid was very irri- nothing. 'Thanks anyway.'
some of the cobwebs and dust from his tated. He made it cle,ar that he was not 'Well, you're welcome any time.
mind. But the aching desire for warmth going to be discovered by some pro- Here's my address,' she said and scribbl-
persisted. fessor of music. He was getting bored, ed it on a scrap of paper. He thanked
He picked up an envelope from the and he had no intention of explaining her and got out.
floor, a hand-delivered letter from some self-reliance. He did not go to see her. But often,
whitey, inviting him to his home. So he excused himself, saying it was during his loneliest moments when de-
Rashid smiled wryly and put the letter late and he had to get a bus back to spair was most profound, he thought of
away not knowing whether he should Fordsburg. Mr Saunders told him not to her, despite himself. Life went on as be-
respond. But the next evening he went. worry; his daughter — the one who fore: he mostly stayed at home, listen-
To kill his boredom more than anything opened the door — was living in Mayfair ing to records, painting, reading, practis-
else. He knew the benevolent cliches he and would give him a lift on her way. ing the flute.
would have to bear with. But it was But Rashid was impatient. Mr Saunders There was a knock at the door.
good to reinforce oneself now and insisted, and went to look for his Rashid placed the flute on the bed,
again, he thought with a smile. daughter. Rashid sat down again, and apprehensive: visitors were few for the
At the bus-stop he enquired from a observed the antiques in the living- likes of him, and then they usually came
commuter which bus he should take. room. The fossilized atmosphere from unwanted places with unwanted
There weren't many buses to the frightened him. pryings. He braced himself.
northern suburbs, especially in the Mr Saunders returned, saying Jesse Jesse stood there, smiling but hesi-
evenings. He waited a very long time, would be leaving in a moment. He tant: 'I was passing by and saw the
and was thinking of turning back, but earnestly asked Rashid to consider his lights on. So I thought I'd just drop in
didn't. He struck up a conversation in proposals, and praised highly a concert for a minute and say hello. You're not
Zulu with the passenger sitting next to at which Rashid had performed. Rashid busy, are you? I hope I'm not disturbing
him on the bus: a chuckling old man remembered that evening only too clear- anything. Can I come in?' she asked.
with greying strands of coarse hair on ly; he felt sorry for this uncle and his 'Oh sure.' He let her in with a warm,
his dark brown face, which gave him a kind. Some of the poets had refused to welcoming smile. He had hoped so
sagacious look. He was working in the read their works because there were frequently that she would come, though
same suburb Rashid was heading for whites in the audience, and one of the he had never allowed it to surface from
and Rashid took directions from him. artists had announced that the group the deeper recesses of his mind. And yet
It was a white house, not big by would not appear before whites in fu- he felt uneasy.
white standards, and set deep in the ture. Some of the whites had walked 'I'm sorry to come in like this with-
grounds, almost hidden from the street out inconspicuously, but the few that out warning,' she apologised after sitting
by the high wooden fence and dense remained persisted in applauding each down on the bed, wondering whether
forest of shrubs and trees. Rashid item. she wasn't unwelcome.
pressed the non-electrical bell, heard the Rashid left with Jesse. She asked the 'No. That's okay. I wasn't really do-
bong, and waited. usual questions about work and so on. ing anything,' he assured her, placing a
A young girl with lively green eyes Rashid replied curtly, with a few formal cassette in the recorder.
smiled him a warm welcome. He was enquiries of his own. But soon he He sat down against the headboard,
attracted by the freckled face, the realized that her questions stemmed not knowing what to say. The music
flaxen hair cut in a boyish but feminine from a genuine desire to know. And he played in some higher strata of their
style, her slim, tall build. Rashid smiled, warmed somewhat towards her. There consciousness, beyond thought. And the
said hello, and introduced himself. was nothing of the liberal in her tone; it chords began to strain; but she knived
'Sorry, come inside,' she apologised, showed so much concern, it was almost the silence.
like a little girl who had faltered in her naive. 'It's only this one room you have?'
manners. 'My father is expecting you, She was troubled at his not being she began, not knowing really where to
I think. I'll call him.' After seating him able to find work. 'But why?' she asked. start.
in the lounge, she excused herself to call 'Oh well, it's a long story.' He 'Ja.' But then he continued: 'The
Mr Saunders. There was something shrugged it off. lavatory's in the yard; it serves as a
about her unaffected ways that moved 'But won't you tell me?' bathroom too, for the five families liv-
him. But he smiled; no ways was he go- Rashid was sceptical. 'Maybe. One ing in the yard. It's quite a hassle, really.
ing to get involved with some white day.' And though he felt a sudden urge And there are endless fights between the
bitch. to unburden his heavy heart to her neighbours. But it's fun sometimes.' He
Mr Saunders fitted Rashid's image of compassionate soul, he remained silent, hesitated, wondering why he was telling
him: The English gentleman, sporting a knowing she would never understand. her all this. 'Do you have a cottage in
well-trimmed moustache, provided all And so the journey continued in si- Mayfair?'
material for a satire on a condescending lence, except for the directions he gave. 'Actually I've only got it for a
liberal concerned about the welfare of 'This is my place,' he smiled, 'thank month. I wanted to know how it is liv-
the black man and the promotion of you very much.' ing on my own . . . bring out the adven-
indigenous culture. But Mr Saunders 'It's a pleasure.' ture in me,' she smiled. 'But I haven't
had only an academic's knowledge of As he was getting out of the ancient been very successful. I'm home every
African art. Volkswagen, she hesitated, then blurted few days, for the nice warm meals and
Mr Saunders wanted to publish Ra- out: 'It must be terrible living alone.' to fetch the washing. My parents are
shid's music and possibly have it re- She put an index finger to her shy lips, very sweet really, especially Mom. My
corded for distribution, but he realised smiling virginally, as ir* she shouldn't sister's married in Cape Town . . . and
there would be difficulties since Rashid have said it. 'If you want to, you can my younger sister's in Durban. I sup-
was banned. Rashid told him politely he have supper at my place on Saturday pose my parents are somewhat lone-

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 17

 ly without me. But still.' After some si- did not know what to say or where to ting eyes, at her strong cheeks, her thin
lence, she continued: 'I'm sharing the begin anymore. pink lips always on the verge of a sweet
cottage with Roy — he works with me 'You don't have to tell me if you smile. And he liked her. In spite of him-
as a reporter. It works out quite cheap don't want to. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I self, he liked her. But he was afraid of
for us. Though we don't really get shouldn't be asking all these questions.' this closeness. It made him feel incon-
along. But he's a nice guy . . . ' 'No. Well . . . I don't know really. sistent, as if a violent earthquake had
He wondered about her relationship For speaking out, I suppose. But if I flung him into darkness to float eter-
with Roy, but asked instead about her were to think like them — if they are nally in an unknown chasm.
work for the Morning Daily. capable of thinking — then it would be So he spoke instead of things that
'I'm on the entertainment side, for belonging to BPC and SASO, for didn't matter. About films (many of
doi-. . . ' She broke off, noticing the going out into the townships, playing which he had been unable to see be-
shadow of a mischievous smile on his music that tells of my people's suffer- cause of selective censorship against
face. ing. For being editor of a black litera- blacks, or because they were not the
'And what type of entertainment do ture magazine. I don't know. For being blood-and-thunder stuff that was
you provide?' me, I suppose. But I didn't do much screened at the black bioscopes). They
'Oh, go to hell,' she retorted, pulling really; it all sounds so silly. Anyway, we talked about the books of Lawrence and
a tongue. After a pause she continued in just promoted the idea that blacks Conrad; and he introduced her to Afri-
a more serious tone: 'Well, I do the film should believe in themselves, stop seeing can literature. The books she had read
reviews. "You gotta start at the bottom, themselves in terms of whites, be were of the coffee-table variety of poets
kid, for the big time",' she mimicked. of their African heritage, wipe out the he did not like. He spoke of art as a
'Also I'm part-time with Operation centuries of misrepresentation. But, of weapon against falsehood. He told her
Winter Warmth; collecting clothing and course, little men frighten easily.' He of the black writers who spread the
money for the people in the townships. hesitated but somehow he trusted her. word on roneoed sheets, in banned
It's In any case, what could she tell the magazines, from public platforms, play-
'One of those liberal charity hand- cops that they didn't already know ing active political roles. He talked
outs,' he retorted. about him? He felt odd speaking to her of black artists, and of local music,
'Yes, it's fine for you to say that, sit- like this. But their souls had touched; it deriding the commercial variety, speak-
ting all cozy here,' she began angrily, was inexplicable, perhaps unwanted, yet ing of the few musicians who were
'but those children need it.' She floun- heartening. attempting a fusion of heritage and
dered, noticing a scowl develop on his And so he talked of the suffering and modern trends.
face. 'Okay, it might not be anything the solitude, the bannings and the And though she saw art as art, he was
much, but we do do our bit, try to batonings, the misery and the massacres; touched by her understanding of
help.' he spoke of the blindness, arrogance and people. At last he had someone he could
He agreed reluctantly, but he was selfish materialism of the ruling class. really talk to; he was glad he did not
angry: 'These people do not need rags She listened. And they argued: she from have to listen to any clever intellectual
and hand-me-downs to keep them in her limited knowledge of conditions in clap-trap. And yet he felt uncomfort-
eternal dependence. What they need is a the country and out of goodness of able, cast into the unknpwn.
means to fend for themselves. And the heart — almost as an outsider; he from The conversation was fluent, and
only way to do that is to break these experience, analyses, and activism. He Rashid, who usually spoke very little,
chains, these liberal chains that make us was bitter and he fanged out the venom. was amazed at his own rush of words.
believe that things aren't so bad after She was affronted, though he did not But now they were quiet.
all.' He hesitated, then carried on. mean it personally. But he could not In the silence they heard the music —
'Charity robs us of our initiative. It is a excuse her neutrality. the 'Song From The Hills' — a soulful
curse. And hell, we have enough curses She admitted, rather inarticulately, romantic melody, the bansri suggesting
to contend with.' her ignorance of the political set-up. But the call of the lover, the tabla the
Suddenly she felt hopeless. All these Rashid only smiled superciliously. He pounding of the hearts, the santoor the
years she had believed in her work, help- was angry that amidst so much suffering surrender of the girl.
ing the underprivileged. She wanted to people could be so nonchalant. After- He took her hand. She smiled, and he
argue, but he seemed so sure of every- all, she was a whitey and they lived in a ran his palms gently up her arm. He
thing he said, it disarmed her. world of their own. Yet unexpectedly kissed her lips, and abandoned himself
So she asked: 'Tell me Rashid, why he understood. to her embrace. In a pause between the
can't you findwork?' But she could not comprehend it. His kisses, she whispered, 'I thought you
He shrugged his shoulders, 'I don't bitterness at his financial dependence on never would.' He wasn't quite sure if she
know. Because I'm banned I suppose,' some organisations, the fact that he was referring to his political rhetoric, or
he added with a bitter cynical smile. lived alone and seemed to suffer so to his delay in taking her. Perhaps to
'I'm sure they'll find work for you much, struck violently at her heart. Her- both, but he didn't ask.
on our newspaper. They're really nice first impulse was to reach out and en-
people to work with. And we are against fold his lonely soul in warmth and be- He was so happy, he felt guilty. The sun
apartheid.' lief. But she was afraid to look into his in the western sky was mellow. It was
He laughed: 'J a.' He knew the Mora- eyes, feeling guilty about her carefree misty at the lake and the heavy dark
ing Daily: 'A liberal newspaper looking lifestyle. How could anyone suffer so? clouds swirled in the sky. The brown-
after the interests of the big business- She had been brought up to believe in yellow autumn leaves floated gently to
men, and then purporting to speak up the essential goodness of humanity and the ground. The gulls darted about in
for the rights of blacks — as long as they she believed in it utterly and sincerely. playful abandon. Sitting on the warm
do not disturb the status quo.' Now she was disturbed. rocks in the yellow sunshine, Rashid felt
She did not quite understand. So she Suddenly he felt an overwhelming far removed from the dark melancholy
asked rather gently: 'Why were you urge to palm her breast, to soften the of the lake.
banned, Rashid?' hurt. But he checked himself, fearing But he was restless. For the first time
He smiled. They had asked the same she might squirt back the poison he had in many years, in many eternities, he was
question at John Vorster Square. But he poured out. He looked into her scintilla- filled with a joy that fluouresced his

18 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 whole being. And he could not hide his 'He saw himself trying to them when the time comes. Right now
happiness from the gods, even if he we have terrorists running this country,
wanted to. But he could not forget the
scale a concrete wall and and I will fight them.' He did not know
violence of the townships, the dagga- the image fixed itself in his whether he should say it, or how to say
bleared eyes, the mean faces of hunger mind: a constant motion of it, but he regretted it: 'Even if it means
and anger, the tattered beggar-woman my life.'
making her bed on the pavement, the
climbing and slipping back,
'Martyrs are very dead people.'
snotty glue-sniffing children huddling a desperate insect, sand- 'Ja. And also "The man dies who
together against the cold city night, the shoes gripping and sliding, remains silent in the face of tyranny", '
youth flung into the police van, the fingernails cutting into he blurted out angrily. 'I live in a prison,
woman beaten by a baton, the cold blue inside or out of jail, I live in a prison.
eyes of the law. cement. But he could not And I will fight to live like a man.'
The low amorphous mass of black, get over the barrier. 5 There was a silence that lasted a long
white and grey clouds whirled and time. She felt him suffering, and she
floated across the red-orange sun. A wanted to calm the turmoil, ease his
cool wind came in from the lake, troubled soul. She loved him in spite of
accompanied by a profound silence. He this tirade. And he did not mean to be
saw the lake grow dark and malignant. unkind, even though he misconstrued
He listened to the excited chatter of the her concern. She suffered seeing him
birds and the melancholy clouds seemed thus, constantly reminding himself of
to heave with malice. the genocide. Both of them knew that
Rashid sat motionless on the bank, others were enjoying themselves, with-
wrapped up in himself; unheeding of the out these cares. And suffering for her-
cold air. Deep within him raged the self, for him, she kissed him and in the
battle between personal happiness and embrace of love they forgot. For a
the selfless struggle. while.
He sat there a long time, brooding,
stirring only when the sun broke He saw himself trying to scale a con-
through again and bathed the landscape crete wall and the image fixed itself in
in ethereal yellow. his mind: a constant motion of climbing
He got up, smiling painfully at the and slipping back, a desperate insect,
realization that it was a time to hide sandshoes gripping and sliding, finger-
love, and display hatred. 'History Illustration: Mpikayipheli nails cutting into cement. But he could
marched too slow for our hearts.' With might have forgotten, quietly slipped not get over the barrier. At times he
slow, shuffling, careless steps he headed back into my middle-class, Indian way yielded to the inevitability of being
for Jesse's house, kicking mieliehusks, of life. No-one in my family is politi- doomed by forces greater than himself.
crumpled papers, then a can violently cally involved. And it would've been Perhaps he was fortunate in staying on
into the gutter. very easy not to think about these the side of his people, but still he tried
Jesse was at home; there was no need things. But the sense of wrong prevailed. and still he remained in that painful
to talk. They kissed, undressed, made And now, I cannot forget, even if I want motion: perpetually climbing and per-
love, then huddled close to enjoy the to. Too many of my friends have had to petually falling back.
warmth of one another's bodies in skip — and I don't know when I'll see He smiled at the irony of his fate: he
silence. The cold evening air breezed in them again. Too many people are in preached black exclusivism, yet in-
through the open window, gently flut- detention — convicted by an unjust explicably loved a white woman, one
tering the lace curtains, but the room system. Too many people have been who epitomised the ignorance of her
was warm from the asbestos heater. He beaten up, many murdered in the breed. For so long he had yearned for
was happy in the fading light, nestling prisons. And our children — they are someone special. The women in his past
close to her soft warm body. left to starve because others are too had been politically aware, but some-
Long after, in the moonlight, he greedy. Schoolchildren are hunted down thing of their essence had decayed with-
stirred, and made as if to kiss her, but by riotous mobs of policemen. It is all in them — the mind had killed the heart.
pulled back, breaking into a big smile. beyond . . . comprehension. A nation And now he had found her. She under-
'You bastard,' she laughed and pressed that survives on killing children . . . I stood the darkness of the soul, the
her firm small breasts against him. She have reached the stage where even if silence between the sentences. But now
lay on him, fingering his long black hair. none of my friends had ever been he was lost.
'Rashid, you must learn to forget some- touched, even if I were to be treated He felt bitter that the years of wait-
times. It makes life so much easier.' like a king by this regime, I would spit ing, the years of hardships, had re-
After a long silence, he turned her in their face. Being silent is collaborat- warded him with this terrible choice. To
over, and buried his head in her breasts. ing.' He pondered for some time, then want her yet be kept from her both by
He spoke, almost hopelessly, in anguish, whispered, as if infinitely tired: 'No, I the regime and the nationalist group; to
as if to himself: 'How can I?' cannot forget.' want to stay in the country, be part of
There was nothing more to say, yet 'But where will it all lead you to? the struggle and lose the woman he
he wanted her to understand. 'I got And what if the black government is loved; to leave the country, be happy
involved the day I was born black; just as oppressive towards your kind?' with Jesse and be a sell-out.
there was no turning back. I was 'Then I will oppose them as I oppose But he belonged to his people in the
brought up in Islam, and my parents these bastards.' He knew the lessons of fight, whether Jesse and he shared their
constantly reminded me to speak the history too well; benevolent leaders too lives or not. He also knew that Jesse
truth — though truth only meant not easily became greedy rulers. 'But some- would mean exile for him, whether he
telling them lies. But the concept of how I hope things will be better for all stayed in the country or not.
justice and all the rest of it stayed with of us. Our destiny is in our hands. If It was one of those rare encounters
me, though the allah deserted me. But I things aren't better, I will deal with that cannot bring peace, whichever

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 19

 course he chose. And he had to make a
choice; only fools and computers erased Notes from A Black Writer Ronnie Joel
their past. Life had to be faced, grim as
it was.
His life until now had been a straight
narrow path: he knew from where he
had come, and where he was heading.
But now he was surrounded by these
towering grey buildings, left to stand in
their cold shadows, and the future was a
bleak city maze, a thousand empty
streets without signposts. His brain
seemed to dissolve, become fluid. It was
frightening; so much certainty replaced
by nothing.
He could never be free again. Jesse, a
spirit come to help and to haunt. If he
embraced her he would be happy but
restless; he would hear the laughter of
fools who hated the regime but cringed
in their cozy corners; he would have to
face the cynicism of his political friends,
though maybe some would understand.
And if he left her standing there, all
alone in the bedroom, holding back her
tears, he would be miserable.
And so he made his painful choice,
one he hoped would bring him happi-
ness. With Jesse he felt at ease, a release Kimberley: The Prohibition Years
of the pent-up emotions and tension.
Yet his commitment gnawed his insides, Sometime during November of 1958, on men who were always hanging around
a persistent infection, weakening his the day I had to leave Johannesburg for the city bottle stores in Johannesburg
soul. Kimberley, I once more joined the waiting for Africans to come along and
He tried to tell her how much he group of chaps with whom we usually give them orders for liquor. Unless a
loved her, how much he needed her, and shared drinks at a certain shebeen in black man had other means of obtaining
how things would work out in the end. Orlando East. One of the group was his liquor, he simply had to resort to
But his intense fires of social concern Herman, who worked at the Bantu Press using these gwevas, who had to be paid
scorched her, and because she loved him as a compositor or something of the for their trouble.
so painfully, something broke within sort, another was a fellow called Tizzah Most township shebeens in the Big
her. She had always been so sure of her and the third man was known as Day. City were stocked through the efforts of
man; her beauty and charm her in- There were a few more who used to add these handy white gwevas or liquor
surance. And now, she couldn't quite to our company after 'chaile' — after runners. Those were the times of pro-
fathom this love which was also rejec- working hours — and so we often had a hibition. I can say a great deal more
tion. She wanted certainty. She pleaded rousing time at that 'Sgodi' — shebeen. about this 'runner' business when it
with her eyes for him to forget and be Our group often left late at night, comes to my own town, Kimberley,
comforted. It hurt him to cause so always on the lookout for muggers and where we used to call them 'mailers'.
much pain when he loved her so. He that sort of thing. Luckily, more than In our case the difference was that
took her hand and caressed it tenderly, four of us lived in one street, so when runners or mailers were not white
hoping she would understand his own we went to our respective abodes, each people but 'coloureds' and Griquas, who
pain. And so they spoke and they one would be dropped off in turn and were entitled to the white man's liquor
argued, eloquently, inarticulately. They the last fellow had to take care of him- in the days of prohibition. The law was
understood, but they did not under- self. very strict by then. The greatest care
stand. He kissed her lips and she re- It was at the shebeen that one must be taken by any shebeen queen or
sponded gently. youngster whom I liked, called Chinese individual who was arranging business
But in the silence, a voice came from Cat because of his slanted eyes, peeped with a runner, because the slightest
deep within her, almost from another out of the front window as I was runn- .mistake could land somebody in
world, 'Rashid, I am not used to this.'a ing for a taxi and shouted to me: 'Bra trouble. Most often those who sent
Ronnie, bring ons wyn saam.' By asking these mailers on errands had to wait at
for wine this Chinese Cat of mine in- secret pre-arranged hide-outs in town
ferred that we who are from Kimberley and while doing so, keep a close look-
are great wine drinkers, unlike them in out for the police.
Johannesburg who at that time only For a runner to obtain his liquor
knew brandy and beers and gin. from any bottle store in town, he was
The point I'm driving at is that dur- required to furnish his name and address
ing 1958, some years before the liquor and state what he wanted. A runner was
prohibition laws were relaxed for blacks not allowed to overstock himself in one
in Johannesburg and most other places day, but there were seasoned pirates of
in South Africa, the chaps over there the liquor trade who went from bottle
had to rely on using 'gwevas' to get store to bottle store in search of extra
them liquor. These gwevas were white liquor. And they would get it. Some of

20 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 them often changed their names, a friends free of charge. or even sherry for something like three-
criminal offence. I didn't mind at all because the shillings and sixpence. Good wine for
As soon as your particular mailer had bottles I 'ran' ended up in the stomachs that matter.
had his share, he would deliver the of me and my friends. No harm done to No. 2 Location chaps were fond of
goods direct to you. But be sure to have anyone. The earlier years before 1960 touring the pubs — starting off from the
the cash ready when he comes around. were the years of the runner, the mailer, Savoy in Knight Street, going to Sned-
No time to waste in that sort of trans- and the gweva in the Transvaal. Another dens then visiting the Grand before
action. The cops were always on the aspect of the prohibition era in Kimber- tottering to the bus terminus at the
beat. Each bottle of wine earned a ley was that Africans were not allowed Market Square on the way home.
runner something in the region of a to drink in pubs reserved for 'coloured' Kimberley was still a safe place to live
shilling (ten cents) while brandy netted and Griqua people in the city. If you in. If you happened to have overdosed
the runner two-shillings or half-a-crown. were African and you wanted a drink in yourself with wine, you could still be
Some of these fellows used to make one of the pubs in town, you first had sure of reaching home safely even if it
money out of this mailing business be- to produce at least a Standard Six was past the hour of midnight.
cause they would stick around in town 1 school certificate. If your legs couldn't carry your
until they could stick no longer. If they Having met that requirement, you weary body, then be sure somebody
had no clients, they made nothing, but could go in there and swirl that wine to good enough would help you along until
on weekends every runner worth his salt your heart's satisfaction. I know of you were half-way to your destination.
was sure to go home with his pockets some buddies who used to wear out It was a good thing the bus terminus
bulging with silver — the runner having their school certificates by constantly was placed at the Market Square in
had a few stiff shots of liquor himself. producing them in city bars. Others those days. It was a short walk from the
Those were the days. Our location went as far as lending out their certifi- three pubs already mentioned. Any
aunties who used these 'coloured' and cates to those who did not have their drunken person could force his way to
Griqua chaps to advantage always re- own. the terminus after the barman had
ferred to them as 'Morwa-wame', indi- If one of them was not in possession shouted: 'Time, gentlemen!'
cating that she had her own runner or of a standard six school certificate, he Those who used to patronize the
mailer. The way things were, you'd find just had to hang around outside until pubs in town in the early years may
light-complexioned Africans playing the first chap had drunk his limit, remember that one could get a small
'coloured' or Griqua with the chief aim before handing over the certificate to glass of wine for the price of a sixpence.
of getting into a bottle-store to buy the man outside. Barmen were either One could down a big glass of red jere-
liquor. We had a whole shoot of such 'coloured' or white and could either be pigo or something similar for a lousy
types before the white man's liquor was nasty or reasonable to clients, depend- one-shilling-and sixpence at the 'Star' in
made available to Africans in Kimber- ing on their nature. Barkly Road.
ley. Perhaps you didn't want to drink in- Ever since the Kimberley Municipali-
We knew a lot of chaps with Tswana side? Then here was the solution: Or- ty 'invaded' the black townships by
or Xhosa surnames like Pule, Tlou, ganize a 'straight' of wine and go some- establishing so many beer-halls and
Mvula and Ndlovu. These fellows would where for a stolen drink. But watch out bottle-stores (monopolizing the whole
boldly march up to the bottle-store for the ever-watchful police. The latter liquor business) less people drank at the
counter and announce themselves as creature wasn't much of a problem or popular watering places, in town.
Pullen, Olifant, MacVale and again Oli- menace if he happened to know you. The present situation finds some of
phant, in respect to the last-mentioned Most cops were always after a drink us patronizing the numerous beerhalls
Ndlovu. because they were ever so broke, long and lounges spread at suitable points
I remember travelling with a swaer of before their pay-day. So what better around No. 2 and Vergenoeg. I still
mine, Victor Lefofane from the North- way to get a free drink than beating think of the quiet days and nights spent
ern Transvaal to his home in Phomolong about town around the pubs and at the Grand, Savoy, Star of the West,
one day, when he produced a newspaper threatening someone with arrest? That Cowboy Bar and the Sun Bar. Governor,
cutting bearing the picture of Dr D.F. was what some of the government boys those were the days when wine was
Malan's Cabinet. 'See these men here: If were doing, and this type wasn't as pleasantly drunk, and in full measure,
it wasn't for the harsh laws they made, hated as the cop who was always fast in overflowing.
the black man would still be asleep.' So making an arrest if he found people Those were the days of 'sixpence-
it appears to have been the case with the drinking at a corner. dop'; 'maak ah plaan.; 'mister barman,
mailers who changed their names to Then you'd come across those lousy give us a straight two-out'. And much
play 'coloured' or Griqua. It seems these school-teachers who somehow reckoned more. Now comes the period of African
blacks had a secret philosophy or max- that just because they were teachers, the women drinking with their menfolk at
im which said: 'The harsher the law, the average garage worker or shop messen- municipal beerhalls. I recall the day a
wiser we get.' ger owed him a drink every Friday at visitor from Bloemfontein met me near
When I was a young boy in No. 2 the Grand or Savoy. One or two were in the African Star Cafe opposite the
Location, aunties and oompies who the habit of making friends with weekly offices of the present Bantu Administr-
were close to our family were in the workers with the aim of winning drinks ation Department. The man took a
habit of saying to me: 'Ha o godile o from these 'inferior' specimens of the sharp look towards the Abantu-Batho
kaya go ntseela nno ko toropong', community. Hall which was then used as a beer out-
which means 'when you're grown-up, If the garage petrol-attendant or shop let (around 1953 - 1954) and re-
you'll go and get me liquor in town.' messenger wasn't wise enough, he would marked: 'Sis, what kind of thing is this
Their'reasoning was that I was 'colour- find himself buying drinks every week where women drink with men?' That
ed' and being 'coloured', I was going to for a whole month for his teacher sort of scene was totally foreign to this
be of some service to them. But by the friend, whereas the teacher only made O.B. chap, and he said so. I must say
time I had grown up, none of these him a drink at the end of month, that was hardly a recommendation of or
people were around. Personally speak- 'when we receive our cheques'. Wine was for the Diamond City. But all that has
ing, what I did in the era of liquor pro- still cheap in the early fifties. You could been wiped off by the passing of time.
hibition was to get the stuff for my get a bottle of port or white muscadel Those are the 'forgotten years'. •

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 21

 Poetry Celestine Kulagoe

Poetry from thle Pacific Islands

WHITE-LAND WHITE-LAND

Wantok, Compatriot,
iu lukim wait-man you see that white-man
emi kam ia? coming?
Nem blong hem emi His name is
WHITE-LAND ia. WHITE-LAND.
Emi kakam bifo tu, He was here before too,
long taem blong oloketa during our grandfather's
olo man i dae finis, days
an long taem blong oloketa and again during our
olo blong iu-mi dis taem. fathers' times.
Dis taem emi kam mao fo He is here again
helepem iu, to help you,
helepem iu long salem help you in selling your
graon blong iu, land,
long salem saribis blong iu in selling your beach
an long salem pies blong iu and in selling your place
long hem to him
mekem iu karem pulade seleni. so that you may have lots
Bat waswe of money.
long farawe taem kam But what about it
long taem WHITE-LAND in times to come
emi sidaon qut when WHITE-LAND
wea nao babae iu sidaon is well established,
Long baqi? where will you be?
An wantok, In the bank?
iu lulukaot qut tu, And compatriot,
fo wanem WHITE-LAND ia keep a good look-out
emi kakam wetem for this WHITE-LAND
bulake sikin tu ia. also comes
in black skin.
Celestine Kulagoe
Celestine Kulagoe

DIS MAN THE DESTRUCTIVE ME

Dis man A face

is very strong. of multi features
He is more powerful than the government. ever changing:
He is more powerful than the Prime Minister now I smile
because he is the one who pushes now I cry
these big men around now I reel with fright
and carries them about. but always plotting
He opens their mouths loving with an iron fist
and they speak with authority. caressing with steel fingers.
He sweetens their tongues A mirror of beauty
and they give sweet speeches. I shatter
He opens their eyes a shadow of destruction
and they see many ways to progress. I flatter.

Dis man On the pedestal

is a friend of mine. I place no one
He is extremely decorative — but the destructive me.
he puts on all kinds of ornaments.
But he is stronger than me. Celestine Kulagoe
He makes me run around places
looking for work
at work These poems were first published in Some
so much so that I'm now nothing Modern Poetry from the Solomon
but bones. Islands, edited by Albert Wendt (Mana
Publications, Suva, Fiji), Copyright: 1975
Dis man The South Pacific Creative Arts Society,
is Mr Dollar. Box 5083, Suva, Fiji.

Celestine Kulagoe

22 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 THE ROSE
PATTERNED WALLPAPER
A Story by Gladys Thomas Illustrated by Toots Kleva
I'd last seen Lucas, my husband, six 'My child, the journey is long and you Bellville South and he held my hand as
months ago and the longing and loneli- have no papers. Where will you stay?' we sat close together. I glanced at him
ness had become unbearable. My mo- I did not answer her and after a while and realised how well-dressed and hand-
ther and I lay curled up in the double she laid her wrinkled old hand on mine some he was. At that moment I prayed
bed and my son, who had not yet seen and said, 'If you must go, then go to that he did not have a girlfriend. I
his father, sucked intermittently at my him. Your man needs you as you need preferred to kill myself rather than go
breast in his sleep. I tried to read, but him. I hope you find a place so you can back. We had heard that many of our
my thoughts were with Lucas. I'd be a family. A family must be together.' men had girlfriends in the City and that
written a letter to him, asking if I 'Lucas writes that he will put up a some forgot their wives and children
could join him. little place next to where he's staying in back home.
His long-expected reply arrived at Modderdam. So that's settled. Don't At Modderdam, the makeshift town,
last. I went to read it somewhere quiet- worry, mother.' there were many people with bags and
ly. Just to see his handwriting stirred That same afternoon I started pack- luggage and some carried their weekend
something within me. My desire to join ing as many rugs and baby's things as I shopping. Those who knew Lucas,
him will cause many problems, even ar- could take. The next day, after a good greeted me politely. They shared jokes
rest, he warns. But we should be able to meal, I tied my son to my back, leaving with us as we walked through the sand
overcome these complications if we act my hands free to carry. My mother dunes to my new home. As far as the
discreetly. Anyway, I must come, he wept when my son clung to her. eye could see there were little zinc and
writes. The train journey was noisy but iron homes.
I was so happy that I was unaware of quick. We arrived on a Saturday after- At last we arrived at my new home.
the tears rolling down my face. I went noon. Lucas had even tried to paint the out-
inside and told mother, hoping she I spotted Lucas in the crowd. He side a pale blue. We passed the little
would understand, knowing she would held me close to him and we kissed like house and went to greet the people with
be apprehensive. She hated the cities young lovers. He took the child and a whom Lucas had previously boarded.
which had claimed two of her sons al- case, and I the rugs and paper carriers. He introduced me to Clara, the lady of
ready. We waited a long time for the bus to the house. We kissed and she told me to

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 23

 After final warnings, the bulldozers moved in on a rainy morning. A
government official said they weren't bulldozers but front-end
Staff rider Gallery
loaders. I didn't know the difference . . . 9

put the baby down on her bed. In the couldn't happen! Surely they would
other room the men were playing cards listen if we prayed? In the end prayer
and music floated in softly from a did not help. There was no more joy in
transistor radio. the people; everywhere faces were sad
After a while we went to our home. and hard.
Lucas had lined the inside with paraffin After final warnings, the bulldozers
tins which had been cut open and moved in on a rainy morning. A govern-
flattened, then neatly covered it with ment politician said they weren't
cardboard to keep the heat in. He had bulldozers but front-end loaders. I
bought a second-hand bed and cup- didn't know the difference. Some
board. He helped me make our bed with employers were humane enough to
the rugs which*I had brought from my allow the men off for the day. Lucas
mother. That night we were happy to be stayed home and tried to reassure me.
man and wife again. Lucas was tense and I saw a tear roll
It is almost a year now that I've been down his cheek. He then took some
here though I still fear to go beyond our newspapers and without explanation,
house. But I am happy just to be with set our home alight. The house caught
Lucas. Last week he bought some fire quickly and through the window I
beautiful rose-patterned wallpaper and saw the beautiful roses on the wallpaper
pasted it on the walls. We also acquired scorch and burn out one by one. Eerily,
a lounge suite. Our home is so smart as in some weird dream, the house burnt
that I feel really proud of it. Also I'm until all that remained was blackened
going to have another baby. Lucas was corrugated zinc. That night most of us
quite beside himself with pride when I slept under the clouds in armchairs,
told him. beds, sofas or whatever could be found.
In the morning you wake up to hear We gave our blankets to the babies and
the men with their basins washing, the older people. The next morning I
cleaning their teeth for the day ahead. woke among the ruins and gave Lucas
Everyone's getting ready to go to work his washbasin with the little water that
and at night they will return to their was left.
families. Lucas took me for a short walk
Then, one day, the men came home through the debris, looking for some
with the daily newspapers and showed privacy. Finally he said, 'My wife, I fear
their wives the news about the proposed you have no papers. You may be picked
demolitions. We had heard rumours long up any time. We must think of the
before but could not believe that it children. You'll have to go back and I
would ever happen. That night the news must stay to work here as my contract
spread like wildfire that 'Modderdam makes it difficult for me to leave now.'
must go'. We were all shocked. As time So I found myself back on the train
passed many said that they would refuse after a short time of being a mother and
to move; the churches said we must wife again. It had been a time filled with
pray; and the politicians said they the joy of living, of music and laughter,
would fight the issue to the bitter end. and love from the man who is my hus-
A mass prayer-meeting was held in band.
the City Hall. Many of our men, in
lorries, went to it. Lucas was among Now I sit with my old mother and
them. He came home full of hope. We my son, all swollen, waiting for Lucas's
breathed for a while again but now it visit in six months time. A few weeks
was a constant threat over our heads. ago I had a letter from him with some
We carried on as in a dream. Lucas did newspapers amongst which was a copy
not visit our friends anymore. He just of the Argus with the headline: 'Cross-
sat and read and read! As the deadline roads Must Go!' Sadly I remember the
drew nearer, we lay awake at night. happy Saturday afternoons spent there
Where would we go from here? It with our friends. •

Manfred Zylla's etchings (above and o^tl

day. The destruction of communities M
townships or housing developments ffr(

24
STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981
 Manfred Zylla

(Jthe page) highlight two key aspects of Apartheid policy which affect the lives of thousands of South Africans every
> pllowed by attempts to resettle people in the 'homelands' or, as in the case of Cape Town's 'coloured' people, in
ffom the city, such as Mitchell's Plain (above), where the cost of housing is higher, transport is expensive and
inconvenient, amenities are lacking, and the sense of community is lost.

25
STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981
 The Argus
MODDERDAM: AN EPISODE IN THE raised his hands, and spoke in Xhosa at
the top of his voice. He heard himself
saying that most of the people knew
DEATH OF A SHANTY TOWN who he was and what he had tried to do
at the camp. He knew that people had
An excerpt from A Shanty Town in South Africa: distrusted him because he was labelled a
The Story of Modderdam, by Andrew Silk, coloured, but he was still with them. He
to be published in August 1981 by Ravan Press. had not left. People could go over to his
house and see that it was standing there,
The scattered skirmishes between squat- dog's handler was caught off guard. For just as before. Nothing had even been
ters and police converged into a major two or three minutes the dogs fought to taken o u t / H e then pointed to the bull-
confrontation shortly after midday. The a draw, each trying to pin the other dozer and said that it could not be
blacks, dressed in khaki pants, shapeless under its front legs, while the policeman stopped now. Even if they attacked the
dresses and worn suit jackets, stood near circled the two animals, attempting to police, it would still continue to work.
the road a few inches from a white drag them apart. He finally grabbed his It was bad enough that their houses had
police line. The squatters were armed dog's leather leash and yanked him been taken, he said, but should they let
with stones, sticks, bottles, broken away. This gave Lion the advantage. He the police have their lives too?
pieces of glass, and a few knives. The leapt and caught the Alsatian on the leg The crowd gradually became quiet
police carried billy clubs and guns and as the constable tried to keep control. and listened. Mr Plaatjie kept his arms
dogs were stationed at regular intervals The policemen found a stone and hurled raised for almost five minutes. When he
down the line. Mr Plaatjie, who stood it at Lion's ribs, then ran with his dog to finally dropped them, the mood of the
near the front, told me later, 'To us a van. Lion was knocked down. crowd eased. Even the police, who had
when we looked at them, we knew what The fight further excited the crowd. not understood MrPlaatjie's speech,
would make them mad. But they A man standing next to Mr Plaatjie were aware that the tension had broken.
couldn't tell what we would do. That is raised his knobkerrie and started to They began to disperse and back off.
why they were a little scared, even with charge forward, provoking a dog to The squatters had won that confront-
their guns.' The wild, jagged movements attack him with the gestures of his free- ation, but the victory meant that the
of the squatters contrasted dramatically hand. He then headed directly towards a police would be able to take Modder-
with the military stance of the police- tall policeman with a thick moustache dam without bullets.
men. and black hair. Mr Plaatjie swivelled and
Mrs Phindi stood with Lion behind grabbed the man's right leg. Another FIRST FIRES
the front row. When the woman next to person joined him and they tackled the
her began to sing, she joined in, at the man to the ground. When Mr Plaatjie The burning of Modderdam began short-
same time holding her dog close to her. was back on his feet, he tried to decide ly after the crowd dispersed. The fire
In the middle of the hymn, the police whether to address and calm the crowd. started in an empty shack at the back of
moved forward a few feet. 'We don't After all the suspicion of the last the camp. A strong southeastern wind
like it when they sing, because we don't month, would they listen to him? Might bellowed the flames and lifted the black
know what they are singing,' a police- it not be better if there was a. real fight? smoke. Another blaze appeared a few
man later told a reporter. Suddenly, After ten minutes of this debate with minutes later at the centre of the camp.
Lion lunged for one of the Alsatians. himself, he stepped in front of the Several squatters were running towards
Mrs Phindi dropped the twine. The crowd, turned his back to the police, it, feeding the flames with sticks and

26 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 The Argus
rotting lumber. Others who still had not There were many reports of the side tried to claim the symbol while
evacuated their possessions from the squatters setting fire to their homes blaming the other side for creating it.
area were running towards the pavement during the next few days. Henry Geyser When Mr Matthews returned to the
even more frenetically than before. The and Mike Mackenzie of the Argus spot- camp in the late afternoon, he climbed a
spread of the fire was checked because ted two men dragging a piece of burning hill at the back of the camp, but could
underbrush had been pulled from the cardboard to an empty shack. 'We see hardly anything but smoke. He
sand long ago. But nonetheless, there followed the men and from a distance walked to his house and found what he
were soon flames coming from all saw them entering several shanties. thought had been his roof piled on top
sections of the camp. Through the filter Shortly afterwards smoke began pouring of what had been the walls. He started
of ashes, dust and sand, Modderdam from them.' One of the men told the yanking the sheets apart and stamping
looked jarringly like a village under two reporters, 'We have made fires in a on them with both feet. He was pleased
enemy fire, with the social work stu- lot of huts and we will carry on doing to uncover an old deep-bowled pipe
dents running between the lines like it.' Asked why, the man replied, 'These which he had lost a few weeks earlier.
Red Cross volunteers. Some squatters people [the officials] take the wood He dusted it off with his shirt tail, stuck
had begun to walk away from the camp, and iron and sell it. It doesn't belong to it in his mouth and walked over to the
up the railroad bridge, with suitcases on them. That's why we are burning the Plaatjie's house. Mr Plaatjie was on his
their heads and in their arms. They did place down.' hill, together with a group of men in
not stop at the BAAB van for a railroad long grey coats. From the bottom of the
ticket nor did they wait for buses. They Many of the squatters and social wor- hill the group looked like a war 'impi'
just walked. A few others loaded their kers reported that policemen had also come to town. The police wanted them
goods onto trucks parked on the far side set fire to the shanties. They told stories on the ground, where they would not
of Modderdam Road. I helped one of similar to those of the Werkgenot appear threatening. 'Come down! You
the men lift a bed into the back. He and squatters whose camp had been raided are black power,' one shouted in Afri-
a few other men had spent the night two years earlier. Mrs Phindi went to kaans.
rounding up vehicles in the township, he inspect her shack after seeing flames 'Where are we supposed to go,'
said. He was going to put his furniture nearby. As she approached, she saw a Mr Plaatjie said, 'You have knocked
and his family in a room in Guguletu, policeman walking out of the front door down our houses and chased us here.'
and he himself would go back to the with a plastic bottle of methylated Speaking through a bullhorn, one
hostels. Along the railroad tracks on the spirits. She stood watching until she saw policeman warned the squatters that his
far side of the camp ten families flames at the front window. The man men would soon charge. They mounted
stopped on the slopes that abutted the turned to her and said in Afrikaans, the hill with dogs five minutes later and
track. They sat apart from each other, 'Now, where is your God?' Mrs Phindi the squatters retreated. Yet when the
barricaded by cardboard boxes and replied that he shouldn't worry because police descended, the squatters again
bundles of clothes wrapped in sheets. A the God of the Africans has a very long occupied the hill. They played this game
policeman in an unmarked car patrolled memory. While it was difficult to tell several times to sustain their spirit.
the track. whether the squatters or the police took
Fire engines arrived an hour after the the lead in lighting the fires, it is clear The day's fighting ended with teargas.
fire began. The sight of one government that both groups worked to burn down The first cannisters were lobbed into a
vehicle working to save a shack so that the camp. The flaming shanty was crowd of chanting women. More were
it could be knocked down by another simultaneously a strong sign of resis- soon launched at students. There was
only angered the squatters further. tance and domination. Thus each little panic. People ran to the pavement

STARFRTF>FR IIJTY/AUGUST 19R1

27
 where they doused their faces in water would build a human chain the next
from plastic jugs. They then rejoined morning in front of the bulldozer and
the demonstration. Mrs Phindi was force the police to drag them away.
standing only a few feet from one ex- Later that night, the staff of CFCIA
plosion. She ran to the ISD caravan, agonised over a proposal to help eva-
stripped off the green scarf she was cuate the camp. It was possible to mass
wearing on her head, soaked it in water trucks and drivers, find storage space for
and let the cloth dry on her stinging the squatters' possessions, and obtain
skin. The strong winds made it hard to emergency shelter for a few days. More
aim the gas. Babies suffered the most. and more women with young children
Many were brought choking and vomit- were already being taken to the hospi-
ing with heavily swollen faces to the tal. Gale winds and possible rain was
doctors. The gas, however, seemed al- forecast for Wednesday. Yet they
most an afterthought. For by the time it realized that by helping the squatters
spread over the camp, the outcome of leave, they too were 'doing the govern-
the day's operations was determined ment's dirty work.' It would make it
and the squatters' protest had shifted easier for other camps to be demolished.
from an attempt to save Modderdam to The meeting ended without a decision.
a cathartic interlude which would make At the camp itself, I met an African
it possible for the people to scatter and student from Guguletu. He said that he The Argus
move on. and a few friends had been in the camp before, took a doctor's bag that had
throughout the day, helping people been left in the caravan and went with
That evening a protest meeting was held empty and burn the shacks. They had Theresa to a plastic lean-to. It was lit by
at St Xavier's Church in the white sub- come in small numbers because they a paraffin lamp. The woman was already
urb of Claremont. Priests, ministers, and didn't want any security policemen to in labour. It was too late to bring her to
others had come to decide whether any- recognize them. Some had dressed .up the hospital. Her contractions grew
thing further could be done. The air in the baggy clothes usually worn by more intense for an hour. Finally, the
was tense and anxious because many migrants. He thought that because the head appeared. Wendell's hands shook
felt themselves pushed further into squatters had been attacked, it would be as he put one hand on the top and one
illegal defiance than they had ever easier for the students to work with hand on the bottom of the head and
wanted to go. They saw clearly that un- th em in the future. The squatters now began to tug gently. He was surprised at
less some physical attempt was made to understood more about 'the system'. how easily the body came into his
obstruct the bulldozer, all the speeches The people in the bread and soup line hands. It was a girl. He fastened two
and letters to the press would mean very queued till late into the night. Wendell clamps on the umbilical cord a few
little. Many felt that they had let down Pietersen, a lecturer in Social Work at inches from each other and cut it in the
or misled the squatters by allowing UWC, was stationed in the caravan with middle. He then took the baby in his
them to believe that the camp could be a student, Theresa Abrams. At about hands, held her against his chest and
saved. The need to decide immediately 11.00 pm, a woman knocked on the spanked her. She cried. Mr Pietersen
on a form of protest helped move the door and told them that her neighbour lifted her into her mother's waiting
group to adopt a plan it might have was about to give birth. Wendell, who arms. Later that night he drove them to
rejected on further reflection. They had taken a first-aid course some years the hospital.*

Gavin Younge

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 28

 Poetry Mabuse A. Letlhage, Zakhele C. Ndaba, Farouk Stemmet.

THAT EARLY MORNING KNOCK MY SON'S RESOLVE

No Deep set eyes cast forever down

no old boy abjectness
not yet shame
not now hopelessness
but some other time loneliness
you can't make love lost
. . . to your wife too weak to be lifted anyway
no, nothing serious you know
just a talk but when not . . .
one o'clock — too early?
no old boy, not quite Deep set eyes cast forever up
routine you know searching
security routine hoping
can't see your pants? supplicating
okay, at your service waiting
phew, under the bed? . . . and waiting . . . and waiting
now, now, a little word we DO pray to Him
never hurry to bed every Sunday, do we not?
no hurry in South Africa and Monday and Tuesday
be g-r-a-d-u-a-1 man! every Wednesday evening
warrant of arrest? charge? at my house
unnecessary! till ten thirty
don't try to be clever Thursday, Friday, Saturday
hurry up . . . Sunday
hurry up old boy He will hear our prayers, will He not?
we must not be late for coffee for He is all merciful, isn't He?
just a little conversation tomorrow, maybe tomorrow
(and don't try clever conversation!)
and then you will be back Deep set eyes cast never forward
(even if it's three months never looking
or a hundred years.) never seeing
never observing
Mabuse A. Letlhage never noticing
never planning, scheming, anticipating

FATHER'S EXPERIENCES I have been taught

to fear
My father is no thug I know not what I fear
Yet he knows jail life, with my eyes cast up
he learnt it from no book I see nothing, only sky
But he knows it from experience. when cast down
He never took anyone's life only the rest of me
— Just forgot to take his dompas. as far as my feet
But when I cast my eyes
forward
At night around the fireplace
I see too much
Father tells of his jail experiences:
I do not understand
'Black prisoners clad in khaki shorts I have been taught
Toiling in the hot sun; to fear
Prisoners with their black hair cut short I fear
Working on a snowy morning; I know not what I fear
And black prisoners in a sordid cell
Singing the song of sorrow: My son does not fear
"Nantu usizi emhlabeni — I fear for my son
Here is sorrow on earth".'
Farouk Stemmet
And we, father's children, flinch —
For we know father isn't inventing the story,
That he was part of it when it happened.
'Paroled prisoners working in a farmer's field,
Tilling, hoeing and wetting the soil,
A fierce induna guarding them with a truncheon
And paroled prisoners carrying bricks to the farmstead,
A farmer's son on horseback abusing them,
Ruling that they deserve to be sjambokked.'

And we, father's children, listen attentively

For tomorrow father's experiences will be ours.

Zakhele Charles Ndaba

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 29

 Society and Art Dikobe Martins

'^'V

kam -- ImtMr',.M

SSSk

^4 Sowg For Dollar Brand'

drawing, Dikobe Martins

ART IS NOT NEUTRAL

Whom does it serve?
An Essay by Dikobe WaMogale Martins

The term 'arts' is used throughout this article in the general becomes more and more clearly a political act; an act of self-
sense which covers literature and music as well as the visual censorship and cowardice. Yet very few of our established
arts. The point of view presented here is that art is not writers and artists, let alone our literary and visual arts
neutral politically as it is impossible for any product of critics, think these things are important enough to mention
human labour to be detached from its conditions of pro- in their work. They may bear witness as private individuals,
duction and reception. but they do not allow their private concern to interfere with
In Apartheid South Africa culture is constantly employed business as usual. Thus some critics will say 'An artist's job is
to serve someone's interest. Cultural products like the film to do his thing (whatever that means), who am I to interfere
T h e Gods Must Be Crazy' — which present San people who with his system of values? If he chooses to paint so-called
have no money or power (as these are perceived by western 'township art', mystic pictures of space, or writes about
standards) as innately stupid, depraved or uncivilised, and pineapples rather than the tensions in South Africa after
thus unworthy of money or power — serve the interests of Sharpeville and Soekmekaar, what is it to me?'
the ruling class and the power structure as it stands. Bertolt Brecht,~a German Communist poet, wrote an essay
Some artists are overtly political — though to be so in in 1935 entitled: 'Writing the Truth: Five Difficulties'. In it
South Africa now has taken more courage and vision than he states:
most artists before the October 1977 period needed to have. 'Nowadays, anyone who wishes to combat lies and ig-
In the post June 1976 uprising era, as in the past, to refrain norance and to write the truth must overcome at least five
from mentioning the freedom of the black press, dis- difficulties. He must have the courage to write the truth
memberment of the homeland into Transkei, Venda, Kwa- when the truth is everywhere opposed; the keenness to
Zulu and other reserves, malnutrition, hunger and starvation recognize it, although it is everywhere concealed; the skill to
that go hand in glove with forced removals of communities, manipulate it as a weapon; the judgement to select those in
is in itself a political act. For no artist in our time who is whose hands it will be effective; and the cunning to spread
awake enough to fulfil his artistic function can have avoided the truth among such persons. These are formidable prob-
noticing these phenomena — though he may not recognize lems for a writer living under Fascism, but they exist also for
them for what they are. To refrain from this artistic duty those writers who have fled or been exiled; they exist even

30 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 for writers working in countries where civil liberty prevails.'
Brecht goes on to discuss the problem of what truths are
worth telling, a problem of particular relevance to us.
'First of all we strike trouble in determining what truth is
. . . for the artist to refrain from
worth the telling. For example, before the eyes of the world mentioning the freedom of the black
one great civilized nation after the other falls into barbarism. press, dismemberment of the homeland
Moreover, everyone knows that the domestic war which is into fragmented reserves, malnutrition,
being waged by the most ghastly methods can at any mo- hunger and starvation that go hand in
ment be converted into a foreign war which may well leave
our continent a heap of ruins. This undoubtedly is one
glove with forced removals of
truth, but there are others. Thus, for example, it is not communities, is in itself a political act.
untrue that chairs have seats and that rain falls downwards.
Many poets write truths of this sort. They are like a painter
adorning the walls of a sinking ship with a still life . . . Those consumer who buys the finished product nor the producer of
in power cannot corrupt them, but neither are they disturbed any one stage of it, has any clear idea of what is going on.
by the cries of the oppressed . . . At the same time, it is not For example when you buy a jacket, you have no idea who
easy to realize that their truths are truths about chairs or made it, what the materials in it are and where they came
rain; they usually sound like truths about important things. and what they originally cost, how much the labour cost
'For it is the nature of artistic creation to confer im- and how much the price of the jacket has been jacked up by
portance. But upon closer examination it is possible to see profit and advertising. All of this is as mysterious to you as it
that they say merely: a chair is a chair; and: no one can is to the factory worker who made the sleeves of the jacket
prevent the rain from falling downward.' and the other worker who made the lapels and button holes
There has been a definite trend amongst white liberal art of the jacket. In this kind of economy, objects are regarded
galleries, theatres, individuals and government officials to as though they had originated by magic and appeared in the
promote the 'chair is a chair' art form within the black shops. In the same way, the artist who sells his work in art
community and the divorcement of these artists from the galleries is isolated from the buying public, who are generally
base of their society. Thus it is not surprising to find the strangers to him.
prodigal sons of the arts living in the backyards of the Art has not always been isolated in this way. A San rock
suburbs advocating 'Art for art's sake' because they have painter knew exactly who he was decorating a cave dwelling
been alienated from their community and cannot be accept- for, just as much as Voltaire knew who he wanted to reach
ed by the society in which they hope to be assimilated, but with Candide, and what he wanted them to think. In the
are never accepted. Let us take a closer look at the philo- same way we should bring about the necessary conditions for
sophy of Art for art's sake: that is, at the ideology that art is all cultural products to reach the people. This is not to
justified by its existence, that it does not and should not say that the artist has to sacrifice the artistic worth of his
serve any social purpose, that frequently it has no reference creations. It is to say that we have to struggle in all ways so
to anything outside itself, and that it is expressive of the that the artist creates for the people and so that the people in
vision of the individual artist, if of anything. The accompany- turn raise their cultural level and draw nearer to the artist.
ing critical doctrine is that any criticism of the art form in We cannot set up a general rule: all artistic projects are
terms other than these is an importation of 'irrelevant not of exactly the same nature. We have to ask the questions:
values': a poem or a work of art should not 'mean' but 'be'! What principles of expression should the artist follow in his
With this type of reasoning it is not surprising to find effort to reach the people? What should the people demand
government officials opening exhibitions on the East Rand from the artist?
and elsewhere! It is necessary to strive to reach the people in all creative
We tend to forget that 'Art for art's sake' did not always projects, but in turn it is necessary to do all we can to
exist. In most cultures prior to the advent of industrial enable the people to understand more, to understand better.
capitalism, artists have had a well-defined and clearly under- I believe that this principle is not in contradiction to the
stood relation to some part of their society. In traditional aspiration of any artist — and much less so if it is kept in
African societies or communes, art was and is the expression mind that artists should create not for future generations,
of the whole tribe. Later, some people may be specially good but for their contemporaries.
at it, or hereditarily trained to it, and take on the production We are not making a cultural revolution for the gener-
of artifacts as their work, but they work surrounded by the ations to come, we are making a cultural revolution with this
community, and work for the community's immediate and generation and for this generation, independently of its
obvious benefit. The San rock paintings are a living example benefits for future generations and of its becoming an histor-
of this. In other period of history artists like Leonardo Da ic event. We are thus not making a cultural revolution for
Vinci, Michaelangelo and Raphael produced art works for posterity: this cultural revolution will be important to
the courts of the nobility, personal patrons, for religious posterity because it is a cultural revolution for today.
sects and for political parties. What is the artist's role in a pre-liberated Azania? Within
It is only with the dominance of the capitalist system that the answer to this question li6s the artist's fate in a post-
the artist has been put in the position of producing for a liberated Azania. We would do well to remember those of us
market, for strangers far away, whose life styles and beliefs who died in detention, or those who died fighting. They
and needs are completely unknown to him, and who will sacrificed everything — life and family. Why? So that we
either buy his works or ignore them for reasons that are could live. What does the struggle ask of us? It says: put that
equally inscrutable and out of his control. In the spheres of creative spirit at the service of the struggle, to have a just
production, Marxists call the attitude that results from this society free of exploitation and oppression of man by fellow
process 'commodity fetishism'. The processes of production man. We ask the artist to develop his creative force to the
and distribution — that is the gathering of raw material, the fullest, to be a creator in the struggle, to write about it, to
inventing of machines and processes, the organisation of express himself or herself on it. I offer no solutions, the
labour into successive stages of work on the different stages function of this brief essay is to state our problems as I see
of manufacture, distribution, marketing and advertising — all them, and hope that others will take these issues up in their
make the process so infinitely complex that neither the own minds . . . •

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 31

 Poetry Frank M.Chipasula

Poetry from a Malawian Exile

A GRAIN OF SALT

I am the rock tnat broke apart

suddenly into so many grains, only
so many sad coarse grains
and what I offer you now
is the most intimate grain of salt.
Between the grains tears
in gigantic globules hang
above the blood that always rises
and breaks itself into bits of sinister
laughter each a knife that wriggles
through a man's flesh and entrails
seeking his heart to plant violently
therein a poisoned tooth as wild as
the terrible seed that sprouts
all over Malawi today, dark as hatred.
The knife and flesh twist helplessly about:
The knife without a will of its own
and the man taken by total
surprise killed by surprise too
and his grains of salt scattered the iron prison roof like one huge arrow,
among the bitter nights of March, because the whole country is a vast prison
the knife waving desperately and all the salt is trembling in the cold
like a severed tongue whose native July winds in nothing but tattered sacks
language tastes of blood, ash and salt; The heavy echoes of the salt's sobs
and the blade tastes flesh thunder through the crystal waves:
relishing it before it buries itself It has sweated all over the sad soil
in the crotch and goes to sleep there forever; and rained on the tortured waters
The tongues of the giant flames lick huts My little grain sings the same song
in which this exhausted salt rests and everyone who listens weeps uncontrollably.
charring it till its scream is stifled
And everywhere in the country desolate shells Sometimes the body is willing
of huts touched by this terrible heat indict, to break itself into so many minute parts
everywhere a fire like opened flowers blossoms and give itself wholly to its native land
and everything is swallowed in its stomach. But let it decide on its own, for
A legion of coarse grain salt plagues prisoners; at times the body wishes for integrity
it has invaded all the prisons, detention camps especially if it is, like man, a lump of salt.
and concentration centres and raised its voice. Today I am that grain of salt
It is hard lead in their six-hour-old porridge that is both bitter and sweet
and in their red beans it tastes like bitter verdict. And I want to return to the days I joined men
There it weeps forlornly behind the smoke. house to house, hand to hand, unrepulsed;
It had died here and left its weight in the chains. I want to be present all over the earth
and simultaneously remain in my country.
The grain that slipped through the long I have stood in the lions' den
fingers of the combing rake, I am that salt and overpowered them with my salt's song
Torrential sweat and blood sticky and all those praised fierce lions
with salt pouring from me ceaselessly. it is here they must come to be tamed.
You want me to be more specific?
This and this and this and this: I have kept everything mine
A giant grain of salt and an enormous crossed:
bead of sweat sit on the face of the capital fingers crossed, everything
city tortured but shining brightly every Sunday crossed, my heart crossed
The rands and the immense sweat meet here till my skin has worn off the knees
and the money insolently barks its orders of my soul hoping that my most intimate grain
and the men swarm about with burdens like ants: of salt will return like a ship
They are lugging bundles of salt that fell presumed lost in a high storm.
because salt is never certain where next I touch everything with this ferocious salt
it will fall. A man brought rotten rands in love and then in hate for I am
coated in salt and deposited them here," the sun that screamed through the male rain
the snare perfectly concealed from the man and gave an intense rainbow to our country.
who, unsuspecting, took the money Remember, I am the rock that broke apart
and left his only heart here, trapped. suddenly into many shining grains
Look at all that salt hooded and what I offer you is my most intimate grain of salt
blindfolded in a dark sisal sack; And its sweet song still haunts our land.
The sun sitting astride the broken man
and the wails of salt crashing through Frank M. Chipasula

32 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 Staffrider Gallery Siphiwe Koko

Pirate Slaveship Mutiny Breaking the Chains of Slavery

Centuries of Mind Tumult Africa Churns Out the Debris

(Frustration and Pain)

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 33

 Profile Ngugi wa Thiong'o

6
1 believe that African writers
must stop using imperialism
merely as a slogan . . .
Writers — particularly African
writers — must return for
their inspiration to the
people, to the peasants
and workers in
their societies.'

Ngugi: Literature in Africa

The internationally-known Kenyan writer Ngugi wa Thiong'o was detained without trial for a year in 1977 — 1978, after
he wrote for his local community centre a Gikuyu-language play which, like his much acclaimed English-language novels,
was critical of Kenyan politics and society. At the time of his arrest Ngugi was chairman of the Literature Department at
the University of Nairobi, This account of Ngugi s education and the development of his ideas on literature was extracted
from an interview with him made shortly after his release. It first appeared in Index on Censorship. The interviewer was
Amooti wa Irumba.

I grew up under the influence of Gikuyu peasant culture — one school to the other . . . Just to show you the kind of
the songs, stories, proverbs, the riddles around the fireside in thing I am talking about: I remember in Manguo primary
the evenings — as well as those values that govern human re- school being taught about South Africa, the oppressive
lationships in a peasant community . . . There has been a lot political and economic system there. I have never forgotten
of struggle in Kenya in the educational field. That is, right this. That South Africa was an oppressive place would never
from the beginning of imperialist cultural imposition at the have been mentioned in a missionary school.
start of this century there grew up its necessary dialectical In 1955 I went to Alliance High School, the only student
opposite, a resistance to that foreign culture. So right from from virtually the whole of Limuru who had a place there.
the beginning the Kenyan people — especially here in Limuru Alliance High School was, of course, very different from all
— started building their own schools, which combined ele- my previous school experiences. For one thing most of the
ments of the new school system brought in by the British teachers were foreigners — in fact most were British. I think
(missionary and government schools) and their own peasant the education offered to us at Alliance was intended to
culture. produce Africans who would later become efficient admini-
The school that I first went to was Kamandora primary strators of a colonial system. In his lectures the headmaster, I
school (a missionary school); later I went to Manguo Maringa remember, would' always emphasise that we were being edu-
school (a Gikuyu independent primary school). Now I can't cated to rule, and to rule, you know, as responsible human
remember precisely the reasons for my leaving Kamandora beings who would not become political agitators. What he
for Manguo, but I can remember there was a lot of talk about actually meant was that we were being trained to become
proper education being offered at Manguo and other Gikuyu obedient servants of Her Majesty the Queen of England, to
Maringa schools, and not so proper education being offered serve her and the British Empire, and never to question the
at Kamandora and the colonial schools. It was thought that legitimacy or correctness of that empire. Therefore politics
in missionary schools some things were deliberately held were frowned upon; African nationalists were castigated,
back from students, and that in Gikuyu Maringa schools they were seen as irresponsible agitators, as hooligans. So at
nothing would be hidden from the students to keep them Alliance High School we were presented with two diametri-
ignorant. I think this was the reason behind my moving from cally opposed images: that of the Kenyan patriot as a nega-

34 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 tive human being and that of the oppressor and his collabora- never mentioned as part of the coursework, Third World
tor as positive human beings. Obviously the aim was to make literature was not taught in the entire department. Thus it
us identify with the second image, to make us grow to was a big surprise later on when I came to learn through my
I admire and acquire all the values that go hand in hand with own efforts that African and Third World people had, in fact,
I collaboration with imperialism. been writing for a long time — people like Aime Cesaire from
My interest in writing really goes back as far as my pri- the West Indies or other Negritude writers of Senghor's
mary school days. That's when I read Stevenson, Dickens and generation. In addition I had to discover that there had been
the abridged versions of works by many other European a lot of writing going on in Africa by Africans, and in the rest
writers to which I was introduced by my teacher of English, of the Third World, in the nineteenth century. So just as at j
Samuel Kevicho, who now lectures at the University of Alliance High School, I was once again confronted with two
| Nairobi. That's when my interest in Writing stories really images — the official or Eurocentric image as seen through I
started. I remember in primary school arguing with a fellow the kind of curriculum I was exposed to in the English
i student, Kenneth Bugwa. He told me that one could write a Department, and the image of a struggling world as it
| book and I told him, no, you cannot write a book until you emerged through the kind of literature I discovered for
are highly educated; if you write a book you might be myself in the library.
I arrested and imprisoned because you would not be qualified The central role of Penpoint should also be mentioned. It
to do so. This argument had an unusual consequence. When I was a literary journal of the English Department, but it was a
I went to high school, my friend also went away to a teacher forum at this time for writers of East and Central Africa. If
j training school at Kambuga, and in his first year he started people have noticed that my writing career began with short
I writing a book to prove to me that one could do so without stories, it was really because of Penpoint, which could only
I being arrested. I can't remember now what became of his publish short stories.
novel, but he used to send me excerpts. I used to say to my-
self that when I grew up I would like to write the kind of By the time I went to Leeds I had already written several
I stories people like Stevenson and Dickens had written. short stories, three one-act plays, as well as the full-length
At Alliance High School I was lucky, in that the library Black Hermit, and the novels The River Between and Weep
was quite adequate for a school like that. There were many Not, Child. It was 1963, and independence had come to
I novels, and I used to read them. I read Dickens, but also a lot Kenya, as well as to other African countries. So I happened
j of racist writers like Rider Haggard with his King Solomon's to go to Leeds when things were also happening in Kenya,
Mines, Allan Quatermain, as well as the racist stuff in the East Africa, in the rest of the continent and in the rest of the
j Biggies series . . . All that formed part of my literary world at Third World generally. This historical context is important
the time. I also remember reading many thrillers, and my for an understanding of the intensification of certain themes
j first literary attempt was an imitation of an American thriller in my writing from that time onward. One could also say
I writer, whose name I am sorry I can't remember just now. I that at Leeds I encountered a radical intellectual tradition
j sent this story to Baraza, which used to run a kind of literary which had grown side by side with a conservative, formal
j page in Kenya — that was in 1956 — but it was rejected. tradition. Once again the kind of pattern I had found at
Then of course there were also the texts studied formally in Alliance and at Makerere was to be seen at Leeds University,
our literature classes, like Shakespeare and George Bernard that is, an official conservative tradition in the classroom
Shaw. which wanted you to identify with the oppressor as a
positive human being, and beside it an unofficial, radical
At Makerere University I followed a course based on the tradition which gave you the image of the resister as a
j syllabus for English studies at the University of London. positive human being. As before, the second image was the
Thus it was a degree in the history of English literature as more powerful as far as I was concerned.
| well as in the history of the English language. But the real My studies at Leeds exposed me to a wider literary world,
! importance of my university studies lay in that at Makerere, making me aware of radical literature that embraced the
j for the first time, I came into contact with African and West Third World and the socialist world as well. Frantz Fanon's
Indian writers. I remember three authors and books as being books are an example. The person who first introduced
particularly important to me: Chinua Achebe and his book Fanon to Leeds was Grant Kamenju. He went to Paris, and in
Things Fall Apart, George Lamming and his book In The an obscure little bookshop he found Fanon's book The
Castle of My Skin, and Peter Abrahams' Tell Freedom. At Damned, That was its first English translation; it was later
I Alliance I had seen Tell Freedom held by one of the teachers, published outside France under the title The Wretched of the
and I can remember literally trembling at the title. When I Earth, Of course this boojl was an eye-opener for me and for
found the book in the library at Makerere, I was overjoyed. I other African students at Leeds. I think this was the only
read it avidly and later I read virtually all the books by Peter Fanon book I read at that time, but I read quite a lot of West
Abrahams — that was the beginning of my interest in South Indian Caribbean literature. I was also writing A Grain of
African literature. Achebe's Things Fall Apart started me on Wheat, arguing about the problems of colonialism, neo-
West African writers, like Cyprian Ekwensi; from then on I colonialism and imperialism, and travelling widely in Europe.
followed closely the growth of West African literature. For Incidentally, you remember this was the time when Vietnam
instance I used to go to the library and look up every item of was becoming very important in the world. The Vietnamese
fiction in West African journals and magazines, especially people's struggle had a lot of impact on the students at
work by Cyprian Ekwensi (who, I later came to learn, was Leeds, as did the Palestinian struggle. The beginnings of a
also an admirer of Peter Abrahams at that period). As for students' movement all over Europe also had an impact on us
George Lamming, his work introduced me to West Indian at Leeds. As for socialist writers, my first exposure to Karl
writers, and this was the beginning of my interest in the Marx's works and ideas was at Leeds University. Reading
literature of the African people in the Third World. novels like Robert Tressell's The Ragged-Trousered Philan-
So I would say that Makerere was very important for me thropists and Brecht's works was also important to the
because, side by side with my formal literary education, I development of my ideas . . .
had through the library access to the kind of literature that
told me of another world, a world which was in many I take literature to be a reflection of social reality, the
instances my own. But African literature and all Third World imaginative reflection of the world in which we live. Or
literature had no place in the syllabus. African writers were rather literature, as a set of particular but related mirrors, |

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 35

 gives us various images of our experience, of our history. It in our communities and pretend that we are writing for, and
therefore becomes very important to see what specific images somehow communicating with, those peasants and workers,
are being reflected in whatever literature we are exposed to. or pretend that we are writing a national literature. I would
Different classes have their different literatures which give go as far as saying that what has so far been called African
images of the world in harmony with the peculiar needs and literature in English is not African literature at all. It is 'Afro-
objectives of those particular classes. Thus an oppressive Saxon literature', and what has been called African literature
ruling class or nation tries to push forward a literature that in French is equally not African literature — it is 'Afro-
reflects the world as they see it, images of the world and French literature' . . . African literature can only be written
history which are in harmony with the needs and objectives in African languages.
of oppression and exploitation. And even where literature Do I plan to have my own novels translated? No, I don't
doesn't reflect the desired images directly, that ruling and think I'll do that. You see, these novels were originally
oppressive class will bring forth interpreters and critics who written in that foreign language, and I don't know how
will try to batter and change that literature, to interpret it, effective a translation would be. I'd like to continue writing
however radical it may be, in such a way as to make it seem new things in Gikuyu . . . The most important thing for all of
to be looking at the world through the eyes, and according to us is to produce new works in these languages since each
the needs and objectives, of the oppressors. Now the classes language imposes its own kind of logic.
that are struggling against oppression and exploitation inevit-
ably try to promote a literature that is diametrically opposed I put a lot of emphasis on content and language, not so much
to the literature I describe above. That is, they promote a on form. It should be the content that is the deciding factor.
literature which positively reflects their struggles and their Of course the content will to a large extent be determined by
history, or reflects the world in terms of their struggles, and the class audience we are addressing. In other words, if a
which produces images in harmony with their own class writer wants to communicate with a particular class
interests, needs and objectives. Sympathisers of, or critics audience, then of necessity he will grope for the necessary
from, such a class or classes or nation will try to interpret forms and techniques best suited to the task.
literature from the point of view of the struggling peoples, Theatre is very important, in the sense that one can
from the point of view of their needs and objectives for communicate directly, and also because it involves more than
liberation. just one person. But I can only talk about our experience at
Kamirithu. The Kamirithu Community Educational and
I think that if the novel is to be meaningful it must reflect Cultural Centre is at the centre of a village where peasants
the totality of forces affecting the lives of the people. And all and workers live in mud huts. When we all came together to
the great novels, even in the bourgeois critical and literary produce the play Ngahiika Ndenda ('I'll Marry When I
tradition, have reflected this totality of forces at their Want'), we found that as soon as the peasants and workers
particular moment of history. Take a novel like Tolstoy's realised that this play reflected their lives in their language,
War and Peace or his Anna Karenina for that matter — surely they took the initiative in suggesting additions and even
you will find that virtually nothing is left out of these novels. deciding the form of the performance: designing the open-air
All the economic forces at work in Russian society of the stage, where the audience should sit, and so on. The play
nineteenth century are reflected there, and the struggle of used mime, songs and dances, which also come out of the
the peasantry for emancipation from feudal society . . . On community life. People saw that the script or content of the
the other side I find very disturbing the tendency in literary play reflected their lives and history, and so they appropri-
criticism to equate negative aspects of life with the true ated it, so to speak — they added to it, altered it, until when
human condition, that is, if you show people as stupid, they came to perform it, Ngahiika Ndenda was part and
cowardly, vacillating, always terrified of death or life, some- parcel of their own lives and history. Consequently the
times wanting to commit suicide out of sheer despair, then standard of performance of the play by these peasants and
you are said by some critics to be depicting the true human workers of Kamirithu village, Limuru, Kenya, was probably
condition. Why should we equate weakness with the true one of the highest in the history of the Kenyan stage. People
human condition? On the contrary, I would have thought who came from far away to see the play were struck by the
that resistance to oppression, the strong desire in human high standard of presentation. So our experience showed us
beings to overcome nature and all the things that inhibit the that theatre is perhaps the most relevant literary form of
free development of their lives, this is the most important of ideological communication in the Kenyan context . . .
human qualities . . . We know that the transformations of the
twentieth century have been the result of the struggles of I was never formally charged with any offence, nor was I ever
peasants and workers. So how can we say that these two told any specific reasons for my arrest and subsequent
classes, whose labour has changed nature, are weak, naive, detention. I was convinced though, that it was to do with the
stupid? It is their heroic struggles with nature, with the play Ngahiika Ndenda and my other works like Petals of
natural universe, and their struggle against social forces that Blood. In other words, I believe I was detained because I
diminish man which we should be writing about . . . wrote truthfully about the Kenyan historical situation, both
past and current.
I believe that African writers must stop using imperialism I would like to take this opportunity to thank very sin-
purely as a slogan . . . Writers — particularly African writers cerely all the people — students, workers, intellectuals — and
— must return for their inspiration to the people, to the all the organisations which have been working for the release,
peasants and workers in their societies. I think it is important not only of myself but of all the political prisoners in Kenya
that we return to the roots in the lives of the peasants and . . . I was very moved when I came out of detention and
workers. Doing so means that we shall necessarily be con- found that there had been so much struggle by so many
fronted with issues of language, for instance, and of how people . . . and that it had been worldwide. It was tremen-
we can meaningfully join hands with others to transform the dous.
social conditions of our being . . . Postscript: Ngahiika Ndenda has just been released in book
If our audience is composed of peasants and workers, then form (in Gikuyu) by Heinemann Educational Books (EA)
it seems to me that we must write in the languages of the Ltd. It is accompanied by a new book Caitani Mutharab-ini
peasants and workers of Africa. We cannot write in foreign ('The Devil on the Cross') which could be said to be Ngugi's
languages unspoken and unknown by peasants and workers 'detention memoirs'.*

36 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 THE UMBRELLA TREE
An excerpt from a novel in progress by Rose Zwi
Chapter Four from a novel in progress — The Umbrella Tree — deals with a visit of three women, two white, one black,
to the latter s village in a distant rural area. The two white women, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, have just been to visit
the son (husband) who is in jail for life for plotting the overthrow of the State. The black woman, who works as a domestic
servant for them, is searching for her missing eldest son. It is eight months after the Soweto uprising and she fears that after
his involvement in the uprising he has fled the country and has gone to a neighbouring state for military training. In this
chapter she questions his childhood friend Jason about her son.

From behind the curtain Jason watched worked in a hotel in Hillbrow where his ordered more than she could eat,
his grandmother usher the three women grandfather's nephew was the head mutilated it with blunt hotel knives,
into the enclosure. (Garden was too lush waiter. Boy, take away this meat, it's then left a mess of half-masticated food
a description for the sandy area in stringy; boy, there's a fly in the salad; on her plate. While black children were
which only the umbrella tree flourish- boy, there's no salt on the table. They dying of malnutrition.
ed.) Desultory efforts to grow a haw- sat there, heavily ringed fingers flashing 'Ancestors,' Jason whispered as he
thorn hedge along the fence had been gold and diamonds as they demonstrat- rested his head against the cool earthern
made, but only a few sprawling plants ed how many children they had, the wall, 'purge me of this bitterness; it is
survived — thick in stem, sparse of leaf, height of their grandchildren, the size of poisoning my life.'
with vicious stabbing thorns. Some their homes, the contours of the gar- The younger woman looked dry and
stunted zinnias grew in a patch near the dens. And, of course, the number of wrinkled, like someone who had used
house. Their grey leaves and papery servants who ran these establishments. her natural juices to extinguish the
petals attested to a futile struggle In company they bragged. In private flames of her passions. She would rattle
against heat and drought. The fence it- they complained, often to a polite long- like his great-uncle's divining bones in a
self needed repair. It was held up in one suffering waiter, about how one mother man's arms. Jason moved the curtain
part by the old donkey cart. Perhaps could look after ten children and how aside to take a closer look at her. She
after he'd dug a well . . . No. By that ten children could not look after one sat a little apart from the others and was
time he would have heard from Kleft; mother. not listening to their talk. Her eyes were
he'd be coming any day now. Jason had Eight rooms, an old woman told large and dark in her pale face, her nose
to believe that. Yet there were times Jason one evening in the lift, and not a was short and straight and her mouth
when he despaired. With Kleft one never corner for me. Her face crumpled and was thin. There was suffering in her
knew: he might be detained, in flight, Jason thought she was going to cry. face. Jason recognized suffering even in
hiding. There was no one he could ask Instead she manipulated her tongue a white face. As she turned toward the
except his mother. Jason preferred the expertly around her false teeth, raising house her eyes looked as though they
uncertainty. By the time the women them off her gums with a clatter, and were drowning in unshed tears. Despite
had seated themselves under the tree, he dislodged a stubborn morsel that was himself Jason felt a surge of sympathy
felt once again that he would never get pressing on her gum. All day long they for her. To hell with her. Let her suffer.
away from the village. sat in the lounges, gossiping, arguing, What does she care for our suffering? He
'Before I marry I work for English gesticulating, sighing. Jason had never went out of the dark room as his grand-
people five years,' his grandmother was seen them read or sew or knit. Occa- father and Sammy entered the enclo-
telling them. 'They teach me, I forget. sionally they braved the Hillbrow traffic sure. In the yard he picked up an old
My husband Sello, he knows English and went into the exhaust-filled air for a hessian sack and walked away toward
short walk. They returned breathless the mealie field.
Jason flinched. When she spoke to and pale, relieved and sad to be back in He moved among the drying mealies,
whites, his tall proud grandmother was their luxurious prison. Through their tore the brittle cobs out of their sockets
transformed into a simpering black soaps and colognes one smelled decay- and threw them into his sack. Later he
nanny. It seemed incredible that this ing flesh and rancid odours. Long after would pull back their yellowing sheaths
woman had toiled and sweated over the they left, the lounge smelled like a and silken strands and let them dry out
school building, taken up a knobkierrie deserted chicken run. in the sun. Phineas would know what
in its defence and had the respect of the His grandmother, again, smelled of they were paying for mealies this
entire village for her pride and courage. wood fires and crushed khaki weed. He season; he usually enquired at the mill.
There she stood, shoulders stooped, as remembered the musky smell that used Jason did not trust Sipho whose store
though apologizing for taking up too to rise from her open blouse when, as a had been the central depot for the
much place in the world, talking to two child, he cuddled up in her lap while she village's harvests for many years. Sipho,
white madams in fractured English told him stories. who owned a truck, set the price on a
when she could tell the most wonderful 'Next to the river the Zionists pray take it or leave it basis and the villagers
stories in fluent poetic Tswana. and sing to God every Sunday,' she was took it; they could not carry ten or fif-
'My English isn't so hot either,' the telling her white guests. teen bags of mealies to the mill, fifty
older white woman consoled her. The old white woman was falling off kilometres away. He made a handsome
It should be! Jason wanted to spit. her chair with curiosity. This no doubt profit on their harvests. How else could
You've had the education, the money, confirmed her views about superstitious he afford to build a brick house, enlarge
the privileges. He knew these fat old savages. She was fat and ugly. Jason his store and run a truck? The mill, in
ladies with their white hair and blue wondered what hotel she lived in and turn, made a profit on him. The only
rinses. During school holidays he'd whether she, like the others, also losers were his grandparents and the

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 31

 others who, after a season's toil, would
be left with a few rand or extended
credit facilities at Sipho's store.
Jason used this example when he
argued with Mojalefa and some of the
other students in Soweto. Black power
is not enough, he'd say; the economic
system must be changed. Communist,
the students called him. Communism is
not the only alternative to the present
system, he'd argue. Some form of
socialism, perhaps. We also have a
system of help and co-operation built
into our own culture. Work parties used
to be organized when a man built a new
home; the land belonged to the tribe . . .
Tribalist, they'd shout him down.
Communist, tribalist, they can't make
up their minds, he'd complain to Kleft
from whom he'd gleaned his ideas in the
first place. And when they want to be
really insulting they call me a dreamer
or a story teller. Even Mojalefa does,
and he's supposed to be my friend.
Patience, Kleft advised. First things
first. And first the yoke must be re- Illustration: Jacqui Nolte
moved.
Suddenly it struck Jason why Anna halls of the township. to carry an invisible pack on her head.
had come home: Mojalefa. That was Jason waved away a fly that was Her face was unwrinkled, ageless: she
why she was sitting in the shade of the circling his head. The midday sun was could have been thirty or sixty: Africa
umbrella tree. A model of injured hot and the sweat poured down his face. was kind to its own. MaNtantisi might
motherhood. Heroic. She had come to He disliked Anna intensely. While she have looked like this as she stood on the
Jason for help and there was no way of self-righteously condemned Charlie's fastness of Kooanengor led her hordes
escaping her. To get to Malome Bene- drunkenness, she herself ran a shebeen. into the raids that devastated the
dict's shack meant passing through the Yet she did not let him go: A drunken southern highveld. Right now it was
front gate, in full view of the visitors. husband was better than no husband, Jason who was about to be devastated
But she'd smell him out anywhere; especially if he was a source of money. and he did not relish the prospect. This
Anna was a determined woman. There She also valued the status of being a is no MaNtantisi, he had to remind
was nothing he could tell her. He had married woman; not every black mother himself. This is Anna, domestic servant,
not seen Mojalefa for months, not since was one. When she talked she waved her shebeen queen, over-ambitious mother.
the night of the fires. And what Kleft hands about freely, displaying the mock 'So, young one, why do you hide
had told him was confidential. Anna diamond ring on her wedding finger. from me? What bad news are you
was perfectly capable of crossing the Jason marvelled at Kleft's tolerant view concealing?' Anna launched into the
border and demanding the return of her of Anna. attack immediately. 'Or are you hiding
son. She could have been a great force 'She's had the burden of bringing up your face in shame after the sorrows
in the liberation struggle. Instead she her children alone,' he said to Jason. you have caused your mother?'
dissipated her gifts on the 'respectable' 'Charlie didn't help. And if she hadn't 'Neither, Mmamogolo,' Jason answer-
values of her white masters: Children got an order on Charlie's wages, he'd ed, strengthened by anger. She ought
must go to school, to church, be obedi- have drunk himself to death long ago. never to have mentioned his mother. 'I
ent and cleanly dressed. They must The women in our society get a raw have been living with my grandparents
listen to their elders and not fly in deal,' he said. for the last eight months. What news
the face of the System. That way one If Anna did seek Jason out, he'd tell can I have? I can only tell you the price
got a broken head. After all, one had to her that part of the truth which con- which Sipho has fixed for the mealies
get on in life, become better houseboys, cerned her: He had not seen Mojalefa this season.'
garden boys and refuse collectors. There since June 16. He had no way of know- 'Cheeky boy. For all the polite titles
was a lot of shit to be cleaned up and ing . . . you give me and the soft voice you use,
collected from the white suburbs. 'Jason! Where are you hiding? Come I can see into your dark soul. It's
Kleft often described the wild fights out of those mealies. The dry leaves are blacker than your face. You always
between Anna and her husband Charlie cutting my arms and legs. Jason!' were a deep one. Mmamogolo he calls
in the days when Charlie had belonged Jason sighed and began walking me. I'm not older than your own
to the ANC. He'd been an honest, towards the voice. He might as well get mother so you must call me Mmane.
vigorous man, Kleft told Jason, but it over with now. She'd also want to Let that go. When did you last see
between Anna and the security police, know about her other children. There Mojalefa and where is he? He would not
Charlie's spirit had been broken. When was no joy in store for her today. go anywhere without telling you. You
the ANC was banned in the early sixties, Anna was standing at the edge of the and he were like this,' she said crossing
Charlie gave up altogether. He had not mealie plot. Her head was bound in a her index and third fingers.
followed Kleft and the others into exile, green floral scarf which matched the 'The last time I saw Mojalefa was on
nor had he continued to work under loose-fitting dress that draped her full the night of June 16,' Jason said, look-
cover. He simply joined a congress of figure. Because of her posture, she ing straight into Anna's eyes.
another kind in the shebeens and beer- looked taller than she was; she seemed 'That may be so,' she replied, 'but

38 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 you know more. I have heard rumours cars and burnt buildings. The police
of strange cars that come into the village with their dogs are there every day, no • Mothers are still
in the dead of night.' one goes out after dark. And when the queueing outside the
'Those who tell you such tales have sun goes down you can hear crying mortuary; children are
bitten your ear,' Jason replied, slipping through the walls of the houses. They roaming the streets. Soweto
inco the speech patterns of his grand- say hundreds died, thousands are still in is a graveyard of burnt cars
mother. 'You know that Mojalefa is in hospitals. We do not know how many and burnt buildings. The
my chest. He is my best friend. For that are in prison. It was quiet for a while, police with their dogs are
reason I too would like news of him.' then in August it started again. Don't go there every day, no one
Anna looked at him doubtfully. to work, your school friends are saying. goes out after dark. And
'Mmane Anna,' Jason pressed on, 'it , Stay at home, show the whites how when the sun goes down
is I who should be asking you questions. they depend on your labour. And you can hear crying through
You are in the city. In the village there starve? The young ones don't under- the walls of the houses.
are no newspapers, no radios. All I hear stand. And every day, every day, the They say hundreds died,
is rumours, months later. The only news ones who are not in jail or in hospital, thousands are still in
I read is from the piece of newspaper are going out of the country for training hospitals. We do not know
Sipho wraps our vegetables in and then . . . ' Anna's voice cracked. how many are in prison. 9
I get the part about the stock exchange. Suddenly she raised her voice.
How is it in the township now?' 'What do you want? What are you brothers . . . '
Anna relented. trying to do? Look how hard we wrork She stopped crying and sat up.
'In the townships there is weeping to keep you at school. The books, the 'That is something you must know.
and sorrow,' she said. 'What else can fees, the uniforms. Big boys in Standard How are his brothers? Are they going to
there be when you and your friends Three who should be working. Your school? I have not had time to speak
burn and destroy and wake up the lives are too easy. Your mothers and properly with your grandmother about
hatred that's been sleeping for so long? fathers woke at four to do the whites' them.'
There is the widow and the orphan. But washing, to work in the factories. And Jason looked away. She repeated her
what do you call a mother who has lost you stay home, to burn and destroy. I question as she got up from the ground,
her child? You give me the word; you did not have such opportunities. When I dusting her dress and wiping her nose
brought this trouble, you and the other started school my mother sewed me a with a crumpled tissue.
young ones.' dress from washed-out flour bags, a Blue 'They are . . . well,' he said, then fell
'Children died before this trouble, Ribbon dress. And in winter my feet silent.
from hunger and from poverty. That is cracked from the cold because I did not 'Speak with a full mouth, man!' she
what we are trying to change,' Jason have shoes. I cried when my mother shouted. 'Can you not reply to a simple
replied softly. 'But tell me, are the took me out of school in Standard Six. I question? They are well, he says and
schools open? Do the hippos still come wanted to learn. But I had to earn turns his eyes from my bleeding heart.
every day? Did the people stay away money to send my younger brothers Speak!'
from work?' and sisters to school . . . ' 'Willie and Abram have not been to
Anna looked at him, tight-lipped. Jason watched a toktokkie lumber school since it opened, two months ago.
'Do you mock me, Jason, or is it slowly across the sandy soil towards the Willie is working on Coetzee's farm to
possible that you really don't know?' mealie patch. He was tired of flour bag bring in the mealie harvest and Abram
'I do not mock you Mmane Anna. I dresses, cracked feet, frustrated educ- helps Sipho take the mealies to the mill.
do not know what goes on in the wider ational aspirations. These Annas and The younger ones are at school,' Jason
world. I hear only rumours. This village Ellens would never understand, never told her, sullenly.
is worse than a jail. Its walls go up to see beyond their own suffering. Anna fell strangely silent. She stared
the heavens.' ' . . . and that Kleft is behind all this, out beyond the mealie plot towards the
'Mothers are still queueing outside I know,' Anna was saying. 'He is using river, clenching and unclenching her
the mortuary; children are roaming the the young ones for his own political hands.
streets. Soweto is a graveyard of burnt purposes. I'll kill him with my own two 'I do not know why the Ancestors
hands if I see him. He was also the devil are heaping such sorrows on my head,'
who tempted Charlie into bad ways. If she said finally. 'I just wanted that my
not for him, Charlie would never have children should have enough education
joined the ANC and turned to drink.' to keep them from the mealie fields of
Jason did not correct her elliptical the Boers and out of the kitchens of the
conclusion. Perhaps she really did not white madams. All is for nothing. I wait
understand Charlie's frustrations nor her only to hear now that Willie and Abram
own part in his tragedy. have joined their brother for training.'
' . . . You must know where Mojalefa She turned to go. Jason felt a pang of
is,' she continued, quietly now. 'Tell regret. Her sorrow was real.
me. It may not be too late.' 'Mmane Anne,' he said, putting his
'I have told you, Mmane Anna. I do hand gently on her shoulder.
not know where Mojalefa is,' he said She turned on him, her eyes blazing.
firmly, with a hint of impatience. 'You destroyers, you! If you had
To his confusion, Anna collapsed in a ever built anything you would not be in
heap on the ground, buried her face in such a fever to destroy!'
her hands and began to weep and rock 'They never gave us a chance,' Jason
herself rhythmically. replied. 'They made destroyers of us.'
'Ai, ai, ai,' she wept, 'all is lost. He But Anna was no longer listening.
has gone for military training. He will be Her head held higher than ever she
killed. All my hopes are dead. He will walked around the front of the house
return to kill his own brothers. His and disappeared from view.a

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 39

 Poetry Allan Kolski Horwitz, Robert Greig.

TREKKERS AM I A SOUTH AFRICAN POET?

Christiana Talk is made in the small shop

meeting place of pure hearts almost devoid of stock
This gentleman is a South African poet
an old man took me in his Buick Breytenbach's name invoked
and laid me to rest by a bridge a compatriot in jail
on the National Road
do I, too, want liberation?
convoys of sheep farmers and water diviners
and a kommandant A cloudburst over Paris wets the Seine
passed me there sends the hunchback on a straight line
for cover into the nave
(though it was a rotting jackal which drove me of that city's particular ambience
from the line-washed walls
to a donga He has a book
and the gathering of sun-flower seeds) out in the world

then from the pondoks an old woman I consider my arms in the light
fed me pap and a trickle of tea; of the load suddenly lifted
for under that blue sky from me / my body
I felt weak in the knees is light now as all that
took place once with vengeance
Afrika — is this where your dewdrops becomes The Book
collect?
Introduced to an American sculptor
Allan Kolski Horwltz who holds a wet loaf
spits into an ashtray with decorum
I am expected to strike
the right note of encouragement

THE STRIKER Why not Art?

(Firestone, PE) why not Talk of Art?
I who am a vagrant
They want us to wait till infinity, but with clean nails
till infinity. come with a wide eye
from the veld
Or maybe till God comes.
What must a man do must he Needless to say
starve, and his children? I have no experience of salons
Wait till he's sixty where expatriate Americans unburden their sagas
for the bosses to pay? in the Miller tradition
I ask myself: why don't they try Pretoria?
Tomorrow a bus can run me over
tomorrow bread costs one rand For I am a South African poet
today I must eat. suckled in the high-rise ghetto delicatessens
of Sea Point
What's your name where do you live? narrowed in the Auschwitz by my mother's extremity
there is no doubt that I can indeed
I am 20 I play football recall my nanny's name
my job is temporary four years now
After all this I'll tell you my name And I am as yet in that jail
we can meet talk at my house with no Boland to spring in my cell
I don't want visitors after midnight. the jailer deeply tanned
by the sediments of Afrika
Yesterday they say this the inevitable storm which clears the heat
today they say that breaking at this moment
tomorrow bugger off over the Seine and not
over the pitched mass of the paraffin clouds
They care for the machines of Soweto

They say wait for your money. Allan Kolski Horwltz

You people say: don't bite the hand
that feeds you.

I say: who gets fat on promises?

Robert Greig

40 STAFFR1DER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 I I 1*1 I I 1*1 I I I *

Photo Diary Biddy Partridge

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May 1981. School sports day, Johannesburg.

ReigerPark, 24th May 1981. Children play on the remains of vehicles belonging to ReigerPark entrepreneur, Gunga Din.

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 41

 Es'kia Mphahlele
The Coffee
Cart Girl
This story first appeared in Drum in
1955. It is to be republished shortly
in the collection 'The Unbroken Song.

The crowd moved like one mighty

being, and swayed and swung like the
sea. In front, of them was Metropolitan
Steel Windows Ltd. All eyes were fixed
on it. Its workers did not hear one
another: perhaps they didn't need to,
each one interested as he was in what he
was saying — and that with his blood.
All he knew was that he was on strike:
for what? If you asked him he would unlawful for black people anyhow. her thin frock, and then to her peach-
just spit and say: 'Do you think we've 'Come back to work, or you are coloured face, not well fed, but well
come to play?' signed off, or go to gaol,' had come the framed and compelling under a soiled
Grimy, oily, greasy, sweating black stock executive order. More than half black beret. As he ate hungrily she shot
bodies squeezed and chafed and grated. had been signed off. a side-glance at him occasionally. There
Pickets were at work; the law was It was comparatively quiet now in was something sly in those soft, moist,
brandishing batons; cars were hooting a this squalid West End sector of the city. slit eyes, but the modest stoop at the
crazy medley. Men and women continued their daily shoulders gave him a benign appearance;
'Stand back, you monkeys!' cried a round. A dreary smoky mist lingered in otherwise he would have looked twisted
black man pinned against a pillar. 'Hey, suspension, or clung to the walls; black and rather fiendish. There was some-
you black son of a black hen!' sooty chimneys shot up malignantly; thing she felt in his presence: a repelling
The coffee-cart girl was absorbed in there was a strong smell of bacon; the admiration. She felt he was the kind of
the very idea of the Metropolitan Steel fruit and vegetable shops resumed man who could be quite attractive so
Windows strike, just as she was in the trade with a tremulous expectancy; old long as he remained more than a touch
flood of people who came to buy her men stood Buddha-like at the entrances away from the contemplator; just like
coffee and pancakes: she wasn't aware with folded arms and a vague grimace those wax figures she once saw in the
of the swelling crowd and its stray on their faces, seeming to sneer at the chamber of horrors.
atoms which were being flung out world in general and their contemptible 'Signed off at the Metropolitan?'
of it towards her cart until she heard an mercantile circle in particular; and the 'Hm.' His head drooped and she
ear-splitting crash behind her. One of good earth is generous enough to could read dejection in the oily top of
the row of coffee-carts had tipped over contain all the human sputum these his cap. 'Just from the insurance fund
and a knot of men fallen on it. She good suffering folk shoot out of their office.' She pitied him inwardly; a sort
climbed down from her cart, looking mouths at the slightest provocation. A of pity she had never before ex-
like a bird frightened out of its nest. car might tear down the cross-street and perienced for a strange man.
A woman screamed. Another crash. set up a squall and sweep dry horse 'What to do now?'
The man who had been pinned against manure so that it circled in the air in a 'Like most of us,' looking up straight
the pillar had freed himself and he momentary spree, increasing the spitting into her eyes, 'beat the road early
found himself standing beside the girl. gusto . . . mornings just when the boss's breakfast
He sensed her predicament. Almost 'Hello.' is settling nicely in the stomach. No
rudely he pushed her into the street, 'Hello, want coffee?' work, no government papers, no papers,
took the cart by the stump of a shaft 'Yes, and two hot buns.' no work, then out of town.'
and wheeled it across the street, shout- 'It's hard for everybody, I guess.'
ing generally, 'Give way, you black She hardly looked at him as she served 'Ja.'
monkeys.' Just then a cart behind him him. For a brief spell her eyes fell on 'I know. When you feel hungry and
went down and caved in like match- the customer. Slowly she gathered up don't have money, come past here and
wood. the scattered bits of memory and un- 111 give you coffee and pancake.'
'Oh, thank you so much, mister!' consciously the picture was framed. She 'Thanks, er — let me call you Pinkie,
'Ought to be more careful, my sister.' looked at him and found him scanning shall I?'
'How can I thank you! Here, take her. 'Hm,' she nodded automatically.
coffee and a pancake.' 'Oh!' She gave a gasp and her hand He shook her hand. 'Grow as big as
'Thank you, my sister.' went to her mouth. 'You're the good an elephant for your goodness, as we
'Look, they're moving forward, may- uncle who saved my cart!' say in our idiom.' He shuffled off. For a
be to break into the factory!' When 'Don't uncle me, please. My name is long time, until he disappeared, she
next she looked back he was gone. And Ruben Lemeko. The boys at the factory didn't take her eyes off the stooping
she hadn't even asked him his name: call me China. Yours?' figure, which she felt might set any
how unfriendly of her, she thought. . . 'Zodwa.' place on fire. Strange man, Pinkie
Later that winter morning the street His eyes travelled from her small thought idly as she washed up.
was cleared of most people. The wor- tender fingers as she washed a few
kers had gone away. There had been no things, to her man's jersey which China often paused at Pinkie's coffee-
satisfactory agreement. Strikes were was a faded green and too big for her, cart. But he wouldn't let her give him

42 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 coffee and pancakes for nothing. chain. They went back to the coffee- fully the ghastliness of a man's jealousy,
T m no poorer than you,' he said. cart. which gleamed and glanced on the blade
'When I'm really in the drain pipes you From that day onwards, Naidoo and seemed to have raised a film which
may come to my help.' became a frequent customer at Pinkie's steadied the slit eyes. Against the back
As she got used to him and the idea coffee-cart. He often praised her cakes wall she managed to speak.
of a tender playfellow who is capable of and coffee. Twice at lunch-time China 'All right, China, maybe you've done
scratching blood out of you, she felt found him relating some anecdotes this many times before. Go ahead and
heartily sorry for him; and he detected which sent Pinkie off into peals of kill me; I won't cry for help, do what
it, and resented it and felt sorry for her laughter. you like with me.'
in turn. 'Where you work, my prend?' asked She panted like a timid little mouse
'Right, Pinkie, I'll take it today.' Naidoo one day. He was one of the cornered by a cat. He couldn't finish the
'You'll starve to death in this cruel many Indians who will say 'pore-pipty' job he had set out to do. Why? He had
city.' for 'four fifty,' 'pier foms' for 'five sent two men packing with a knife
'And then? Lots of them starve; forms', 'werry wital' for 'very vital'. before. They had tried to fight, but this
think of this mighty city, Pinkie. What 'Shoe factory, Main Street.' creature wasn't resisting at all. Why,
are we, you and me? If we starved and 'Good pay?' why, why? He felt the heat pounding in
got sick and died, who'd miss you and 'Where do you find such a thing in his temples; the knife dropped, and
me?' this city?' he sank onto a stool and rested his head
Days when China didn't come, she 'Quite right, my prend. Look at me: on the wall, his hands trembling.
missed him. And then she was afraid of I was wanted to be a grocer, and now After a moment he stood up, looking
something; something mysterious that I'm a cheapjack.' away from Pinkie. 'I'm sorry, Pinkie, I
crawls into human relations, and before 'I'm hungry today, Pinkie,' China pray you never in your life to think
we know it it's there; and because it is said one day. He was clearly elated over about this day.'
frightening it does not know how to something. She looked at him, mystified.
announce itself without causing panic 'It's so beautiful to see you happy, 'Say you forgive me.' She nodded
and possibly breaking down bonds of China, what's the news?' twice.
companionship. In his presence she tried 'Nothing. Hasn't a man the right to Then she packed up for the day,
to take refuge in an artless sisterly pity be jolly sometimes?' much earlier than usual.
for him. And although he resented it, he 'Of course. Just wondered if any- The following day China did not visit
carried on a dumb show. Within, heaven thing special happened.' Pinkie; nor the next. He could not
and earth thundered and rocked, He looked at her almost transparent decide to go there. Things were all in a
striving to meet; sunshine and rain pink fingers as she washed the coffee barbed wire tangle in his mind. But see
mingled; milk and gall pretended things. her he must, he thought. He would just
friendship; fire and water went hand in 'Hey, you've a lovely ring on your go and hug her; say nothing but just
hand; tears %and laughter hugged each finger, where's the mine?' press her to himself because he felt too
other in a fit of hysterics; the screeching Pinkie laughed as she looked at the mean even to tell her not to be afraid of
of the hang-bird started off with the glass-studded ring, fingered it and wiped him any more.
descant of a dove's cooing; devils waved it.
torches before a chorus of angels. Pinkie 'From Naidoo.' The third day the law came. It stepped
and China panicked at the thought of a 'What?' up the street in goose-march fashion.
love affair and remained dumb. 'It's nothing, China, Naidoo didn't The steel on its heels clanged on the
'Pinkie, I've got a job at last!' have any money for food, so he offered pavement with an ominous echo. It gave
'I'm happy for you, China!' me this for three days' coffee and commands and everything came to an
'You'll get a present, first money I cakes.' She spoke as if she didn't believe end at once. Black man's coffee-cart was
get. Ach, but I shouldn't have told you. her own story. She sensed a gathering not to operate any more in the city.
I wanted to surprise you.' He was storm. 'i ' . . . Makes the city look ugly,' the city
genuinely sorry. 'You lie!' fathers said.
'Don't worry, China 111 just pretend 'Honestly China, now what would I For several days China, unaware of
I'm surprised really, you'll see.' They be lying for?' what had happened, called on Pinkie,
laughed. So! he thought, she couldn't even lie but always found the coffee-carts empty
Friday came. to keep their friendship: how distant and deserted. At last he learned every-
'Come, Pinkie, let's go.' she sounded. His fury mounted. thing from Naidoo, the cheapjack.
'Whereto?' 'Yes, you lie! Now listen Pinkie, He stepped into her coffee-cart and
'I'll show you.' He led her to the you're in love with that cheapjack. sat on the stool.
cheapjack down the street. Every time I found him here he's He looked into the cheerless pall of
'Mister, I want her to choose any- been damn happy with you, grinning smoke. Outside life went on as if there
thing she wants.' and making eyes at you. Yes, I've had never been a Pinkie who sold coffee
The cheapjack immediately sprang watched him every moment.' and pancakes.
up and in voluble cataracts began to sing He approached the step leading into Dare he hope that she would come
praises upon his articles. the cart. back, just to meet him? Or was it going
'All right, mister, let me choose.' 'Do you see me? I've loved you since to turn out to have been a dream? He
Pinkie picked up one article after I first saw you, the day of the strike.' wondered.
another, inspected it, and at last she He was going to say more, but some- We'll meet in town, some day, China
selected a beautiful long bodkin, a thing rose inside him and choked him. thought. I'll tell her all about myself, all
brooch, and a pair of bangles. Naidoo, He couldn't utter a word more. He about my wicked past; she'll get used to
the cheapjack, went off into rhapsodies walked slowly; a knife drawn out, with me, not be afraid of me any more
again on Pinkie's looks when China put a menacing blade, pointed towards her
the things on her himself, pinning the throat. Pinkie retreated deeper into her And still he sat in the coffee-cart
bodkin on her beret. He bought himself cart, too frightened to plead her case. which was once Pinkie's, all through the
a knife, dangling from a fashionable At that very moment she realised lunch-hour . . , •

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 43

 Doornfontein
c
There Goes the
Neighbourhood...
by Masilo Rabothata
Sunday. Cold and partly cloudy. I walked down Staib Street,
down in Doornfontien that was.
I walked fast, but not fast enough to avoid seeing an old
woman in dirt rags sitting amongst the rubble, engrossed in
saving her life for a few more days by feeding her body with
some strange food that never came from a restaurant. I
strode faster in order to forget that I ever saw such people. I
have always felt nausea rise up in me when I come across
miserable people. Nauseated not by them, no, but by a
sudden upsurge of emotions, anger, at the power that re-
duced them to such pathetic creatures.
Amidst the factories and old dilapidated homes could be
bought anytime such misery that my wonderment soon grew
overpowering. I stopped for a short breath and a little think:
Good stuff to write an article about, guessing as I did the
reaction of the Staffrider audience as it notes with careful
anguish a metaphorical description of an old woman in
Doornfontein.

She sits behind a partially broken-down wall, all wrapped

up in pieces of rags of assorted fabrics, in a kitchen as big as
the world we live in, which has as its roof the sky above us
all. She has, as her utensils, an assortment of stuff normally

44 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 I walk on, down Beit Street now, nagged by the loudness
of a thought generously given to my dull brain in the form of
a billboard I, like many more of my kind, could not fail to
see. So thoughtful, so sensitive to human wants, the billboard
echoes the message, 'Think fun, think Zozo' against the roof-
tops of the badly hidden hideouts of corrugated tin that lurk
behind every horrifying ramshackle I can see. In these ram-
shackles and shacks still live people who will go past this life
hidden from view by names as big as 'squatters', 'Illegals' etc.

The other day I happened, by some obscure mischance, to

be on the fiftieth floor of the Carlton. At the Wimpy Bar.
A heavenly place! There was a bunch of angels up there and
I felt like an intruder. They watched hell from up there.
Their excitement grew every time they saw something down
there, exclaiming, 'Ah it's so beautiful!'
Soon, my curiosity had been sufficiently raised for me to
referred to as garbage; emptied cans (heretofore having behave in like manner. I therefore chose the eastern view.
contained some delicious foods) emptied plastic containers 'There . . . ' I thought. 'Down there is Doornfontein. The
of yoghourt, cheese and other such healthy edibles. She rugby stadium seems almost complete.' For two minutes I
looks at me. Her face is empty of the hardness that is not looked that way. Completely high because of the height.
uncommon on the faces of other members of THE FAMILY The truth is, Doornfontein, a one-time soulful ghetto, is
OF MAN who belong to the same situation. no more. It is like a home turned church. Home for the
Behind and above her looms the unfinished Ellis Park Modikwe Dikobes, the Jazz Maniacs and the famous back-
Stadium. A gigantic monster. 'So the boers are out to make yard communities; church for rugby zealots and profit
rugby bigger,' I mumble to myself. The bulldozers certainly mongers who deal in iron and steel. Both the spirit and the
look scary. They stand with their backs to the concrete body are dealt with. So that hearts may break where they
structure, facing the dilapidation of old Doornfontein, as if may.H
ready to do away with it finally when the moment comes.
I walk up to the stadium, uninterested. Who would be?
We need to point to the sufferings, the pains, the complaints
of the people of Doornfontein. We are not impressed with fit
people who can look after themselves. We need to pay a
good farewell to old Doornfontein, once the home of un-
wanted and distasteful non-racial living together. The last of
the good old un-group area'd shanties after Sophiatown.
Demolished without ceremony on behalf of the continuing
progression of Apartheid. We should mourn once more this
victim of the 'We-group-you-there-fools-and-animals-one-side-
and-people-this-way-please' Act.
After passing the stadium, I see nothing but debris,
debris, debris, telling the story of scenes gone by. Ghildren
play on a small island beside the road. Woman scavenge
through the waste with careful attention. Over there . . . men
in jackets busy earning their bread in a school of dice.

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 45

 Poetry Omarruddin, Nicolette Thesen, R. Camhee, Wonga Fundile Tabata

NO HURT TWO PAIRS OF EYES

There is no hurt Two pairs of eyes

quite like being unloved met on a sultry morning
no peace for the lonely heart
save death. one belonged
Will the tumour to uniformed authority
within my fevered mind equipped for a seige
cease its violent throbbing?
Will laughter ever flow the other
from the vein of my pen? to a uniformed girl
There is no hurt fresh and neat
like being unloved unwanted
among one's brethren one pair flashed a dam
in one's own land . . . of instructions

Omarruddin the other was agleam

with defiance

one pair
pinned its hopes
on a baton
XHERO -
dedicated to Jack Cope the other smiled
and said;
Saldania, Saldania . . . you are afraid . . .
my men now wander
drunken and naked Two pairs of eyes
clutching spears to burning breasts, met one morning . . .
their eyes wild with fear.
R. Camhee
Fear not, I live,
although the sea grows
wormlike and spills
its milk on the decks,
bringing my stomach to empty itself.

Where am I now — ?
my life is torn
from its twisted roots
like broken wood I rock in storms,
my body pale with illness.

I see my men
dance with the moon,
flames lighting their bodies AB ANGEN AMAKH AY A
as they bend and turn,
in ardent worship. Thina bantu basendle,
Zimbedlenge ezingenakhaka.
I hear their moan Nkedama eziswel' imilomo yokuthetha.
like a newborn calf, Elethu ikamva limfiliba.
low across the veld,
calling its mother Okwamantshontsho ebaleka ukhetshe
and her return cry across the dark. Siphaphazela sime iingqondo.
Ngemihla yodlavulo nonxunguphalo.
I shall return Kuloo mingxunya ingamakhaya ebhongo.
bringing copper pots
that we might feast Sixinana sixakeke mihla le.
and fill the night Kodwa oko sikuthwala ngentliziyo entle.
with a legend's song. Siphakame sigob' iminqonqo samkele,
Izithembiso ezitshona nelanga.
I have learnt a language
and shall show you, Ubuncwane bethu yincindi yekhala.
how the white man lives Ithemba lethu ngowasidalayo uQamata,
and builds a house Yena mgcini wabangenamaKhaya.
without skin or cowdung. IKamva lethu solityhilelwa ngubani na?

Nicolette Thesen Wonga Fundile Tabata

4o STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 Mximbithi Mhlaba's Journey
Continued from page 5 Continued from page 15
shit he found on his front doorstep. pillar of strength when he arrives among them. After a few
Before Mr Pieter came, Cadbury cars were serviced at the minutes he again feels strong enough to proceed, He picks up
garage. Mr Pieter insisted that they should be serviced by his load and walks in the shimmering dusk of a full moon.
the drivers, who must also wash them very clean. Only one It is obvious that the shacks have been built in an emergency.
driver should do deliveries — his favourite, who spied on They are low, misshapen pigsties erected in a disorderly
others. arrangement and the atmosphere is laden with the rank
One of the drivers, Dan, was a very quiet person. Most of odour of unhygenie conditions. Through the gaping cracks in
the black staff members honoured him for the love and the upright corrugated iron of the structures candlelight
respect he had for his own people — young and old alike. seeps out and he can hear people talking. But what draws
Baas Pieter disliked Dan exceedingly. He was aware that him like a moth to light are the campfires in an open space
Dan was a very obedient, hard-working man, who also around which people (from their small frames he judges them
hated to be pushed around. He hated Dan more because he to be mostly children) are gathered. Although he has only
was sitting for matriculation. 'The bloody kaffir think he is heard of such things, he likens these conditions to those of a
wise.' camp occupied by refugees from an embattled area.
Dan knew Mr Pieter hated him. He always ordered him to The people around the fire do not notice him coming, but
wash cars, grease them, or change the oil. Other drivers continue to share jokes until he is standing directly above
did it too, but Dan did it too frequently. Every day he went them.
home smelling of paraffin, in spite of washing. If only he MHLABA: (In greeting) Sanibonani ebandla bantu bakithi.
could find an alternative job, he would have left this one Heads turn to look for the source of the voice. For a few
sooner than he had started it. Mr Pieter always clicked his moments it is quiet around the fire next to which he is
tongue at the sight of him. If only jobs were not so scarce. standing, except for the crackling of the burning wood, then
No one knew who told Mr Pieter Mximbithi could fix a voice which he can recognise among a thousand others, that
cars. of his beloved NOTHEMBA umafungwashe wakhe, that is,
the one upon whose name he swears.
It was Monday morning when Mr Pieter called Dan to the NOTHEMBA: (In raptures) Ha, ubaba! Father has come.
office. 'I'm sorry this has happened, Dan,' said Mr Pieter, Ma! (Shouting) Ma, here is father.
pretending to be sympathetic. 'You will have to drive for She stands up and runs, disappearing among the shacks.
Mr Lawrence. Paul (Mximbithi's work name) will come this The people around the other fires stop talking and stare
side to fix cars and grease them. I told Mr Lawrence you are dumbfoundedly at the interloper, before it registers that
a very good driver and he was pleased. Don't think that I'm MHLABA is actually one of them.
chasing you away. I have no choice.' As MHLABA is deciding whether to follow the girl or wait
That's how Mximbithi and Dan swopped jobs. Dan was for her to return, he hears another voice that he can never
neither sad nor happy. He knew Mr Lawrence, the roving, mistake.
talkative old ex-miner. NONZAME: (Shouting from the direction in which his
Mr Lawrence tried very hard to 'dig' Dan on the activities daughter has run) Where is he? Nothemba wait for me!
of his co-workers. But Dan was adamant. He just could not NOTHEMBA: There he is ma, I told you, there he is!
spy on his own people for anything in the world. It was one MHLABA does not wait for them to reach him. He breaks
thing he would never do. He would rather suffer. He stayed into a run and they hurl themselves into each other's em-
aloof from Mr Lawrence's gossips, except to agree to what he brace. For what seems like forever they cling to each other as
was saying. But he never said a word unless it concerned the if expecting their bodies to fuse into one while the children
practical side of work at Cadbury's. keep a safe distance so as not to disturb their parents' emo-
It happened that Dan went to hospital for a week. tionally charged reunion.
Mathonsi (Mximbithi's home boy), who also had a licence, MHLABA: Awu my beloved. Our people are still witn us
was to drive during his absence. When he came back one of because here we are together at last. (NONZAME has started
the painters warned him of the possibility that he, too, had crying uncontrollably and is trembling in his arms) Thula
been bewitched by Mximbithi and Mathonsi, so that ntombazana, thula. Sh-sh, thula. What are you crying for,
Mathonsi could drive. Dan did not believe in witchcraft. He since nobody has died? (His five children have come closer to
just could not believe what the painter and others told him. share in the experience. NOTHEMBA holds her father's hand
A month later Dan went back to hospital and stayed there and helps her mother to cry.) Please do not drench me with
for six weeks. When he came back he was given a broom and tears. (People from the nearby shacks and the fires have
a feather-duster. Mathonsi was the new driver. It was in the quietly gathered around them to watch the sad spetacle)
air that Mathonsi and Mximbithi had bewitched him. He was Alright, alright then. Kulungile ke. Now take the suitcases
tired of the curious, knowing stares and questions. and let us go to the house. Look, the children are not crying.
Dan did not believe that he was bewitched. All he knew It's only you two.
was that Mximbithi, opportunist that he was, had simply The children fight over the baggage. It is like the good old
spoken to Mr Lawrence on behalf of Mathonsi. And days at the meeting place at the bus-stop, only these days are
Mr Lawrence, who preferred an informer to a dummy far from being good. •
like Dan, accepted the plea with alacrity.
Of course there are limits to the progress leadership
Staffrider magazine is published by Ravan Press, P.O. Box 31134,
maniacs can make. Mximbithi is still a mechanic and a car- Braamfontein 2017, South Africa. (Street address: 409 Dunwell, 35
washer, though he boasts that he is earning more than Jorissen Street, Braamfontein.) Copyright is held by die individual
everybody else. But rumour has it that he is not recognised contributors of all material, including all graphic material, published
either as a driver or as a mechanic by head office. He is still in the magazine. Anyone wishing to reproduce material from the
magazine in any form should approach the individual contributors c/o
registered as a cleaner. Mathonsi is still a driver with wide- the publishers.
open eyes. Dan? He was lucky enough to find the office This issue was printed by The Mafeking Mail, Roodepoort. Layout
work he had always wanted. • and Reproduction by The Graphic Equalizer.

STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981 47

 Photo Diary Mxolisi Moyo, Lesley Lawson
LULU ftJHIHff ! • • • • • • • • • • • M M M• «Mmuu••••••••••MI•MMMMMi

May 1981. Spectators at a traditional music session outside Alexandra Hostel.

Thomsville, Lenasia, February 1981.

48 STAFFRIDER, JULY/AUGUST 1981

 WRITE
Est. 1893

an adventure novel for the children of

Southern Africa.
R 3 0 0 0 M a s k e w Miller Prize for the
most outstanding indigenous junior
adventure novel in English.
RIOOO M a s k e w Miller A w a r d for the
most promising Black adventure story
writer.
Conditions:
The subject matter of the story must appeal to
urban and/or country youth of Southern Africa,
aimed at the age-group 12 —15.
The story must be an original, unpublished,
untranslated work — ± 2 0 0 0 0 words in length.
MAFEKING MAIL Manuscripts must be submitted in double-spaced
typed or neatly written form, with a brief curriculum
(PTY) LTD vitae of the author.
The author's n a m e , address and telephone n u m b e r
(where applicable) must be supplied with the
Printers and Publishers manuscript.
Authors must be born in the Republic of South
Africa, Independent States (i.e. Bophuthatswana,
For all your Transkei and Venda), Self-governing Territories
(i.e. Qwaqwa, Ciskei, Gazankulu, Kangwane,
high-quality Kwazulu, Lebowa and Kwandebele), Botswana,
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lithographic and Zimbabwe. (They need not be resident in the
printing above countries.)

requirements — T h e c o m p e t i t i o n is o p e n t o all.

Magazines, Brochures, Closing date: 31 January 1982.

The judges' decision is final and no c o r r e s p o n d e n c e
Company Reports, etc. will be entered into.
Send manuscripts to: Address all queries and
correspondence to:
F. C. H. Rumboll Ms D. J. Driver
PHONE 766-2150/1/2/3/4 The Publisher
MASKEW MILLER
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MASKEW MILLER LTD
P.O. Box 396 81 Church Street
Cape Town Cape Town
P.O. BOX 1020 ELECTRON ST. 8000 8001
Tel.: (021) 45 7731
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Postal orders to be forwarded to
photographs, four-line poems by James BLAC Publishing House, P O Box 90,

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