Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

NEW BOOKSFROM RAVANHis second autobiography, Afrika My Music, is set amidstthe tumultuous years of his return to South Africa after1976. 'Bantu Education' — the system which had forced himout of teaching and into exile when it was introduced in theFifties — had triggered the Soweto Revolt barely a monthbefore he returned to his native land after twenty years inEurope, Africa and the United States.R7.95¥H1 WOULD OPCANTHEMBAedrfecf by Essop Fate!1M i U!Es'kia MphahleleFATHER COME HOMEby Es'kia MphahleleIt is 1913, the year of the Natives' land Act. Thousands ofblack South Africans are driven off the land. The 'NativeReserves' where they are now supposed to live are mainlyarid, infertile, and overpopulated. Men flock in theirthousands to the mines and the cities in search of work,leaving their wives and children at home.Fourteen year old Maredi Tulamo from the village ofSedibeng faces life without his father, who has left home,as part of the pain and trauma of growing up. Restless and onthe threshold of manhood he sets out on a quest for themissing man. Alone and inexperienced, he is going down adangerous road ....Paperback R7.95 Hardback R11.50THE WORLD OF CAN THEMBAStaff rider Series No 18by Essop PatelCan Themba's understanding of the black townships ofJohannesburg was 'intuitive, complete and magical' in thewords of the publisher of Drum, the magazine in which muchof his work appeared. As the presiding spirit in 'The House ofTruth', as his Sophiatown matchbox was known, he wasunquestionably one of the most important South Africanwriters of the Fifties. The publication in one volume of awider selection of his work than has previously been available— poems, reportage, brief biographies and extendedanecdotes as well as the incomparable stories — is animportant literary milestone.R6.95FOOLS AND OTHER STORIESStaffrider Series No 19by Njabulo S NdebeleAFRIKA MY MUSICAn Authobiography 1957-1983by Es'kia MphahleleEs'kia Mphahlele's first work of autobiography, DownSecond Avenue, is one of the classics of African literature.After that seedtime came the years of exile during which —he was a 'listed' person — none of his works could be read inSouth Africa.'Fools', the title story in this collection, is a tale ofgenerations in the struggle against oppression. Zamani is amiddle-aged teacher who was once respected by thecommunity as a leader or the future. Then he disgracedhimself, and now he's haunted by the impotence of thispresent life. A chance meeting brings him up against Zani, ayoungs student activist whose attempts to kindle the flamesof resistance in Charterston Location are ludicrouslyimpractical. Both affection and hostility bind Zamani andZani together in an intense and unpredictable relationship.Finding each other means finding the common ground oftheir struggle. It also means re-examining their lives — and,notably, their relationships with women.R6.95

C 0 W T E W T SVolume 6. No 2,1985StoriesThose Were the Days by Bheki Maseko 2Runaway Recollections by Michael Goldberg 6The Life and Adventures of Matthew Pavlichenkoby Isaac Babel 9White Lies by Christopher Charles 17Grand Mai by Jan Esmond 23The Hill by G.M. Mogwe 33Go Away We're Asleep by J Makunga 35My Blood by Walt Oyi Sipho kaMtetwa 44PoemsiS.G.K., Roy Joseph Cotton 5Patrick FitzGerald 8Damian Garside, Elizabeth Villet, Thembeka Mbobo,Chris van Wyk 12Andries Oliphant, Thembeka Mbobo 22Farouk Stemmet 28Dombo Ratshilumela 32Kelwyn Sole, Cherry Clayton 34Norman Ramuswogwana Tshikovha 37Hugh Lewin 38Kelwyn Sole 41Andries Oliphant 43Keith Gottschalk, Hein Willemse, Evans Nkabinde ... 47Andries Oliphant, David Makgatho, Lancelot Maseko,Walt ka Mtetwa 48W © Q |l 11*1^ Q Editor: Chris van Wyk^ ^^^^ • %*• %^^^Front and back cover photographs: Paul AlbertsTalking Story by Mike Kirkwood 11 •The LiteMaster Story by Richard Ntuli 13 ^^^^^^^^^^i^^B^B^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^MWorking Women 24 Staffrider magazine is published by Ravan Press,Esiqithini by Jeff Peires 29 P. O. Box 31134, Braamfontein 2017, South Africa.Noma Award Acceptance Speech by Njabulo Ndebele . 39 (Street Address: 23 O'Reilly Road, Berea.) Copy-Index 42right is held by the individual contributors of allG. • material, including all graphic material, published inffH^fill^Qthe magazine. Anyone wishing to reproduce materialr^from the magazine in any form should appraoch theSusan Strachan 2,4 individual contributors c/o the publishers.Joanne Bloch 9 Printed by Galvin & Sales (Pty) Ltd., Cape Town.Gamakhulu Diniso 17 Layout and design by Mzwakhe Nhlabatsi forPercy Sedumedi 33, 35, 36, 44 The Graphic Equalizer.iRECENTLY UNBANNED.CALL ME NOT A MANMtutuzeli Matshoba, Ravan Press, 1979The stories of Mtutuzeli Matshoba, some of which were published in Staffrider have won himinstant respect from a wide range of readers. Matshoba s works cut open the nightmare ofsuffering and hatred with acutely chosen themes and a profoundly compassionate authorialpresence. The setting of the stories is Soweto after 1976. The ban imposed on this Ravanbestseller was lifted in March 1985.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 1

hoseby Bheki MasekoIllustrations by Susan Strachanere theWf''' 'tsBsmii'' '"''"' • • wlm,' JM& '•"'•'f|.W """" ~ — —/< 1~"~'" """ '-'•:: lifeUV-.- /, - W§&V / % %Jm§$^f\.M 5 \V^Jfe W L.^«w««^^- ~ . ~_ -%"""'"~"~ 1— „~~.~... 1f ft>^

quickly back to my place. When Ilooked back he gave me an 'I'll get you'look.When the bell rang that afternoon,I was among the first group at the door.But I got two stabs and a good punchon the head before I could get out.Winter was the most terrible season.There was a small stove in the centre ofthe classroom. Each pupil contributeda few cents or pieces of coal to keepthe fire burning. But the stove was toosmall to warm the whole class andbesides, most of the window-panes werebroken. Only the teachers and those infront enjoyed the heat. Although wetook turns in sitting at the front noteverybody got his share, due to thehigh number of the class.On Fridays we used to get rations ofa powder-like stuff called phuzamandla,a kind of porridge. It was served byolder boys in each class but Monde,young and diminutive as he was, wasone of the servers in our class.It was the survival of the strongestbecause one had to fight like mad tostay in the queue, and some went homewith empty mugs or tins. Monde's ilkusually took home a larger share thanmost. The teachers stayed aloof to avoidbeing pestered over a matter they couldnot solve.liBrhatata nevercame back after failing hisSub A. He became the bossof the Navarones gang.On Fridays we were dismissed earlierand the whole school would gather in anopen space in front of the classroomsfor prayers.One day, after our rations of phuzamandla,we assembled. Miss Masuku,the feared one, conducted the service.She told us in no uncertain terms to putour mugs and tins down before westarted praying.Reluctantly I placed my mug on theground and clutched it between myfeet, keeping a vigilant eye on Mondeand his friends. He was in the next row,pretending to be oblivious of mypresence. To accentuate his indifferencehe stood on his toes as if trying topeep over the shoulder of a tall guystanding before him. He always stoodbehind tall guys. Every day the teacherswould order him to stand at the front.But the next day he would be back tohis place at the back.I knew this tiny guy's presencemeant trouble. I was right because whenI opened my eyes after we had chantedamen, my mug was nearly empty. Andthere, between my mug and his feet,was the tell-tale trail of phuzamandla.So angry was I that I did not evenwait for the teacher to dismiss us. Igrabbed him- by the scruff of his shirtand seized the mug he was trying tokeep out of my reach behind him.Clinging to my shirt front with hisleft hand, he tried to get hold of themug I was holding up in the air with theother. The mug tipped, spilling thecontents which painted his face white.It was the intervention of Miss Masukuthat saved me from the gang's punchesthat had begun to rain on me.I did not need to do muchexplaining; the headmaster knew herregular visitors very well. They receivedmore cuts than I did.Bhatata never came back after failinghis Sub A. He became the boss of theNavarones gang, a position Monde &Company viewed with envy. Usually,during lunch or after school, (after theMunicipal police pass raiders hadpassed) the Navarones would prancedown the street past the school — theirhats pulled over their eyes and theirtrousers hanging low on their hips.Sometimes we found them smokinggrass at the shops. We would watch withenvy mixed with awesome fear. Butthey never bothered us — they had notime for small fish.In Standard One I made friends witha lanky fellow called Edward Masondo.I may attribute our friendship to thefact that we were both victims ofharassment. But most unfortunately, wetook different directions after schooland so could not share our fear.Edward was very fond of speakingEnglish whenever conversing with me. Ioften wonder how we communicated inthis foreign language because I couldnever distinguish English from Afrikaansthen. I usually identified Afrikaans withthe word 'doen' which was commonlyused in the text book. But it botheredme that I did not know who 'doen' was.At times I thought it was the boywearing a cap on the cover of the book.All the same we did communicate. Iwish now that I had had a tape recorder.Because of his small round face, thegang called Edward 'Babyface'. Hehated this name more than anythingelse which inspired them to intensifyits use. The fact that he was alwaysdressed formally might have added tohis vulnerability and their acts ofprovocation.I was called Gandaganda (tractor)because of my big feet. With my sister'sadvice I ignored them and this discouragedprovocation, but the namestuck. Later they modernized it toGandy.One day Edward brought his bicycleto school which in those days was very... Ilhe bike wasin the toilet. We found ithanging from therafters.uncommon. After school he was in for asurprise. The gang hung around hisbike like flies hang around a rottencarcass. Monde wanted a short ride —just a short one, while Killer sat on therear parcel carriage, holding on toEdward's neat blazer urging him tocycle on. Some threw awkward questionsat him while others rocked the bike. Hissmall face flushed, Edward was close totears.At last he got free after getting apowerful shove that nearly drove himinto a fence. I felt sorry for Edward butintervention would have been justinviting more molesting on my side.He brought his machine again thenext day and put it in front of theprincipal's office, chaining the backwheel to the frame of the bicycle.When the bell rang that afternoonmy joy for a promised short ridediminished when the gang entered mymind. I was so obsessed with the machineI had absolutely forgotten about them.To our utter surprise, the bike wasmissing. Edward's face reddened withanger.We tripped round the school yard,Edward leading the way. The gang kepta low profile, laughing openly now andthen.Eventually a good Samaritan told usthe bike was in the toilet. We found ithanging from the rafters. Edwardwanted to report the matter to theprincipal but quickly decided against it.He must have thought of the harassmenthe would be inviting. After all, Mondevisited the principal's office nearly everyday, but that did not change him. Theybid him farewell by throwing orangepeels at him.The next day he put the bicycle inthe same place, chaining it to the polethis time. When we knocked off, bothwheels were flat and the valves weremissing. He had no option but to wheelit home.'Babyface, why don't you ride yourbicycle?' ridiculed Monde, his lipstwisted into a smile of satisfaction.His face contorted in bitterness,Edward continued to wheel his squeakingmachine, casting an angry look time andagain at this pint sized guy wearingoversized trousers and a tie for a belt.Looking up at him with a mockingsmile, he adjusted his trousers now andthen.'You remind me of a teacher fromSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 3

Ihe teacher hadhardly dismissed us whenEdward gave him a hard onebetween die eyes, followed bya hot one from me.the farms, Babyface, the only differenceis that you wheel your bike instead ofriding it. Had it not been for Monde'sfriends, who roared with laughterbehind them, Edward would havestrangled him. He never brought thebicycle again.One day, just after lunch, a heavilybuilt woman clad in traditional Zuluattire and carrying two sticks, stormedinto the class. Mkhethwa followedtimidly close behind her.'Sa-wu-bo-na ma-ma!' we chanted asusual when an elder entered the classroom.But she ignored us and wentstraight to the teacher who was lookingstartlingly at the woman.'Where's the tsotsi who's provokingmy child?' demanded the woman glaringat our teacher.The teacher stared back in bafflement.T say where's the tsotsi who'sprovoking my child, can't you hear?'charged the woman pointing one stickat Mkhethwa and stamping the floorwith the other. 'My child is called thelion that sleeps in the dark forests ofAfrica right under your nose and youtell me that you don't know. Today hewas even robbed of his money forlunch.'Where's this tsotsi?' demanded thewoman turning to Mkhethwa whoquickly surveyed the room but couldnot locate Monde and Killer who hadtaken refuge beneath a bench.Someone must have informed theheadmaster for she entered the classroomand managed to cool the womandown. The culprits were hauled out,summoned to the office and punished.Among the Standard Twos there wasa stout guy with large ears andprotruding cheeks called Vincent. Hewas new at school and Monde must haveregretted his arrival because he playedrough, especially with the gang, whofeared him. The guys called him Vulture.He called Monde Mousy, usually inthe presence of the girls. AlthoughMonde hated this name he neveranswered back. With suppressed angerhe would only stretch his little mouthto its furthest, and eye Vincent withintense dislike. This indeed made Mondelook like a mouse.'I'm V.V.M. — Vincent VezokwakheMthombeni!' Vulture would boast,,

S. G. K.Roy Joseph CottonI've Heard the B Jhythm of Your Blood-FlowIMurungiYou who bear the name of Upright OneOh Straightforward Onewhy curse me with silence, my belovedyour love is the dying summerit has paled, discoloured and fallen.MurungiOh Straightforward Onewhy strike me with silence, my belovedyour eyes are the autumnwhich pales, discolours and falls.Oh Beloved Best Belovedyour silence is a rackupon which I liestretched out no moreunder you your thighswood-hard polished ebonyyour high cheeksyour eyesdivulging all secretsare stunning and alluringas the earth's most precious jewels.Murungiwhose father and father's brotherswore the oath of Batuniallegiance to Mau Mauwhose cousin Karega was torturedwhose cousin Karega was murderedwhose mother was violatedat the hand of Royalistsand you a small boy looked on.IIMurungi, Oh Belovedyou have returned to the land of your beginningand I have turned to mine.This my land is a strange, strange onethat prohibits me to love and know Afrikaas I have loved and known you.This land is a cruel cruel oneto pronounce our love a crime.Under your covers you asked of meCan it be so?I answeredYes it is so.On a night you asked of meWill not the Law of Nature triumph?Will men not be freeI answer Oh yes BelovedIt will be so.IllMurungi The Upright OneStraighforward OneYou are Afrika.I held you sensuous and languid in these my pale armsheard the rhythm of your blood-flowreceived your honey-sweetnessand you mine.Murungi'Man of Honourwhy punish me with silence?Know you not that I am bleedingtortured thoughts and limbs?You identify me with the oppressor?I am filthy Mzungu?The predator?Oh tear out my hearttoss it to hyenaslimbs to the lionthe sorcerer my soul.I am bewitched.S.G.K.OF irisoleaftwig hair,red straw inl\^*-l 3 L 1

That I had to run away from home waspreordained — astrologically infused inthe stars, the sun and the moon and theplanets. Destination Gillian's. I waseight years old and problems werealready packing in preponderously onmy weary shoulders. Problems both athome and abroad — even as far afield asthe exotic heady pastures of school.Father was preoccupied at work,wherever that was, and no longerafforded me the attention I deserved asfirst born and heir. Little brother waspresently indulging with abandon inassininely puerile pastimes, and stillbedwetting to boot. Mother was heavywith child, blossoming about in maternalblooms, totally oblivious of the treacheryshe was creating by undermining myrightful position as heir apparent — forthe second time.Five and six had been tough as hellin Grade One — starting big school andall. Seven years old in Grade Two hadbeen a breeze. In fact I could haveskipped Grade Two it had been so easy.Now eight in Standard One was provingto be just as traumatic as Grade One. Inever realised that the world was filledwith such happenings, such contemplations,such revelations. Everyone wasdoing so much! Everyone had done somuch! Their fathers and grandfathersand the rest of the paternal line, not tomention the maternals eternal — theyhad all been such busy bees makinghistory and now I had to learn all aboutit. What with double vowel sounds,some of which I was still a bit shakywith, Afrikaans, Arithmetic, etc. etc., Inow had to learn History as well! Itcould not be done! There surely werenot enough hours in the day! Limits tolife, learning and all.I had discussed it with Louis duringone cram session of spelling and we hadmade a pact to speak to the headmasterif the pressure hadn't let up by the endof winter. The seasons were mytimescale. The God-given vagaries of theweather fascinated and terrified me. Imean, winter was okay and all, but whatif God forgot (after all He had so much todo) and spring never came again?Anyway we were going to learn allabout the whys and wherefores of theweather in Standard Two — as if I didn'tby Michael GoldbergunawayecollectionsIllustratedwby Percy Sedumedire were theonly sweethearts in theclass, lovers in the true sense ofthe word. We once even played"Doctor Doctor".have enough on my plate already.Sultry summer at the beginning ofthe year had by way of some preconceiveddesign, given way to theautumnal tumbling of the leaves toclothe the earth in a multihued mantleof nature's fabric. Winter hit us one daywith her cold front from the Antarcticsomewhere and we huddled up in frontof the heater in the classroom with anew-found camaraderie. Man against theelements.Anyway Louis and I had thisarrangement to speak to our teacher'sboss when the first silkworm hatched inwhoever's silkworm box, it didn'tmatter — speak to him about the labourof learning at such a rate. In themeantime since the onset of winter,Louis was irritating me beyond belief.We shared a desk and he was constantlyrubbing his legs to keep himself warm.Rubbing, constantly rubbing, it didn'tmatter what subject we were learning.It wouldn't have been so bad, after allhe had a right to the personal maintenanceof his body temperature, butwith each forward thrust of his armsalong his thighs he bumped the undersideof the bench and then with each return,it jolted back to its former state of rest.For goodness sake, man, a boy hadtrouble enough learning real writing atthe best of times, but caligraphy underthese formidable conditions was a pipedream! I told the teacher so — I askedto be moved. Louis was seriouslyhampering my appreciation of herlearned ways — I told her.She laughed uncontrollably, almosthysterically for quite some time — astrange lady our teacher — and then shedemonstrated to the whole class a wayof rubbing your hands together topreserve your body temperature, withoutupsetting your desk.It was really quite tricky. What youhad to do was hold the palms of yourhands together, pointing your fingers tothe heavens as if you were praying forwarmer weather. Then, starting withyour right hand or your left, it didn'tmatter, you rubbed the one hand uppast the other, at the same time curlingthe fingers of the moving hand over theback of the fingers of the stationaryhand. Joint by joint — metacarpal bymatacarpal. Then the other handpushing upwards now, straightening thefingers of the first hand and curling overthe back of them in turn.Regretfully, Louis couldn't get themovement right. He was the only onein the class who couldn't do it. He didn'thave a motor co-ordination problem oranything — after all he was the only onein the class who could do a properheadstand and stay up for a minute anda half — but he just couldn't get thefinger friction concept right. I told himto practise at home. He did try, I knowit, his sister told me, but after a weekthe desk once again began to pursue itspath to peculiar performance. I hung onfor a day, but I couldn't stand it. Thistime we both went to the teacher toexplain our predicament. She laughedagain — hysterically — a strange lady ourteacher. Maybe all learned ladies laughedlike that. In the end Louis was allowedto wear his grey woollen gloves (theones his grandmother had knittedhim for Grade One, so they were a littletight now) whenever he felt the urge.Solutions to problems one at a time— painfully and patiently on.Gillian also asked to wear her gloves— being left-handed and at a decideddisadvantage when it came to fingerfriction,but the teacher stood by herLouis-only rule of gloves. I don't knowwhy. Gillian had this crazy pair ofgloves with each finger in a differentcolour which suited her fine, but theteacher was adamant.Gillian was my girl. We were the only6 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

sweethearts in the class, lovers in thetrue sense of the word. We once evenplayed 'Doctor Doctor'. In short, wecraved each other. In fact, I was planningon running away from home tonight, toher lascivious embrace; it being Fridayand my problems at home aspiring toseemingly insurmountable proportions.Tonight was the night - I was goingto lay it on them in floods of fury.Learning, learning every day, I wassuffering in my scholarly pursuitsconstantly searching for the truth,without so much as the basics of supportany young man needed and deservedfrom his family. They were all to blamefor their lack of appreciation for what Iwas achieving. Father too quiet, littlebrother too noisy and mother too busybegetting unnecessarily a larger andlarger family. Hadn't she already hit thejackpot with me, I wanted to ask her.Tonight I was going to give them myManifesto for Family Union and supportand depending on their reaction, I wasgoing to stay or leave — the decisionbeing entirely of my own choosing.I had only this morning given Gillianthe pre-arranged signal. She was going todiscuss with her mother the possibilityof my moving in with them for a fewyears. After all, we were planning onmarrying in a few years time, definitelybefore high school, in any case, and theextra years afforded to us in living inclose proximity, possibly sharing thesame bedroom, would bode well forfuture marital bliss.I chose Gillian as my girl not onlybecause of the status of her being theonly left-handed person in the entireclass. I chose her the day she made, inmy mind anyway, somewhat of acelebrity of herself. Even at that ageshe was a staunch feminist with anactive independent mind. What happenedwas, during Arithmetic she asked theteacher if she could go to the cloakroom.The teacher refused. Arithmetic was herpet subject and she didn't like anyone inthe class to miss even a minute of it.Five minutes later Gillian asked again.She did it all beautifully and everything,following the correct procedure as laiddown by school etiquette and rules. Sheraised her hand, waited for the teacherto acknowledge the signal and thenasked once again in faultless English, ina respectful tone, if she could go to thecloakroom. She added that the visit wasbecoming desperately urgent and thatshe wouldn't be away more than twominutes at the utmost. Again theteacher declined the request.It was a summer's day, heavilyovercast with pent-up promises of rain.Suddenly the rain came gushing downand, in perverse synchronisation to thepittering and pattering on the windows,there formed under Gillian's bench agrowing puddle. The girl next to herstood up, screamed and pointed, botharms outstretched, at the offendingpool. Then we all stood up, one by one,boys and girls, peering in the designateddirection. There was a hushed stillnessabout the class, the only sound beingthe rhapsodic rancour of the rain. Andthen, puppetlike I raised my hands andbegan to clap. The whole class took upthe applause, slowly at first, softlyand in time, but growing in pace andintensity with each successive clap.Gillian stood up, performed a cutecurtsey, burst into tears and ran fromthe room, grasping her raincoat abouther.The next day we performed oursacred rite of love, Gillian and me. Eachholding onto a separate branch of thepoisonous oleander, at the entrance tothe school, we swore eternal faithfulness— the wayward to be damned tohell and struck down by all the poisonfrom that particular branch onto whichhe or she was holding. I noticed thatGillian's branch was smaller than mine,but it mattered not because she waslittler than me and I was sure that thepoison, even from the smaller shoot,would do the required job.At big break that day, fired by ournew-found love we set out to practiseheadstands, in a brave bid to smashLouis's one-and-a-half minute record.Love adds new qualities to life, butmore so for boys than for girls, I think.I discovered new dimensions to thetechnique of standing on my head thatday. Love imbued me with a new senseof balance, a clearer head, a moreperceptive mind, a heightened sensitivityfor the aesthetic.I broke the one-minute barrier andmy own record on my first attempt, butthen my neck, even though strengthenedby the ardour and lust coursing throughmy veins, gave way, and I collapsed overbackwards in a dishevelled heap oftriumph. Subsequent attempts, after alengthy rest, carried me well into thesecond minute and precariously close toLouis's amazing achievement.I managed one minute fifteeenseconds that day. Gillian was encouragementpersonified. She clapped, sheshouted, she did cartwheels, she evencomposed a special headstand war-crywhich attracted half the kids on the playground.Confidentially, I've alwaysplayed better with an audience at handand it was on my final try, withthousands of schoolchildren standingaround cheering, that my little body,inspired to greater strength, withstoodthe battering of time eternal, seventyfiveseconds in all on my head, beforefading on me.W• we went tothe boys' cloakroom — weagreed that it was the lesserof two evils, a girl in theboys' rather than a boy inthe girls'.Gillian was positively hopeless. Asgifted as she appeared to be, with thatnatural feline grace of the athlete, hertalents obviously did not extend as faras headstands. She tumbled truculentlytime and time again, cussing andthrowing her lithe little body around ina robustly morbid display of disequilibrium.Back in class she ran into a problemof paramount proportions. Throughoutheadstand training I had been wearingmy school cap which afforded me thatextra bit of balance, as well as protectionfrom the elemental nature of the playgroundgrass. Sadly Gillian had nottaken the same necessary precautions.Five minutes into mental arithmetic andshe began scratching assiduously at herscalp. The young lady next to her tooknote, stood up and screamed for thesecond time in two days, pointing thistime to a runaway red ant which haddive-bombed miraculously from Gillian'sscalp, to land next to her answer to thethird sum, which incidentally wasincorrect.Bravely Gillian raised her arm andasked to visit the cloakroom. This timeno explanation was necessary, theteacher assented immediately. I alsoraised my hand requesting to accompanyher. Teacher regarded me, a dazedexpression on her face, and noddednumbly.We went to the boys' cloakroom —we agreed that it was the lesser of twoevils, a girl in the boys' rather than aboy in the girls'. We scrubbed at her antinfestedhair for the better part of thelesson, combing out the offending interlopersand drying her off as best wecould with the lining of my blazer —there being no towels.We arrived back at class, Gillian'shair still dripping and my blazer sodden.Teacher grimaced at the sight of us andresumed the mental test which she hadheld over in our absence. We wonderedat the prophetic peculiarity of Gillianbeing twice wet in two days, oncebelow and once above. We meant toask the teacher after the school day, butshe surreptitiously beat a hasty retreatand vanished. We both scored top marksin the mental test, Gillian coming firstand myself a close second.Now some months later the scene forthe runaway was set. Mother fetchedGillian and me from school — the liftschemeof love. Little brother wasSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 7

screaming his head off in his own specialway in the back seat, so both Gillianand I crammed into the front seat.When we dropped Gillian off, Iperformed once again the pre-arrangedsignal, a subtle wink of the left and thenthe right eye. Almost not a wink, just alowering of the lid. She smiled inacknowledgement. The die was cast —she would speak to her mother rightaway.I worried that mother had perchancepicked up the runaway vibe, so on theway home I set about settling hersuspicions by introducing new conceptsto the car, such as percentages, aboutwhich I had heard some prefects talkingat break. I told her as a matter of factthat I had come top of the class andachieved the remarkable score of sevenpercent for the last spelling test. Motherfrowned. I had come tops, but I wasn'texactly sure about the percentage story.Still so very much to learn.After lunch and homework, twentyfivejumps on the trampoline andchecking to see if any silkworms hadhatched, I settled down to some heavymeditation. I had to prepare in my ownmind the sequence in which I was goingto confront the family with mylamentable list of grievances. I'd startwith the lesser evils, work my waythrough the mediums and then hit themwith the heavies at the end.S, "he told methat she had had one hell ofa time convincing her motherof the absolute necessity ofmy moving in.Father always came home a littlelater on Fridays, settled into hisfavourite chair and read the paper,watched TV and drank his ritual cup ofcoffee all at the same time. Multitalented.I approached the dinner tablewith nervous foreboding. Mother lit theSabbath candles and father said theprayers. I indulged in more than myusual drop of red wine to bolster myflagging resolve.I stood up ceremoniously.'I wanna talk about a few things,'I said with soft subtle dignity. No-onepaid any attention. Father was onceagain watching TV. Mother was servingup with fine precision. Little brotherwas racing his favourite Ferrari aroundhis soup plate, using crusts of bread todemarcate the course.'I wanna talk about a few things,'I said more loudly. Still no attention.This was no good — a radical route wasto be resorted to. I waited a momentand then yelled out my introductorysentence again, at the top of my voice.This time father did look at me brieflybefore turning back to the TV. Motherwas scolding little brother who waspouring his soup in lines over the whitetablecloth.I was still standing, stunned, numbedby my inability to play out my dramaas planned. Then in a fit of direfrustration and peeve I screamed at thetop of my voice. 'You don't love me!'I burst into tears and ran from theroom. I grabbed my knapsack, prepackedwith my travelling essentialsand hit out onto the road in flannelpyjamas and gown, heading for Gillian's.Flooding tears obscured my path.Tears salted with abandonment,exasperation, helplessness, hopelessness,disbelief, fraught with pain and fear,flowed to the ground. Suddenly theearth fell away from my feet and I washeaved higher and higher towards theheavenly abode of my Maker. Deathcomes so swiftly, so surreptitiously,stalking up and snatching at thesacrificial lamb.'Of course we love you,' shoutedfather above my dying dirge. He foldedme limply over his shoulder, my facesnuggling into the warmth of his back,bumping against him as he walkedback to the house. I howled for a whilelonger, the howl subsiding to a cry, aweep, a whimper. Then I relaxed andrelief overcame me. I was twice blessed.Snatched from the Gates of Heaven andreturned to the bosom of my lovingfamily — all in one shot.Gillian phoned just before bedtimeto confirm that everything was set ather end. She told me that she had hadone hell of a time convincing hermother of the absolute necessity of mymoving in. She had forced her mother'sirresolute hand by suggesting that shemight possibly be pregnant. That alwaysmanaged to get everyone 'shook up' inthe movies, she told me wryly. Hermother had become quite flustered, buthad finally acceded to her demands,on condition that they put the babyup for adoption.I explained to her that I had reevaluatedmy situation. I couldn'tleave them just yet I told her. It justwouldn't be right. They weren't quiteyet able to cope without me. Shewas bitterly disappointed, but sheunderstood.I went to bed wondering about theconcept of pregnancy. Wishing for thecoming of spring. Hoping for a newimproved family relationship of living,loving and working together. Worryingthat my silkworms would hatch beforethe mulberry leaves bloomed. Consideringthe necessity to purchase newmarbles for the forthcoming marbleseason. Working out a plan to get myfavourite smokey back from Louis. #PatrickFitzGeraldSong for BenBen you found methin as glassWoodstock in winterBen I found yourdrunken seminarin an Alex shebeenmidnight in Guguletuwatching for copsboot full of pamphletsModderdam roadthey bulldozed the shackwhere we met othersand plotted our victorydrinking brandyplaying Crazy Eightssinging Working Class Heroreading Leninwe brawled over the caryou dented at 'bush'but you always had planswere always full of places and peopleBen I miss youyou always knewthe blood-roads aheadyour project oftaming the gangsturned their angeragainst the systemsecond time around(what went wrong?)they struck you downin Cape TownBen Louw is deadI hear the newsacross a thousand milesof exileand I hear your voice, back in '77calm in an argument's heat,reminding us of thosewho have left and who returnmay the freedom songs sungbeside your graveecho and re-echoand make us bravemay the earth around your deathrich with your memorybring forth a dark redwine of freedomPatrick FitzGerald8 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

The LifeandAdventuresof/MatthewPavlichenkoby Isaac BabelComrades, countrymen, my own dearbrethren! In the name of all mankindlearn the story of the Red General,Matthew Pavlichenko. He used to be aherdsman, that general did — theherdsman on the Lidino estate, workingfor Nikitinsky the master and lookingafter the master's pigs till life broughtstripes to his shoulder straps; and withthose stripes, Mat began to look afterthe horned cattle. And who knows, ifthis Mat of ours had been born inAustralia he might have risen toelephants, he'd have come to grazingelephants; only the trouble is, I don'tknow where they'd be found in ourStavropol district. I'll tell you straight,there isn't an animal bigger than thebuffalo in the whole of our wide region.And a poor lad wouldn't get no comfortout of buffaloes: it isn't any fun for aRussian fellow just getting a laugh outof buffaloes! Give us poor orphanssomething in the way of a horse forkeeps — a horse, so as its mind and ribscan work themselves out at the far endof the fields.And so I look after my horned cattle,with cows all around me, soaked in milkand stinking of it like a sliced udder.Young bulls walk around me — mousegreyyoung bulls. Open space around mein the fields, the grass rustling throughall the world, the sky above my headlike an accordion with lots of keyboards— and the skies in the Stavropol districtare very blue, boys. Well, I looked aftermy cattle like this, and as there wasnothing to do, I used to play with thewinds on reeds, till an old gaffer says tome:'Matthew,' says he, 'go and seeNastasya.''Why?' says I. 'Or maybe you'rekidding me.''Go,' he says, 'she wants you.'And so I goes.'Nastasya,' I says, and blush black inthe face. 'Nastasya,' I says; 'or maybeyou're kidding me.'She won't hear me out, though,but runs off from me and goes onrunning till she can run no more; andI runs along with her till we get to thecommon, dead-beat and red and puffed.7o xhy did youhang your nead, Matthew, orhang was it your some ne notion or otherthat was heavy on yourheart?'Matthew,' says Nastasya to me then,'three Sundays ago, when the springfishing was on and the fishermen weregoing down to the river, you too wentwith them, and hung your head. WhyIllustrated by Joanne Blochdid you hang your head, Matthew, orwas it some notion or other that washeavy on your heart? Tell me.'And I answer her'Nastasya,' I says, 'I've nothing totell you. My head isn't a rifle and thereain't no sight on it nor no backsightneither. As for my heart — you knowwhat it's like, Nastasya; there isn'tnothing in it, it's just milky, I dare say.It's terrible how I smell of milk.'But Nastasya, I see, is fair tickled atmy words.'I'll swear by the Cross,' she says, andbursts out laughing with all her mightover the whole steppe, just as if she wasbeating the drum, 'I'll swear by theCross that you make eyes at the youngladies.'And when we'd talked a lot ofnonsense for a while we soon gotmarried, and Nastasya and I startedliving together for all we was worth, andthat was a good deal. We was hot allnight; we was hot in winter, and allnight long we went naked, rubbing ourraw hides. We lived damn well, right ontill up comes the old 'un to me a secondtime.'Matthew,' he says, 'the masterfondled your wife here there andeverywhere, not long since. He'll get herall right, will the master.'And I:'No,' I says, 'if you'll excuse me, old'un. Or if he does I'll nail you to thespot.'So naturally the old chap makeshimself scarce. And I did twenty verstson foot that day, covered a good pieceof ground, and in the evening I got tothe Lidino estate, to my merry masterSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 9

Nikitinsky. He was sitting in a roomupstairs, the old man was, and he wastaking three saddles to pieces: anEnglish one, a dragoon one, and aCossack one; and I stuck to his doorlike a burr, stuck there a whole hour,and all to no purpose. But then he casthis eyes my way.'What d'you want?' he asks.'A reckoning.''You've got designs on me?''I haven't got no designs, but I wantstraight out to .... 'Here he looked away and spread outon the floor some scarlet saddlecloths.They were brighter than the Tsar'sflags, those saddlecloths of his; and hestood on them, the little fellow, andstrutted about.'Freedom to the free,' he says to me,and struts about. 'I've tickled all yourmaternal parents, you Orthodox peasants.You can have your reckoningif you like; only don t you owe me atrifle, Matthew my friend?''He-he,' I answers. 'What a comicalfellow you are, and that's a fact! Seemsto me as it's you that owes me my pay.''Pay!' the master shoots out, and heknocks me down on my knees andshuffles his feet about and boxes me onthe ears for all the Father, Son, andHoly Ghost's worth. 'Your pay! Andhave you forgotten the yoke of mineyou smashed? Where's my ox-yoke?I'll let you have your yoke back,' Ianswer my master, and turn my simpleeyes upon him and kneel before him,bending lower than any earthly depth.'I'll give you your yoke back; onlydon't press me with the debts, oldfellow; just wait a bit.'And what d'you think, you Stavropolboys, comrades, fellow-countrymen, myown dear brethren? The market kept mehanging on like that with my debts forfive years. Five lost years I was like alost soul, till at last the year Eighteencame along to visit me, lost soul that Iwas. It came along on lively stallions, onits Kabardin horses, bringing along a bigtrain of wagons and all sorts of songs.Eh you, little year Eighteen, my sweetheart!Can it be that we shan't bewalking out with you any more, myown little drop of blood, my yearEighteen? We've been free with yoursongs and drunk up your wine and madeout your laws, and only yourchroniclers are left. Eh, my sweetheart!It's not the writers that rushed aboutover the Kuban those days, setting thesouls of generals free at a distance ofone pace. And Matthew son of Rodionwas lying in blood at Prikumsk at thattime, and there were only five versts ofthe last march left to the Lindino estate.Well, I went over alone, without thedetachment, and going up to the roomI went quietly in. The local powers wassitting there in the room upstairs.Nikitinsky was carrying round tea andbilling and cooing to them, but when hesaw me his face fell, and I took off myKuban hat to him.'Good day,' I says to the folks.'Accept my best regards. Receive avisitor, master; or how shall it bebetween us?''It's all going to be decent and quietbetween us,' answers one of the fellows:a surveyor, I notice by his way ofspeaking. 'It's all going to be quiet anddecent; but it looks as if you have beenriding a good way, Comrade Pavlichenko,for your face is all splashed with dirt.We, the local powers, dread such looks.Why is it?''It's because, you cold-blooded localpowers,' I answer, 'because in my looksone cheek has been burning for fiveyears — burning in the trenches, burningon the march, burning with a woman,will go on burning till the Last Judgement.The Last Judgement,' I say,looking at Nikitinsky cheerful-like; butby this time he's got no eyes, only ballsin the middle of his face, as if they hadrolled those balls down into positionunder his forehead. And he was blinkingat me with those glassy balls, alsocheerful-like, but very horrible.'Mat,' he says to me, 'we used toknow one another once upon a time,and now my wife, Nadezhda Vasilyevna,has lost her reason because of all thegoings on of these times. She used tobe very good to you, usen't she? Andyou, Mat, you used to respect her morethan all the others, and you don'tmean to say you wouldn't like to havea look at her now that she's lost thelight of reason?''All right,' I says, and we two go outinto another room, and there he beginsto touch my hands, first my right handand then my left.'Mat,' he says, 'are you my destinyor aren't you?''No,' I says, 'and cut that talk. Godhas left us, slaves that we are. Ourdestiny's no better than a turkey-cock,and our life's worth just about a copeck.So cut that talk and listen if you like toLenin's letter.''A letter to me, Nikitinsky?''To you,' I says, and takes out mybook of orders and opens it at a blankpage and reads, though I can't read tosave my life. 'In the name of thenation,' I read, 'and for the foundationof a nobler life in the future, I orderPavlichenko, Matthew, son of Rodion,to deprive certain people of life,according to his discretion.''There,' I says, 'that's Lenin's letterto you.'And he to me: 'No! No, Mat,' hesays; 'I know life has gone to pot andthat blood's cheap now in the ApostolicRussian Empire, but all the same, theblood due to you you'll get, andanyway you'll forget my look in death,so wouldn't it be better if I just showedyou a certain floor-board?''Show away,' I says. 'It might bebetter.'And again he and I went through alot of rooms and down into the winecellar,and there he pulled out a brickand found a casket behind the brick,and in the casket there were rings andnecklaces and decorations, and a holyimage done in pearls. He threw it to meand went into a sort of stupor.Jm. wasn't goingto shoot him. I didn't owehim a shot anyway, so I onlydragged him upstairs intothe parlour.'Yours,' he says, 'now you're themaster of the Nikitinsky image. Andnow, Mat, back to your lair at Prikumsk.'And then I took him by the bodyand by the throat and by the hair.'And what am I going to do aboutmy cheek?' I says. 'What's to be doneabout my cheek, kinsman?'And then he burst out laughing,much too loud, and didn't try to freehimself any more.'You jackal's conscience,' he says,not struggling any more. 'I'm talking toyou like an officer of the RussianEmpire, and you blackguards weresuckled by a she-wolf. Shoot me then,damned son of a bitch!'But I wasn't going to shoot him. Ididn't owe him a shot anyway, so Ionly dragged him upstairs into theparlour. There in the parlour wasNadezhda Vasilyevna clean off her head,with a drawn sabre in her hand, walkingabout and looking at herself in the glass.And when I dragged Nikitinsky into theparlour she ran and sat down in thearmchair. She had a velvet crown ontrimmed with feathers. She sat in thearmchair very brisk and alert andsaluted me with the sabre. Then Istamped on my master Nikitinsky,trampled on him for an hour or maybemore. And in that time I got to knowlife through and through. With shooting— I'll put it this way — with shootingyou only get rid of a chap. Shooting'sletting him off, and too damn easy foryourself. With shooting you'll neverget at the soul, to where it is in a felllowand how it shows itself. But I don'tspare myself, and I've more than oncetrampled an enemy for over an hour.You see, I want to get to know what lifereally is, what life's like down our way.010 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

TALKING STORYA Staffrider feature in which writers andcritics discuss storytellers and their work.In this issue MIKE KIRKWOOD writes aboutIsaac Babel's 'The Life and Adventures ofMatthew Pavlichenko'.'You are my old master, you have had the command longenough, now I am your master' — said the slave Maurits vanMauritius to Cornelis Coetze one day in the year 1800, ona lonely farm in the Roggeveld, moments before he beat hisold master's brains out with a crowbar. No doubt words andblows to the same effect had been meted out before. Nodoubt they would be again. Nor have we outlived the dreamof the rising and the retribution. Sometimes it seems toparalyse us, culturally speaking. Obsessively contemplatingthe moment of apocalypse, the dawn of liberation and thenew society, few of our writers have been able to create thescene between Maurits and Cornelis — in all its variations —with any conviction. Perhaps Babel's version of Nemesis, setin the Russian revolutionary period, has something to teachus.Its author had, of course, one great advantage. Born inOdessa in 1896, Isaac Babel had lived through the Russianrevolution — Matthew Pavlichenko's 'little year Eighteen, mysweetheart' — when he came to write this story. Afterwards,he joined Budyonny's Cossack cavalry for the Polishcampaign of 1920. The ani-Semitism of the Cossacks (Babelwas Jewish, and so were many of the Polish civilians in thecommunities ravaged by the war) and their reckless, pulsatilephysicality (Babel was slightly built, wore glasses, and didn'tride well) made his decision to enlist with them remarkable.A number of the resulting stories (published in English asCollected Stories in the Penguin Modern Classics) turn on themixed feelings the Cossacks have about him, and on his needto find some measure of acceptance among them if he isgoing to get to grips with his subject. (One thinks ofMtutuzeli Matshoba among the migrant workers, of NjabuloNdebele or Mbulelo Mzamane and the street gangs that figurein their stories of childhood.)In deliberately seeking out experience which can beshared, and actively identifying himself with his 'material'in order to allow it to speak and tell, Babel was choosing togo down the old road of that 'timeless tradition of storytelling'mentioned by Njabulo Ndebele when he introducedthe Turkish 'teller', Yashar Kemal, in our last issue. (Washe also choosing the 'road' of the story rather than the 'map'of the novel, a mode of fiction which establishes a qualitativelydifferent connection with experience?) Other attributes ofthe storyteller stand out in him too — more than this briefarticle can hope to itemize — but this one may merit specialnotice because it touches on a theme implicit in the Staffriderliterary project from the beginning: the nature of'committed' writing. I believe that the more one considersthe possibility of storytelling in the contemporary world (the'global' as opposed to the 'organic' village, perhaps) the moreone is driven to conclude that it is the method which declaresthe committed writer rather than the subject addressed. It ishow we allow a subject to speak rather than what we make itsay that ensures its accessibility to a participant rather than areflective readership.The Long and the Short of ItAs with oral storytellers, so with the writers there are thosewho like to spin it out (another great Russian, Leskov, islike this) and those who like to cut it to the bone. Babel isdefinitely in the latter category. In this story it is not onlythe life of Pavlichenko which is anatomized in deft, seeminglycareless strokes: the ancient and modern history of ruralRussia are compacted into his few pages, together withthe political economy of the landowner's estate. Babel's-striking ability to select the most telling 'moments' in hisstory is part of this. So is the sharply focused, emblematicway in which he depicts the physical world — from the wildenergy of the horses working out 'at the far end of the fields',beloved of the peasants, to the scarlet saddle cloths 'brighterthan the Tsar's flags' on which the master 'strutted about'.Both of these skills in the writer draw on oral storytelling.The shifts in the story happen quite naturally within thenarrative style which Pavlichenko uses — a style which, oneimagines, Babel had often encountered among the Cossackshe campaigned with. This talent for laconic compression, forleaving out what it is not necessary to say, is imbedded inpeasant speech. ' "Nastasya," I says; "or maybe you^rekidding me." ' This is the style of love declarations downStavropol way.Similarly, in creating an emblematic physical worldBabel stays within the limited field of vision of his storyteller,but explores the resources of peasant experience andspoken idiom to bring out the full significance of ordinarythings. Thus Pavlichenko describes himself as being 'soakedin milk and stinking of it like a sliced udder' and then tellsNastasya that his heart is 'just milky, I dare say. It's terriblehow I smell of milk.'Pavlichenko the StorytellerIn some of his stories — like this one — Babel creates a storytellerfigure within the tale. More than this, he creates acommunity of readers-, people who, like the village audiencein the oral tradition, have something to gain from theirparticipation in the storytelling. They gain in entertainment,certainly; also by way of what Walter Benjamin 1 calls'counsel' — the kind of wisdom that can be put to use inone's own life. About counsel Benjamin remarks that 'it isless an answer to a question than a proposal concerning thecontinuation of a story which is just unfolding. To seek thiscounsel one would first have to be able to tell the story.(Quite apart from the fact that a man is receptive to counselonly to the extent that he allows his situation to speak.)'Compare this with Ndebele's formulation in our last issue:' . . . the reader's emotional involvement in a well-told storytriggers off an imaginative participation in which the readerrecreates the story in his own mind, and is thus led to drawconclusions about the meaning of the story from theengaging logic of events as they are acted out in the story.'The first community of readers suggested by the story isthat of the Cossack revolutionary soldiers immediatelyaddressed by Pavlichenko, a community of which Babel hadfirst-hand experience and which, as we have seen, played avital role in the generation of his work. A further, or underlyingcommunity is glimpsed in the narrator's references to'our Stavropol district' from which this Cossack generalcomes. It is also worth noting that the storyteller is firstidentified as someone from both these communities who isfamiliar with the story of Pavlichenko's life. It is only at thebeginning of the second paragraph, in one of those surprisestrokes through which the story is impelled forward (and thereader/listener's pleasure considerably enhanced) that wediscover Pavlichenko himself to be the narrator.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 11

Damian Garsidec9lukTo surpass the grandmastersOne must not just deprive themBut denude their inheritance.One must crawl in under the skinOf landscape — wriggle inBeneath the rough hide.Let your little incisorsBite through the fat, the uppermost crustWith its bosveld and koppiesAnd camouflage stuff.Cleave a path for your bodyThrough its neutrals and sombresTo that soft underbellyBe nourished and sluk.Pertinent devilsNothing is neutral nowThere are rivers of heartbloodThere are rivers to cross.Past grainfields of labour and dorpiesOf lawTo that mythical homelandWhere the mountains shout down'Dig as you crawlThere is blood enoughSluk.'Damian GarsideElizabeth VilletA•his citythere is a momentin this citywhen the eyes of the cityare closedand the mountain's body sleeps —even the newspaper boysare curled under their light coveringsin cornerslike caterpillars in dried leaf cocoonswaiting to emergewith newsprint wingsand the city waits to dream . . .there is a moment in this citywhen the city lies defencelessas a sleeping childthat can't be harmed —a moment between the breath inand the breath out —a moment in this city1 of my waiting breathless heartElizabeth VilletTembeka Mbobo-yUntitledambivalence is a wordthat cannot explainmy inertia.Stagnation is a pitand failing to seethe dying fires isno excuse.Hell is sort-of-comfortable,but basically rotten.I've seen and felt it —all my life.^ ^O, .,Wf widowsand orphansblack veils and ragsstrength and unitytears and laughterthe presence of an absence.windowless housesand gateless fencesbleak futures andinevitable departuresthe resonant sound ofthe knock that never comes.lunch packs without lunchesand coalboxes without coalwarm donations andendless thank yousthe echoes of laughterthat once was.permeating happinessand eerie forgetfulnessdays of chips andrays of sunshinethe presence of a newsemi-unknown and semi-wanted.white veils and velvets andlaces and flowerslaughter and tearsthe presence of knocks andhappiness and anger andhateful regrets.| |lintidedChained to womanhoodI couldn't fight nor try nor win— they thought.Unsupported I should falland rise and fall— they perceived.Insecured I would calland cry and beg— they assumed.Deserted I couldn't mendand build and— spread growth.They didn't know me . . .They may have thoughtI was just —awQman!IIlector P.It could have been anywherebut it was hereIt could have been anybodybut it was youIt could have happened anywaybut it was this wayIt could have been due to anythingbut it was thisIt could have stopped anythingbut it was youMaybe it could not be helpedby us unwary mortalsIt was never plannedbut by the jittery handsof a few . . .We remembered you againyesterday.IIwn titledI buried it in ashallow gravesomehow expectingrains to open it upthat i might geta glimpse of itagain.Chris van WykTXHE REASON,The reason whymurderers and thievesso easilybecome statuesare made into monumentsisalready their eyes are granitetheir heartsare madeof stoneChris van Wyk12 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

The I 1 ^Photographs by David JoosteBMby Richard Kichard NtuliiteMasterIntroduction and interviews byJon Lewis and Mark SwillingINTRODUCTIONFor over a year 130 MAWU members dismissed fromLiteMaster in Wadeville have been meeting three times perweek at Morena Store, Katlehong, waiting for the results of acourt case which will decide their fate. These regular meetingsmaintain the workers' morale and solidarity. They alsoprovide education. The tactics of the employer and questionsof trade union organisation are debated in detail. Thesemeetings are highly disciplined and structured — peoplespeak only through the chairperson. At the same time allmembers are encouraged to participate. The debates areinterspersed with song.Richard Ntuli's story was a collective effort. Although heprovided the main narrative his story was constantlycorrected and added to by other members. Richard Ntuli wasthe first chairperson of the first shop steward council set upon the East Rand in 1981.PHINEAS TOLO: I started working for LiteMaster on 13 May1954 — making score (doing piece work). The score was toohigh to reach. We were under pressure every day. There wasno time to go anywhere. I worked so hard — until my fingerswere bleeding and painful. The basic wage was R6.93 perweek. Working 7.00 a.m. till 7.00 p.m. and Saturday 7.00 a.m.till 4.00 p.m. you could earn R9 to Rll.I joined MAWU on 7 March 1981. Before the union cameworkers had no power. There were no strikes. If you talked,if you were late, if you mentioned wages, if you didn't makethe score — then you were chased out. So as soon as youreached the score they increased it.DAVID KHUBEKA: I started working for LiteMaster on23 September 1963. I worked in the Automatic Departmentoperating many machines. We had to work faster all the time.storyI was changed to one machine making lampholders. I wasworking so hard that my hands were burning and bleeding.During that time management were 'boxing' the workforce.If you said anything you were chased out — no goingto the office to discuss it.When a foreman wanted to move you, you were takenroughly — not asked nicely.A white mechanic was hitting a black worker — and theworker was chased out.The work was dirty but there were no overalls. Duringthat time you were not allowed to ask for an increase. Ifthere was an increase it was one or two cents — no more.They were chasing out workers all the time. There was nounion then. Before MAWU came there was a TUCSA union,but they started by seeing management and then came to us.This was not the right way.WORKING FOR LITEMASTERI started working for LiteMaster on 19 January 1975. Theytold me there is a score (production target) at LiteMaster. Iasked them what is a score? I told them I had come to doany job and I know all the jobs, so they employed me. MrLampke and Mr Mdamane employed me.I first worked in the Appliances Department makingtoasters, irons, fans and table-lamps. There were no overallsat the time. I worked there for eight months. I then movedto the Stamping Department. I was sent all over the factorydoing different jobs. I told them I only wanted to do onejob. I was left alone with five machines. I made parts fortoasters. There was a coloured man, Len Con, who set themachines. He was a clever guy because he kept his job.There was a time when they gave me an increase of threecents. I took the amount out of the envelope and gave itback to the foreman because I was not satisfied.After they realised I was a hard worker I was shifted toSTOP PRESSVICTORY FOR WORKERS!Nearly 2 years after thedismissal of 65 Litemasterworkers, they have nowwon their jobs back withback pay as from 10 November1984 by order of theIndustrial Court. Throughoutthis period they continuedto maintain disciplineand solidarity. ThirtyLitemaster workers were,however, not awarded theirjobs back. Ntuli promisesthat they will continue tofight to have these workersreinstated.Richard Ntuli points out the LiteMasterfactory.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 13

meeting we — the LiteMaster workers — approachedmanagement to ask for an agreement, to see if they wouldwork with MAWU. The management was still working withthe liaison committee. We asked the question: 'Who electsthe shop stewards and the liaison committee?' We also havethe right to remove them. We asked the liaison committee:'What good have you done for workers?'They answered: 'We have persuaded management to buildgood toilets. We have asked them to build a canteen wherewe can have meals with the white workers. We have askedthem to make good gardens around the factory.' I answered:'We have toilets in the location or you can answer the call inthe veld. We are here to work, not to eat — we eat in thelocation. We are not here to relax in green gardens and lookat beautiful flowers. What have you done for workers?'A union member makes a point at a meeting.the Stores. We worked hard in that department — with barehands and wearing only dustcoats.There was a misunderstanding over bonuses. I refused R7because I was working hard. This was increased to R21. Itwas coming only to me — not to the others. They tried tokeep me quiet. At this time they were moving me arounddepartments to work on sorting. This was 1977. I wasconnected with some black consciousness guys and theyshowed me how to secure the position for blacks.JOINING OUR UNIONI had read about the Natal Metal union joining our union inthe newspaper Ilanga. There was a guy from Salcast inBenoni and he took me to the Bree Street offices of theFOSATU Project. (The FOSATU Project was set up torecruit members before extending industrial affiliates in theEast Rand). There I met an organiser, Aaron Mati, whoexplained how the employers rob the workers and abouttrade unions. Andreas and I joined. When we got back to thefactory we recruited five guys and took them to the officesin Johannesburg. They also joined. After that we spread it toall the workers. I was called in to see the foreman, MrLampke. He told me that if I was not satisfied with the jobI must go and find another. I replied that if he was not happyhe should look for another job as well.This was 1979. With so many guys joining we withdrewfrom the FOSATU Project to join MAWU. It was difficultto speak to workers about the union. But at this timemanagement tried to bring in its own union and this gave usa chance, a platform to explain what a union was.From 1979 secret meetings were held outside the factoryat lunchtime with Moses Mayekiso of MAWU. We wereformulating ways of organising the workers inside thefactory. On Saturdays we would visit the MAWU offices toask what is a union, what will it do for the workers. Asmembership grew we met on alternate Saturdays inJohannesburg and in the locations — at Kwesime Hostel andthen Intokoza Higher Primary School.By this time management knew what was going on andsome people were speaking evil to them about me.One day at Kwesime Hostel in Katlehong we wereconfronted by the police. They gave us fifteen minutes toget out. Our membership was very high there. At thefollowing meeting in Johannesburg we elected shop stewardsand met with shop stewards from Scaw Metals, NationalSprings and Henred Fruehauf. In 1980 the office wasopened at Morena near Katlehong and after that we startedto hold local shop steward council meetings.At this time Moses Mayekiso and I planned a meeting atthe Hall in the location and sent out pamphlets. The purposewas to organise all the workers of Germiston. After theTHEY TRIED TO CONFUSE THE WORKERSWhen management tried to get us to work with the liaisoncommittee we refused. There they tried to confuse workers.Gerald Mamabolo, the personnel officer, was sent to askworkers if they knew about MAWU and to tell them therewas already a union and it was the same thing. In the endthere was a vote of workers. Out of 300 workers only 19voted for the liaison committee. The rest voted for the shopstewards. From then on we met with management, This wasin 1981.At the first meeting with management we demanded aminimum of R2.00 per hour and an increase of twenty centsper hour across the board. The company told us they hadno money. We fought vigorously. We knew production wasgoing well. At the second meeting they said they would givefive cents — not more. We reported back to members to takethe mandate after each meeting. At the third meeting theyoffered eight cents and then it was deadlock. The next daythe Technical Manager, Paul Derer, asked to meet with onlytwo of the shop stewards — myself and Gibson Xala. It wasnot easy. We pressed hard. In the end we were offered tencents.When we reported back to the workers we were mandatedto tell management that we were not satisfied and to ask theTechnical Manager to come and address the workers. Whenhe came he was asked many questions, but he could notanswer and left us standing without solutions. The workerscalled him back to explain. He then ordered us back to work,but no one moved. The shop stewards tried to speak to himagain. Paul Derer said T can fire twenty workers now andhave twenty at the gate and pay them more than you get.' Healso said we were not using our brains in asking for aminimum of R2.00 per hour. Then he said we were alldismissed.When we reported back he followed us, We told him to goback to the office and arrange our payments immediately.Then the workers all agreed to go back to work. All thishappened before 3 o'clock tea time, so it did not take long.When Paul Derer returned he pretended to be surprised tosee us working, and said he had prepared our pay packets. Hetold us that there were some elements who should be fired.At 5.00 p.m. the paymaster and the managers were waitingat the gate with the pay trolley to pay everyone out. Theworkers refused to accept this and Samson Dlamini and Iopened the gates to let workers out. Next morning —Thursday — we started work as normal but there were noclock cards. Nothing happened that day, but the foremanrecorded that we were working.SILENCE BETWEEN MANAGERS AND WORKERSOn Friday the clock cards were returned. Now there was14 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

silence between management and workers. Friday afternoonwe got paid, but we were suspicious when the pay trolleystarted at the last department instead of from the office asusual. Some people's packets were not in the trolley and theywere told to go to the office for their money. Mr Xala and Iaccompanied workers to see what was going on. The vicechairmanof the shop stewards had already accepted hispacket, which included his unemployment card. Twentytwowere dismissed.THE UNION STEPS INWe informed the union. The union rep came the next weekand Stood at the gate to see management block the 22 fromentering the premises. He went with them to collect their payand to check what papers they were given to sign. This wasOctober 1981.The union then went to the Industrial Council Court todemand reinstatement. The struggle was hot; some cowardswithdrew from the movement. The dismissed peoplecontinued to meet in the Morena office to hear what washappening in the factory, and with the Industrial Council.Inside the factory we put pressure on with a go-slow. We helda meeting with MAWU officials from Cape Town andPietermaritzburg and the surrounding areas to discuss theproblem and to encourage the workers in the struggle.When management tried to get us to work overtime tocover for the dismissed workers, most people refused butmanagement approached a few individuals who agreed. Thesepeople were confronted and beaten. They were forced tostay in the factory at night. They phoned the manager forhelp with transport, but he was no help to them — he justwent back to bed. Next day they all went home, but theywould be paid for the day. I asked Paul Derer if I could alsogo home to sleep and still get paid? He asked, 'Who beat theovertime workers?'Next day we all received the December bonus and thenthe company closed down for the holidays. During that timewe contacted lawyers to continue the case. When wereturned to work in January 1982 the management was stilltalking about overtime, but now no one tried to workovertime. Management was annoyed at the case and said if Iattended I would be fired. I attended the case and on the lastday the director took me back to the factory in his car.There was no discussion, only silence. As a result of the caseall the workers were re-instated with six weeks back pay forhalf the time they were out. When they returned on Mondaythe company refused to let them in, so Mayekiso and BernieFanaroff arrived to talk with management. They said thesepeople had been fighting and stealing food from the canteenand that they only had work for three workers. Mayekisoreported back to the 22 workers. They said they were notprepared to send only three back. They had all been firedat the same time for the same reason.We reported this to the Johannesburg office, who wentback to the lawyer. The company agreed to meet the unionwith Mayekiso and Fanaroff present. The management calledin the workers and each was sent to their previous jobs. Somewere not given back their jobs: Wanda Masemola — a driver —was employed as a gardener. Livingstone Nagoxo — aninspector — was made a clerk, and Gibson Xaba was movedfrom storekeeper to parts supplier. The 22 workers receivedtheir back pay and found that money had been deducted forthe pension fund for twelve weeks.MEETING AT MORENAAfter two or three days a general meeting was held at MorenaStore when we planned to go ahead with negotiations for arecognition agreement.Negotiations were tough. We met sometimes three timesa week with management for six months; each time there wasa deadlock. The Agreement was signed on 22 July. Most ofthe problems were over grievance procedure. By this time wewere also pushing for another increase, but managementwould not agree to two sets of negotiations at once.About this time management introduced the 'value arch',with two workers from each department meeting managementto plan the jobs.AN UGLY INCIDENTThere was also an ugly incident at this time. A group ofworkers who belonged to Steel, Engineering and AlliedWorkers Union went to management complaining ofintimidation by MAWU. The management called in the policeand these workers pointed out some of our members. Mostof the shop stewards were on a training course at theUniversity; only three were left in the factory. Two werearrested. The accused were called in to the office, told therewas something wrong with their pay packets, and then put inthe police van. The third, Enoch Khowane, suspected andrefused to go to the office — so the police came into thefactory to take him. Everyone stood up and followed thepolice. The police pulled him into the van and drove off. Theworkers refused to go back to work. Management phonedthe union to complain that workers were not working. Therest of the shop stewards returned; by this time the workershad gone. Management called the stewards into the officebut we refused to go.On Monday the Elsburg police went to the location andarrested more members, including Samuel Skhosane, PeterMdonsele and Selby Shabalala. The three arrested on Fridaywere released on R300 bail, after being charged under theIntimidation Act. Six people were arrested during the week,but the company had them released because of the pressureof the workers.WE ASKED FOR EXECUTIVE CARSFrom there we demanded that management give us transportto go and lay charges against the non-MAWU people — asmanagement had given them transport. We were offered atruck. We refused and asked for the executive cars. We weretaken up to the Elsburg police station in two Mercedes, twoGolfs, six Audis, and a Ford three litre. The stationcommander tried to get us to drop charges — but we wouldnot because he had accepted the earlier case. We returned inthe cars, with the station commander, to hold talks with thecompany to settle out of court.The company said they were not responsible for thearrests. We said they had provided the transport to the policestation. The commander said he was going to stop the case.We were given papers to sign to drop our case against theothers, but we refused. When the case came up — on 4 November1982 — it was dropped. All this disturbed negotiationswhich only resumed in January 1983. Then the directorresigned and we were told there could be no morenegotiations until his replacement arrived on 1 May.In 1981 we had received the Industrial Council increaseplus ten cents. In 1982 we just received the IndustrialCouncil increase. We kept pushing management and in March1983 got twenty cents plus a promise of ten cents to be paidin July (the starting rate was R1.58 at this time). We receivedthe extra ten cents in July for one week, then we were allfired. But before this they fired the man responsible for the'value arch'. Forty were retrenched, a technical manager, MrHome, was fired because he was on our side. On the twelfthSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 15

or thirteenth of July we were all dismissed and then one daylater selectively re-employed. A list of 88 were not takenback. The management said we were fighting, carrying barsand striking. But stoppages were caused by managementrefusing to negotiate with workers. The sacked workersformed a steering committee at Morena. We met managementwho said the 88 would be re-employed group by group. Bythe following day management started hiring colouredworkers. Those members left in the factory started to leaveto join us at Morena; it was obvious they would have to teachthe job to the coloureds — and then be fired themselves. Thecompany sent a security guard to Morena to see what washappening and to complain that workers were being beatenand told not to work. This was not true.WE TOOK THE CASE TO THE INDUSTRIAL COURTIt took a long time to get our case to the Industrial Courtdue to misunderstanding with the MAWU organisers. Thefirst lawyer we saw believed the company's side of this story.The general secretary at the time, Mr Sebabi, said we had aweak case and it would cost too much. In the end we usedour own pension contributions to pay a deposit for a lawyerto take the case. In the early days we went to the East RandAdministration Board. They said they would not register anynew workers for LiteMaster. At the Manpower Departmentthey sent us next door — but they would not help us. On2 May 1984 our case was heard before the Industrial Council,but there was deadlock and it was referred to the IndustrialCourt. We are still waiting for the case. Of the original 88dismissed and the 40 who supported them, 100 to 130 stillmeet three times a week. We meet to push the case and toteach the merits of unity. Someone from Wits came to teachabout union activity.WAITING FOR JUSTICEThere have been several reporters come here and a womanfrom Germany enquired about our case. LiteMaster's headquartersare in Germany. That was in August or September1983, and we haven't heard anything since then.It has been very difficult without work. We had to dependon neighbours and friends. We wrote letters for assistance butthere has been little outside support. Now many of themembers are behind with rent and have been served witheviction notices.In LiteMaster there are still some union members left butwe hear rumours that most have had to leave the union. Thestop orders come to only R17 or R19 a month and subs areR1.20 each.YOUNG MALE WORKER: I blame the government which isin favour of the white population. We are suffering becauseof the colour of our skin. No white suffers. The unions werecreated to solve this problem.FEMALE WORKER: I am still prepared to go forward. Iam not prepared to work for a company which has no unionin it.MALE MIGRANT WORKER: In the homelands you find aman is given a place which is full of trees and this is supposedto be the field he is to cultivate. First it has to be cleared andat the first harvest you may only get 100 bags. But next timeyou will try to get more. In other words I am still preparedto go forward with the struggle.All of us are prepared to go forward with the struggle.Phambili NgnoForwardAndries W. Oliphant Farouk StemmetT. he Invisible MenThe men who left Ulundi, Umtata, SalisburyAnd Lorenzo MarquesFor the city of goldWhat happened to them?They leftFirst on foot,Then on horseback.Later on wagons.Now they leave on railway busesAnd overcrowded third-class trains.Does gold make man invisible?Who built the skyscrapersAnd tend to the gardens of luxurious homes?Who inhabit hostels,Crawl out of shacksAnd sleep with women who worship men?Coming in from a windswept nightTo the warmth of a caveI am told:Gold makes man live, underground.In Maputo the men who left for the city of goldArrived triumphantly with Frelimo.In Harare they marchWith the Seventh Brigade.In Umtata, Ulundi and GoliI continue searching for the men who dig gold.Andries W. OliphantU ntitledanother just-too-short weekend draws to a closewhileanother much-too-long week looms aheadand like all faithful cogs in the unstoppable machineI will take my place.Whenever I canI quietly slip outof the unstoppable machineand lodge myself into the new one:the one not quite complete,the one only just starting to move,but the one which promises, once in motion,to not merely stop the unstoppable,but to put it out of existence —totally, completely, once and for all!I feel comfortable in this new machine —for it is not of iron and steel,but of flesh and blood . . .Farouk Stemmet16 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

Illustrated by Gamakhulu Dinisom'My name is Johnny!'.He said it with such pride, suchassurance that I didn't doubt it for amoment. I had at the time, other thingson my mind and had resented theintrusion of the shrill doorbell on myprivacy. I instantly regretted not havingpeeped down the hall through theglassed front door to see who it was.Had I looked, I wouldn't have answeredit. Shit! Not another begging black manwith the inevitable yellowed formalletter proclaiming the right to collectmoney with the small shabby blackdog-eared donation book — Smith50 cents, Mrs Malherbe 30 cents ... allin pencil, all spidery, all resentful. Allsuccumbing to either some taut conscienceor obscure Christian catechism. Isuppose I had taken pride in neverhaving scrawled in that book — thosesupplicating black men or sometimessnotty nosed umfaans could do whatthey like with my 'donation'. Butlike a ringing phone, I was consumedwith curiosity as to who was at mydoor. And then, seeing the same oldritual again, the listening to the halfsob half truth, half untruth story ofvital bus fares or the train or deadfathers or the church gentleman withthe officially stamped see throughplastic folder — but all untruths. And ifI didn't have money, then it was candlesor old clothes. The countless times thatafter half listening to the requests orholding up my hand to signify theirvictory over my reticence to donate, Iwould leave the now silent figure,fingering his tatty black hat while I halfclosed the door — not shutting him outbut not inviting him in — freezing it allfor a moment in time and obeying thedarkening of my fortunate white skin,searching through the small change; thelittle dilemma of how much to giveknowing that Mrs Malherbe had giventhirty cents. I didn't have that, perhapsI had a fifty or ten.Fifty was out of the question — twofifties make a rand, so ten it was. Bothweathered hands appeared gently totake my little offering — the little cheappay off. He looked down at the shinypiece, no doubt disappointed, turnedand left. I knew he would react like that— ten cents, not even worth the traditionalgesture of those two unarmedhands. What did he expect? A rand?And so, after paying off my dues, Ireturned to my own comforts, momentarilyatoned, discharged of my duty asone 'on the other side'. And then,sitting down, consumed with thedoubt that I had not shut the doorfirmly, that the Yale had not slottedstaunchly into its female slot — it doesthat sometiems so again I got up andchecked. It was shut, securely. Until, ofcourse, the next prick arrived. The sameritual. The same reaction. The samehunched black figure shuffling away tobe greeted by the hysterical barks of myneighbour's grubby poodles.le gazed atme with hooded glazedtired eyes, cold with noemotion on his wrinkledshiny features.But not Johnny, Johnny was different.My name is Johnny — joyfullyslurred with so much aplomb and thesame sinking feeling as his fetid breathforced me to step back, the feeling thatI would have to listen to yet anothertragedy which he appeared to resolve indrink. I half listened, bored with theincomprehensible slurs through a toothlessmouth. Johnny was small, painfullythin — a little light brown face withalmost Bushman features that seemedbarely supported on a scrawny neck. Hewas dressed in filthy blue overalls andtorn veldskoens — shiny and gaping withage . . . too big of course.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

'What do you want Johnny,' I saidin desperation — anything to resolve thislittle farce.He stopped his blubberings a fewmoments after I had tripped up hisramblings. He gazed at me with hoodectglazed tired eyes, cold with no emotionon his wrinkled shiny features. I don'tthink he really saw me, he was toopissed for that, I was staring at a blindperson. Slowly, out of the depths ofdespair, he geared himself to speak again— a slow smile creased his face.'No master.''I am not your master.'He laughed at that. Not out loud —that must have died long ago.'No master,' he repeated and I let itgo-'What can I do for you Johnny.''No you see master . . . 'He swept an unsteady hand in thegeneral direction of my colourlessgarden.' . . . I'll do a good job . . . Ja JohnnyJohnson will do a good job for youMaster.'He paused to gather his thoughts,swaying all the time and then he continued. . . rambling on again abouthow 'good' the job would be. And whilehe talked, I looked at the crumblingconcrete footpaths that had beenseverely gripped by rampant Kikuyuand then at the 'flow garden' — over runwith everything but, and buried underdecomposing warm grass cuttings that Ihad been too lazy to clear up a weekago.'OK Johnny.'I said knowing that it would requirea bigger donation but at least one withobvious results.I then walked out with the littlepissed man into that very hot sun andgave in simplistic terms my idea of howthe garden should look. Armed with anold rusty pair of shears, JohnnyJohnson set to work. I watched him fora few moments as his first hesitant snipsmissed the weed and lopped off theonly blooming wild flower that gracedmy front wilderness. Not wanting to seeanymore I quickly turned away, bitterlyregretting having 'employed' this sadjack of all trades (or so he claimed). Ibriefly thought of the rules and regulationsof employing black labour, but notknowing them, disregarded them.•lor the restof the afternoon, heplodded fitfullyaround the garden -extracting the more obviousweeds in his stupored state.An hour or so later, the little forgottenman rang my doorbell for a longtime. I had to answer. He stood there —sweat pouring down his forehead.'I'm hungry master.'It was inevitable, how bloody boringbut I had to feed him. I shut the doorand walked through to the kitchen,cooked up a couple of fried eggs andsmothered two purposely thick slices ofbrown bread. It occurred to me that heprobably only ate white bread, when heate, but I only had brown because I hadbeen led to believe that it was healthierfor me. Well he needed some health.And then the debate of what to presentthe meal on. Was it to be the tin platewith the old bent knife and fork and theplastic mug? (They like plenty of sugarin their tea don't they?) I placed it on achina plate, an odd one from no set. Ihadn't realised that it was cracked.So bearing the coarse offering, I tookit to him which he received with theexpected enthusiasm. After that, I lefthim to his own devices but couldn'thelp noticing the apparent lack ofprogress in my garden. Still, it was stillearly, he had all day — he started at tenso he should at the least finish at five.Or so I thought, at least that's what Iwould have expected from me — butthen Johnny Johnson was not me.About half an hour later, hecalled me again, not through the doorbell but shouting from the back door. Iwearily stopped my sedate activity andstrolled to the kitchen door. There hestood with a scrupulously clean plate inhis hands with both knife and fork laidneatly across it. He had washed it. Itook it together with the thanks. Iwashed it anyway although not rightthen, after all I didn't want to insulthim.For the rest of the afternoon, heplodded fitfully around the garden —extracting the more obvious weeds inhis stupored state. I despaired, andconsidered how much this was allworth, knowing full well that I couldhave completed the job in a few hours.But my decision to employ him in thefirst place was made all the morepalatable by the easing of myconscience, for three rand. For amoment, my mental debate consideredthat he needed it. Three rand wouldbuy a can of pilchards, bread andcigarettes although he did at a laterstage borrow some of my tobacco (thatbit that had dried out too much for myown use) and rolled it into a scrap ofnewspaper. When I paid him, I knewthat his labours were not worth it butI could afford it, what was three randto me? And so, I had the feeling as hestared at the money in his hand that hehad expected more but I was determinedthat that was my limit. He looked upat me in silent appeal.'Look Johnny, that's all I have at themoment — I have to go to the bank.'He didn't answer, didn't believe, butmerely left me, mumbling his misfortune.And in time I forgot all aboutJohnny Johnson, I had so many thingson my mind and apart from that I leftmy house for work I had in CapeTown, a month's stay in a little heaven,that I would have liked to makepermanent.| |• | |er role as the'live in lover' deterioratedquickly and anyway,she had not bothered tocut the grass.During my absence, I had organisedan actress to look after my place. Thearrangement was at that time fraughtwith ulterior sexual undertones. I haddearly hoped that on my return, the'lodger' would stay thus leading to'something' more without the problemsof haunting the occasional boringactors' party for women and the -accompanying incumbencies of cost andritual to get her into bed. It would, Ihoped, happen 'naturally', a quietevening, too much wine and the 'ahwell', that was good; a brief partnerproving the membership of that not soexclusive club or normality in theextremely competitive milieu of actors.And indeed, it did happen as I hadplanned it, an interlude that soon dulledwhen I discovered that on a night's stayof a female friend that my 'lover' wasbisexual, an activity which I couldplainly hear from the other room inthe hush of the late night, but fromwhich I was excluded. Her role as the'live in lover' deteriorated quickly andanyway, she had not bothered to cutthe grass which had now grown tounmanageable proportions. She hadstayed however, it suited me. Then, Ilike to think that whatever had passedbetween us had resolved itself into afriendship. But I realised that just as Ihad been using her, she had used me. Itcaused no great problem to me for Ileft the house for another few weeksafter sorting out the grass problem.I returned to Johannesburg in thelate evening to find an unfamiliar blackman heating a broken blackened potover a ten litre drum outside my garage.I immediately confronted the brash,comfortable, but still oh so attractivelady.'Oh that . . . ' she replied: 'Simonhad no place to stay, and you weren'tusing the garage.'Which was true but I could see the18 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

inhabitants of the flats opposite gawkingdown into my yard and feared theirreaction to this intrusion into their safewhite area. That evening, I felt that Ihad to resolve the problem. I could notdeny that my garage was vacant, but allthe same, I feared the decision that shehad taken so lightly. After all, thegarage was not fit to live in by anyone,or so I desperately wanted to believe.I took a torch with me and knockedon the decaying doors. The hubbubinside immediately ceased. At thatmoment, I was so aware of the darkenedflat windows opposite, hoping that nonewould light up. I peeked through thegaps in the wood and could just discernthe light from a candle and a hissingprimus stove. I knocked again. A fewmoments later, the door opened andJohnny stood there in a string vest and adark overlarge pair of trousers. Therewere seven people in that garage and asI paused on the step, I could see in theflickering clandestine light, bodies underscrappy blankets or newspapers. Therewas a smell of soured cooking andsmoke.'Johnny, you can't stay here, nor canyour... 'He said nothing and I realised thatnothing could be resolved then.'OK then, tomorrow, I want everyoneout.'I left it at that, postponing theinevitable tearing of my conscience. Ihad to explain my stance.'It's the police Johnny, what happensif they raid the place?'But it didn't happen for five days.Johnny had given me the stock answersthat the garage was (although unfit tolive in) at least better than stayingexposed in some rotten disused backyard,open to raids and the elements.During those five days, I tried to extricatethe problem.'Johnny I told you, you and yourfriends . . . ''My wife . . . ''Yes I realise Johnny, but you can'tstay here . . . ''Where must I go?''I don't know Johnny . . . whathappens if the police raid me?'He was as much in the dark as I wasbut I bitterly resented being the target,the guilt of something that I had nevercreated. On the fifth evening, when Ihad returned from a party, flushed withdrink, the doorbell was rung incessantly.I apologised to the friend I had broughtback for coffee and walked down thedarkened hallway to the front door. Iopened it and a torch was flashed intomy eye. I couldn't see who it was but Ismelt officialdom, it seemed then toemanate from the uniform that theSergeant was wearing.•n my drawnstate I then attemptedto placate him.'Good evening officer,' I said in mymost endearing politeness.'Ja no . . . ' was all he muttered as hepushed himself into the hallway, 'Areyou the owner of this property?''I rent it.''And is that your garage?'I couldn't deny it. With my affirmationI invited the burly sergeantin, but he refused to sit down. I noticedthat he left his torch on despite the welllit lounge.'We've had complaints . . . ''Would you like some coffee . . . 'He continued unhearing,' . . . and we've just checked, youhave seven blacks in your garage.''Er, yes sergeant, they had nowhereelse to go.''Did they have your permission?'I paused before I answered, bitterthat something that had always beenbeyond my control, now confronted mein that something that I had feared allalong. Johnny and his friends hadnowhere to go, I couldn't throw themout despite my begging for them toleave.'No officer, they did not have mypermission, you see I was away in ... ''Five hundred rand my friend, jafive hundred rand for allowing blacksto stay illegally on your property.'I was stunned and resorted to thesupport of my friend who remainedsilent.'But where can they go? For humanity'ssake I . . . ' He curtly interruptedmy emotional response.'Human is not worth five hundredrand.'He paused here, resplendent in thecrass authority vested in him.'And if they are here tomorrownight, that will be one thousand rand.'My friend burst out in righteousindignation.'But where do they go!'The sergeant ignored him.'You will appear in court . . . 'He issued the time and place. In mydrawn state I then attempted to placatehim and bitterly suppressed my rageagainst the people in the flats opposite,but not to Johnny, who later stoodsilently before my tirade. The nextday they had gone.A few weeks later, on the alloteddate, I duly presented myself in theMagistrates Court in Brixton. My suitfelt uncomfortable, and ill fitting forI had not worn it for so long. Most ofthe cases were conducted in murmuredAfrikaans and I understood little. Evenless of the proceedings for I had neverbefore appeared in a court. All I couldsee was the interminable cases of theaccused with bowed heads bearingwitness in the stand but achievingnothing. And the subdued guilty facesreceiving sentences stoically and thenthe trooping down to the cells. Myinterest waned often and I felt thatperhaps I would not be called after all. Ithen realised in the droning monotonyof the court that smelt so heavily ofblacks and fear that I had not beensubpoenaed, nor had I been summonsedfor 'illegally harbouring black persons.'My indignation grew as the minutesdrew on. Perhaps I had the wrong datebut then in all the casual comings andgoings of policemen in uniform, and inplain clothes, of prosecutors in blackgowns and the bespectacled boredmagistrate, I saw the sergeant enter,conferring in lowered tones with aconstable. His uniform was crisplypressed and in his hand he bore a brownfile which he handed into the clerk ofthe court's desk. Having done so, helooked over the public gallery and sawme. He came across, oblivious ofsentence being passed in duly subduedtones over some trespassing garden boy.I smiled up at him, thankful perhapsthat at least there was now purpose inmy presence. I also smiled to curry hisfavour. I slid across the extremely hardwooden bench as he approached. Hebent down to whisper something intomy ear in conspiratorial tones.'You could make it ... 'I involuntarily replied that it was apleasure but knew that it was farfrom it. I patted him in a friendly, warmfashion on his shoulder. He then walkedback to the front bench and settledback, satisfied. Still perplexed with theproceedings my concentration wanedagain until out of continuing stupor Iheard, or thought I heard my namecalled. But then the street addresswas wrong, they had named the oneparallel to mine. After a few drawn outmoments, the magistrate scanned thegallery for any reaction. There was noneso the clerk repeated the call. It wascertainly my name but again the wrongstreet. Could I get out on what is knownas a technicality? The thought flashedthrough my head. The sergeant, in histightly bound uniform turned roundand stared at me.B• V u t they know mein Pretoria, Johnny Johnson,yeh definitely sure they knowme, they know it.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 19

I shrugged an embarrassed smile butanswered his silent bidding.I walked a little shakily to the wrongdock, that of the accused. Themagistrate mumbled something and thecourt clerk directed me to the witnessstand. He coughed. On cue, the blackgowned gentlemen floated across.'Is your name . . .? 'I replied in my deep booming voice.'And you live at ... 'I corrected him there which was dulyrecorded.'Do you swear to tell the truth, thewhole truth, and nothing but the truth,so help you God?''I do.'The accused were solemnly led, allseven of them into their stand.The prosecutor came up to me. Ilooked down at his tightly curled greasedhair. After a moment he turned to meand whispered:'If they did have your permission tostay in the garage, they'll only becharged with staying illegally in a whitearea but you'll be charged with illegallyharbouring them, minimum fivehundred rand. If however they did nothave your permission, it'll be a fine andjail for trespassing . . . 'Did it matter either way? It is truethat they were staying there, that it wasmy property. How would I then look tothe court?'Did the accused have permission tostay on your property?''No sir.'He wrote down my reply as theaccused were allowed to cross questionme since they had no defence attorney.The black policeman explained theprocedure to each one in turn. Each onemerely shook his head and lowered it.So it was with the first five. The ritualof justice in defence carried on slowlyand methodically until the sixth. Heblasted his rage against me.'You lie, I came to you that day, I'dbeen in hospital and needed a room torest in and you said yes!'He lifted his shirt showing a heavybandage strapping his waist. I wasstunned, shocked, silent. Me lie? I hadnot seen him before. The magistratestared at me, willing an answer which Icould not give. Unsure of himself now,he dismissed that evidence. And now itwas Johnny's turn. What would he saynow remembering back on the occasionsthat I had begged him to leave?Johnny stood up straight, proudly, 'Iam a coloured your Lord.''Where are your papers?'I lost them when I was drunk, myLord.''But you are coloured.''Yeh, definitely sure, I have nocrimes, I was never six months.''You are very dark for a coloured.'He was too, I had never thought ofhim as that. Coloured, he was alrightthen, he could stay where he liked, butnot in my garage.'Why did you not re-apply for newpapers?''Where do I find bus fare and photographs?'he replied.'But they know me in Pretoria,Johnny Johnson, yeh definitely surethey know me, they know it.'The magistrate, frustrated by thisupsetting 'technicality', dismissed meabruptly along with the case againstJohnny. The other six I never saw again.I smiled broadly at the Sergeant as I leftwith a slight shrug, leaving that vilesmell of fear absorbed in the wood, andthe even viler defilement of my conscience.What I did, what I said, I did formyself — perhaps then the Sergeant wasright, I couldn't afford humanity at fivehundred rand a night.It was months later before I sawJohnny again, it was a replay of the firsttime I had seen him. He still had theannoying habit of 'sitting' on the doorbellas he swayed, bleary eyed beforethe front door. I can't say that I wasparticularly pleased to see him again. Iknew that I would employ him again forno other purpose but to salve my guilt.Certainly what pathetic effort heexpended on my garden would nevershow.Beyond my wooden fence whichdivides my house from the vacant lotbehind lies a rotting car, and uncaredfor wild vegetation that reasserted itselfmany years ago after the house therehad been condemned as a slum. Verylittle remains apart from a tiled footpathbetween two palm trees. Therest is disgusting as many people havedumped refuse there, ridding themselvesof their problems but creating others forthose who live close by. In amongstall this rubbish, Johnny establishedhimself. He proudly presented Hettie,his wife, a quiet weathered womanwhom he claimed he had met 'manyyears ago'. I was thus presented withmore of a problem. Not only would hestagger ponderously around my garden,but so did Hettie. I now had to feedboth of them although he never askedfor an additional 'fee' for their work. Itappeared that 'Lucky Star' pilchards intomato sauce was one of their favouritesbut the price was so high. I wished Icould feel that the money I did give himwas spent on food but I knew that hewould disappear for days after beingpaid and spend it all at the bottle store.There was little I could do about that.He needed drink, he claimed, he wantedto forget his past.'I'm bad in memories, in memories Iam very bad.'I had stopped checking the washingline to see if anything was missing.'You are my lord . . . good bloke.'I cannot say that I revelled in hisopinion but at least we had made arelationship, a truce. He came to mewhen he needed money and I startedto pay him even if he didn't work forme that day. It was only when he wasvery drunk that he had a conscience,demanding that he work for the money,perhaps he still had some vestige ofpride within him.Late one afternoon, I saw a policevan draw up alongside the vacant plot inthe next road. Someone wanted thishuman refuse dump elsewhere. Johnnyhad had some friends staying with himand the thriving community now had anextra seven people. Within seconds, twoblack policemen overseen by a whiteconstable waded into the waist highgrass with truncheons. Johnny beat atthe wooden gate and I realised hispredicament. It took some time for meto find the right key and by the time Ihad opened it, Johnny's cries andbanging had ceased. I walked across towhere the unfortunates were beingstuffed into the van — Johnny andHettie were holding back, clinging ontothe steel mesh door with all the failingstrength that they could muster, despitethe forceful attention of the blackpolicemen. I politely inter-• even offered himwine from a glass whichhe swallowed in onelarge gulp.rupted and explained to the constablethat Johnny was infact coloured, HettieI was not too sure of, but I claimed thatshe was aho coloured. The constableclaimed that they lied. I lied that I hadproof and started to get angry. Theconstable obviously couldn't understandwhy I was defending them. Was I? Buthe let them go, with a paternal warning'not to make trouble.' I left it at thatnot expecting nor receiving thanks.Perhaps to them, a jail at least had aroof and food at no cost. I was smartingthat I could not retort to the constable'ssuggestion that they should; 'Fuck offback to Kaapstad.'Johnny came to see me later, moreinebriated than usual. He requested thatI give him the red, hard hat that I hadlying around the back. He laughed andput it on. With his blue overalls helooked very smart, very employed as aconstruction worker.'To tell you the honest fact,' hestated and lost his train of thought, 'so20 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

me myself, I'm getting tired — I'm fiftyone . . . and with this . . . 'He tapped the hard hat.'The police think I'm employed andwill leave me alone.'How ironic, it was that that hathad given him so much security for thepolice, to get a hat like that, ' . . . and ared one,' he added, his employer wouldhave had to have seen his papers andthen employed him after applying forthe correct permit. His 'employer' musthave had the confidence to do so evenin these times of depression. So insteadof his papers, he had a hat and that wasgood enough. I didn't remind him thathe was already a 'legal person' in that hewas coloured (although he didn't looklike one.) Best just to avoid 'trouble'. SoI became his willing accomplice, I evenoffered him wine from a glass which heswallowed in one large gulp (it wasexpensive wine). I hesitated before Irefilled it.I quizzed his past. What he told mewas all disjointed but he started to crywhen he said that his mother hadpassed away. When I don't know. Shit!But there was no stopping the incoherencies.'My father was a grand boy — he islike my lord.'I told him thatthat was out of the question,it was unfit to be lived inand anyway where wouldI park my car?Through the apparent contradictions,I realised that his father who had beena bedding boy in De Aar with the SAR,now lived in Kimberley in his ownhouse. It was too complicated todispute. Johnny remembered that heused to sell water for sixpence a time.As the wine broke him down he startedto cry again.'I write him letters since my motherhave passed away but he don't answerme.'Just one thing I have to know,I'll go there, I want to know and if Icorrespond, if I correspond in reply paid— I put on stamps, he just have toanswer my letter, but he don't answermy letters, what's it?'It occurred to me that he had noaddress to which he could receivecorrespondence in 'reply paid' but I didnot pursue my puzzlement.'Johnny, why don't you go back toCape Town?''You know what, if you're a man,you must go places where your faith is.'You know what, I'm a straight forwardguy, Johnny Johnson — I'm clean, andclean with my heart, no matter whatanybody says, and the train fare? Whereis the train fare? I want to stay in thegarage.'I told him that that was out of thequestion, it was unfit to be lived in andanyway where would I park my car? Hedidn't accept that straight away, I didn'texpect him to.'Johnny what about Cape Town?'T have a sister in Cape Town . . ' hereplied. 'She's as white as you but wheredo I get the train fare?''Well then, can't you find anywherehere?''What they make to Sophiatown,what they make to Newclare? and mypapers are up to shit.'He slumped to the concrete floor.He was becoming more of a problemthan I had anticipated. Would he leave?Could he leave? I imagined that it wasall frozen in the moment — he neitherwanted to go backward or forward,everything stood still. His expressionchanged, he wanted to say somethingbut it seemed so difficult to do, a sortof melancholy sedationthat he didn't want to disturb — alingering instant without responsibility.Please Johnny, just go away, I can do nomore for you. As if in answer to mythoughts, he replied harshly, the spittlegathering on his lips.T try to forget the past but now youcome and take it!'He could have it back, I didn't wantit.'And if I go to Cape Town,' hecontinued, ' . . . the people will laughat me.'He tugged at his blue overalls.' . . . how can I go like this?'There was no dignity here, just someobscene vestige appearing of socialness,dead now for countless years.'You know what, I'm a straightforward guy — my father too JohannesJohnson, I'm clean.'Little thoughts sparked him, dredgedup and smelling.'You know what master? I am in theescort police six months.''Escort police?''Umtata before independence, I workfor the Bantu Commissioner.'How bloody ironic, how the hellcould he do that? Incredulously Ireplied, patting my chest, 'Wasn't it sorehere?'He didn't see the gesture but rambledon; 'No, sometimes you get right blokes,sometime you get blokes who are verydifficult then we have to give themhandcuffs . . . 'His small head sank to his chest andhis eyes closed. Suddenly, boldly,proudly he stated clearly once again, 'Iam Johnny Johnson!'Oh God! I realised the depths towhich he must have sunk. His wholelife, his whole reason for living hingedon his name. Was it possible to surviveon name alone? Was that all he had left?I shut the door on him because it wasvery cold that night.A week later, Johnny replete in hisred, hard hat called over the fence.Master have got food?'With an air of resignation, I walkedback into the kitchen. I found somesliced bread that was a week old.I carefully scraped off the green mould.Armed with that, I scanned the pantryshelves for a tin of something that Ididn't really want. I saw a can ofTuna, one of soup and a can of LuckyStar Pilchards. With just his helmetedhead over the fence, he watched me as Iapproached with the bread.J^^^ohnny stared upat me, and I involuntarilystepped back.'That's all I have Johnny, I must goto the supermarket.'He took the bread slowly.'Have you got pilchards?'I visualised the tin I had only seenmoments ago.'No Johnny, no pilchards.'He smiled, resigned to the bread Ihad given him.'Thank you master, you are my lord.'The head dropped from sight behindmy high wooden fence. I walked backto the kitchen and stared at the can ofLucky Star, and examined why I hadlied.Two days after this, I was mowingthe grass late one afternoon and tippedthe grass cuttings over the fence into thevacant plot. The second time I did it,something caught my eye. I unlockedthe gate and carefully walked across tothe thing lying in the high grass.Johnny stared up at me, and Iinvoluntarily stepped back. I kneltbeside him to see if he was all right. Icouldn't bring myself to touch him.'Hey Johnny! Wake up man!'He didn't answer. I then plucked upcourage and shook him. As his headlolled to one side, a fly flew out of hisopen mouth and settled on his exposedeye. I shot back in disgust and noticedthat his red hat had disappeared alongwith his blue overalls. I glanced down tothe bottom of the plot, but his 'family'had also disappeared. As I stared downat the body, more green flies settled onhis face.I realised that I would have to call anambulance. And wondered if I wouldhave to pay for it. Shit! #STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 21

Andries W. OliphantT he Eye of the StormOn a blue nightStaggering under the weight of the worldI contemplate:Who contends againstThe power of malignant men?A name stirs withinThe centreOf my being:Steve Biko, your head hovers aboveA multitudeOf towering fists. You speakIn your characteristic sharp and candid way.Your voice ignitesA black fire without any dread of death.In court, you call the law to justice.Under house-arrest you speak.In solitary confinement,You are one with all incarcerated people.Naked under the interrogators' lamps,You mirror the dignity of man;You are the eye of the raging storm.On a night as blue as prison barsThe locusts cameTo prey on your brain.You declared yourselfOpen to frank talk.They replied with brutality and chains.Thembeka MboboYou liveIn life and death and far beyond;A black fireBurning brilliantly night and day.Andries W. Oliphantu n titledSome never liveto say it all.In time we understoodyour few words.We cried for you againyesterday.We hated to admitthat our pace hasfailed to match yours.But in our heartsyour glow still burnsand your spiritis still leading.We still see youas a guardianand pray never todisappoint youtomorrowBra Steve.Thembeka MboboMEDU Newsletter is the quarterly publication of the Medu Art Ensemble, based in Botswana. Contentsinclude short stories, interviews, graphics, poems and articles on cultural work in Southern Africa. MeduArt Ensemble posters are regularly enclosed with the newsletter.• • • SUBSCRIPTION RATES (4 EDITIONS/ONE YEAR)Surface MailAirmailBotswanaSouthern Africa (excludes Zambia)AfricaEuropeP4.00P6.00P8.00P10.00P10.00P16.00P20.00Americas and AustraliaP12.00P24.00Postal orders from all Southern Africa (excluding Zambia);Bank Drafts from Africa, Europe, Americas andAustralia. Subscription ratesquoted in Botswana Pula.Send your name, address and payment to.Medu Art EnsembleSubscriptions Dept.,Box 1356GaboroneBotswana22 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

By Jan Esmondrand UIllustrated by Percy Sedumedi'Unfortunately there is still a commonbelief that the main thing one should dofor someone having a fit is to forcesomething between their teeth so as tokeep them from biting or choking onthe tongue. This manoeuvre shouldnever be attempted as it may damagethe sufferer's mouth. I'll finish off thelecture by reminding you that the mostimportant contribution you can make ifsomeone has an epileptic fit in yourpresence is to ensure that the person isnot in any physical danger during thefit. Thank you. That is all.'Downing always finished his lectureswith a formal 'that is all', as if theinformation imparted would be incompletewithout it. Many a student,eager to get down his every word (afterall he did make it clear that the examswould be based on his notes) would findthe rushing pen taking down thosecompleting words. This session however,books were closing as he said 'you'.News had come down from the maincampus that a protest meeting hadbeen called. It was always a mysteryhow these rumours circulated, like nervecells in the brain communicating bysending tiny electrical signals back andforth.I wonder ifthere will be anythingmore than just talkthis time.We drove out of the now worldfamous Groote Schuur hospital whereChris Barnard had recently performedhis first heart transplant, passing througha number of stop streets, only yielding,over the bridge and onto the highwayleading to the main campus a mile away.Above the busy highway, looking downonto the hospital, lie hundreds of acresof sloping lush fields and forest wheredeer graze contentedly at the feet ofCecil Rhodes, his vision cast northwards,all the way to Cairo. A view taking inwealth and poverty, rolling hills anddesolate flatness, neatly laid out suburbsand sprawling shanty towns whose tinwalls reverberate to the sound of jetengines passing so low overhead thatmakeshift holes in the ground latrinescan be seen from the aircraft windows.T wonder if there will be anythingmore than just talk this time.' John'sfather had recently been arrested andwas being held in detention with nofixed trial date. 'All they seem to do atthe meetings is pass resolutions. Fancywords and no action. We need to get outinto the streets and take our proteststo the people.' His father was a wellknown commercial attorney, who, tothe surprise of his contemporaries, hadstarted taking on more and morepolitical work. 'We are so cut off hereon the campus what's the point ofmeetings and sit-ins. Look at it,' he saidpointing. 'Sure it is the most beautifulcampus in the world, but it must be theepitome of the isolated ivory tower. Itlooks supercilious sitting there on theside of the mountain way above themain road, like an observer, watching,disapproving, criticising but not gettingoff its bum to change anything.' He wassilent a moment. 'Look how JamesonHall juts out from the side of themountain like a chin waiting to take ablow. Maybe it is freedom that is goingto get a beating,' he said almost tohimself. continued on page 26STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 23

orkingomenMabel was a garment worker for twenty years — until shediscovered that the dresses she made in one day sold formore than a week's wages.I don't remember the year, but I left my two kids at homeand went to look for a job in Parktown.I left my children. I said to myself, 'These children can talk,they can say "I'm hungry" or "I want to pee". They areclever enough.' So I left them with my granny and went towork.I got a job as a domestic. I was there five years. The madamwas nice, the master was nice. I liked the work.But I left because of my grandmother. She became ill and Iwent to look after her. I took two weeks off. In the secondweek my granny passed away. There was nobody to lookafter my kids. I started to panic.I started to look for a job where I could come home everynight — factory work or something.I struggled to find work. So I took some of my savings andwent to an industrial school. You know, there's a school tolearn sewing on industrial machines. I learnt how to useoverlock, line stitch, buttonhole. I paid R25 per month forsix months, and I learnt how to sew.It was in the sixties — there were ten of us in the class. Wegot jobs in a clothing factory. I started with overlock,waistline, and sideseams.I worked for many years — in three different clothingfactories. I left my last job in 1980. This is what made meleave the job. They started to make funny ways of work —they were very strict with us. We had to make twenty-twodresses a day. They didn't care about the patterns. If it wasa difficult pattern we could only make three or four dressesa day. But they just wanted the work. If you couldn't makea large amount they would shout at you and threaten to fireyou. At that time I was earning R52,95 a week.One Tuesday we were doing tennis dresses. You know, atennis dress is a little thing like that. And those dresses costR59 and some coins!Anyway those dresses were wrong — the collar. They hadcome from another factory. The supervisor called me. Sheknew: Mabel is here, Mabel can fix it quickly. She piled allthe dresses in front of me.The thing that made me mad was this. That dress was R59and I was earning a lower wage than that dress! You know,if you were doing alterations they used to take off the pricetags.You mustn't see the price. But this time they forgot.I started to sew — two, three, four dresses. The supervisorasked me to hurry because they were waiting for the dresses.Oh I was cross. I said to the supervisor, 'Come here. Howmuch is this?' I took out my payslip and pointed out theamount I was earning. 'And how much is this?' I showedher the price-tag. Then I said, 'Do you want all these dressesthis week?' She said yes.I said, 'No, I'm leaving now.' I didn't say anything else. I justput my scissors, my tape — everything of mine — in a drawerand I went out. Until today.It's been two years since I last worked in a factory. I'm athome sewing and selling what I make. I won't work in afactory again.(Mabel was interviewed in November 1983.)A cashier in a parking garage.A worker in a leather factory.24 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

South Africa's black working women are the mostexploited and least protected group of workers.They work during the day in jobs that are insecure,unskilled and badly paid. At night they come hometo their second job as domestic workers in their ownhomes.The position of working women is explored inRavan Press/SACHED's new book 'Working Women'.This book contains more than eighty photographs,and twenty-one interviews with working women. Ifyou would like to be informed when the bookbecomes available, write to: Ravan Press, P O Box31134, Braamfontein 2017.H - ers in a clothingfactory.Photographs by Lesley LawsonIConnie Radebe prepares food for her own famitDuring the day she works as a canteen cook.1 Elsie Mbathc| domestic workeNurse with blind patient, Elim hospital,Gazankulu.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 25

He was dedicated to his medicine,yet would often walk away whenclassmates sat talking shop. As if hecould be dedicated on his own termsbut not as part of a group. Prior to hisfather's arrest he was seldom outspoken,not often imposing his opinion on adiscussion. It was not that he did notform opinions on issues, but rather thathe kept them to himself. Since hisfather's arrest he had become so outspokenthat his friends warned himhe would end up with his father in thesame prison. Maybe that is what hesecretly wanted!I turned off the highway onto theroad winding up to the campus likea broken life line on a hand, past a sign,black print on a white background —'Private Property, entrance restricted tomembers of the University and peopleon official business.'From the parking lot we walked upthe wide stairs two at a time, our whitecoats, worn out of habit — a badge ofidentification — flapping around theknees. 'The meeting must have alreadybegun. There aren't many peoplesunning themselves on the steps.''There must be two thousand peoplehere,' I whispered to John as we pushedour way into Jameson Hall beyond therows of people standing at the back,keeping their options open, easy escapeif the proceedings did not meet theirinterest. On one side of the stage Icounted twelve people standing, eachholding a sign 'FREE ME' written inlarge capitals with a name underneath.As we moved forward someone whispered,'that's John Hansen,' and peoplemade way for us to get closer to thestage. Wherever John went peoplewould point, whispering about hisfather. He had acquired the status of acause since his father's arrest. Peopleeither kept away as if he wouldcontaminate them or they approachedhim like some overnight guru, anxiousto hear what he had to say.D•emember thatsome of those shouting theloudest amongst us areprobably "visitors".Jeff Allen, the leader of the studentbody was addressing the meeting.' . . . So, we have just been advisedthat the minister has refused to acceptour petition to charge or release thetwelve.' John's father was one of thetwelve, arrested two months previouslyand since held in prison with no accessto family or lawyers, no charge, no trialdate, while "evidence was being gathered".'In fact we are reliably informedthat the petition was summarily torn upbefore it even reached the minister'shands, though he knew of its contents.'He uttered the last words in a loudervoice to be heard above the swellingjeers. 'So now,' he shouted, 'we have todecide on our next step.'A few voices in the crowd started tochant, 'march, march, march.' The callwas taken up by a larger number andseemed to echo harshly off the panelledwalls of the hall, crowded with goldennames of those honoured for sportingachievements and academic distinction,more accustomed to hearing the gentleapplause of a graduation ceremony orthe sounds of a symphony concert. Asthe chanting grew I noticed the glintof light off cameras. The usual contingentof plainclothes police was in the halltaking pictures of every person whoopened their mouth. They stuck out inthe student crowd like a penguin amidsta group of seals. It was a standing jokethat if you yawned at a meeting Bosswould have a photograph of all yourfillings.Jeff raised his hands to quieten thecrowd. 'Remember that some of thoseshouting the loudest amongst us areprobably "visitors" who would likenothing better than to spark confrontation.We must think carefully aboutour options. Let's not get carriedaway by our emotions.' He was highlyrespected by most of the students. Afew of the radicals said he was toocautious. He had shown remarkablediplomacy in walking the very thin ropeof confrontation. He had been arrested,but only for questioning and neverdetained. The house he shared with twoother students had been bombed andnobody arrested.I sensed John about to speak. 'Wemust take our protest to the people.We must let them see and partake in ourcause otherwise we are wasting ourtime. I think we should go to town.' Hesat down to the sounds of cheeringendorsement.When the noise subsided Jeff saidfrom the stage, T can understand theway you are feeling John, but wemustn't let our personal emotions swayour decision. We must act rationally ina way that will be most effective to ourcause. I personally don't think weshould march through town today. Iwas given some information before themeeting which most of you haveprobably not heard. The chief magistratehas banned meetings of more thantwelve people in the city area fora period of thirty days. We all know hewill extend that as he wishes. So if wemarch we must do it with the awarenessthat we will be breaking the law andthat the police will probably use forcefulmeans to break it up.' He paused fora moment in which there was a mutteringaround the hall.'But, most importantly,' he saidraising his voice above the rising noise,'most importantly, I don't believe thatsuch action will serve the best interestsof those with whom we are concerned,the people in whose name this meetingwas called.'J^^^ohn said,'You know if you continueto smoke you'll getcancer/This last statement was greeted withreflective silence; like that after anabsorbing play before the audiencestarts to applaud. Then different voiceswere heard at the same time. Suggestionsas to what should be done — T think . . . .''We should . . . . ' 'Why don't we .... 'None of the suggestions reached aconclusion. Finally a decision was madeto disagree, a resolution was passedcondemning the continued detentionwithout trial, and a small committeeelected to meet that afternoon tocontinue the search for a means ofaction. The meeting broke up ratherthan ended. There was a tangiblefeeling of discontent as people filed outof the hall, blinking into the bright lightof the summer afternoon. I needed atoilet and as I manoeuvred my waydown the stairs outside the hall I pickedup snatches of conversation.T think Hansen was right . . . . ''He's good but too cautious . . , . ''What's the point of another resolution. . . . 'Words winding together, a mosaic ofdissatisfaction, evaporating like steam asthey wafted over the heads towards thesuburbs below.When I returned to the area outsidethe hall, I was surprised to see so manypeople still there. Usually the call oflectures or the beach led to a quickdispersion. I walked back slowly to thestairs looking for John. The tenor of theconversations had changed.'Oh well, I guess I should go and dosome work in the library . . . . ''Who wants a lift back to Sea Point?''Let's go get some lunch . . . . 'The balloon of anticipation wasslowly deflating. People started driftingaway and had a security police car notpulled up at the bottom of the steps atthat moment there probably would havebeen a complete dispersal. The blackFord Fairlane glided quietly to a halt. Aman in the back seat started to photographthose people still standing orsitting on the stairs. It was as if thesound of the clicking camera sentinvisible drumbeats through the air26 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

which were picked up around thecampus. The numbers grew rapidly.Four people, including John walked upto the car. The crowd was silent, wordsheld in suspense.John walked round the car andstopped in front of the driver's window.'You are trespassing. You have nobusiness here. Didn't you see the sign.'His voice carried to the steps. The drivercontinued smoking, looking ahead as ifJohn did not exist. The camera continuedto click. One of the four positionedhimself in front of the camera window,blocking the photographer's line • ofview. John, seeing he was getting noreaction said, 'You know if you continueto smoke you'll get cancer.' The doctorin his white coat. The driver looked atJohn for a moment acknowledging hispresence for the first time. Then hequickly regained his composure. 'So youaren't deaf. Please remove yourselvesbefore we have to get the universitypolice to remove you.''Fat chance,' someone called outfrom the crowd.With the photographer's view nowblocked by others from the crowd, thedriver started up the car. As the carmoved away from the curb the driverfound his tongue. 'You just wait to seewhat you are going to get,' hungthreateningly in the air. John walkedback to the stairs to ironic applause.We sat silently on the stairs, waiting,looking at the view below our feet. Theslight south easter playing with thesmoke from the power station near theairport, a beacon for a weather consciouscity. The south easter bringing good surfon the Atlantic coast, and fine days.The northerly bringing up the surfon the Indian Ocean, and rain.A rumour circulating that the policewere coming in force to clear us awaywas greeted with disbelief yet almostwith hope. Action of some nature waswanted. The numbers on the steps werebeing visibly augmented by new arrivals.'What do you think?' I asked John.'Do you reckon they will actually comeup here in numbers to clear us off?'T wouldn't put anything past them,'he replied.'John, I don't know if you want totalk about it, but I have been wantingto ask you about your dad. In all theyears I have known your family hedidn't seem to be politically inclined atall. Do you know why he got involved?''That's just what I was thinkingabout,' John replied. T gave him thatbook on Mandela. Do you rememberthe one I showed you. I brought it backfrom London hidden in a nightie Ibought for my mother. Any booooks,'he said laughing, imitating the airportcustoms officer's call. 'One night I wokethirsty and went down to the kitchento make myself a cup of tea. The lightwas on in the study. I was surprised tosee my father, pipe in mouth, reading.He was so absorbed that I stood therefor a few moments before he becameaware of my presence. He was readingthe speech, 'Black man in a white court.'I made him some tea as well and we satand spoke. In some ways I think thatwas the beginning of his interest in theAfrican cause.' He paused for a moment.'Though maybe that's too simple a wayof looking at something so complex.How can we ever really know whatcauses a person to act, to stand up forsomething they really believe no matterwhat the consequences? Maybe we canonly really understand when it happensto us. Sometimes I blame myself when Isee where he is now, yet I think he ishappier within himself, having acted.So few people really do something inwhich they passionately believe.' He wasinterrupted by the sounds of vehicles,and somebody running from thedirection in which the noise was coming,calling out, 'The police are coming, fourtruck loads!'RI Blight. I amColonel Visser. I haveinstructions to clear these stepswithin fifteen minutes.My first reaction when the vans cameinto view was to laugh. It looked funny.Like a scene from Kelly's Heroes, thevans approached like tanks drivingbetween the placid ivy lined academicbuildings. Talk about overkill. Anylaughter was short lived. They parkedtheir vans in the places reserved for theChancellor, Vice-Chancellor and Deanand started off-loading the Alsatians.Swiftly and efficiently the police anddogs lined up at the bottom of thestairs.'Christ, there are forty of them,'John exclaimed. Dog leashes in onehand, batons drawn in the other,looking like they would enjoy nothingmore than the order to charge.Their commander strode out in frontof his troops, loudhailer in hand. Hisvoice echoed loudly in the amphitheatrecreated by the surrounding buildings.'Right. I am Colonel Visser. I haveinstructions to clear these steps withinfifteen minutes. This is an illegal gathering.If this area is not cleared withinfifteen minutes then I will order mymen to clear it for me.' The attention ofthe crowd was drawn to three peoplewho stood up and walked down towardsthe road and the police. It looked likethey had decided to leave. They stoppedand sat down a few feet in front of therow of dogs, as if defying them to haveago.'They must be crazy,' I whispered toJohn as the crowd applauded this move.'Not so crazy,' he replied. 'It looksbrave but if the charge comes they willprobably be least affected. A lot ofpeople will be thrown down the stairs.They at least are already at the bottom.'He stood up. 'Colonel Visser, you andyour men are trespassing. You have noright to be here. This has been a peacefulmeeting. We are affecting no-one. Whatyou are doing is illegal.''You have twelve minutes,' he replied.John turned to the crowd. 'Wehave every right to be here. We muststay put and not be intimidated by thisshow of brute force.' He sat down.There was an anxious buzz throughthe crowd. Nobody seemed to beleaving. A solidarity which was notusually evident at political meetings.'You have ten minutes.''Look,' John said pointing upwardsto the roof of the library building, fourstoreys high, to the right of the stepswhere we were sitting. At either endwere two flat-topped concrete pillarsending at the same height as the roof.Some people were sitting on top of thepillars. 'Witnesses to the end of civilisationas we know it,' John said jokingly.I wouldn't mind being up there now,'I said trying to capture the same spiritbut sounding nervous.'You have five minutes.'One of the law professors appearedat the bottom of the stairs. Despite analmost imbecilic appearance, a roundjolly face, protruding buck teeth andstomach, he was one of the mostbrilliant people to teach at the University.T have been told to ask youall to move. That comes from higherauthority not from me. You must makeup your own minds. You have everyright to be where you are but it may bea painful right to uphold.' He walkedaway to cheers from the crowd. Thetension broken for a moment.'You have four minutes.' The dogsunderstood that their moment wasdrawing near, straining tightly at theleashes. One let out an undisciplinedbark. A yelp of anticipation.'You have three minutes.' The sameformula as a mechanical clock.I felt sweat gathering on my browand lip. I was aware of my tonguelicking the salty beads. 'I'm terrified,' Isaid to John. 'Look at those teeth.''I'm also shit scared,' he said puttinghis arm around me. 'We mustn't letthose bastards see the fear. Link armseverybody,' he said to those around usThe whispered asides stopped. Timedidn't.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 27

'You have two minutes.' The silencedragged. I noticed for the first time thatI could hear the dim sound of trafficfrom the highway below. My toes wereitchy but I could not scratch thembecause my arms were linked. And thenall I could hear was the dog's panting,the sounds of their rough tonguesrubbing against their teeth. I shivered,the tingling feeling flowing along myupper arms and up the back of my head.'You have one minute. Get ready,men.'Time longer than rope, the thoughtrepeated itself over and over in mymind, seeming to speed up as theseconds passed. Hazily I heard, 'Clearthese steps.' As if in slow motion Isaw the first line move forward, roughlythrowing the brave band of three behindthem. 'John was right,' I thought. Thenslow motion speeded up accompaniedby the most terrible sounds, viciousbarking, screams, the dull thuds ofwood on flesh, tearing flesh. Everythingin front of me looked like fast actioncaptured on slow speed film, a blur ofmovement, hands feet dogs clubs. Theyprogressed up the stairs. People in frontof us tried to get up and run backwards,falling like dominoes, adding to thecrush. I bowed my head freeing myarms to protect my body as best Icould. It was like a fight in a turkeycoop with feathers flying everywhere.The line of police was drawing closerand closer. Slow but steady progressup the steps. Madness seemed to haveovertaken our world.Suddenly I was aware amidst thechaos, of strange movements from John.He sat up straight and then his bodystarted shaking, like a witchdoctor intrance. His face contorted uncontrollably.I tried to shake him, his eyesrolled back and I realised what washappening. He was having a fit. Wordsechoed in my mind, 'The most importantthing is to ensure that the person havinga fit is not in any physical danger.' Thepolice were upon us. I screamed, 'He'shaving an epileptic fit, for Christ sakegive him room!' I felt the blow of abaton on my back. The pain. I struggleddesperately to protect John with mybody. I was ripped off and thrownbackwards. He lay convulsing on theground with batons and dogs all overhim. I seemed to be the only personwho knew what was happening. Hismovements seemed to incense the dogsand the batons flew into his body withrepeated thuds. I tried desperately toget to him, no longer feeling my ownpain. As I was flung backwards again Isaw that the people on the roof of thelibrary were standing up now, handsraised over the scene below, dead still,in a Hitler salute. #With EndlessLoveto Victor JaraThough his songsare strong and powerfuland bitter and determinedand angry and violentand revolutionary and uncompromising,they have at their very base,at their very foundationa certain happiness.A happinesswhich is like a star to a child:though it appears little and close by,it is in fact large, very large,large enough for all to see,to feel,to experience,(for some to embrace — heroic and visionary,for others to fear — irritating and defiant)a happiness which stubbornly rejoicesat a victory certain to be won.But yet so deep,so deep within him,so farthat no bullet could ever reach it.Victor Jara is dead.His hands were brokenhis body was smashed.But the defiant happinesswhich they seeked to killwas not only in Victor,not only in the stadium,not only in the songs,or Santiago, or Chile, or Latin America . . .but embedded in the bosomsof the rising oppressedSo must we remainWe, who rise before the sunand rest only after it has gone.We, even though we harden ourselves like steelto fight,even though our armouryincludes the bitterest of bitterthe angriest of angerthe most violent of violence,we must nurture and cherishwithin ourselves,within our furthermost recessthat which makes us human.For otherwisewe will bethemFarouk StemmetFarouk Stemmet28 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

Staf frider Popular HistoryMacoma, Siyolo and Xoxo after their release from Robben Island.'Esiqithini' is a Xhosa word meaningquite simply 'on the Island'. Noparticular island is named, but it wouldbe difficult to find a Xhosa person whodid not know exactly which Island ismeant. Even in English, the phrase 'theIsland' has only one meaning for mostSouth Africans. Robben Island, thatpleasantly named home of seals, hasattached itself ineradicably to thecollective consciousness of us all. Weknow it as a place of banishment,loneliness and misery, but we also recallthe bravery of those who suffered — andare still suffering — the agonies of exileon its shores. The holy of holies,Mtutuzeli Matshoba called it,consecrated by the self-sacrifice of itsvictims.The best-known of Robben Island'searly prisoners was the giant prophetand wardoctor Nxele (Makana), whoattacked Grahamstown in 1819, wasbanished to the Island, and drownedtrying to escape. But there were otherexiles too, now sadly forgotten. This isthe story of the Xhosa chiefs imprisonedon the Island in the 1850s and of thelepers and lunatics who shared theirfate.G iovernor Sir George Greyand Commissioner Macleanwanted to dispossess the Xhosaof all the territory they thenstill occupied in what isnow the 'white corridor'between East Londonand Queenstown.The PrisonersSiyolo, son of Mdushane, was the firstXhosa political prisoner to be detainedon Robben Island after the death ofNxele in 1820. He was the only chief onthe Ndlambe side to fight in the War ofMlanjeni (1850-3). T have no cattle,'he said. 'I have no home. But I amdetermined to live like a wild beast anddo all the damage that I can.' Isolatedfrom the other Xhosa leaders, Siyolorode to Fort Murray to open negotiationswith the local Commissioner, ColonelJohn Maclean. Maclean called him into aprivate room 'to hear his statement readover,' and there treacherously tookhim captive. Siyolo was condemned as arebel, and sentenced to life imprisonment.The other Xhosa prisoners werevictims of the Nongqawuse cattle-killingDisaster of 1856-7. Governor Sir GeorgeGrey and Commissioner Macleanwanted to dispossess the Xhosa of allthe territory they then still occupied inwhat is now the 'white corridor'between East London and Queenstown.The Nongqawuse starvation forced mostof the people into labour on the whitefarms of the Karroo, but the chiefsremained behind to safeguard the Xhosanational lands until their men returned.Grey and Maclean were determined toget rid of them.They established military tribunalsto convict as many Xhosa chiefs aspossible under martial law. The accusedchiefs were allowed to call witnessesbut they were not permitted defencelawyers, and, as they were unaware ofBritish legal procedures, they wereeasily convicted.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 29

Staf frider Popular HistoryMhala, the great chief of the Ndlambewhose lands stretched from the Komgato present-day Berlin, was accused withhis councillor, Kente, of raising waragainst the Queen. He was sentenced tolife imprisonment, but the injustice ofhis trial was so obvious that this wasreduced to five years.Maqoma, the greatest military mindamong the Xhosa, was charged withsending his men to kill a police informer,and sentenced to twenty years. Hisbrother, Xhoxho, convicted of stocktheft, broke out of King Williams Townjail but was recaptured when he foolishlyvisited his old homestead. He wasimprisoned on the Island with anincreased sentence.The Gquhukhwebe chief Phatho,who fought on the Colonial side in theWar of Mlanjeni, learned his mistakethe hard way. Together with his sons,Dilima, Mate and Mpafa, and hisbrother-in-law, the chief Stokwe, he wasconvicted for stock theft and transportedto Robben Island.Fadana, a former ruler of theThembu kingdom, was the leader of theNongqawuse believers in the Queenstowndistrict. He remained defiant,despite the failure of his hopes, andraised an army of 500 starving believersto plunder the opponents of Nongqawuseof the cattle they had saved for themselves.Fadana was captured togetherwith chief Qwesha of the amaNdungwanaand sent to Robben Island for sevenyears.Robben IslandRobben Island was known to Europeansailors for its valuable seal skins (rob isDutch for seal) long before the arrivalof Jan van Riebeeck in 1652. When,resisting the occupation of their land,the Khoi raided the Dutch herds, VanRiebeeck fed his soldiers on penguinmeat and penguin eggs from the Island.The first Colonial officials were sent tothe Island to breed sheep and rockrabbits(dassies) for meat. In 1658,South Africa's first political prisoners —Khoi leaders known to us only as Harry,Boubo and Jan Cou — were transportedto Robben Island.lundreds of physicallyand mentally crippled peoplewere housed m the oldcells and jails and themale lunatics were set towork in the stonequarries.The Island was valued as a prison notonly because the prisoners found itdifficult to escape, but because itconcealed the terrible conditions underwhich the convicts lived, and the dreadfulpunishments they suffered. Convictedprisoners were often sentenced towhippings with the cat-o-nine-tails, tobranding and pinching with red-hotirons and to the chopping off of theirhands. Hard labour could mean up totwenty-five years quarrying stone andburning lime, working and sleepingall the while in irons and chains.The British conquest of the Cape(1806) eased most of these cruelpunishments, but it did not change theessential function of Robben Island asa remote place where those who defiedthe Colonial system could be dumped,punished and forgotten. It was only inthe 1840s, when an energetic officialnamed John Montagu became ColonialSecretary, that the situation was altered.Montagu saw that hard labour convictscould serve the Colonial economy moreefficiently by building roads, harboursand transport infrastructure than bytoiling away unproductively on theIsland. Thus in 1844, the regular convictsleft the Island for hard labour at 'convictstations' throughout the Colony.Lepers and LunaticsAt this time, lepers, lunatics, thedestitute and the chronic sick werehoused in public institutions at 'a veryheavy annual expense' in Montagu'sview. Moreover, the appalling state ofthese places bore embarrassing witnessto the heartlessness of the selfish andacquisitive Cape society. Hundreds ofphysically and mentally crippled peoplewere housed in the old cells and jails,and the male lunatics were set to workin the stone quarries — because hardwork was thought to keep them quiet.Little attempt was made to rehabilitatethese social discards. Lepers (a categorywhich included syphilitics and skincancer victims) and lunatics mingledwith each other, the peaceful with theviolent and the hopeful with thehopeless. They rarely saw friends orfamily, and they had very little chanceof ever getting out again. When theXhosa chiefs arrived in 1858, RobbenIsland was little better than a junkyardfor the Colony's unwanted humanrejects.I t was at Murray's Bay,described as "one ofthe bleakest and mostwretched spots on the faceof the earth," that the Xhosachiefs were settled.In TransitWhen the soldiers brought the Xhosachief Mhala down to East London,harbour, they put him under a craneand pretended that they were going tohang him. They even put a rope aroundhis neck. Mhala remained calm anddignified throughout this ordeal, but assoon as he was put on board ship, he letout three loud and piercing yells. Hehad never been so close to the seabefore, and thought that the waveswhich dashed against the tiny sailingshipwere coming to get him. Anobserver reported that Mhala was verydejected as the ship sailed away, andthat he 'sat on deck looking wistfully atthe land that was once his own.'We do not know whether the otherXhosa suffered similar experiences.Certainly, they travelled in chains.Fadana's irons were so heavy that theyrubbed his skin right through. Maqoma'schains were 'heavy enough for a ship'scable' but he did not notice them. Hewas expecting to see Sir George Grey,hoping not only that the governor30 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

Starfrider Popular HistoryThe lunatic's eye first fell on theunhappy Xoxo, who seemed tocower before him .... Xoxo,feeling that his presence was notfurther welcome, pointed to hisbrow, and whispered quietly thatour friend was 'bayan malkop'.Then Dilima entered the room:The lunatic poured forth on hima pitiless, pelting storm of insults.Ultimately, he stood erectimmediately in front of Delima,and raising his head, stuck out hislips . . . Delima, no way frightened,simply imitated with exactness,the actions of the lunatic.View of the Robben Island Leper and Mental Asylum taken from siteof present day harbour in 1896.would reverse his sentence, but that hewould return the land Maqoma had lostin the War of Mlanjeni. Sadly, forMaqoma's high hopes, Grey was notinterested in meeting his victims. Aftersome weeks in Cape Town jails, theXhosa chiefs were moved to RobbenIsland.Murray's BayTable Bay once swarmed with whales,and in 1806 a Mr John Murray waspermitted to open a small whalingstation at a sheltered inlet to the northof the main village of Robben Island,which became known as Murray's Bay.In 1820 the imprisoned prophet Nxeleand thirty comrades stole one ofMurray's boats in a brave attempt toescape. They failed and Nxele wasdrowned, but the authorities weresufficiently alarmed to force Murray toclose down his business. It was here atMurray's Bay, described by a visitoras 'one of the bleakest and mostwretched spots on the face of the earth,'that the Xhosa chiefs were settled.to solitary confinement on half-rations.Boredom and meaninglessness werethe main enemies of the Xhosa prisoners.Siyolo, who had arrived earlier than theothers, was allowed to tend and herd aflock of goats. But then the nursescomplained that he disturbed them bydriving his goats along the main streetin the village, and he was forced to sellall but twenty of them. In 1863,Governor Wodehouse gave the prisonersfour cows. But the pasturage on theIsland was very poor. The cows gaveno milk at all between December andMay, and by 1865 half of them weredead.The prisoners made repeated but vainappeals to be released. One problem wasthat only Dilima, who had been educatedby the missionaries, spoke any English.When he was released in 1865, theisolation of the others was complete.The chiefs were forced to submitquietly to the abuse of white lunatics.A visitor described the encounterbetween Xhoxho and one of these:Gradually, the chiefs found themselvesjoined by other Xhosa invalided out tothe Island. Tyuli, transported to CapeTown for theft, contracted leprosythere and was then shipped over. Zidonserved out his sentence, but was afflictedwith an ulcer and could not be moved.Signanda had gone blind. Nkohla'sone arm went dead on him. All thesehelpless invalids joined the small Xhosacommunity at Murray's Bay.•his Ihis most brilliantof Xhosa statesmen and warriorscried bitterly before he died"of old age and dejection,at being here alone — no wife, orchild, or attendant."No doubt the chiefs did what theycould to resist. There are obscurereferences in the official papers torepeated 'misconduct' by Siyolo. Thewives of Siyolo and Maqoma smuggledmessages to Xhosaland. Hope often gaveway to black despair. One of theinvalids tried, unsuccessfully, to slitPrison Village of the ChiefsDwellings in the usual Xhosa style, butcovered with tarpaulins instead of reeds,were erected for them. They receivedadequate food and tobacco but weredenied the comfort of liquor. Siyoloand Maqoma were accompanied by theirwives. Phatho's wife arrived in CapeTown, but the old Gqunukhwebe chiefwas bedridden in Somerset Hospital andwas released shortly thereafter. Thewives of Mhala and Xhoxho flatlyrefused to join their husbands. Theletters of the exiles contain patheticrequests for news of distant homes andchildren. Clearly, the prisoners sufferedmost from a lack of human warmth.One of the young chiefs made love to aleper woman. They were detected in afield, and the young man was sentencedThe main street on Robben Island. Anglican Church, water tank. Twomules walked in a circle all day to pump water up.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 31

Dombo RatshilumelaIn secret lepers made this boat to take them to the main land andfreedom. Discarded and destroyed by the authorities.his throat. Maqoma vented his rageby wrongly blaming the officials on theIsland for his imprisonment. His wifeKaiyi falling sick refused medicine,telling the doctor, 'No, my heart is sore.I want to die.'Freedom — and AfterOne by one, the Xhosa chiefs servedout their sentences, and in 1869 the lastprisoners, Maqoma, Xhoxho and Siyolowere released by Governor Wodehouse.On their return home, they found theirlands lost and their people scattered.They were forbidden to own land or tosummon their followers. Phatho diedquietly in 1869 and Mhala followed himin 1875. But Maqoma, in extreme oldage, refused to abide by the regulationsimposed on him. Twice in 1871, withno aim in defiance but defiance itself,he left his appointed place of residenceand returned to his old territory nearFort Beaufort. He was easily capturedand, on the second occasion, he wassummarily retunred to the Island withouta hearing or a trial. This time hewas alone, utterly alone. He spokeonly a few words of English, and therewas no one on the Island who spoke anyXhosa. When in September 1873 hestarted sinking after 18 months ofsolitude, the Island authorities sent foran interpreter and companion, it wastoo late. This most brilliant of Xhosastatesmen and warriors cried bitterly,according to the Anglican chaplain whowitnessed his last moments, before hedied 'of old age and dejection, at beinghere alone — no wife, or child, orattendant.'Siyolo and Xhoxho remained quietuntil the Ninth and last Frontier War(the War of Ngcayechibi) broke out,Though the causes of the war wereirrelevant to them personally, neitherhad any hesitation. T would rather diein the field, eaten by vultures,' saidSiyolo, 'than die in my bed and becarried out on a board.' Both the oldchiefs were killed in battle. So wasSandile, the senior Xhosa chief west ofthe Kei. His son, Gonya Sandile, was thefirst of a new generation to be imprisonedon Robben Island.Photographs by courtesy of C. Struikfrom the book Secure the Shadow byT. McNally, and Robben IslandL ISTENListen to the soundOf the cowhide drumCrossing the message.Listen to the African drumInvoking the spirits.For the son is bornFor culture is restored.For today is Heroes' Day.For the bride is expectant,Willing to give birth to Africa's love.Listen to the ululating voiceOf the African womanFor her husband comes in triumph.Listen to the sound of the pestle.Listen to the groans of the mortarFor maidens are pounding millet in the lair.Listen to the bellowing bullReady for the plough.Listen to the murmurOf the young one, on mother's back,The fecund womb of AfricaNursing freedom,Taking the spearAnd the shieldAnd Ogun wakesIn angerTo trample on the oppressors.Listen to our songsAs we whet our spearsOn the shores of the TugelaListen to our songsAs we cleanseOur regalia in the river LimpopoListen to the voice of the imbongiFor Africa is no more darkFor Africa is no more a slave.Dombo RatshilumelaThe English AssociationLiterary Competition, No. 24,requires a Science Fiction Storyof a maximum of 6,000 words.Closing date for entries is 31st August, 1985.1st Prize, R500.00, 2nd Prize R300.00 and 3rd Prize R200.00. Prizes will be awarded according to thediscretion of the judges appointed by the Committee of the English Association.The results will be announced at the Annual Dinner, November, 1985, and immediately afterwardsin the main newspapers throughout South Africa.Entry forms and copies of the Rules may be obtained from The Competition Organiser, The EnglishAssociation, P.O. Box 1180, Cape Town, 8000. Entry fee is R1.00 for every manuscript sent.32 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

The storm clouds hung heavily, surroundinghim with a humid greyness that didnothing to relieve his boredom. Ofcourse rain was what everyone waspraying for. It had been the worstdrought in history or as far as his fathercould remember. The only reality of allthis talk of drought was the hollow,rotting carcass of his cow. It hadshocked him. He thought of the day itwas born and felt a deep sadness eventhough he had never viewed it in thesame way as he viewed his dog, amongrel that an old Afrikaner farmerhad given them years ago. They hadreturned from Morakeng the nightbefore. The image was still fresh in hismind. The dust was beginning to annoyhim, everything he did, everywhere helooked, this fine brown dust, in his eyes,covering his legs, in his finger nails. Iteven managed to invade the privacy ofhis bedroom.Mt was theabstract centre of hisdeepest thoughts.He often gazed at the hill from hisbedroom window. For him it helda mystical quality. It was the abstractcentre of his deepest thoughts.Treasuring his solitude yet on adefinite search for stimulation of somesort, he started climbing. He knew thatthere were supposedly leopards livingat the top. They would sometimesappear in the early morning. People saidthey were looking for water. Heinterrupted some goats who studiedhim for a short time but quickly lostinterest and continued with theirincessant nibbling. He poked the largestone with the stick he was carryingwhich he now found tiresome havingstripped it of all its bark.mt wasfrustrating to say the leastand he felt emptyand lost.The boy next door with his comicbooks full of adventure could notsatisfy his deep seated boredom. Hisparents didn't really approve of suchcomics and never bought them. Hereceived what was considered a moreeducational monthly in the post fromEngland but he had already absorbedevery detail of last month's. Hewondered what it would be like to haveChristmas in the snow with a jolly redcheeked Father Christmas. His fatherworked for the colonial administrationand had been allocated a house in thecompound next to the Reynolds, anEnglish family. He had to admit thatMrs Reynolds did act rather strangelyand Tommy was not always the best ofcompany. It was frustrating to say theleast and he felt empty and lost. Therewere things to do; various chores whichwould be considered useful and constructivebut they didn't appeal tohim. He had looked forward to hismother's treat of scones and jam butthat had proven to be a momentarypleasure, a bit of an anti-climax really.He scrambled up a large boulder,using its natural cleavage, fashionedfrom unnumbered centuries of wind andrain, as a shelf upon which to rest hisfeet. He sat and contemplated the scenewhich lay before him. His mother wasjust a small speck in the cluster ofcolonial structures, isolated with itsshiny tin roofs and mass of white wallsfrom the sprawling village below whichmeandered off to join thorn trees andkoppies in the distance.lie saw abranch swinging, it wasrearing its head.The village fitted so perfectly with itssurroundings that he wondered why itwasn't considered to be a naturalphenomenon. After all ant hills weremanufactured by ants just as houseswere manufactured by man . ... Hedidn't see it until it was next to him onthe rock. It was light brown with manysmall black spots and flecks. He saw abranch swinging, it was rearing its headand moving its solid, shining body in aswaying motion, advancing, hood spread.Stay still, his father had once said, verystill. Were words reality? Could he reachout and stroke its glistening skin andperhaps feel moisture on his fingertips.He jumped, stumbling over a cushion oftumbling rocks. The goats fled bleatingbut not knowing. Why wasn't he amouse? One of those with the threestripes on their backs. It was their rolein the hierarchy of life and death to dieat the mercy of a snake. He was flying,not like a bird but as humans fly,just as he had done in his dreams. Hehad better let his mother know wherehe was. She was sure to be worrying bynow. Thorn trees tore at his skin withtheir gnarled fingers, trying to pin himdown, but he felt no pain. What was hismother going to say. She had warnedhim. His brain spun a fantasy ofquestions which he knew were logicalbut which wouldn't form themselvessatisfactorily. He couldn't sort themout. Words, judgements, experiences;where did one end and the other begin?He ran towards a mellow golden circleof sunlight which pierced the darkblanket of storm cloud. It was that lateafternoon light that he liked so much.Relief spread through his tense limbs,earth, wind and fire seemed to unite ashe fell.The cool rain washed his small dustylegs ....STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 33

R regnancyf A poem should be palpable and muteAs a globed fruitDumbAs old medallions to the thumb.. . . A poem should not meanbut be.'Archibald MacLeish believesa poem should not meanbut be (as a dumb fruit,I think he said)but like Baraka sometimesI think a poem must be mean(fuck poems and they are useful)to be intelligiblehere.For instancemy wife seems to be pregnant,expanding parcel of fleshin which the bomb of the futurekicks its tiny feetArchibald MacLeishKelwvn Soleakua'baI have felt your fisttug my haircleaved your body to my backand known the weight is blessedtouch the wombto truthwhere all seedfalls in silenceKelwyn Sole* An akua'ba is a Ghanaian fertility doll women carry on their backswhen they are having difficulty conceiving.(I write this down to form it:anneal to husband and poetin the cosy mansion of the poemwhen the outside world is too coldor quiet to love her in).But, today war has descended on ussuddenly and finally.Tongues lash out at enemies,the radios one can buygoosestep as soon as pluggedtheir collective noise poppingmy speech's flimsy bubble.From this poemthe news is I am warm,and sit in front of a veering firewhich unfortunately used to bemy housewhile words' meanings tick in my throat,nervously.Kelwyn SoleA KUA'BA*The wind of Godrattles pods to pollenwhen women choose their timewith minds bound in rainbowsbut my lover is a snakehis eyes ashard as jewelsTWO JERUSALEM GATESThe Golden Gate is always shut,the Dung Gate always open.That seems about right.Human beings are full of shit.Gods come only once.So we kill them, then sitpraying for miracles.JERUSALEM FREAKS ISome madmen in this city saythe Messiah could arriveany day. What an amazingevent that would be; blazingGlory at the Golden Gate, sweetnesson the air: it would be He.What I wonder is:would it feature in the supplementto the Jerusalem Post? ThatChrist had arrived with hisheavenly host? Would we stopand stare on our way to town?Would it bring the Likud and inflationdown?The whole city restson this fantastic hope.Cherrv ClaytonBut if it really happened —would they callthe Pope?JERUSALEM FREAKS IIHoly cities must breedoddballs. They sticklike Jerusalem fliesto a place where they can feelit's real. God might be here.In the menatime, there's tonsof dope.And if he's not here nowhe might come soon. Wow.Outasight. Over the moon.It's better to be stonedthan sorry. They liveon hope.So loony people with glowing eyeswander about. Their lips move.If they can hang in here whereit might, one day, all hang out,they might just find it:boundless love.Cherry Clayton34 STAFFRIBER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

It was 8.30 p.m. on a hot summerevening at Park Station, Johannesburg.Ominous clouds had begun to gatherover the derricks straddling the serratedmine dumps that had mushroomed overthe Rand in search of gold.Vuyo stood on Platform 18,ostensibly waiting for the Dube train,wondering where on earth he was goingto spend the night. For about a year hehad been telling Tandie that he andMavie were going to pull this job andhow they were going to be in themoolah. She would not have to slave,working for peanuts, not any longer, ohno, not after they pulled this job, andthe next, and the next.o away,Ye asleepTihe incessantly drippingIhe water quickly filled theold-fashioned chamber pot whichhad to be emptied continuouslythrough the plank window.Tandie had kicked him out of herWhite City, Jabavu shack of corrugatediron — a shack too cold in winter, toohot in summer. They had had to movethe bedless mattress on flattened-outcarton boxes several times, as thenumerously patched roof sprung leakswhen it rained The incessantly drippingwater quickly filled the old-fashionedchamber pot which had to be emptiedcontinuously through the plank windowVuyo had nailed together to alleviatethe airlessness and stifling heat in theshack. Keeping it company were otherbedraggled pondokkies, some made offlattened-out paraffin tins, others of oldplywood and boards. For the most partthey were sack-built by those lucklessenough not to have found anythingbetter to build with so that the placewas called Masakeng — an eyesore besmirchingthe grassless, rocky Highveldcomprising the richest earth in theworld.The night before, exhausted fromskondai, Tandie more so from workingfor whiteman boss than from Vuyo'sseemingly tireless and inexorable upsand-downs,thisways-and-thatways, insand-outs;they lay panting listening tothe gurgling and gargling of the vlei thatstreamed nearby with its cargo ofgarbage, faeces, urine and what-haveyou.'I can't take this shit any longer!'Tandie blurted out suddenly.'What?' Vuyo asked, knowing verywell what she meant.'You're forever talking about this jobthat never materializes, how we're goingto get married, how we're going to livein one of those posh houses in Dube,how — ag, forget it! . . . If you don'tget your ass to the pass-office andregister for a job, don't come back heretomorrow night,' she said.T landie was as frigidand indifferent as the spruitoutside, listless and lifelesswith its trash.Vuyo thought: What! stand in anendless queue all day long, beemasculated by being tribalized in apass-book: Name and present address?Place and date of birth? Name of chief?Name and address of last/presentemployer? Wages? Fingerprints? Incometax? Native tax? Hut tax? ... be told tocome the next day at 6 a.m. from oneday to another, then, after fourteendays, be given a police escort to go toGod-knows-where in some uninhabitable,demoralizing, backward, so-calledbantu homeland? . . . Aloud he said:'What the fuck's wrong with you girl?I'm not going to work my ass off fortwo rand a week in some Jeppe sweatshopjust to get by! Actually, I am notgoing to shit, shave or bathe till I getme some bread!''If you don't go to the zangan office,you're not sleeping here another night!'by JMakungaVuyo decided to change his tactics.'Come on baby,' he said, fondlingTandie's ample breasts with one handwhile trying to caress her pubic hairwith the other. Tandie was as frigid andindifferent as the spruit outside, listlessand lifeless with its trash.Vuyo fingered the change in hisdungarees. 'Six lousy pennies!' On animpulse, he bounded up the stairs threeat a time to the 'msechi' — barrierattendant. 'Huit,' he greeted Nzo, whodid not even ask for Vuyo's train ticketHe knew that Vuyo didn't have one androde the trains from Randfontein toSprings 'staff with disgusting effrontery.Vuyo had suddenly thought aboutTsidi who worked in Parktown Northwhere all the millionaires lived. Hecould have kicked himself for nothaving thought about her sooner. WithTsidi he could live like a king, sleep likea lord, eating and drinking what sheserved her masters. Imagine spendingSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 35

one night in Meadowlands, another inPimville, another in Kliptown, anotherin — goddamn! I am becoming a regularhobo, he thought.H le hummed inaudibly asthe bus passed the Johannesburgzoo. He gazed wistfully at thehuge mansions.He swung onto the For Natives Onlytrolley bus at the corner of Fraser andDiagonal streets just as the bus wasleaving, paid his five cents and headedfor Parktown North. He hummedinaudibly as the bus passed theJohannesburg zoo. He gazed wistfullyat the huge mansions, with oversizedyards and carefully manicured lawns. Itwas like being transported from aderelict, barren Masakeng into a gardenof Eden. The contrast between Shantytownand Parktown turned his stomach.Approaching Tsidi's working place,he nimbly swung off the bus with anagility he was accustomed to, taking themomentum of the bus on his dirtytennis shoes. Soundlessly walking in theshadows, he crept towards Tsidi's 'dog'smeat'home, so-called because whenthe maddie went shopping, part of themeat she bought was allotted theservant. 'These fucking dogs live and eatbetter than we do, 'Vuyo thought.Stealthily he went to the backyardwhere the servants' quarters was located,hoping that the bloody dog would notbark. The massive mansion in front wasbuilt rococo-style, of rough-hewn granitebricks with creepers climbing up to thecupola-like roof. Vuyo thought this wasa lot of money spent in bad taste.Facing the street was a white-railedveranda with deck chairs where themasters had their sundowners.Surrounding the house was a hedge ofwell-trimmed rhododendrons.The servants' quarters comprised ablock of three brick rooms — one forthe maid, one for the cook, the thirdfor the gardener. Adjoining the maid'sroom was a lavatory next to a coalshed.Vuyo thought the set-up lookedsumptuous compared to Tandie's hoveland its raggedy companions.He tapped lightly on Tsidi's door.No answer. He tapped again, a littlelouder.'Who is it? Tsidi asked.'Vuyo,' he answered, thinking thatliving in Johannesburg was a pain inthe ass because one was alwayssuspicious of knocks at night: if theywere loud and peremptory, it was thepolice or the boss; if they were soft andtimid, it was a hustler or a poor relative.After what appeared to be a longpause, Vuyo was about to knock againwhen a baritone voice growledaway, we're asleep.'le tiptoed into the lavatory.It was too small, and spendingthe night on the commode wasvery uncomfortable.Vuyo sucked in his breath sharplyand cursed softly. He was thinking fast:The shit's up the creek for me. There'snowhere nearby where I can spend thenight. I'm bound to be picked up by theprowling 'flying sqaud' if I leave here.My pass-book isn't in order and I'llbe arrrested for not having worked forthe past year or so. The last bus into thecity has already left ... I don't havebus fare anyway. It's past 9 p.m. andthe curfew for blacks in the city ison . . . goddamn!He tiptoed into the lavatory. It wastoo small, and spending the night on thecommode was very uncomfortable, ashe discovered after he had tried it for awhile. He then explored the coal-shed.It was as black as some of the pondokkieshe had been in in Masakeng.Lying next to some bags of anthracitewere some empty sacks. He spread twoon the floor as if he was making up asick-bed in a hospital. He sat on them,knees hunched, arms folded, chin onchest, craving a cigarette, staring at theblackened wall, thinking about Tandie'swarm tender body, calling Tsidi aregular rubber-neck — bitch. It was hardfor him to believe that he was inParktown spending the night on sacksas if he was in Shantytown. 'Hit thesack, Jack,' he said to himself, resignedly,and tried to sleep.IllustrationsbyPercy SedumediAfter about an hour he heard a keyturn, a door open, the toilet door close.He quickly slipped out of the coalshed,stepped lightly into Tsidi's darkroom, and locked the door behindhim. Taking out his gonie he relaxed;he even grinned wryly when hediscovered in the dimness of the roomthat it was Tsidi who lay in bed. Hecould just discern a man's pair of pants,jacket and shirt on a chair; the man'sshoes were under it. He climbed fullyclothed, with his sneakers on, into thebed without disturbing her.,'That was quick,' mumbled Tsidi.She sounded very sleepy and poopedfrom screwing, Vuyo thought.'Mm,' Vuyo responded indistinctly,anonymously. A few minutes later thedoorknob turned. Then:'What the hell! Tsidi, open thefucken door!'Vuyo had the blade of his gonie onTsidi's neck as he hissed:'One squeak out of you and you area dead duck!' Loudly, he said in abaritone voice:'Go away, we're asleep.'36 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

Norman Ramuswogwana Tshikovha^#bu were a stranger and they took you i inTo my friend and patron Rashaka Frank Ratshitangayou were a strangerand they took you inand when i heard the newsi scarce could believe my earsi hope they welcomed youeven when i was not therei believe they to youa hand of friendship extendedand even patted your backfor ever you were workaholici learned to know youworking the Univen gardenthe deathly '83 droughtnever dampening thefuelled flame of your spiritsand the beginning of '84i saw your strugglesplanting the green turfin the varsity soccer fieldi learned to know your figureyour form and your shapeyour shabby clothesthe bushy black beardyour registered trade-markyour unrefined appearanceand your spectaclesnow i will miss youinside your closed cellwhere you are trappeda hare in a snareyou are cagedyour mouth is shuttightyou are silencedwhy is the questionbecause is the answerreason it yourselfyou may get an answermine is a ?i hope you are wellwherever you areand were you ever sorethe day they took you into be their visitor?i hope even nowyou are not bittermy childish innocencelabels you 'not criminal'this innocent songi sing to you:you were a stangerand they took you inand when i heard the newsi scarce could believe my earsNorman Ramuswogwana Tshikov!la^he black spotsthere are too many of themblackspots quite too manysquatters' campsmass removalsresistance movementsblackspot in Sophiatownblackspot Langa Capeblackspotted Mogopathe blackspots that stainthe pure whitenessof the white angrygluttonous leopardessthe pure white S.A.a leopard without spots?Norman Ramuswogwana Tshikovham•hey have themselvesto blameBranches in the height of spirngbending and tossingas the wind calls the tunereeds in flooded riversas if bowing in prayerhearken to the call of waves.All life's pitiable creaturesalways on their kneesin humble submissionnever daring to complainhave themselves to blame.Norman Ramuswogwana Tshikovh*1 sing this song toall who trust othersdis song i sing to dem everybodydem dat faith on oders havedem dat even one in darkest moments trustwhen all life's hopes are very bleakdis song i sing to dem dat trust odersto dem dat are by gossips not betrayedto dem dat are by defamation not misledto dem dat condemns after dey have trieddis song i sing to dem everybodydem dat oders wid responsibilities trustdem dat widout doubt faith in oders havewhen all oders have oders libelleddis song i sing to dem dat never brushesoders aside as if dey from leprosy sufferseven widout deir diagnosis of de carriersdem dat not oders let in isolation livedis song i sing to dem everybodyto dem dat never feeble tings despisesto dem dat from fickle tings never retreatto dem dat closest to oders livedis song i sing for de fewde chosen few of all life's multitudesfor individuals dat for oders ever caresdis song i sing derefore to demNorman Ramuswogwana TshikovhaSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 19S5 37

Hugh Lew intJ/ ACK*The manwho died last nightwould not want to be rememberedby name.Remember Looksmart — he would say —he was murdered in the struggle.Remember Minihe was hanged in the struggle.Remember Nelsonhe has given his life to the struggle.The manwho died last nightwould not want to be rememberedfor his part in the strugglenot for the secret sacrificesnot the unknown raidsthe silent contributionsnot for any of the necessary schlenteringnot evenfor the time of trialand the twelve yearstwelve years in prisonthe price of principle.Cheap at the price, he would say.The man who died last nightwould not want to be rememberedas hero.Can a hero cry — he would say —scream in the nightcold nights of fearscream, question, doubt, dig, delve?Patched humanitystripped, laid barea little bit of man, is manhe would saystunned in the face ofwhat he would callprivate failure.The manwho died last night in Londonwould not want to be rememberedan exile from home.Homewas Cape Townhome was the beachthe sunthe sun which shines on everybody— he would say with a smile —nature's simplicityhome was the camaraderierugbycarnivalstrugglehome had a taste of saltbiting, strong, demandinghome is where we'll be, he would say,when we can call ithome.The manwho died last nightwould be amused to be remembereda writerwho could breathe laughter into lifewith just a touch of tragedypinpointing prioritiespillorying the pompoussilencing the strident, shattering shibbolethsalways, painfully, seeking perfectiontruth encapsulated in four lines of doggerel.The manwho died last nightyou should rememberspent twelve years of his lifein prisona necessary contributionhe would say.But remembertwelve very long yearsill sick falling asleep sickalone in a cell sickheart attack sicknot allowed remission sicktwelve years sick.And when he had finished the twelve yearsthey banned him, restricted him,alone again sickyoung, as he would say, at heartbut confined in an old man's bodystruggling on with an old man's heartwhich burst.The manwho died last nightwould not want to be rememberedby name.His name was Jack.Hugh Lewin* Jack Tarshish, a leading member of the Congress of Democratsin the early 'sixties, received a twelve-year sentence in 1963, at a timewhen the political community 'inside' was still very small and thegoing correspondingly tough. Tarshish was in bad health throughouthis sentence, suffering from narcolepsy, a complaint which brings onsleep without warning.He made several fruitless attempts, while inside, to becomemarried to Gillian Jewel, with whom he had a relationship at the timeof his arrest. Often detained, she later left South Africa and lived inLondon until her death by suicide.Towards the end of his imprisonment Tarshish suffered the firstof a series of heart attacks. When he was released in 1975 he wasplaced under a restriction order which confined him to Cape Town.A heart operation at Groote Schuur hospital did not improve hiscondition.In 1976 he was permitted to leave South Africa and lived with hissister in London until his death at the end of the 'seventies.38 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

At last year's Zimbabwe Book Fair Njabulo Ndebeie received the Noma Award for hisbook Fools, published by Ravan Press. Here is the full text of his acceptance speech.NOMA AWARD^ rnotograpns oy isiaay rartriage m* jm/kcektaace Sjkeeckby Njabulo S. NdebeieSometime after the notorious Land Act of 1913 was passedin the white South African Parliament, a Lands Commissionwas established to look into the effects of the legislation.This Act, it will be remembered, was the one responsible forthe granting of only 13 percent of land in South Africa toAfricans, while the rest was to be the domain of the whiteman. One of the most critical observers of this phenomenonas it was unfolding was Sol Plaatje, one of the major figuresin African writing in South Africa. His book, Native Life inSouth Africa (1916) is a landmark in the historiogrpahy onSouth African political repression. The book is remarkablenot only for its impressive detailing of facts but also for itswell considered rhetorical effects which express intelligentanalysis, political clarity, and a strong moral purpose.In his analysis of the Report of the Lands Commission,Sol Plaatje notes, among other observations, thatmwhile the ruling whites, on the one hand, contentthemselves with giving contradictory definitions oftheir cruelty the native sufferers, on the other, give nodefinitions of legislative phrases nor explanations ofdefinitions. All they give expression to is their bittersuffering under the operation of what in their experiencehas proved to be the most ruthless law that everdisgraced the white man's rule in British South Africa.(355-6)Plaatje's observation here is of very special interest to me. Hedocuments here one of the most debilitating effects ofoppression: the depriving of the oppressed of any meanigful,significant intellectual life. Because they no longer have aneffective hand in controlling history, they seem doomed torespond and seldom to initiate. Those doomed to respondseldom have the time to determine their real interests. Thatthe capability to initiate action has been taken out of theirhands implies also, that their ability to define has beendrastically reduced. Plaatje notes here, how the Africanoppressed appear to have been reduced to the status of beingmere bearers of witness. They do a good job of describingsuffering; but they cannot define its quality. The ability todefine is an intellectual capability more challenging, it seemsto me, than the capability to describe. For to define is tounderstand, while to describe is merely to observe. Beyondmere observation, the path towards definition will begin onlywith an intellectual interest in what to observe and how toobserve.It seems to me that a large part of the African resistanceto the evil of apartheid has, until recently, consisted of alargely descriptive documentation of suffering. And the bulkof the fiction, through an almost total concern with thepolitical theme has, in following this tradition, largelydocumented rather than explained. Not that the politicaltheme itself was not valid, on the contrary it is worthNjabulo Ndebeie, Noma Award winner reads from his bookFools to an attentive audience at last year'sZimbabwe Book Fair,exploring almost as a duty. It was the manner of itstreatment that became the subject of increasing dissatisfactionto me. Gradually, over a period of historical time, an imageemerged and consolidated, as a result, of people completelydestroyed, of passive people whose only reason for existingseemed to be to receive the sympathy of the world. Topromote such an image in whatever manner, especially ifsuch promotion also emanated from among the ranks of theoppressed themselves, was to promote a negation. It was topromote a fixed and unhistorical image with the result ofobscuring the existence of a fiercely energetic and complexdialectic in the progress of human history. There was, in thisattitude, a tragic denial of life.I came to the realization, mainly through the actualgrappling with the form of fiction, that our literature oughtto seek to move away from an easy pre-occupation withdemonstrating the obvious existence of oppression. It exists.The task is to explore how and why people can survive undersuch harsh conditions. The mechanisms of survival andresistance that the people have devised are many and farfrom simple. The task is to understand them, and then toactively make them the material subject of our imaginativeexplorations. We have given away too much of our real andimaginative lives to the oppressor and his deeds. The task isto give our lives and our minds to the unlimited inventivenessof the suffering masses, and to give formal ideologicallegitimacy to their aspirations.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 39

esources of living should constitute the material essence ofthe search for personal and social meaning.All of this means that the task of the new generation ofSouth African writers is to help to extend the material rangeof intellectual and imaginative interest as far as the subject oflife under oppression is concerned. It is to look for that areaof cultural autonomy and the laws of its dynamism that nooppressor can ever get at; to define that area, and, withpurposeful insidiousness, to assert its irrepressible hegemonyduring the actual process of struggle. That hegemony willnecessarily be an organic one: involving the entire range ofhuman activity. Only on this condition can a new creative,and universally meaningful democratic civilization be built inSouth Africa.When I started writing, it was with the notion that art wasan act of self-expression. But I realized that it was somethingelse: it was an act of knowledge through self-confrontation.But it is a self-confrontation that takes place within thecommunity of people who emerge out of one's pen, as itwere. I realized that self-expression was not the essence butmerely the end product of art. What I found in the strugglewith the form of fiction was that next to their materialinterests, and surrounding those interests, people maintain astrong and vital ethical interest in the conduct of humanaffairs. This interest is expressed in their public, or in theirprivate lives, and it involves a range of vital human concerns.It involves questions of loyalty and betrayal; of bravery andcowardice; of anxiety and contentment; of rigidity andadaptation; of cruelty and compassion; of honour anddishonour; of pride and humility, and a variety of similarlyconflicting attitudes all of which excite a very strong human,ethical interest. I felt, as a result, that I had to attempt tobring into the active consciousness of the oppressed, througha total evocation of their life, an active philosophical interestin the complex dialectic of human existence. The veryChristina Rungano,ZimbabweMeshack Asare, Ghana111 1This year's award, I believe, is in essence not for the twobooks selected. It is rather, in recognition of perhaps thebeginning of a new era on our continent, both the large areathat is independent, and that small remaining part that is stilllocked in struggle with oppression. Whereas we havedocumented the quality of our lives; whereas we have largelydiagnosed the prevalent social illness, we now have to embarkupon a fundamental re-evaluation of methods not just infiction, but in all areas of human activity. I have learned, inthe craft of fiction for example, that the difference betweenwriters is not so much in the subjects of their writings: therange of subject matter is relatively limited. Rather, it is inthe inventiveness of treatment, in the sharpening of insight,and in the deepening of consciousness. The material life ofAfrica should be given a new formal articulation that willenlarge intellectual interest and expand the possibilities ofthe imagination. It is a re-evaluation which, I believe, shouldresult in a profound philosophical transformation of theAfrican consciousness, a consciousness that should and mustendure. #40 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

Jazz(based on an instruction to German dance bands, 1940)for Jacqui1Pieces in so-called foxtrot rhythm(so-called swing) are not to exceed20% of the repertoiresof light orchestras and dance bands:Kelwyn Sole5strictly prohibited (don't forget, now, baby)is the use of instrumentsalien to the German spiriti.e. so-called saxophones of all keysas well as muteswhich turn the noble sound of WIND (?)and brass instrumentsinto a Jewish-Freemasonic yowl(you got that, cat)so-called wa wa and hat.2in this so-calledjazz type repertoire,PREFERENCE is to begivento composition in a majorand to lyrics expressingj°yin liferather than Jewishlygloomykeylyrics3as/to tempo?preference is also to be given to briskcompositionsoverslowones (so-called BLUES)however the pace (you break my heart)must not exceed (when you're away)a certain degree (my man has gone)of allegro (won't come back till day)commensuratewith the Aryan sense ofdiscipline/ & moderation.(wa wa)On no account will NEGROID excesses in temposo-calledhotjazzorinsoloperformancesso-calledbreaksbeallowed.4so-called jazz compositions'may'containat most 10% s v ncr o n a r L/ rLu nthe remainder must consist ofanaturallegatomovementadevoid of th e h yster i cal rhy th m icr e versal scharacteristicof the music of barbarian ra cesand cond-u.civeto DARK instincts oooalienaaato the GERMAN PEOPLE6also prohibited areso-called drum/breakslonger than//half / a beat / in fourquarter beate/x/c/e/p/ti/n//s//t/y/l/i/z/e///dmili (beedobee) tary MAR! /che/S///////////!7The Double-Bass must be played solely(yeh)with the so-calledbowin so-called jazz and other syncopations8plucking of the stringsis prohibitedsince it is damagingto the instrumentand detrimental toAryan musicality9musicians arelikewiseforbidden to make vocalimprovisations (so-called scat)10skoo-bee-doo!Kelwyn SoleDark golden boaton a seafar away, rock with merock with me:deep-throated birdgentle me homepast the mud-lined streetwhere thoughts stick fastm&iI lankunkuandchildren pick rubbishhungrilytne ni g ntflakes notesfrom the scalp of my sorrow —hide in m Y P illowand C1 T for me -Kelwyn SoleSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 41

SOUTH AFRICA: PASSPORT REFUSED TOSOUTH AFRICAN ACADEMICSheila Sisulu, Project Head of the Turret CorrespondenceCollege, administered by SACHED (South AfricanCouncil for Higher Education), was told on 3 September1984 that her application for a passport — toenable her to follow a three-month course in Britain —had been refused.Turret Correspondence College prepares secondary schoolstudents and adults for the JMB (Joint Matriculation Board)'matric' examination. The college attempts to compensatefor the poor standard of teaching in many black secondaryschools — one of the reasons for continuing school boycottsand black township unrest. Few black schools enter theirstudents for the JMB matric because of its 'difficult'reputation: among those black students who sit it, the failurerate is notoriously high. Only six correspondence collegesoffering the JMB matric exist in South Africa. Recently therewere attempts by the JMB to prevent correspondence collegestudents from taking the JMB matric. SACHED's TurretCollege caters specially for black and disadvantaged students:at present it has some 400 students, of whom 200 arepractising teachers.Sheila Sisulu was to have attended a course with theNational Extension College in Cambridge from September toDecember. She was sponsored by the British Council, whowere to pay for her fare and her stay. Her application for apassport was made to the South African Department of theInterior in mid-June. In July, when she had been promisedthe passport, she was interviewed by the police: there seemedto be no problem and they wished her a pleasant journey.When in August her passport had still not come through, shebecame apprehensive and made enquiries. She was informedon 3 September by the British Council office in Pretoria thatthey had been advised by the British Embassy of the SouthAfrican government's refusal to grant her a passport. Thiswas Sheila Sisulu's third application for a passport. Her first,in 1980, was refused. On her second, in 1983, she wasrequired to submit travel documents which were not returned.Mrs Sisulu's fatherin-law, Walter Sisulu, was sentenced in1964 to life imprisonment. Her husband, Mlungisi Sisulu, abusinessman, was detained without charge from 7 to 21August this year; those arrested with him are still detained.But her brother-inlaw, the formerly banned journalist,Zwelakhe Sisulu, was granted a passport in mid-May and iscurrently studying in the United States.The blocking of Sheila Sisulu's travel to Britain wouldseem to be the result of continuing victimisation of theSisulu family. Not only is she denied the opportunity toimprove her contribution to the work of the correspondencecollege, but a blow is dealt to the work of SACHED generally.SOVIET UNION: THE DEATH OF VALERY MARCHENKOOn 7 October 1984 the Ukrainian writer, ValeryMarchenko, died of kidney failure in a Leningradprison hospital. He was 37.Valery Marchenko began a promising career as a writer in1970 when he graduated from Kiev University, a specialistin Ukrainian and Azeri philology. He soon became a regularcontributor to Literary Ukraine and other cultural journals.At the same time, his fascination with language and culturaltradition led him to challenge government policies towardsthe culture of the non-Russian peoples of the USSR. Hiscareer underwent an abrupt reversal when, like manyintellectuals of his generation, he was accused of Ukrainiannationalism and, in June 1973, arrested for 'anti-Sovietagitation and propaganda'.Valery Marchenko spent six years imprisoned in a strictregimelabour camp in Perm region, and two years exiled toa remote village in Soviet Central Asia. Ironically, it wasduring these years that he wrote his most famous essay,Letter to Grandfather. Marchenko's grandfather was thehistorian, Mikhail Marchenko, who became the first Sovietrector of Lvov University in 1947. In his letter, which wasnever published officially, Marchenko reproached him forwhat he was as his subservience to the 'Russification' ofUkrainian culture.Valery Marchenko's health deteriorated considerablyduring his imprisonment and when he returned to Kiev in1981 he was suffering from chronic nephritis andhypertension. His request to go to Italy for treatment wasrejected by the authorities in 1982. In 1983 he was rearrestedand charged with 'anti-Soviet agitation andpropaganda' — this time for letters and statements he hadwritten during his previous imprisonment.At his trial in March 1984 Valery Marchenko was alreadygravely ill. Nevertheless, the court sentenced him to 15 years'imprisonment and exile and he was sent to special regimecamp Perm 36-1. In an urgent worldwide appeal for hisrelease the human rights organisation, Amnesty International,expressed its deep concern that he had been given themaximum possible sentence to be served in the harshestcategory of labour camp. Valery Marchenko died sevenmonths later.UGANDA: JOURNALISTS HELDThe editor and three employees of Munnansi, twojournalists from the Uganda Pilot, and two journalistsfrom The Star were arrested during November and,according to Amnesty International, are detained,without charge, under the Public Order and SecurityAct.Munnansi (The Citizen) is a weekly English-language paperwhich has close links with the Democratic Party (DP), thelegal parliamentary opposition. Its editor, AnthonySsekweyama, is also the DP's deputy publicity secretary. Hewas arrested on 6 November — together with PaulSsemogerere (DP leader) and M. Ojok-Mulozi (DP publicitysecretary and Chief Whip) — and charged with utteringseditious words and publishing a seditious press release.Ssekweyama was also charged with sedition on two furthercounts referring to their publication in Munnansi. Thecharges refer to a letter — released at a press conference on26 October and published in Munnansi on 31 October —allegedly written by Chief Justice George Masika to PresidentMilton Obote regarding the trial of Balaki Kirya and fiveothers of the Uganda Freedom Movement (UFM), a politicalorganisation engaged in guerrilla warfare against the governmentof President Obote. Ssekweyama and the other two menwere remanded on bail to appear in court on 17 December.On 2 3 November, Ssekweyama was again arrested,released on police bond and told to report to the police on26 November when he was served with a detention order; he4: STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

is now in Luzira Upper Prison, near Kampala. His detentionmay be connected with an article in Munnansi on 21 Novemberwhich criticised the presence of North Korean troops inUganda. Two Munnansi journalists — Andrew Mulindwa andJohn Baptist Kyeyune — were arrested on 2 November andheld at various places. Mulindwa was transferred to JinjaRoad police station in Kampala on or about 20 November;Kyeyune to Kampala central police station on or about23 November, where he is reported to have been tortured.Another Munnansi journalist, David Kasujja, was arrested atEntebbe Road airport on 31 October, released on bail,rearrested and served with a detention order; he is believedto be held in Luzira Upper Prison.The Uganda Pilot, also a weekly English-language paper,has a large Roman Catholic readership. Two of its journalists— Sam Kiwanuka and Francis Kanyeihamba — were arrestedin early April after the Pilot published a story criticising andsatirising the government's proposed Women's Charter. InMay they were charged with 'writing and publishing a falseand malicious publication intended to incite the public' andheld in custody until November, when they appeared incourt. Although acquitted, they were immediately rearrestedand served with detention orders; they are believed to beheld in Luzira Upper Prison.The Star is Uganda's only non-government Englishlanguagedaily. Its editor-in-chief, Drake Ssekkeba, and chiefsub-editor, Sam Katwere, were arrested on 8 November afterthe paper published a front-page story accusing governmentministers of being corrupt. They too are reportedly in LuziraUpper Prison.SOUTH AFRICA: WRITER RANTETE DETAINEDJohannes Rantete, 20-year-old author of The ThirdDay of September — an eye-witness account of theSebokeng unrest — was detained under Section 29 ofthe Internal Security Act 1982 on 23 November 1984until his release in mid-December.Sebokeng is one of three townships 60 kilometres south ofJohannesburg in which black demonstrations first erupted inlate August. The demonstrations called for a one-day boycottof work and schools to protest against rent increases andinferior education, and sparked off widespread unrest when,on 2 September, South Africa's new constitution came intoforce, providing for limited Indian and 'coloured'representation but excluding the black majority in a tri-racialparliament. Large numbers of police were mobilised, usingrubber bullets and live ammunition to break updemonstrations and gatherings. On 2 3 October, Sebokengwas the scene of an intensive security operation in which —what is seen as a new stage of repression — the army joinedthe police in a house-to-house search, ostensibly forinstigators of the unrest which had continued since earlySeptember.Johannes Rantete, a resident of Sebokeng, wrote aneye-witness account of the events of 3 September, and took areel of colour photographs, mostly of buildings and vehiclesdestroyed. He sent both to Ravan Press, who published theaccount, illustrated by black-and-white sketches based on thephotographs, as the first in the new Ravan Storyteller series,in late October. On 23 November, security policemen arrestedRantete, and then visited Ravan Press, demanding hisphotographs. But because of their documentary interest,Ravan Press had posted the photographs to another of theirauthors, who is currently working on an illustrated history ofSouth Africa since 1976. The photographs never reachedtheir destination. In a telephone conversation with thepublishers, a Captain Kruger of the Security Police statedthat until the photographs were recovered, the interrogationof the author could not begin.The book was formally banned by the Directorate ofPublications, but on appeal from Ravan the ban was laterlifted.In his book Rantete writes: 'As a resident of SebokengI was also concerned by the events that were to take place,but was hindered by my parents to remain within the yard.In all my born days I had never found myself amidst astriking crowd, and thus the hindrance laid on me by myparents was as painful as the heart of a divorced man. Imultiplied two by two to get an easy outlet from the yard.Thus, by doing so, I secured my curiosity which is the firstthing a newsman should have.' It was, it seems, his 'newsman'scuriosity' which led to his detention.SAUDI ARABIA: THREAT TO FREEDOM OF EDUCATIONSaudi authorities have issued an order requiring thestate to review all research undertaken by its nationalsstudying abroad for doctorates or masters degrees. Thisinfringement of academic freedom has implicationsworldwidas most of those affected conduct theirresearch outside Saudi Arabia.The National Security Council of Saudi Arabia (equivalentto the FBI in the USA), headed by the Interior Minister,Prince Naif Bin Abd al-Aziz, issued an order in October1984 instructing presidents of universities as well aseducational attaches at Saudi embassies abroad, to make itobligatory for Saudi students studying for their masters anddoctorate degrees to submit a copy of their thesis/dissertationto the National Security Council in Saudi Arabiabefore handing it to the university. The Council may approveor reject any research submitted for its inspection. Arejection means that the student cannot then submit hiswork to his university.It is believed that the order is meant to discouragestudents from researching sensitive political or social issues.Previously, doctorate research undertaken by Saudis inforeign universities was being banned from entering SaudiArabia despite the fact that the researchers held prominentpositions in Saudi Arabia. Students were required to delivera copy of their graduate research project to the educationalattaches at the local Saudi embassy after graduation.Embassies reported any irregularities in the research at theirown discretion.The order of the National Security Council is a seriousinfringement of academic freedom, not only in Saudi Arabiabut all over the world. There are some 15,00 Saudi studentsstudying abroad at institutions of higher learning worldwide,most of them in the United States and the United Kingdom.INDEX is published by courtesy of Index on CensorshipJ~ast MidnightIt's way past midnight and I am tryingTo get some sleep. The roomSmells drunk. The bed reeks ofSour body odours. I can hear you breathe.It's way past midnight and the dark roomIs a cage hurtling through spaceTowards daybreak. I feel your lipsWhispering close to my toothless mouth:It's way past midnight and I want to feelYou over and inside meBefore the cock crow of the compound siren.Sp•?Hp-^SBEI^r^mSkBES1 ^HP*bgfSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

y Walt OyisiphoKaMtetwalood'What! If I say stop it! I don't like it!my wife knows I mean just that. She hasto stop whatever she was doing orsaying. And that must be done instantly,'boasted Mshengu.'Haykona Mshengu', protestedNyambose, shaking his head, 'that is notthe decent way to speak to a wife,umfazi wezinkomo. Stop it! stop it!What is that?''You are too soft, Nyambose, justtoo soft. That's why women are soobstinate, because you beg and consoleand condone them instead of reprimandingthem for having done anythingyou disapprove of,' continued Mshengu.'We Mshengu', chipped in Mangethewho had all the time been eavesdropping,'women are also human beings andtherefore should be recognised andtreated as such. These tender heartsshould be handled with care, they arefragile.'w romen are also humanW beings, Von that's an obviousfact, said the loquaciousand voluble Mshengu.This was a conversation byworkers of Mathetha Supermarket duringlunch time. Their abysmal ignorance ofthe socio-politico-economic set up oftheir country was very strong. They hadnever bothered themselves about formingtheir own organisation as workers. Theyknew nix about trade unions. Duringdinner time a handful of men wouldgather under an oak tree to play umrabaraba,another group (Mshengu's)would bask in the sun, chat, crack jokesamong themselves and giggle alouddisturbing those who have decided tosleep. The topics for discussion inMshengu's group revolved around womenand liquor. They would not discussanything relevant and constructive. Thatwas exactly what was happening thatFriday.'Women are also human beings, that'san obvious fact', said the loquacious andvoluble Mshengu, 'but they are alsocunning and tricky. A woman can coaxyou to maintain a child not from yourown semen if you are not up to date.''That will never happen in my house,I can see that child from the outset,' heconcluded rather conclusively, rising upin due response to the ringing of the bellwarning about dinner time that hadexpired.At 5 o'clock the workers of MathethaSupermarket knocked off. As usualMshengu was cycling behind Mangethe,his bonafide mate, along the way toMzinoni Township where they werefull time residents by virtue of theirSection 10 permits.'Mshengu, how can you stell that achild was not fathered by you?' askedMangethe bringing Mshengu to theconversation they had had at work. Theshengu pedalled fasteruntil he came to ride alongsidehis mate, so that theycould have their tete-a-teteundisturbed.weather had just changed and the SouthEasterly wind was so strong that it blewaway Mshengu's voice when he tried toexplain.Mshengu pedalled faster until hecame to ride alongside his mate, so thatthey could have their tete-a-tete undisturbed.They kept a steady pace andfunny enough, no car came behind them44 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

to interfere with their parallelism.'Ini Mangethe? A child not from me,not of my own blood, ngambona zisuka.And to clarify that point, my findingswill not be based on heredity business,I know heredity has mutations andvariations a layman like myself cannever understand,' he answered in hisboastful manner.M• W •angethe wondered whyVuyo had never run tohim and perhaps opened thegate as other children did uponseeing their father.'How can you find out then, tellme,' insisted Mangethe.They were starting an ascendingslope and had to put much effort intheir pedalling to propel their bicyclesforward and up the road. They startedpanting heavily until they reachedthe summit of the steep slope and werebeginning to descend along the road.Neither was pedalling now but still theywere riding alongside each other keepingtheir speed constant.'Uyabona Mangethe, I have threechildren,' he said showing three fingers,the thumb and the pointing finger bent,and proceeded 'NguAfrica, Nobantuand Nobelungu.''What, their names!,' interruptedMangethe.'Let me finish first and commentthereafter. You see when I give thesechildren a hiding, they all do one thingin common. I don't mean I punish themall simultaneously, it depends who haswronged. The one given a hiding will goto the back yard, squat there and crythere! Nobody ever told them to do so.The child that will not follow myfamily's crying tradition will not be ofmy own blood and sweat.'Overwhelmed with amazementMangethe did not know what to sayalthough his mouth was wide open.Ultimately the voice came out. 'HawuMshengu! How did you discover such ahorrible experience?''You call it a horrible experience?''Hearken Mshengu, haven't youconsidered that the reason why a childmay run to the street may be that youwill not catch him and give him yetanother hiding.''Not my children,' blurted Mshengu,'If he runs to the street. . . no, my childwon't do that. If the child runs to thenext door neighbour, his father livesthere,' concluded Mshengu sophistically,'You've got wonders Mshengu.''It is because I discover them.Especially those that concern childrenthat will behave strangely and say thingsbeyond one's comprehension.'They cycled and entered thetownship through the main road, Thelawayeka.They parted when Mshenguhad to turn into Seventh Street to gohome. Mangethe continued down themain road and turned at EleventhStreet.Before long, Mangethe reached homeand saw his only son, three-year-oldVuyo, playing with his mates in theyard. Vuyo merely glanced at him andcontinued playing. Mangethe wonderedwhy Vuyo had never run to him andperhaps opened the gate as otherchildren did upon seeing their father.This thought harassed his spiritualbeing. At that very moment the wordsof his friend echoed in his mind ' . . .children that will behave strangely . . . . 'Slowly he opened the gate and pushedhis bicycle into the yard.The following day was Saturday, andevery afternoon of this day Mangethewould go to watch a football match, butthis was a strange Saturday. Instead,he took his portable radio and founda cool place and listened to mbaqangamusic while drinking libazisa, amthombo-brewed beer.His mind was scattered but waspromptly collected by the appearanceof Vuyo kicking a punctured plasticball. Mangethe stared at him intentlywatching his every movement; the wayhe kicked the ball, the way he ran afterit. He studied the boy intently. If hehad gone to school and studied what iscalled child-psychology, it would havehelped him in this task, he thought. Hewanted to detect whether the boyresembled him in any way. But alas,as far as he was concerned, he did notsee any feature he shared with the littleboy.He remembered that a psychiatristonce said Vuyo sustained brain injuriesduring parturition.'Fortunately the damage is slight andwill not take long to heal,' thepsychiatrist had said.Mangethe sat there and forgot hisbeer for a short while pondering overMshengu's experience. He was inwonderland when suddenly Vuyokicked his ball towards his father andthe ball, by sheer accident, rolled andbumped against the bottle containingbeer. Beer spilt leaving sorghum-soakedspots on Mangethe's trousers. Half ofthe contents was lost.Without dubitation, as the chanceprevailed, he belted the poor boyseverely without compunction. Vuyoyelled and ran for cover. To Mangethe'samazement, instead of running to thegate into the street, as he expectedperhaps, the boy ran into the kitchenand crept behind the stove and criedthere. Mangethe followed him and methis surprised wife in the doorway.M• W •angethe believed Vuyohad run to the ancestors forprotection, and not to the streetor to the next door neighbour.She had never been as surprised asshe was at that moment because it wasthe first time that Vuyo had been givena hiding as the psychiatrist hadexpressively warned against it.Without asking MaVuyo could seewhy the boy was crying so bitterly asthe belt was still dangling in Mangethe'shand.'Yintoni BaVuyo?,' she asked,addressing him in that special andaffectionate manner.Mangethe was very pleased withhimself. He noticed when Vuyo wascrying that only his left eye yieldedtears, something that used to happento him too when he was a boy. That wasone positive hereditary feature theyshared.Vuyo hid behind the stove, the sameplace where Mangethe stored thecalabash of home-brewed beer wheneverhe had an ancestral ceremony. Mangethebelieved Vuyo had run to the ancestorsfor protection, and not to the street orto the next door neighbour.Kwenzekani BaVuyo? The childis crying, you are smiling and I amasking a question but you don't answer,'MaVuyo continued. Mangethe turnedhis back to his wife and walked backslowly to his place soliloquizing, 'Myson, my blood. Vuyo, my blood son.'Mangethe understood now why hisson did not run to him or open the gatefor him as other children did.That Vuyo's strange behaviouraccrued from his psychiatric malady,ruled in Mangethe's heart and he enjoyedthat.JjJIQ Contributiontowardsthe Destruction of theMyth of Changethrough the Ballot orA Lesson to be learntfrom ReactionIn our struggle for knowledge,our weapon must be books.In our struggle for insight,our weapon must be discussion.In our struggle for freedom,our weapon must be consciousness.In our struggle for power,our weapon must be struggle.Farouk StemmetSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 45

TALKING STORYWhat this delayed recognition achieves is quite significant.By means of a dramatic device we are reminded that thestoryteller, while he certainly draws on personal experience,does so only to the extent that this experience can be offeredto others, or can be shared by them. He is at once the subjectof the story and a part of the community to whom and bywhom it is told (a many-sided communication which isfundamentally different from the two-way writer-readertraffic of the novel). Babel's brief demonstration of thenature of storytelling serves a related function whichconfirms the democratic bias of the storytelling medium: apre-eminent man is a fit subject for a story providing he andhis audience are able to recognize the ordinary man in him,too. (This may, of course, be false modesty in Pavlichenko,but the story soon refutes that suspicion.)This storytelling milieu within which the storytellerinvites the participation of the community is, however, afictional construction within what remains a written tale, aliterary production determined by the medium of printedbooks and commodity distribution. Consequently we have toask not only 'What is the relationship between teller andlistener?' but also 'What literary purpose does the depictionof this relationship serve?' I believe that Babel provides, inthis fashion, a demonstration of the mode of attention herequires from his readers.One proof of this is the degree of identification presentin the story between Babel and Pavlichenko the storyteller(the emphasis is necessary because a strong measure of whatNdebele called 'the kind of tense ambiguity which makes forreading enjoyment' underlies Babel's presentation ofPavlichenko the man and his actions.) Since this pointdepends on a reading of all Babel's stories, and particularlythose in which he reflects — usually obliquely — on thenature of his art, I shall deal briefly with the story'Awakening' before returning to the presentation of thestoryteller in 'The Life and Adventures of Matthew Pavlichenko'.As the title implies, 'Awakening' evokes that period inyouth when the world and one's place in it are clerarlyperceived for the first time. The narrator, a boy of fourteen,is under pressure from his parents to become an infantprodigy on the violin (Odessa, where the story is set, 'in thecourse of ten years or so . . . supplied the concert platformsof the world with infant prodigies'.) Rather like Vukani inNdebele's 'The Music of the Violin', he resists his parents'ambitions and takes to wandering around the harbour whenhe should be having his violin lessons. There he meets aremarkable man:This was Yefim Nikitich Smolich, proof-reader of theOdessa News. In his athletic breast there dwelt compassionfor Jewish children, and he was the god of a rabble ofrickety starvelings. He used to collect them from thebug-infested joints on the Moldavanka, take them downto the sea, bury them in the sand, do gym with them,dive with them, teach them songs. Roasting in theperpendicular sunrays, he would tell them tales aboutfishermen and wild beasts. To grown-ups Nikitich wouldexplain that he was a natural philosopher. The Jewishkids used to roar with laughter at his tales, squealing andsnuggling up to him like so many puppies. The sun wouldsprinkle them with creeping freckles, freckles of the samecolour as lizards.The boy is already beginning to write his first pieces, but itis the influence of the 'natural philosopher' that provesdecisive:'Now what is it you lack? Youth's no matter — it'll passwith the years. What you lack is a feeling for nature.'He pointed with his stick, at a tree with a reddish trunkand low crown.'What's that tree?'I didn't know.'What's growing on that bush?'I didn't know this either. We walked together acrossthe little square on the Alexandrovsky Prospect. The oldmankept poking his stick at trees; he would seize meby the shoulder when a bird flew past, and he made melisten to the various kinds of singing.'What bird is that singing?'I knew none of the answers. The names of trees andbirds, their division into species, where birds fly away to,on which side the sun rises, when the dew falls thickest —all these things were unknown to me.'And you dare to write! A man who doesn't live innature, as a stone does or an animal, will never in all hislife write two worthwhile lines. Your landscapes are likedescriptions of stage props. In heaven's name, what haveyour parents been thinking of for fourteen years?'This initial preoccupation with nature as a practical matterabout which information is to be sought, in order to 'livein nature, as a stone does or an animal' points to the practicalorientation of storytellers towards life in general which isnoted by Walter Benjamin. When Pavlichenko recalls thatphase of his youth when 'life brought stripes to his shoulderstraps' we learn not only of his martial background but alsoof his view of experience as a teacher. At the end of hisstory he produces the formulation which marks him out asa storyteller whose project is in parallel with that of hiscreator, as it is with the 'natural philosophy' of the proofreaderof the Odessa News. 'You see, I want to get to knowwhat life really is, what life's like down our way.'Pavlichenko the ManIf Babel can be identified with Pavlichenko the storyteller,his attitude to Pavlichenko the man is another matter. In thephrase used by Ndebele to describe the endings of Kemal'sstories, Babel is another storyteller who 'leaves us thinking'.Each reader must bring a unique experience to bear in orderto draw conclusions from Pavlichenko's life. A story whichcontains unqualified celebrations of life lived to the fullalso admits ironies such as that which attends the reading of'Lenin's letter'. Yet the controlling principle of the workdoes not lie in a finely tuned moral judgement to which allaspects of the strong must be referred. It lies, rather, in thestoryteller's recognition of the energy source in his material,and in his commitment to allowing that energy unimpededexpression, discovering in the process the fierce logic ofPavlichenko's life. 'Let me give you a story', storytellersoften say. The gift, well and truly delivered by a master ofthe art, is to allow us to hear another 'voice of experience'.It is easy, after all, to pass judgements for or against theburning of bodies in blockaded, contested streets. What thestoryteller can give us is the truth such judgements conceal:the truth that resides in 'what life's like down our way'.Note1. His essay, The Storyteller, was mentioned by NjabuloNdebele in his introduction to Yashar Kemal, It is publishedin Illuminations (Jonathan Cape, London, 1970).46 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

Keith GottschalkAHE ASSASSINATIONOF JENNY CURTISyou win our hearts, you become our banner— Samora Machel: Josina, you are not deadIt was a whisper, trying not to be hearda shadow, trying not to be seen;it was a day, when someone slipped awaya night, when the dark movedit was war.Jenny, NUSAS Vice-President:runs NUSWELlearns to drivetells workers their rights.Hein Willemse1Evans Vusi Nkabindeler nagedagtenis aanKatryn en Jenny,maar ook virFritz en Marius.julle sal blomme in kardoessakkestuur,julle sal blomme met briewestuur.julle sal weet:blomme is vry en verraderlik mooi;julle sal weet:bewonderaars is gesigloos;julle sal weet:blomme is verruklik en handgranaatrooi,sometimes, elsewhereresistance appeared:petrol dumps, pylonsdompas offices disappeared& walls hung eyeless.so, in Pretoriaparcels address themselvesto the problems of the day:Mnr Ongopotse Tiro, GaboroneMnr John Dube, LusakaMev Ruth First, MaputoMev Jenny Schoon, Lubangoall will be deliveredall wrapped upin brown paper, string& correct stamps.Jenny, IAS activistdrives herself hours beyond enduranceas I have never seen a human beingdriven —worker education by nightunion leaflets before dawnorganisation through daythen: marriage (to Marius)flight (to Botswana)underground (for freedom)she was a comradebecome statistica ceremonywhom earth embracedour angerbecome resolve.julle sal weet:blomme is snellers;julle sal weet:blomme is vuurpeletons;julle sal weet:bewonderaars is gesigloos.julle sal weet:die kus is beangs en desperaat.28/6/84Hein WillemseY•HE MARTYRFor those who think I am dead,I am alive.For those who think I have a bullet hole,it is true.For those who think I was in jailit is true.And for those who say I talk too muchI speak the truth.For God made man to speaketh Hisgood heart,yet it is deceived.He gave us hands to embrace andlove,yet we touch blood.The bullet in my lung I shall notcurse.For it was from an attempt at freedom.Keith GottschalkH H H HEvans Vusi NkabindeRECENTLY UNBANNED•^^•M|IHIHHHHHHi AFRICA MY BEGINNING • • • • • • • • •Poetryby Ingoapele MadingoaneThe epic Black Trial, and 'the cry for Africa's exploited soul' in the title poem, are both includedin the poet's first book, now unbanned after six years.STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 47

Andries W. Oliphant Lancelot Maseko David M Makgatorsto wipe the chagrinfrom your faceWn Women's DayYou are the mother of songs who bore meIn the beginning.I read in your black terrestrialAnd magical handsThe immensity of giving your lifeTo kitchen floors and wash-days.You are the mother of dances and happiness.Your faceIs the silentBiography of daily suffering.You are the generous loverThe mother of rivers, trees and stones.You are the mother of all earthly andHeavenly things. ThePoint of reference,The origin of all man.You are the worker, comrade and goddess.You are the mother of grain,The antelopeAnd other animals.I've been with you in broken villages,In dead forestsWe gathered twigs for fire.You are the mother of towns, aircraft and cities.I squat with youOn street cornersTo sell boiled eggs and mealies.You are the source of fish, peanut-bread and meat.I've been with you on the rough ride in the kwela-kwela.You are the mother of songs, since the beginning you haveBorne all man.In your black handsI discern the choreography of mysterious stars.At your callThe earth will riseTo restore you as the mother of all things.Andries W. OliphantII•rOMESTIC MAID,MY MOTHERSharp weapon, my wordswho do I call you mamahow will I explainto your grandchildrenyou're their grannywhen they called you girlright in front of themTo me you'll always be mamathough daily you beam beam beamto cheer the long haired womanwhom you dreadmore than you fear GodWhen you die, rememberthere will be no commemorationno master and madamto bury their good girljust a cluster of fellow maidsand boysand perhaps your relativesfrom the countryLancelot MasekoAVH SALLY MY DEARYour name is like a golden bellhung in my heart.When I remember it, I tremble.Then it swings and rings; Sally . . .Sally . . . Sally . . .Oh! What a feeling.Love me baby.I can't believe that our love is gone.How I miss you,How I need you.But I know, I knowThat on of these goodaysYou will remember me,Need me too.It has been short but fast.But why, why not long and slow.Oh! Sally, you were so kind to me,I don't know what's wrong.You are Moonlight,Starlight, Sunlight,All the lights my eyes need.Let's hope that one day, one night,We shall be at the same boatWhich is love.And let's pray that Modimo knows about us.David M MakgatoWalt oyiSipho ka MtetwaHiWWHO ARE THEY?Moving in the parkI saw a noticenailed to the bench'Europeans only'Who are these Europeansso fortunate to have seatsreserved for themin Africa?Maybe you're rightWalt oyiSipho ka Mtetwa48 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985

LIGHT IN A STARK AGEStaffrider Series No 25Steve JacobsTHE COLONISATION OF THESOUTHERN TSWANA 1870-1900by Kevin ShillingtonThe discovery of diamonds in South Africa 1870 totallytransformed South African society and set it firmly on thepath of capitalist development. Previous studies havefocussed on the tussle between Boer and Brit to gain controlof this abundant source of wealth. Now Kevin Shillingtonlooks at the underlying social experience of the SouthernTswana of Griqualand West and Southern Bechuanaland, inwhose territory the diamonds were discovered. The Tswanawere torn between new opportunities opened up by thediamond fields, and resisting the loss of lands and liberty.Exposed to penetration by missionaries, speculators, variouscolonial officials, and filibusters, the Tswana clans finallysuccumbed to the combined forces weighted against theirindependence. Resisitance only hastened their final collapse.R13.50Light in a Stark Age is a young South African writer's firstcollection of stories. Jacobs's vision is broad and his stylevaried, ranging from science fiction and the supernatural tothe harsh political realities of South Africa. His subject isthe struggle between good and evil in a dark age; hischaracters are frequently individuals in conflict withauthority.R7.95somnn mmm»~mm | fhe€fel0«isafi0iiciffli€iMO-WOOKevin ShiHtagionKHOIKHOIAND THE FOUNDING OF WHITE SOUTH AFRICANew History of Southern Africa Seriesby Richard ElphickThe Khoikhoi — popularly, loosely, and pejoratively knownas 'Hottentots' — were once among the most widespreadpeoples of Africa. Today, at least in the Cape area, they areextinct. Using many sources, including linguistic evidenceand early Dutch records, Richard Elphick follows the declineof the Khoikhoi from the precolonial period to 1720. His isthe first complete and systematic account of this story.R14.95THESE BOOKSHOPS ARE STOCKISTS OF THE FULL RAVAN RANGE:BOOKWISE Jorissen Street, Braamfontein, Johannesburg, Tel. 396531/2BOOKWISE Commissioner Street, Johannesburg, Tel. 8347206/7/8BOOKWISE Roggebaai, Cape Town, Tel. 217444CAMPUS BOOKSHOP Bertha Street, Braamfontein, Johannesburg, Tel. 391711DE JONG'S BOOKSHOP Ameshoff Street, Braamfontein, 2001, Johannesburg, Tel. 393026EXCLUSIVE BOOKS Pretoria Street, Hillbrow, Johannesburg, Tel. 6425068GOG AS BOOKSHOP 53 Prince Edward Street, DurbanOPEN BOOKS Main Road, Observatory, Cape Town, Tel. 475345LOGAN'S UNIVERSITY BOOKSHOP Denis Shepstone Building, Durban, Tel. 253221MARKET THEATRE Cnr. Wolhuter & Bree Streets, Newtown, 2001, Johannesburg Tel 8321641SHUTER AND SHOOTER Church Street, Pietermaritzburg, Tel. 58151PILGRIMS BOOKSHOP Old Mutual Building, St. Georges Street, Cape Town, Tel. 226905 - Cavendish Square ClaremontTel. 643030QUADRANT BOOKS Arcadia Centre, PretoriaCAPE YOUNG BOOKS Main Road, Seapoint, Tel. 449544UNIVERSITY OF ZULULAND BOOKSHOP P/Bag X 1001, KwaDlangezwa, 3886, Tel 351 93611The following branches of the CNA carry a wide range of books by black writers, including the StaffriderSenes:Commissioner Street, Carlton Centre, Wesgate Centre, Jeppe Street, Cnr. Harrison & President Streets, Life Centre(Commissioner Street), Sun City, Maseru, Umlazi.

IN OUR NEXT ISSUEThami Mnyele, Donald Parenzee and Jayapraga Reddy