Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

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'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, <strong>1985</strong>
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, <strong>1985</strong> 19
Page 2 and 3: NEW BOOKSFROM RAVANHis second autob
Page 4 and 5: hoseby Bheki MasekoIllustrations by
Page 6 and 7: Ihe teacher hadhardly dismissed us
Page 8 and 9: That I had to run away from home wa
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Page 12 and 13: Nikitinsky. He was sitting in a roo
Page 14 and 15: Damian Garsidec9lukTo surpass the g
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Page 18 and 19: or thirteenth of July we were all d
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Page 28 and 29: He was dedicated to his medicine,ye
Page 30 and 31: 'You have two minutes.' The silence
Page 32 and 33: Staf frider Popular HistoryMhala, t
Page 34 and 35: Dombo RatshilumelaIn secret lepers
Page 36 and 37: R regnancyf A poem should be palpab
Page 38 and 39: one night in Meadowlands, another i
Page 40 and 41: Hugh Lew intJ/ ACK*The manwho died
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Page 44 and 45: SOUTH AFRICA: PASSPORT REFUSED TOSO
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