Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

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