Staffrider Vol.3 No.4 Dec-Jan 1980 - DISA

Introducing theSTAFFRIDERPOSTER SERIESStaff riderintroduces a powerful new seriesof posters of peoples' heroes — leadingfigures in black cultural and political life —drawn by Nkoana Moyaga and representingthrough these portraits key elements of ourhistory, our present, and our future.The posters are 50 cm x 70 cm wide andprinted in the sepia of the origionals.ON SALE NOW ARE Staffrider PosterSeries No 1 (Bantu Steve Biko) and No 2(Miriam 'Mother Africa' Makeba, reproducedon the cover of this issue) at R2,00 each.New Titles in theStaffrider SeriesMZALA, Mbulelo Mzamane,Staffrider Series No 5 - R3.50AMANDLA, Miriam Tlali,Staffrider Series No 6 - R3,957VS4&*The Stories ofMBULELO MZAMANE

PoetryNjabulo Simakahle Ndebele, Amelia House, Nkathazo kaMnyayiza.THE REVOLUTION OF THE AGEDmy voice is the measure of my lifeit cannot travel far now,small mounds of earth already bead my open grave,so come closelest you miss the dream.grey hair has placed on my browthe verdict of wisdomand the skin-folds of agebear tales wooled in the truth of proverbs:if you cannot master the wind,flow with itletting know all the time that you are resisting.that is how i have livedquietlyswallowing both the fresh and foulfrom the mouth of my masters;yet i watched and listened.i have listened tooto the condemnations of the youngwho burned with scornloaded with revolutionary maximshot for quick results.they did not knowthat their angerwas born in the meeknesswith which i whipped my self:it is a blind progenythat acts without indebtedness to the past.listen now,the dream:i was playing music on my flutewhen a man came and asked to see my fluteand i gave it to him,but he took my flute and walked away.i followed this man, asking for my flute;he would not give it back to me.how i planted vegetables in his garden!cooked his food!how i cleaned his house!how i washed his clothesand polished his shoes!but he would not give me back my flute,yet in my humiliationi felt the growth of strength in mefor i had a goalas firm as life is endless,while he lived in the darkness of his wrongnow he has grown hollow from the grin of his crueltyhe hisses death through my flutewhich has grown heavy, too heavyfor his withered hands,and now i should smite him:in my hand is the weapon of youth.do not eat an unripe appleits bitterness is a tingling knife.suffer yourself to waitand the ripeness will comeand the apple will fall down at your feet.now is the timepluck the appleand feed the future with its ripeness.Njabulo Simakahle NdebeleMR WHITE DISCOVERERto cover your shameyou tiedmy sunkissed breaststiedimprisonedmy swinging breastsnowwhenearthlightmerges intomy black bodythenphantom loveryoucomeunleashmy breastswhite feetdancingout of stepwraptrapmy legsimmoralityactssucksmy milkButMr Whiteyno bloodfeversthrough myuntuned bodyNo moreno moretonight'slastmoonkisses on breaststomorrowmy beadstuneto sunkissedswinging breastsMr White discoverercoveryour shameAmelia Housedear siryou came to megun on hipto ask me aboutmy political beliefsmind your sondoesn't come to minebomb in pocketto ask himabout his political beliefsIT WILL BLOW HIM TOPIECES!nkathazo kaMnyayiza2 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 198

Voices from the GhettoMrs T H, anoffice cleaner inJohannesburg,went to talk toMiriam Tlaliabout survival inthe dark hoursbefore THEFIRST TRAINFROM FARADAYMrs T.H. has had two previous jobs as acleaner. Now she's started a new one atRanleigh House, working for BCS, oneof the cleaning companies. She toldMiriam Tlali that it was . . .. . . the same old story. When we knockoff at 2.30 a.m., we have to go. There'sno mercy. Many* people in many placeshave been assaulted, people who workat night, meeting with ducktails andtsotsis — many, many people. I don'tknow about Ranleigh House becausewe've only just started there. But in allthe other places, we have been hearingof many of God's people who have beeninjured. Others we see passing nearwhere we work on their way out, goingto ... we don't know where. Now, oneasks oneself, just what happens to thesepeople? We can't go to Park Station; wemay not sleep on the benches. We maynot sit in the waiting-rooms. We muststand outside. Even when there's a trainon the platform, we may not board it.Now we wonder where we must go becausein the locations at that time it isrough. Even then, where will you go atthat time? Most of the time you are theonly one in that neighbourhood whereyou stay. It is like that too in RanleighHouse.At 2 a.m. what happens; do theycome and sign you off?Yes. Someone gives us the order toleave. We have a white woman supervisor.When we go, she comes and lets usoff.Now the cleaners; is it only womenthat they employ?Yes. It's only women who are cleaners.Some come from Diepkloof;others from Naledi, from everywhere.The supervisor is also a woman. But shehas a car, you see.There are companies of cleaners.Many firms. These have different names.One is called National, another is BCSand so on. You work until a certaintime. It matters not whether it's rainingor icy cold, there's no shelter for us.photo, Lesley LawsonIt is they who must provide shelter,isn't it?Yes. How we get home, they are notbothered about. That is none of theirconcern. You must see what to do.Whether you are assaulted or not, isnone of their business. At one time, I'veforgotten what year it was, a cousin ofmine was working at this Braamfontein'thing'(She raised her arms and pointedupwards with her palms clasped together).Which thing? The Hertzog Tower?Yes. The tower. She was just leavingthat place, early, when she was molested.It was only after they learnt that shewas seriously ill and in hospital with badwounds that the whites there said: 'Allright, you cleaners can wait on thepremises until it is safe to go home.'Those are the difficulties under whichwe work during the night.Now this cleaning you do. When doyou do it — during their absence?Yes. We clean after the officeworkershave left. Only the 'securities'are present./ thought it was the black male workerswho do the cleaning.No. It's we, the women, who do it.When do you start?Six.How do you do it; do you usemachines?Yes. We use Hoovers.Now, what happened to you oncewhen you alighted from the bus?When I got off the bus I met tsotsis.It was my usual practice to run veryfast, as fast as I could, in the directionof where I live. On this occasion, by thetime they caught up with me, I wasalready near my house. The bus driverdidn't stop at the official bus stop butinstead, he used to drop me at the cornerof the street where I live. They musthave noticed that. They hid and waitedat the house near the corner. One ofthem tried to reach for me and pull metowards them. Fortunately at that timeI had armed myself with . . . you know,these spiked iron flower holders . . . (Inodded) . . . Yes, the steel ones. I hadone of those, and I implanted it into hisforearm (She indicated the spot on herown arm.) . . . and when he withdrewand yelled, 'Ichu-u-u!' I got the chanceto run for safety. Then I realised that inspite of being clever, I'll get hurt seriously.It was after that incident that Idecided to stay at Park Station . . . Outside.Then I used to take the first trainfrom Faraday to Naledi and stay insideit. It would travel up and down, to andfro like that with me, until it was safe toget off at Nancefield and go home.(We both laughed softly and shookour heads.)We are laughing, but this matter isnot amusing at all. It's very sad indeed.Yes, but what can we do? Thenyou'd hear passengers say to me: 'You'llget hurt in the trains here; going up anddown alone, and a woman for thatmatter.' They were male passengers asusual at that time. Then I wouldanswer: 'What can I do? I've got to tryand save my life as I work. I have towork; I have no husband.'What about children? Haven't yougot a son to fetch you from the busstop? But then he, too, could easily oversleep and not fetch you . . .No; not that. He, too, can beassaulted while coming to fetch me. For

'•We have to pay for thetrain and bus fares andalso the meals we eatfrom the R34,00 perfortnight that we get ...There's not much we cando with that R34.00."photo, Ralph Ndawoinstance, there's another man whosename is Ngubeni. We attend the samechurch. He stays in Mofolo Village. Hisdaughter works for a bakery. She goesto work late at night and knocks off atnight. This poor man made it a point totake her to Ikwezi Station. Every nightat 8.30 p.m. he fetches her from thestation. One night, two months back,after he had taken her to the station. . . you know it was very dark as it waswinter ... on his way back, he met the'boys'. There were eight. What did theydo to him? If it were not for the factthat God gave him power . . . then Idon't know. With the stick he was carrying,he summoned all his courage andfought like mad. He fought for his life;for 'final'! When these boys realised thatthis old man had beaten them, one ofthem tripped him. That was when theygot the chance to overpower him. Theytripped him and dropped him onto theground. But he fought them even as hewas lying on the ground. One of themproduced a knife and tried to stab him,but he had seen him already and hegrabbed the knife. They then clubbedhis head and he sustained serious headinjuries. It all happened because he triedto save his daughter's life. There aremany more people who have beenstabbed or killed because they have tocome from work too early or too late atnight.Obviously this kind of work hasmany risks. How much money are youpaid for it?BCS only pays us R34.00.Per week ?No, every two weeks. We are holdingon because . . . What shall we do? Wehave children and grand-children. Wehave to send them to school. How arewe to feed them? There's not much wecan do with that R34,00. We complainbut it does not help. How much have webeen 'crying'? It's long but (she shrugsher shoulders) how do we pay rent? Themoney only pays the rent and for a fewbags of coal. We just go on. There'snothing we can do with it.It's good you spoke about this.It's no good keeping quiet. I've realisedit. It's these people who speak lies,telling strangers to Soweto that we livevery happily; we eat and drink, andthere is nothing we lack. They are theones who are sell-outs. They tell thewhites all sorts of untruths about ourlives here. You can see. Here in WhiteCity Jabavu, they paint the outsidewalls of the houses, the houses along themain roads, so that when the very 'big'ones come, they can deceive them andsay: 'Can you see that? We are paintingthe houses for them. You can see thatthere's nothing they want that theydon't get.' They only clean those housesalong the roads instead of letting themcome right inside and see the filth allaround.You know, I never thought of thismatter of office-cleaning. At first, itused to be men who were doing thework, wasn't it? I was aware of nurseshaving to do night duty, but notcleaners. What has happened to the menwho used to do it?You know, the men and women whodo the cleaning of the flats and so on dothe work during the daytime. It is theoffices which have to be cleaned atnight because during the day, they arebeing used./ see. What about your train and busfares; do they pay for those?No. We have to pay it from theR34,00 per fortnight that we get. . . It'sfor the train and bus fares and also themeals we eat.Mind you, even Carlton Centre, bigas it is, the people who clean it also haveto go out of there at that awkward time,in the night, at two o'clock. They haveno shelter for the cleaners.Just reckon how far Ranleigh Houseis from the station. At times we movethere and come across 'ducktails'; whitemen looking for black prostitutes. Theymistake us for street-walkers. They tooare an additional menace. They drivealong the streets next to the pavements,following us and making advances;enticing us to go into their cars. Younever know what the real intention is.As soon as one disappears round thecorner, another one appears. •PoetryPASSION OF A MAN IN LOVEhe is a man of the bushput there between loveand deaththe son to a heart-ached motherhe likes to smile at photographers(to prove he is alive and fit)smiling as i dowhen my gal says we belong to theworldhe is the man of the nighthe walks in the darkin ice-cold alleysof man's freedom roadhe does wish to be presentwhen mother calls us for supperhe is the man of the bushput between dark and lightby passionthe passion of a man in lovein lovewith mankindP.S.how many suppers do i enjoywith my mind on the meal?Senzo Malingafrom THE FORGED NEGATIONtheycame at nightunending marathonof nightmaresthe moon pale substitutefor the blazingtorchthe babiesgrow knowingblind faithwon't bringbackour godsonlybrave untremblingwarriorswill bringbackour godsNkos'omzi NgcukanaII

THE CANE IS SINGINGBY NARAIN AIYERThe cane is singing. All along it issinging: to the left, from where I am sittingin this train on my way to the bigcity to visit my children, to the rollingland where the sea begins, and to myright, into the interior where the sunsets. The cane is singing, but it is a sadrefrain that the cane is singing.They first landed on these shores in1860. Some were eager to come. Otherswere eagerly brought. That is why thecane is singing now. The mills are grindingand the sugar is pouring down thechutes, the quotas are increasing and onil return from Durban this train willhave many men from the Transkei in itsmany bellies, coming to this singingsugar-cane land. The chairman of theBoard reports a net profit, after tax, oftwo comma five. Sweet melody to theshareholders. No shares for me, for myfa her and his father before him and mychildren and their children after them.I-or us only the bitter notes of this sadsong, this soul-searing song that the caneis singing.Some were indentured. Others werepassenger immigrants. They came andthey worked. Nay, they toiled and theyslaved till their loin cloths were meltedoff their sweaty, swarthy backs. Theholes in which they lived were theirhomes but there was ample space in thecorners, if there were corners, to storemaster's ration of dholl, wood and coal.They awoke in the morning and raisedtheir hands to the rising sun — the sunlose from the East. That is where theycame from. Would they go back there?Mo, they must pick up the hoe, thesickle and the cane knife and go to themaster's farm. They must cut and thrustand dig and trench and rake and ploughand fetch and carry and bend and breakso that the cane may grow and sing asweet song for the master. Melodious:two comma five after tax.Black they were and some were fairwhen they came. Complexioned by theblood of their forbears from differentparts of their mother country butmostly from the South. But now theywere blackened even more as the sun'srays flame-seared across their bendedbacks. The heat can be as intense here asit was there. So many laws, regulations,conditions. Amendments to laws, regulations,conditions. Interpreters. Thumbprints.They just called the wholebloody thing 'GRIMIT. And so manysirdirs to see that their backs werebended, men, women and children. Yes,children of the children of our motherIllustration: Gamakhulu Dinisoland. And a hard time they had of it.But their spirit of the Upanishads andthe Bhagvad Gitas and the Pooranas andthe Shivas, and the Argunas and theSaraswatis prevailed. The invocationsand the incantations.The holy pilgrimages to holy shrines.And they remembered, too, the defeatof Ravana and they told their childrenthe story of Rama and Sita. The ritualsand the ragas of their ancient land theybrought with them and they sang anddanced in honour of their deities.They taught their children never toforget the golden languages of their owncultures but with equal fervour theyfinancially assisted the masters of theirnew country to teach their children thethree r's in the English language, thatthey might earn a living. So many'Government-Aided Indian Schools'.And only the other day, someone saidthat they do more to preserve and promotethe English language, the highideals and the noble values of the Englishtradition, than their Englishspeakingcompatriots themselves.Gradually, so gradually, some menwere taken off the fields and put intothe mills. The women and the childrentoiled on in the fields. Designation —'field workers'.The water place was the meetingplace. Communal taps, they calledthem. They met and they married. Thelavatories were communal too. You satSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 5

next to your neighbour in the lavatory— there are still such ones to this day —you saw his private parts and he yours,and you discussed the prospects of yourson marrying his daughter. There wassome talk about caste. You farted outthe aches of yesterday's toil and heemptied his bowels and thought ofgoing to collect rations from master tofill the bowel again. Such were thegoings and comings of those times.Their numbers grew. Their problemstoo. Some bought, others sold out.Some lived in the quarters provided forthem, dingy holes with a few puny slitsfor ventilation, dunged floor, meagrerough furniture, brassware and the holylamp, faithfully and regularly polished.Their problems — working conditions,their options if any, their housing, theirwages, their right to buy, own and till apiece of land, their right to travel —received a wider and wider audience andthey became a problem, the 'IndianProblem' for debate at national and internationalforums. A Mahatma wasborn on a station platform in Pietermaritzburgand years later 'The IndianProblem' was a perennial item on theUnited Nations Agenda.As the train passes yet another sugarmill, I begin to think of the many youngmen and women from this particularindustry who had gone on to the outsideworld, to new fields, to new pastures,to find for themselves new comfortsand new glories.From the sugar fields some went intothe black mines further North. Othersbecame known throughout the distantworld as growers and exporters of bananaspar excellence. Master and hisMissus had a regular supply of the finestvegetables and fruit for the dinner table.Market gardeners. Pineapples. Tobacco.Some went fishing and master's piscatorytastes were nourished. A few tastedthe sweetness of growing their ownsugar on a piece of their own land.Some went to work in factories ofanother kind — some worked on therailways, others on the roads. Manyothers went to work in the hotel toserve master with the fish, the pineappleand banana and the tomato and lettuceand lit his pipe for him and carried theportmanteau upstairs for missus. Tenshillings a month, then. Now onehundred rand. 'They also serve whostand and wait.' Others answered thecall of Jan Christiaan Smuts to fightagainst Hitler and save democracy andthose who returned were thanked bythe Oubaas and given a bicycle to ride intheir twilight years. May their souls restin peace.'Government-Aided Indian Schools.'With the passage of time, hundreds ofthem. Thousands of young men andwomen responded to the call of theprofessions, commerce and industry.Into the wards as doctors, as nurses, aslaboratory assistants. Into the trainingcolleges and the universities. Teacherslawyers, clerks, factory hands, shopassistants. Transport and trade. Dauntingodds. Priceless talent. The skilledand the semi-skilled. Doors open anddoors shut. Many of them are now indifferent parts of the world, their trueworth recognized, their human dignityrespected. Sons of their land, Ons SuidAfrika! And now some of them arebeing recruited for the country's navy.'Duke et Decorum est pro patria mori'?Their fathers queue for jobs and a fortunatefew are at the Ocean Terminal ontheir way to the land of their forbears —a holiday — a cherished dream cometrue. Into banking, insurance and thehotel industry. They make their mark.The Minister of Indian Affairs says at apublic function they are a pricelessasset, an integral part of the South Africannation but must develop separately.Garland please.What do I think as the train rumbleson towards the big city and we pass thismill and that siding, this village and thatsugar baron's estate. The rivers flowhere as they do there. There the Ganges,the Indus, the Brahamaputra, theGodaveri and the Kaveri. Here theTugela, the Umvoti, the Umgeni, theUmkomaas and the Umzimkulu. Somuch water has flown under the bridge.That's what I think. And the canegoes on singing. A compassionatepeople. A religious people. A law abidingpeople. Infinite capacity for suffering;unquenchable thirst for knowledge;stoical acceptance of iniquities; doneout of house and hearth; uprooted; brokenhomes, suicides; limited travelrights; limited jobs; cannot bring bridefrom land of their forbears; cannotenter this university, that theatre;cannot grow bananas — land requiredfor housing: Chatsworth for Indians; noelectricity for the people in that barracksin this sugar mill; no monetaryassistance for widow of man that gavethirty seven years of his life to make thecane sing; no passport for that man whodefends the highest ideals and thenoblest virtues of Western Christiancivilization; the temple and the marketto make way for new roadways; fromthe city to Chatsworth to maintain ourrevered land, sacred and dignifiedseparateness; do not visit your friendKhumalo in Umlazi without a permitand your friend Dirk in Vryheid withouta permit, for the law respects yourseparateness; Tin Town and poverty onthe banks of the Umgeni; overcrowding,malnutrition, shebeens andknifing in Chatsworth township.The glossy magazine carries a pictureof a beautiful house, a beautiful spouse.The Minister of Economic Affairs saysat a public function that as a communitythey are second to none when itcomes to self help — Garland please!The train rumbles on towards the bigcity and the cane sings on. Here andthere I pick up a sweet note or two butmost of the notes are sour, bitter. Howlush and green is the cane, mile uponmile in this fertile land bordering theIndian Ocean. They worked there beforethe turn of the century, theirgrandchildren and great grandchildrenstill work there. Vast hectares of sweetgreen monument to their monumentalefforts. Occasionally I pick up a wordfrom the song which says 'voteless' andagain a prickly 'voiceless'. My gnarledhands, my aching back; I feel the weightof it all on my shrinking shoulders, forin the furrow where the cane grows, ranthe blood and the sweat of my forbears,my blood and sweat and the sweat andblood of my children.This morning's newspaper headlinereads 'Sugar pact is worth R300 millionto Republic' I too should like to rejoicebut I cannot, for the song of the sugarcane is a sad refrain for me.Footnote:'Sirdar' means a foreman or supervisor.'Grimit' refers to Immigration lawsand conditions attaching to the employmentof Indian immigrants in thesugar belt of Natal.Garlanding is a traditional Indiancustom. Usually reserved for reveredpeople of the high office, symbol ofreverence and honour. •BCSftKVISITBOOKWISEin Commissioner Street(Shakespeare House)8347206/7/8for their wide rangeof African Literatureincluding allRavan Press publications.6 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 198

PoetryThabo Mooke, Kedisaletse Mashishi, Bika, Leonard Koza.NOWHERE TO HIDEGirl wake up,The morning sun has caught us napping.We came out here, sneaking to this place last nightTo quench our desires — and it was wrong, we bothknew.He was out of town, you said,Visiting his old folks down in Giyane.We could not go to your home'Cause the curious eyes of your neighbourhood wouldspy on us,Neither could we go sneaking into my bungalow:Jabu, Ntombi, Sipho and Zodwa would see us.It is wrong, they all know.Wake up girl,The little birds are singing up in the trees,The morning sun has caught us nappingAnd we have nowhere to hide.The world is waiting outside.Thabo MookeMALARIA FEVERMosquitosStingingHelicoptersUsingExpensiveFuelMyBloodHelicoptersGunDownA TenYearAtMeadowlandsYou chose not to believeI stingWhen I told you I willStingBikaINFERNOPlease clarify to meAm I not seeing miraclesWhat is all this aboutThe sophisticated highly strung babiesWe the youth of this generationCan set a volcano aflameWhere are those innocent daysof clay oxen and mud housesThe days of waltzing in rainPlaying games with trainsCould someone please help usAre we not confused, misledBlind wanderers without destinationWe the generation of nuclear bombsKnow all beyond the sunAs if in control of the worldEverything impossible for usReally this is heartbreakingMust you be innocent bystandersTo witness us so confusedWe, the irresponsible future leadersAs if we are intelligent enoughGuide us to righteousnessTake us back to our AfricaAway from BotsotsosBack to our traditionAway from skyscrapersFar from temptationsDetentionsVolcanoes of the northUnsteady moody climate of the southBack to our AfricaDivorce not your traditionSell not your black soulCling to yourselfBe yourselfAccept changes wiselyKedisaletse MashishiINITIATIONThe barrel of responsibility is pointing at usLet us go to the mountainAnd sit down in bandsSinging of war and loveApartheidWe will come back equal to youTo stone youA stone for each reincarnationYou will never everBreathe againLet us go to the bushBikaUNDER THE BRIDGESandwiched between camouflagingroad bushes.Radio glued to ears.Eyes magnetically stuck on unawareroaring engines passing.He reads for trespassing traffic.Book in hand he stops the overloadedon the separate route to location.Unlicensed pilot ticketed,half-a-dozen migrants martially offloadedto walk to Langa Township.Walk to a portable homehalf perched in Transkei —A home swinging like a nest on a branch.A home exposed to raids by cruel men and weather.A home so temporarythat with a drop of inkit can be drowned in exile.A home where father has been cultivatedby white prerogatives into wild fruitemerging only at season time.Leonard Koza^TAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

He woke to a day without promises,without hope, what could be called ...A NORMAL DAYA STORY BY KENNY T. HURTZHe woke to a day that would havebeen better left unseen. The weatherwas bright and hot, the air still, the time11:37 by the digital clock, that excellentmachine that woke you with ashrill ring, or with soft music if desired.Or didn't wake you at all, if such wasyour choice, but left you to growslowly conscious without persuasion,sick with sleep, eyes gummed andbreath foul. And the clock, if not soinstructed, would also make no fuss ifyou never woke again at all, would humuntil its mechanism wore with age, orthe electricity was cut off. Really, theunderstanding of the simple machinewas amazing.He woke also to a day without promise,without hope, what could becalled a normal day, normal indeed, formost. The movements could be preciselyplotted: Wake, dress, eat; go to work,work, eat; work some more; then gohome, eat; and in the evening thedesperate search for distraction wouldfill the hours before sleep, and the cyclewould begin afresh the next day. Thisrepeated from birth to death, withminor variations, for most. And menspent all their time bound into thecircle, and that was called life. Formost.The blankets had become disarrayedin the night, which was unusual, he didnot as a rule sleep violently, and mostmornings found the bed as neat as whenit had been gratefully entered the previousnight. Perhaps a nightmare? But heremembered nothing, and he felt rested,as if his sleep had been sound and still.Yet maybe it was not so, for whoremembers the morning after, theterrors of the previous night? A movementof his legs sent the blankets, sheetsand everything else sighing to the carpet.He sat up, now noticing that he hada violent headache, situated, so it felt, inthe centre of his brain, a pinpoint focusof pain that pulsed quietly and rhythmically.He could hear, distantly beyondthe muffling curtains, the insanetwittering of mossies, what he believedwere called Cape sparrows, this item ofuseless information having remainedwith him in spite of all; and why Cape,he was nowhere near the Cape? Withoutopening the curtains he stood up andslipped on a robe, the sole aim in hismind being the seeking out and findingof the morning newspaper with its dailycrossword puzzle, which he normallyattempted over his first cup of coffee,and sometimes his second, although bythen his room had normally been madeup and he would return to its comfort,its calming neatness.' ... To clean it up! She refused! Ican't. . . ' The voice trained off as heentered the bathroom, so painfullysterile, and closed the door. Hismother's voice, strident and excited.Now what, he wondered. Had therebeen a fight, had some trivial crisisoccurred? What the hell . . . the thingssome people find to occupy their time,it was pathetic. As far as he was concerned,the public raising of a voicecould be considered positively indecent.After all (he thought sarcastically) whatwould the girl (she was about twentyfive,as near as he could guess) think?She had certainly been rather withdrawnsince she had joined them somemonths ago, she went about her workwith what appeared to be suppressedmelancholy. Her name was Rosina,though Rosina who was anybody'sguess. They were all called Rosina, thator Mary, it suddenly occurred to him.The high incidence of these names intheir community must be beyondcoincidence, or perhaps they weresimply pseudonyms chosen to beappealing to white employers. And shecan't do anything, his mother had toldhim once, she doesn't even cook! Sowhat, nor did he . . .He swallowed four aspirins withoutrecourse to water. The toothpaste wasfinished.He scowled at the crumpledtube for a moment, as if to discover thereason, as if it could tell him. Halfheartedlyhe splashed water in his face,throwing most of it over his shoulder,dripping on the polished floor as hegroped for a towel. Couldn't cook! Justimagine! The headache, locked in conflictwith the aspirin, quickened itsrhythm. ' . . . expect me to do it?' saidthe voice as he stumbled from the bathroomwith thoughts of hot coffee, andthat too would have to be delayed, ifthe jar was not empty as well, until hehad secured the paper and checked thathis brother had not beaten him to thecrossword, which sometimes happenedand left his remaining day with a tint,albeit subtle, of incompleteness.Somewhere in the house a doorslammed. The cat on the landing regardedhim with silent amusement. ''Hello, Jean, how've you been?' he saidin a pitched falsetto, one part of hismind recoiling under the absurdity, anotherexulting in the sheer idiocy of thegreeting. The cat broadened its smile,but otherwise ignored him.In his mother's room she was inexplicablyabsent. He found the paper,the crossword half done, the scrawl belongingto his brother. The price onepays for sleeping late! He decided itdidn't matter, scarcely convincing hirrself.'Hi,' said his mother, coming into the |room, And then almost as an afterthought,'I've dismissed Rosina.' She satdown on the bed. Beyond the glass therooftops gleamed in the sun, red, pink,grey. He could make out a garish bussliding from its terminus and slippinginto the angry stream. The cat glidedthrough the door and flopped to thefloor at his feet, rolling over onto herback. He stretched a foot to her. 'Hi,' hesaid, wondering at the suppleness of thecat, 'what happened?''I asked her to clean the dog's messin the kitchen. It was my fault, ]suppose, I fed them late, but do youknow what she said?' He confirmed thathe did not. Still gazing out of the windowas though it might have killed himto move, he saw three birds bank togetherand land smoothly, one after another,in a tree of repulsive aspect in thenext garden.'She said, "I don't clean the dogmess." ' Perhaps his mother expectedconcordant outrage, but when none wasforthcoming she added 'The cheek!'He turned the page, reflecting: Whowould make his bed today? and more,so she was gone, well, she had not beermuch good anyway, her loss would beeasily enough tolerated. KILLERSTORMS BATTERED HOUSES, readheadline. What, he wondered was a killerdoing storming battered houses? Thewhole idea seemed preposterous. Hecould scarcely believe it. Perhaps theymeant that killer storm had batteredpreviously unbattered houses, housesthat were as neat and trim as his ownbefore this battering took place. He feltthat the effort needed to clear hproblem up would have to be tremendous.He threw the newspaper at thecat, who stalked off indignantly. I hatemaking beds, he thought, what a bloody8 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

mess. His mind clouded for a moment:What did it all have to do with himanyway? But he could feel that it did, ina manner as yet unclear, one that wouldshortly unfold to the form of its finalconsequence. 'So I told her she couldleave,' said his mother, her tone slightlyexasperated. He began to sweat lightlyand shifted uncomfortably. His mothercontinued ' . . . but I owe her threeeks pay, and she still has the twooveralls I bought for her.' She took aplain envelope from the shelf behind heri handed it to him without a word,n turned and left the room. The cat: ted the window sill in one smoothtion, and settled down on its sto-, ch.He * picked up the paper and tried toconcentrate. If that's seven down theneleven across must start with a j, andt mty-two with an s. It still made nos ise. The envelope he had stuffed intoh pocket, and now he took it out andc nted the money. Dirty work again,s ; cifically made for him, as usual.I tered houses, battered houses. Whatg lewspaper. What a world! The dayhad taken on an unpleasant metallictang, everything was too hard, toot rtle, as though the slightest wrongmove would cause the entire future tos cter irreparably. The thought of movi:appalled him, as did the thought ofg ng back to bed. He felt hopelesslys dwiched between two equally unpasant alternatives. He threw ther ^spaper down again in despair and,v h a violent effort, made his way toi kitchen.There the too-clean fittings gleamed! ^fully, throwing the shards of theirJ ections about the room wantonly,t scene again one of oppressiveI ghtness and order. What would shec he wondered as he filled the gleam-photo, Biddy Crewei kettle, what would he, for thatmatter, do in the same position? Evictedc a moment's notice, if this really waseviction. Yes it was. But why had shebeen so sullen, he asked the rising steamand, now that he thought of it, why hadnever spoken to him without he firstspeaking to her, and why then had heri ponse always been flat, spoken in thevoice of one fatalistically resigned to anawful, irrevocable fate? God! But perhapsthat was going too far, after all,what did she have to complain about?r lot was not too bad, it certainly< ald've been worse. She had her ownroom, food, clothing supplied, and lightwork to fill the daytime hours constructively,and the nights were her own, pluswhat amounted to plenty of free time.1fist, she even got paid for it! Funnilycough her situation was not so differentfrom his own, he too had a roomand food, and from the same people,a 1 the difference was this, that hereceived no payment for the work hedid around the house, the small tasksthat were all he seemed fit for since hisrapid decline of a few months ago. Yes,upon final reflection what exactly washer problem? He himself would gladlyhave done what she refused to do,without even a thought of payment. Hefought down a rising feeling of selfrighteousness.After all, what exactlydid she expect? And even . . .A key sounded in the door and thegirl came in quickly, shutting the doorbehind her, dressed no longer in heroveralls but now in a smart skirt andblouse, red and yellow respectively, andhigh-heeled black shoes of delicate design.She turned hurriedly from thedoor and saw him standing at the cupboard,frozen in the act of reaching fora cup. The expression on her face didnot change, but as their eyes met, thesmartly dressed woman dissolved andthe attitude of urgency faded completely.Far away the barking of manydogs could be heard, the very hounds ofhell themselves perhaps. She droppedher eyes instantly and her postureslumped slightly. Then she turned to thedoor and was silently gone, the sound ofthe latch locking before he quiterealised what was happening.For some reason he felt offended,even hurt that this had happened. Andfor some reason even less clear thekitchen suddenly seemed intolerable, asthough it were an area that had beenhurriedly evacuated after contaminationby some malignant entity. He sensedthat he was being absurd, over-sentitiveat best, but why did he feel that it mustbe he who was the malignance, and thatit was due to him that the room nowheld an air of blighted desolation?The coffee he sipped on his way upthe stairs was too hot, far too hot, andSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 9

made by one who did things with suchmaniacal precision that there was noroom for error. And when he enteredhis bedroom, the sight of the naked,rumpled bed and the caliginous illuminationshocked him once more. Why didit look so unbearably squalid, so nauseating?He threw the curtains asunder ina frenzy, the coffee forgotten, anddressed rapidly, jeans, shirt, sandals.Outside, as if by deliberate contrast,everything was razor-sharp, the blue ofthe sky was so blue that it scarcelyseemed real, the green of the small suburbanlawn blasted forth with almosttangible force, the house, glaring whitein the sunlight, was actually painful tolook at. The vividness of these impressionsbattered his senses brutally. Hehad stumbled, almost fallen down thestairs on his way here, and now heglanced back into the gloom of the opendoorway, hoping perhaps for thestrength to go back inside and forgetabout all this that he had suddenlycome to. The headache thundered androared inside him and he felt close tofainting, indeed he stretched out hishand and leaned against the wall, hisbreath rough and quick. After a momenthe pulled himself together withwhat he considered a heroic effort, andwalked in the direction of the servants'quarters, what had been called 'theback' for as long as he could remember.'The back' was situated behind thegarage, and a sort of alley led down tothe three small rooms that the domesticscalled home. Home, he thought, foras long as it lasted, and who can reallybe held responsible for the incontinenceof the family dog? Or was that anexcuse? A vine had been allowed togrow unchecked along the right boundaryof the narrow passage in which henow found himself, and choked offmost of the little walking space. Abovehis head it curled wildly, as if in delightat its own freedom, completely engulfingwhat formed the boundary to theneighbours' own 'back'.Turning left at the end of the alleyhe met a scene of such astounding uglinessthat he physically recoiled: thesame vine, pompous and tyrannical,covered almost everything in sight; itsleaves, sickly green in the bright sunlight,had infested all but the mostfrequently used areas in the tiny courtyard,growing like a gangrenous slimeover the small, disused coal-pit (sincetheirs had become a smokeless zoneelectric water heating had been installed),through discarded pieces of pipingand lumber and the rotted skeletonof an old water tank, and emerging inrampant triumph through an enormousand inscrutable tangle of metal that layat the far end of the space, against acrumbling brick wall. From one end ofthe yard to the other stretched a destroyedwashing line, one of its originalfour strands miraculously intact, the uprightsdeviating ridiculously from theperpendicular (and even here the hideousvine scaled upward to the sun).Brickwork showed where patches ofplaster had fallen from the walls to theground, which seemed in compositionto be a sea of mud, where it was visibleat all, and pools of dirty water reflectedthe sky with mirror-like competence.The smell hit him simultaneously, a sourmixture of humanity and wet coal andsomething else that he could not identify.The walls of the building that stoodon his left were streaked with dirt andthe gutters above hung sadly from theirmountings, their once-yellow paint flakingin obscene curls. None of thewindows were broken; this amazed himfor a moment.And then, from one of the threedoorways that opened onto this awfulyard, the girl emerged, and he was againstruck by her neatness, which seemedabsurdly out of place here. He wonderedwhether she would disappear again,but no, she stood on the thresholdwithout moving.'Rosina —' he took a step forward,narrowly avoiding a large puddle. Shelooked at him with the same emptyexpression that he remembered, anexpression that could have belongedequally to one either profoundlyshocked or extremely bored. ' . . . Themadam wants her keys and overalls,please.' He wanted to say 'I'm sorry',but he didn't. The words had becomestuck somewhere. His voice soundeddisembodied, as though someone behindhim had spoken, and he had afleeting impression that the entire buildingwas somehow shifting.The woman pointed, without speaking,into the room, where two neatlyfolded overalls lay on the truly nakedbed, it had not even a mattress. Apartfrom this and two small packing boxes,the room was bare. She handed him asmall keyring (Enrolls Datsun, Phone23-4965) with three keys, then turnedand dragged the boxes from the dimroom. When she had done this sheclosed the door and the Yale lockclicked shut. He began to feel intenselyuncomfortable, as though it were hewho was at fault, as though it were behindhim that the door had closed, forthe last time.'The madam owes you some money,'he said stupidly. He couldn't understandwhat he was doing there anymore.'Yes,' she said. He saw the sadness inher eyes as she glanced up.'Do you know how much?' he asked.'No.''Here.' He thrust the envelope at herand she timidly took it and pocketed itwithout counting, standing small andalone before him, eyes downcast. A feelingof immense sadness suddenly seizedhim, constricting his throat and flingingto the winds the logic that had helpedhim endure all up to now. The girl hadseen the inside of that room for the lasttime, and the pathos of the scene wasnow stamped with an awful seal of finality.And still she stood there, as thoughawaiting his permission to move, tothink, to live.At once he felt the desire to run, toget away, far away, anywhere. A faintbuzzing began in his ears. No, it was anaeroplane, a distant silver speck. Heturned on his heel and walked offswiftly, through the tangled passage andinto the house, his house, his for as longas he desired.From his bedroom window helooked down and saw a small figure,laden with two boxes, her entire worldlypossessions, dragging her way up thedrive towards the street where, as far ashe could see only emptiness awaitedher. He watched her slow encumberedwalk to the gates, the final boundaries,with a feeling of immense desolationand almost anguish. The whole affairseemed to him dreadful and unnecessary,and what had been gained anyway?And what lost. . . ? And then,with a final backward glance, she wasgone, not only from the house and hissight but also from the consciousness ofthose who could do without her, whowanted no part of her, those for whomlife went on with barely a skip in thecontinuity.He gazed from the window long aftershe had gone, seeing nothing, thenturned back to the room. The unmadebed awaited him, and the cat now snuggledinto the disarray of last night'ssheets. Faintly now, far away (or was itafter all in his head?) he heard the wildbarking of a thousand dogs. •10 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

'My Dear Madam...by Nokugcina SigwiliThe full text of this story will be publishednext year in 'Reconstruction', edited by• thobi Mutloatse.On 24 February 1980 I was employedas a domestic servant. I had totart work at 7.30 a.m. which meantt I had to wake up at 5 a.m. everyday to catch the bus. We agreed that Iuld work a five day week. My madamwas an English woman who lived in amall house by herself. Her childrenwere in England and she was divorcedfrom her husband. She sounded veryexcited about having me as her servant.I ould see this because she was consitly on the phone, telling her friendsabout her 'new girl'. She told them:Phis one is exceptional because she canspeak English without any problems andshe is very clean and moreover, polite!'Within a week I had met most of herf -nds because they could not resist thetemptation to come and see this exceptional'new girl'. Of course I could notb me them: my madam was rathere iggerating things. All the same I didnot want to disappoint her by misbehaving.I was very polite and each time herf! nds came in I would quickly askthem if they would like tea or coffee— before she could get a chance to doso, As I had expected, this won meappreciation from her friends.The first two weeks with my madamwere very happy ones. We were alwaystalking about this and that in the world,about our likes and dislikes. Sometimessi would tell me about her previousgirls, who could not behave themselves.'What did they do?' I asked.'They would steal my clothes, mymoney and even pinch my powderedsoap.''Mh, that was bad of them.''Yes, yes, that's true. I remember onegirl stole my bra, a memento from onefriend of mine.'I said, 'She must have been a fat girlthat one,' and she replied: 'Yes she wasand very cheeky too.'I could not help liking her because' was somewhat childish, but ourfriendship did not last long.The thing started one day when I wasking coffee for two of her menfriends. My madam came in and told methat I should call those two guys 'Baas'!I was caught off guard this time.'What! You must be joking!' Thesewords escaped my lips before I couldthink of preserving my 'title'. I wassimply baffled.What now, my dear madam was at aloss for words. She simply frowned atme. It was hard to believe that thesewords had come from her exceptionallygood girl who always said: 'Yes Madam.'These guys I had to call 'Baas' weremore or less my own age and they startedlaughing, asking her why I had to callthem 'Baas' instead of using their ownnames. My madam decided we shoulddrop the subject there.When everybody was gone and wewere left alone she sent me to a hardwarenearby to buy some Bostik for hershoes. I was not served when my turncame.'Can I have Bostik glue, please!' Isaid this several times without anyattention being paid to me. 'Bostikplease.''I want a big broom to sweep outside,have you got one?' one lady said,and she was served immediately. Theymade it a point that every white wasserved before they half-heartedly askedme: 'What do you want?''Bostik,' I said.'What for?' he asked — as if he didnot know.'For shoes.' I was annoyed at such aquestion. This was after a long time ofimpatient waiting.When I got back I told my madamthat I would appreciate it if she went tothat hardware herself if she wanted anything.'I think they will serve you quickly,'I went on.'Why?' she asked.'You are white and it is one of therules of that hardware to serve whitesfirst, no matter who came first,' I explained.'Who said that?' she wanted to know.'Their reaction did.''You must forget that you are blackand life will not be so difficult.' She saidthis smiling and went on before I couldeven say anything: 'Maybe the way outis to call them "Baas".'This word again! Things were turningsour for me. This word was becoming anightmare or rather a 'daymare' becausethis all happened during the day.'I am very sorry if that is the case,because I never call anybody "Baas"whether he is white, red or yellow.''I am warning you about your behaviour,my girl. You must be carefulabout what you are saying, I am tellingyou. South Africa is not a very lovelycountry for a black person if you do notlearn to be respectful.'I did not ask her what respect meantbut I was soon to find out.Do you know what happened thefollowing morning? A handful of herfriends came round to talk to me!'About what?' I wanted to know andthe answer I got was, 'Just about life ingeneral.'I felt honoured. I was about to sitand talk to the 'witmense' about life ingeneral!'How old are you?' One good lookingand tall lady started the talk about lifein general.'I am twenty-one.''Where do you stay?' Walk-Tall wenton.'In Alexandra,' I said.'Do you like it there?' This camefrom one stout guy with a beard; theSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 11

hair on his head was shiny black and sowas his beard, except that it was bushy.'Yes, I do like it there,' I said.'How do you find your madam?'Mr Black Beard went on.'I think she is kind,' I said.(At that moment my madam wasvisiting the loo.)'And she thinks you are a good girl,'he smiled.'I'm glad.' I sort of blushed. I wasnot very sure where this interrogationwas leading.'She tells me you are interested injournalism,' an elderly lady said smiling.'That's true.' I smiled too, not becauseI felt like smiling but becauseeveryone in the lounge wore a smile.'How would you feel if you couldbecome a famous journalist?' she wenton.'I don't know.'This called for a good laugh fromeveryone in the house. Some had to drytheir eyes, which were laughing too.Walk-tall was the first to recover becauseshe did not laugh much. Apparentlyshe was the kind of person whowould like to keep her teeth inside if itwere not for her upper lip that wasshort and acted against her. She wascollected and her face was expressionlesswhen she asked me this question:'How do you feel about politics?'My! The change in the talk about lifein general was noticeable, to me inparticular . . .'Where were you during the 1976students' riot?''Would you rather the blacks ruledthis country?'What a lot of questions! I did notknow which one to consider first, so Idecided, 'I do not know much aboutpolitics,' was the right answer.Then Granny said, 'Do you knowanything about the Azapo?''I know the name of the organisationand that's all,' I replied. I was notpleased at all. We were not talking freely.I was being interrogated and thatmade me feel bad, because I was notvery sure about how to tackle this and Iwas getting restless.'What do you think of Mugabe?'came another bullet from Black Beard.This put everybody on the alert, searchingfor something in my face.'I do not understand' — and I meantjust that.'I mean, do you think he is suitablefor his position?' explained Black Beard,but I was more surprised than before.'Yes, do you think otherwise?'Granny had something to say beforehe could answer me: 'I think he is goingto make people starve to death! All hewants to do is get rich, famous andhappy with his family.' She said thiswith her chin high in the air.One man, who had been quiet allalong, had something to say too: 'Heenjoys sitting down and talking nonsenseon the television.' He wore amocking smile on his face.'Making many promises he will neverfulfill,' Black Beard put in.'Black South Africans think he isgreat,' said Walk-tall, and they all burstout laughing.'You people are still going to suffer.'This one was directed at me by Granny,who went on to say. 'People who wantto help you, people who understand thesituation in this country, you call "sellouts".''Yes, this is strange,' said Walk-Tall.'These words "sell-out" and "puppet"are in the air and they are directed atthe wrong people.''You never know how these peoplesee things,' added Black Beard.My madam had been very quiet, shehad been nodding her head in agreementand laughing. Now she decided to saysomething: 'It is not a matter of seeingthings, they are just narrow-minded . . .'Up to now they had been talkingamong themselves, not to me, but I hada question and so I voiced it: 'Who arethese people who are wrongly calledsell-outs and puppets?'I was answered almost immediatelyby Walk-Tall: 'Gatsha Buthelezi, Matanzima. . . 'My madam felt she had not finishedand so she helped her: 'Mangope.''Sebe.' So the quiet guy had a namein mind too. 'I do not know muchabout Mphephu, but he is not a bad guyeither,' he said. 'Do you also think theyare "sell-outs"?'Before I could say anything, BlackBeard came to my aid: 'That is obvious,all girls of her age think so.'But I still had something to say: 'Ihappen to have lived in the Transkeiwhich means that I know more aboutthe conditions there than you do.''We do not have to stay there toknow how happy people are there.'That was my madam.'It is so unfortunate for Matanzima,who does his best just for them, thatthey do not see things his way,' saidWalk-Tall. 'It is always the case, theblack people do not know who theirtrue leaders are.''Because they are narrow-minded,their minds are just like this,' said mymadam, using her forefingers to showhow narrow our minds are. 'All theywant is communism!' she went on.'That's one thing I hate!' Granny saidnervously.'I don't care what they do withthemselves. The moment they bringcommunists into this country we won'thave the smallest worry. We'll just flyback to Europe,' the quiet man said andI could see that he really did not care.Walk-Tall felt he had not finished hisspeech and she did the job for him: 'Wewill leave them crying for our returnjust like the people in Mozambique.''They are too narrow-minded to seethat — just bloody stupid,' my madamagreed.'These people do not know how tolive in the first place,' Granny retortedand this made me feel kind of mischievousso I said, 'Maybe they will knowhow to live in the second place.'Some were amused and some wereannoyed at such a foolish comment.'This girl of yours couldn't live in Irelandnor in Switzerland.''She could not afford to go thereanyway.'I sat there looking from speaker tospeaker and smiling from time to time. Iwas not given a chance to say anythingand so I just pushed my speech in anywherewhen I felt like it.'How are things up there?' I askedBlack Beard.'In Ireland? Dear God! Things arejust fine there ... I mean everybodyrespects each other. People are kind andsensible. It's not like this mad country.''That's true, people are mad in thiscountry, I'm telling you.' That wasGranny. 'I remember at my home, wewould leave the windows wide open andno one would come in to steal ourthings,' she went on.And this made my madam remembersomething too.'That's true, look at what Tshaka andother fools like him did to the people.''That's true, look at what Hitler andother fools like him did to the people.' Isimply had to say this, even if my opinionwas not asked for. The effect wastremendous.'This girl is mad. By God she is!' thequiet guy shouted, standing up and sittingdown again almost immediately.He was not the quiet guy anymore. Ilater learned that he was German.'I'm sorry, I did not mean to bemad.' I had to make my apologies;seeing the cloudy expression on his face.'My dear girl, if I were you I wouldthank God that I had lovely clothes likethese and a necklace like the one youhave on.'(My madam had no overall for me soI was working in my own clothes).'Her belly is full and there is a roofover her head, that's all that counts,'Granny said, and Black Beard felt that Ididn't know life yet — that I had neversuffered.'Yes, she cannot believe it when Isay I came from a very poor family. Iremember once when we lived on potatoesday in and day out for a wholeContinued on page 1412 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

Poor Business for the ArtistBy Nangirayi MajoTembo sat down beside his visitor who was going throughhis pictures with a surprised look.'I didn't expect you to succeed to this extent. Is there awhite behind this?' Godfrey asked, tapping on one of thepictures. 'You should be getting somewhere at least.'Tembo snorted, 'This is this country and you don't getanywhere.''Why?' Godfrey was surprised. 'You have got your brushesand paint — and loads of talent. What else do you want?'Tembo did not answer. He went to a chest of drawers andbrought back some copper engravings which he laid out onthe table.'These are fantastic! Did you do these too?' Godfrey waswide eyed.Tembo did not answer him. He felt a little sorry for hisfriend. He thought him a little too naive — or pitifully misinformed.Godfrey had just come back home from six years'exile overseas.'I told you nothing has changed,' Tembo tried to explainto him, knowing it was useless. 'Don't take in everything thepapers tell you.''Come on. You must be making loads of money with thiskind of work.' Godfrey thought Tembo was unforgivablybelittling his own talent. 'How much is this one?''That's an order the boss gave me to do this weekend.Some rich tourist wants it on Wednesday. I'll probably get$60 commission on it.''You must be joking! How much are they paying you permonth?'Tembo thought of going into detail, to give his friend thetrue picture, but how could he do it to someone who hadcome back full of hopes about the changes for the better thathe had read about miles and miles away from home, dreamingof dovi and sadza? How could he explain to him thatmost of the time he had not even a cent in his pocket? Thathe didn't even have a savings account? The little he earned hespent on beer. That was his only source of happiness, he toldhimself, and as for the material things — he would just forgetthat.'Thirty dollars per week is what's mine,' he-finally said.'For -this, this - ?''I can't force you to believe me.'Godfrey looked at his friend for some time, his head in hishands, then he straightened up and said, 'Look, why don'tyou drop the job and do your own thing? I see no reasonwhy you should work yourself to pieces for somebody else'sbelly.''Give me the money and the market,' Tembo said sarcastically.Godfrey seemed to digest this. He was beginning to understand.He said, 'But there are some blacks who are living inquite a style. Where do they get the money from? They can'tbe all that fortunate if what you are saying is true.''In hard times like these people become prostitutes.''Come on — they can't all be crooks.'Tembo looked at Godfrey sadly. 'You have been away along time. I can't even begin to tell you how many thingshave taken place.''Things like what?''There are more slums now than when you left.''But there are also rich blacks living in once-white-onlyhouses. Have you tried selling your work to them?''And listen to them telling me to find a better job? Somedon't even know how to look at a picture. Money is for living— property and big names, not art.'Godfrey looked at his friend gravely. When he spoke hisvoice was low. 'There are many people I know — acquaintances,schoolmates — influential people who really thinkyour work is great. They tell me the only trouble with you ispride. I hear that you have even turned down some ordersthey gave you.''Lies,' Tembo said weakly.He stood up and went to the window. What Godfrey hadsaid was partly true. There were some patronising blacks whohad approached him for portraits or other such sentimentalthings and he had told them he had no time. How could hetell Godfrey that what these people wanted wasn't his paintingsbut big names for themselves? Something to show off totheir white friends over Sunday teas and sundowners? Theywere afraid to be embarrassed by their white friends whoreally knew what art was all about. Wasn't it strange thatthose blacks who now praised him for his work had beenintroduced to it by some whites who lived miles and worldsaway from them?However badly he needed money, Tembo felt he hadsome rights to his own self. He would do what he wanted inhis own way. He knew they knew he was great and he woulddo his best to keep them aware of it. It gave him a beautifulfeeling inside, although most of the time he felt bad whenless artistic friends of his exchanged their works for Mustangs,Alfa Romeos, Datsuns and posh houses in the suburbs.Even those he had taught to put brush to canvas simply tookwhat they wanted from him, learned a few tricks, sold two orthree portraits of some big politician, then bought a car and aTV set, became screaming successes overnight — and left him.He liked it least when he felt like a cheap, fraudulentfame-monger, blaming his failure on the situation of thecountry, stealing little artefacts behind his boss's back andselling them in the beerhalls and the streets for a mug ofbeer. And he would feel even worse when all the beer hadbeen drunk and he would start telling his drunken friendswhat a great artist he was.'And I know another great weakness of yours.' Godfreystood beside him at the window. He didn't wait for Temboto ask him what he meant. 'Drink. Nothing comes to anyoneon a platter and I might as well tell you right now, as afriend, that if you don't pull yourself together, do somehonest work and stop feeling all-important, self-pitying andignored, you might yet do something people will rememberyou by.'Tembo didn't answer.'Look, Tembo. Do me a favour. Just let me have one ortwo of your paintings. I have some friends overseas whomight be interested to know that you exist.'Tembo took a long time to answer. When he did, he wasstill looking out of the window. 'They won't sell.''Never mind whether they will sell or not. Just leave thatto me.' Godfrey was quiet for some time. 'Will you do thatfor me?''If you insist.''Good.When Godfrey left, Tembo thought about a painting hewas doing. It had taken him over a month now but hecouldn't get it right. He looked at it for a long time. Hewanted it to carry a lot of things, this face of his grandmother;all the things that he had felt and she had felt and allthose people who mattered to him had felt. But he couldn'tSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 13

get it right; it eluded him. He forced hismind back to the painting each time hefound it, drinking a bottle of kachasuor undressing a woman or telling somevote-monger for some political party togo to hell. He gritted his teeth andbrought it back when he found it,wandering in some overseas citieshe didn't know, telling the native whitesthat he didn't need their help whilewishing they would buy up all hispaintings.All through the remaining hours ofthat afternoon until duskfall he foughthard to clear the crowds off the avenuesof his mind, trying hard to leave itdeserted, empty, so that whateverwould finally come would not be of hisown making. It was hard, but when hewent to bed at eight, after turning thepainting to the wall, he knew it was halfcomplete and the tears that filled hiseyes were not for anything that hedesired in life nor of anything that heregretted. •DearMadamContinued from page 12mon the one hand, or sloganizing on heother.IA STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY l? 81

Staffrider Gallery Goodman Mabote,Shadrack HIaleleGoodman Mabote, Untitled, DrawingShadrack HIalele, Untitled, Lino-cutSTAFFRIDER, DECKMKiiR 1980/JANUARY 1981 15

Staffrider Gallery Mphathi Gocini, Radinyeka MosakaIRadinyeka Mosaka, 'Dancing Starvation Away', DrawingMphathi Gocini, 'African Wedding', Lino-cut16 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

D.John Simon.IN MEMORIAM-BERNARD FORTUINSHOOT TO KILL(In memoriam Bernard Fortuin - 28 May 1980)They killed you, poor boy,Before you could speak,Gunned you downWould not listenBefore they firedAnd left you to sink.No aid allowed, poor boy,No aid allowed,Instead loud curses in taalFor a mother's soft armsTo give you rest.Paul Sibisi, 'Unrest IF (colour)SOUTH AFRICAN PARALLELSqueezing the trigger, cold goldeases through the lobeand dangles like a tearimpaled on a young cheek.The ears are puncturedfor the sake of vanity.In Elsies River, where windsheap Cape dust on dustin desolate places,two mothers had their childrenpierced, in the nameof peace and sanity.Shari RobinsonBALLAD OF BERNARD FORTUINElsie's River in the afternoon:Kids throwing stones, car windows splinterIn Halt Road, where the mob grows,Lame and blind governors, cause of the fury,Sit, eating beefsteak in Parliament House,While cold sunlight strikes on the hard stones —Clenched hard, hate-hard, white hate . . .Bernard Fortuin, sent to buy bread;His mother waits, and waits;And jungle green, brown outfits of policemen,Brown to be inconspicuous — in Elsie's River . . .A Blue Kombi receives the onslaught,Black stones batter its body;It spits deathAnd Bernard Fortuin receives the poison . . .Crowd kept back — blood liquid from his throat'Laat die donner Vrek,' says a cop.Mother waits for the son and the bread,And the snake recoils,Waits for the nextBernard Fortuin.Steve JacobsThey killed you, poor boy,Before you could shout,Gunned you downWould not hearBefore their fireTook you for night.No aid allowed, poor boy.For those felledLike trees,Instead loud curses in taalFor a mother's grief.They killed you, poor boy,Before you could speak,Before you could shout,Before you could scream.They blew your lifeAnd cursed in taal.To what end,Fifteen years old,Have you been spent?To what endHas your being gone,From us been sent?To what endHas your blood been spilt?To what endIs buried a nation's guilt?A mother's tears,A people's grief,A nation's conscience:We lay flowersThis June dayBreak petalsAnd wonderWhy things are soBeneath our sun,Forever changed,Poor boy,By you.D. John Simon(Written 31 May 1980, 'Republic'Day,Lansdowne, Cape Town)STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 17

Staff rider ProfileCharles MungoshiZimbabwe WritersTwo interviews by Jaki SerokeArmed struggle in Zimbabwe began in 1966. The climate of repressionduring the next fourteen years did not encourage the growth of theliterary arts. In that period some writers succumbed to censorship,others took the road of direct political involvement. There were alsothose who persevered and continued to write.On a recent trip to Zimbabwe we discussed the writers' struggle with twoZimbabweans, and also with research workers at the National Universitywho are concentrating on the history and continuity of Southern Africanwriting. Throughout our discussions the emphasis was on the solidarityof writers working in the Southern cone of the continent.^We were brought up inA Literary Desert"We grew up in a literary desert. There was not much to readabout ourselves, historically speaking, and everything weclung to was from 'down south'. We read writers like ThomasMokopu Mofolo, Ezekiel Mphahlele, Alex La Guma and soon at the time when we were at high school. These were thewriters who communicated best with us. At this stage, by theway, I performed very poorly in my formal scholarlyendeavours.I took an interest in writing, putting out a few poems hereand there. Writing soon overtook my studies. Lookingaround at my school-mates, I saw that no-one was satisfiedwith conventional reading which did not really relate to ourimmediate experience.I knew little about Zimbabwean literature until I cameacross Ndabaningi Sithole's The Polygamist. He had alsowritten African Nationalism. Lawrence Vambe had writtenAn Ill-fated People. These books were factual and could notbe measured in the creative sphere. The censors banned themat first sight. I grew worried, because at that stage one couldnot single out one novel proper by a Zimbabwean which wasenjoyable.There is a tendency among many young writers to fall forpoetry. Apparently they think it is easier. Until OrdinaryLevel at school, poetry is taken very naively. The things thatcome out of this naive source are not really poetry as such.It is a bit hard to say what Zimbabwe literature will belike now that we are independent. After so much human lossand suffering, we are most probably facing the theme ofreconstruction. The damage done to human minds has to betaken care of.I think that writing, at any time and in any place, shouldlook into the problems a society is facing. It should dig downinto other people's private affairs — trying to find the meaningof our communal experiences.We have come to realise that any writing in time of war isaffected by the confusion of such a situation. Our writingscarry within themselves a certain related feeling. There is atendency to try and play down what you are putting across.Charles Mungoshi is based in Harare. His novelWaiting for the Rain (Heinemann's African WritersSeries) won the 1976 Rhodesian PEN Prize and hisShona play has recently been published in Salisbury.He is currently employed on the editorialstaff of the Literature Bureau.Most of the time you feel you haven't really come out withwhat's happening.We never had a creative magazine in which we could pourout our feelings. Most commercial magazines were terriblyretrogressive: accepting only 'love' stories. So, our workswere stifled in a way. Most of us rejected the temptation towrite such things. For honesty's sake, you had to write and'snug' your manuscript away safely somewhere.Not until towards the end of last year when ZimbabweArtists and Writers Association was formed did writers cometogether. Under the old government it was difficult to grouptogether as artists. Unfortunately ZAWA disintegrated afterit was formed. As was the norm, those who held office werenot even writers.In this country there has been a kind of complacencyamong black artists. It has been really difficult to come togetheras artists. I think this is one of the reasons why mostwriters resorted to a political platform pure and simple.In 1969 we formed a Drama Society which I chaired forthree years. The problems we faced then are still aroundtoday. We worked with frustrated school-leavers who werestarry-eyed and thought of making a big name for themselvesin the theatre. But once they had learnt that the dirt roadhas many twists and turns in store, they shied away. Weplayed to near-empty houses. Following this, our actors didnot attend rehearsals. The group would disintegrate. Lack offinance and ramshackle venues was the last straw.On the other hand, white theatre was thriving and exploitingthis situation.But we still have some playwrights who write in Shonaand isiNdebele. Thompson Tshodzo is the most prominent.Most of the productions are in the format of townshipmusicals.I was once called upon to tighten up the plot of acommercially-inclined play for an established theatre company.The problem with these musicals is that in mostcases the lyrics do not follow the pattern of the content.STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

Charles Rukuni64 We are up againstCharles Rukuniworks as a foreigncorrespondentand is alsoattached to ablack weeklynewspaper, Nioto— owned byMambo Press. Hisshort story 'Whostarted the War?'was published inForced Landing.Relevant theatre could not emerge and boldly be part ofcurrent culture. The situation was meant to squeeze out anyform of popular creativity.We wrote basically about social problems. There was amarked tendency among writers to shy away from politicalissues. Most of the publishing outlets were government-run.At the Literature Bureau where I am working it was unpopularto write against the government. Many of the blackwriters resorted to things like traditional life — witchcraft,broken family life, old society versus modern lifestyle. In asense, traditional writing became the norm.I published a sixty-page collection of short stories entitledComing of the Dry Season. Some of these stories I hadwritten while still at high school. The book was published in1972 and was later banned in 1974. Four years after thebanning, the censors decided to lift the ban.Every two years the Rhodesian censorship board used toreview bans on creative literature, apart from works whichcirculated as underground writings. If the reasons no longerapplied the book would be unbanned.So, in my case a big argument arose between a leadingacademic and his English Literature staff and the Censors. Hewas Irish and knew a lot about that country's protest literature.He made the point that the book was not even in thetradition of protest literature. His major point was that thereis a difference between literature and propaganda. Thoughnot articulate enough, the book did at least pinpoint wheresome of the problems lay.Among the reasons for the banning was this: a characterwitnesses a harrowing scene where somebody is knockeddown by a car. Some blacks converge and ask the eye-witnesswho's done it. Without wasting time he says, 'That boer overthere.'Because of that line, the censors thought the book wouldcause racial friction.Professor McLachlan at the Zimbabwe University andother people at the teaching colleges came out boiling againstthe censors. Funnily enough, it was two years after the bookwas published that they first noticed it. In fact someonebumped into it while doing a thesis on Zimbabwe/Rhodesialiterature since 1900. This was how they first noticed Comingof the Dry Season. The book was published by OxfordUniversity Press — their branch in Nairobi, Kenya. Casualreaders were also in the dark about it until ProfessorMcLachlan decided to set it for his first year students.*Colonial Hangovers"We are up against 'colonial' hangovers. The free flow of creativeactivity was checked when we were a subjected people.Relevant drama does not attract much interest from showlovers. It complicates matters. If, for instance, your play isdramatized at a hall next to a cinema, even if you advertise itas a free show, people will flock into the cinema. I'm notsaying that films wouldn't have a large following anyway, ofcourse. They would, even when what we had on the screenwas first censored by the Publications Board in Johannesburgand then the local censors, here. Films distributed by Ster-Kinekor arrived here 'third-hand'.The Literature Bureau under the aegis of the governmentused to keep manuscripts for, say, three years before decidinganything. Most of the writers were discouraged. TheBureau was interested only in Shona and Ndebele writings.Most of the contributors were prominent people who hadreceived their education in British countries. For them writingwas only a show and they felt obliged to pass on theiracquired knowledge. An ordinary person might have hadmore to say, but lacked the necessary expertise.Peasants in the rural areas received more political education.They endured hostilities from both the white armyand the black reactionaries. But they fought back, and cameto know their history far better than any of us here in thecities. They fought to abolish the Tribal Trust Lands. Theyhad finger-tip contact with vakomana. They came to know alot about the liberation struggle. They were better off thanblacks who went to work at 8.30 a.m., had a big lunch,knocked off at 5.00 p.m. and after that went to a pub. Thenthe same thing the following day, forever.Did Rhodesian P.E.N, help?The Rhodesian P.E.N, did not create opportunities fornew writers. Instead they acknowledged works which werealready published: be it in the country or abroad. In theirliterary contests, the judges seemed prejudiced in favour ofworks which were not banned in Zimbabwe then. They alsoseemed to me to be influenced by what was currently doingwell on the book market.Were the writers able to find a way of getting their workspublished?Not many came out. There was a problem from thefinancial aspect. I don't know what happened to an artassociation which was meant to take a constructive line onthis issue. Most people preferred to stand by without reactingwhile the national leaders were still in prison. You shouldhave seen the way university students reacted when they readabout the resurgence of writing by blacks in your owncountry.Then there was censorship, too. The result is that writerslike Dambuzo Marechera of The House of Hunger fame arenot even known in their own country. They are established'outside' rather than 'inside'. Internally, there are a few likePatrick Chakaipa who are most popular. Thompson Tshodzois well-known as a Shona playwright. Their works get airedon the radio — sponsored by business concerns like theColgate-Palmolive firm.Cultural resistance under the Rhodesian regime was in apassive phase. The trash that was put out during those days isstill with us.aSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 19

Poetry786/Monnapule Lebakeng, Senzo Malinga, James Matthews.THE DYING GROUND . . .The elephants cameand brought with thema crookery of Godand brotherhood,took our verdant landwith gunpowder and psalmsand proclaimed a covenantin his name.Today, the fetters bite deepercruelty is resolute,genocide defined.Beyond Azania,black children eat manhoodfrom bloody potsand freedom is sownwith the seeds of valiant menThe harvest is bitter for the settlers and now,the last exodus gathers frenzy.The trail points Southwardto the last outpost(a haven to their whiteness).And like elephants,sensing the final hourthey hurry to the sacred sand(our conquered land)But let them comeO let the white elephants draw near!Illustration,MogorosiMotshumiWhat would be their refugeWill yet becomeTheir Dying Ground . . .786/Monnapule Lebakeng(It is known that elephants, when sensing that deathis near, walk for thousands of miles to a special 'dyingground' where they lay themselves down withoutfood or drink until they die . . . )AT WAR WITH THE PREACHERMANMy armful of goat skinsCaptures the eyes of the preacherman;I meet him on the shop verandah.He tells me I have to changemy evil ways;I go home curisng,Declaring war against the preacherman.Later he comes to my placeAccuses me of deflecting peoplefrom the right way to Heaven;I in turn call on my godsTo deliver their godly angerupon this insolent preacherman;For I do not liveThat I may go to Heaven,But that I may have supper tonight.Senzo MalingaTRIP TO BOTSWANAi had a tasteof freedomthe first cautious sipcausingan unexperienced delight ofsensesmy soul outpaced the girdedwingstransporting me from forcedconfinementmy soul welcomed myarrivalit stilled my tremblingfleshas a woman and man embracedthough their colours were incontrastno hostile hand ripped themapartlove blossoming on theirfacesmy eyes became an eagerspectatorto the manifestations offreedomwhere within my captivity i wasdeniedfilled with the fruit offreedommy return holds nofearof the horror of myslaughterhouseJames Matthews20 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

DramaThe Ikwezi PlayersJob MavaA workshop production by The IkweziPlayers, Cape Town. Transcribed byDon McLennan >--. ^-/>The scene is set in the shell of Job Mava's house which wasburned to the ground four days ago. It's night time, andvery cold — mid-winter. All around is ash and the charredremains of the house and shop. There are two wooden boxes,and a log centre on which Job is sitting. On one of the boxesis a storm lantern, casting a feeble light.Leaning against a broken wall is the wooden sign whichhung above Job's shop: JOB MAVA ~ SHOEMAKER -GOD IS LOVE. At the moment we see only the reverse sideof the sign. Next to the sign is a charred shaving mirror.For three days and nights Job has been sitting here in theashes of his burned down house. He stands up, walks up anddown beating his arms against the cold.(Enter NOAMEN. She carries a mug of hot coffee and ablanket. She approaches JOB cautiously, uncertain of herreception.)NOAMEN: Job. My husband. It's me. Noamen.JOB; I thought you had left me.NOAMEN: Aai, my husband. Why do you talk like that?(She puts the coffee and blanket next to him.) I havebrought you some coffee and a blanket. (JOB nods, but doesnot take them. NOAMEN shivers from the cold. She looks ather husband sitting amid the desolation of their house.) It'sso cold out here. Why don't you come in to my mother'shouse? (JOB does not answer.) You know you are making afool of me, don't you? And you are making a fool of yourself,I have never seen a man behave like this before, neverhere in Fingo Village. For three days and three nights you sithere in the ashes. And what does it help? People think youire mad. And I feel so ashamed.JOB: You feel ashamed of me? I feel ashamed of God! Letpeople think what they like.MOAMEN; Aai,JOB: Why aren't you asleepr?MOAMEN; I went to bed but I couldn't sleep. I had a badiream. So I couldn't sleep any more.JOB; You had a bad dream?NOAMEN; Yes,JOB; You women are all the same. You blame everything onireams!NOAMBN: AaL You think dreams do not tell the truth?JOB: No. I don't.NOAMEN: I dreamed about my home at Cala, when I was alittle girl. We went down to the river to get water and theyleft me behind. It was dark before my father found me.JOB: And then?NOAMEN: He picked me up in his arms and carried mehome. He had a lantern.JOB: So? Is that a dream or are you making it up?NOAMEN: If I was strong enough I would pick you up in myarms and carry you home.JOB: Then you would carry home rubbish. God is testingme.NOAMEN: Aai. When is it going to stop?JOB: When I get an answer.NOAMEN: Come back with me to my mother's house, Job. Iam also suffering, you know.JOB: Yes. He is trying us out. But I am his faithful servant.Yes Tixo! You may kick me, beat me, burn me. I must takeit like a man. (JOB turns to NOAMEN.) I am a man, eh?NOAMEN: Of course.JOB: Then Tixo must answer me as a man.NOAMEN: Drink the coffee, Job. Put the blanket aroundyour shoulders.JOB: I do not feel cold. I am burning inside. And I will noteat or drink until God has given me an answer.NOAMEN: (She takes Faith for Daily Living out of herpocket and reads to him.) Reverend Mabandla gave me thisbook to read. Listen Job. This is what it says for today:'Whatever is happening to you at this moment, place yourconfidence in God and express thanks that, despite outwardappearances, He is still working out His purpose for your life. . . Defy the appearancei < . . you are in control.'JOB: Give me that book.NOAMEN: What?JOB: Give me that book. (He takes it, reads it quickly, andthrows it violently into the wings.) God has done this thingto me, and this book tells me I must kneel down and say,'Thank you, God. Thank you. Beat me again. Beat me again.Thank you. Kick me again. Thank you.' What do you think Iam? If God has done this to me I want to know why. And Iam waiting here until I get an answer. Tixo! Do you hear? Iam waiting for you to explain yourself.NOAMEN: Not so loud, Job. Tixo cannot answer you. Youmust be mad.JOB: If Tixo doesn't answer me, he is mad, not me. I am JobMava, a human being. You cannot pUih human beings aroundlike this. I was a big man, and Tixo has taken everythingaway from me because he wants me to be rubbish. He wantsme to go on living when he has given me all this pain. He ismad, not me.NOAMEN: Aai. Don't say that, Job.JOB: I will say just what I think. Tixo is behaving like apoliceman. He is torturing me to make me confess crimes Idid not commit. You see — just now he will kill me, and hewill tell everybody that I committed suicide.NOAMEN: What about me?JOB: What about you?NOAMEN: It was my house too. They were also my twosons.JOB: (Pacing up and down, looking for the answer.) Aai,Noamen. Listen. My grandfather used to tell me about huntingleopards in the mountains. You did not take womenthere.NOAMEN: Is God a leopard that you must hunt him?JOB: Yes.NOAMEN: And you are hunting to kill?JOB: If he doesn't answer me I'll kill him with my own twohands.NOAMEN: If you kill him, how can he answer you?JOB: Don't ask stupid questions!STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 21

NO AMEN: Aai. You are mad.JOB: Get out! Get out! (JOB hits her, she runs out. Havinggot rid of NO AMEN, he walks up and down, looking at thesky. Agitatedly, he talks half to himself, half to the audience.)Look at the stars. What does it mean, eh? All thoselittle fires up there in the dark? Let's see. Southern Cross.Orion. Zachobe. You know what everbody wants me to say,don't you? They want me to say, 'Blessed be the Lord.'Ha! (He walks about gesturing, hugging himself) Blessed bethe Lord of Rubbish!Job returns to the ashes. He looks at the coffee and theblanket but doesn 't touch either. He sits in the ashes, rockingto and fro, singing a hunting song.Enter REVEREND MABANDLA. He is head of Job'schurch, an important, shrewd, worldly man. He has grownfat on the cream of religion, yet he has warmth and sympathy.He wears an overcoat and scarf. He does not like thecold. At first MABANDLA looks at JOB, but JOB ignoreshim. Then he walks around him to try to get his attention.Finally he sits on the box, next to JOB.MABANDLA: Aah! Job, my son! You are still grieving. Whywon't you let us help you? (No reply from JOB) Do youknow what time it is? After midnight. Your wife came andgot me out of bed. She was crying. Why do you sit here inthe cold? It's freezing. Do you know there is already ice onmy water bucket?(MABANDLA is conscious he is getting nowhere with JOB.)Aai, Job! You know me! Reverend Mabandla. I know youare sore at heart. But you must speak out about what isworrying you. There is no other way to be happy.JOB: Happiness is for the pigs!MABANDLA: Of course, of course. But if you do not comeinside you will catch your death of cold. Here, put this roundyour shoulders. (He puts the blanket round JOB's shoulders,but JOB shakes it off angrily.)JOB: Don't make me laugh!MABANDLA: Look, Job. I know you. You have been in mychurch for many years. I know you believe God helps thosethat help themselves. So do I. But sometimes we need help tohelp ourselves.JOB: Are you speaking to a man or a child?MABANDLA: A man, Job.JOB: Then you too, speak like a man.MABANDLA: All right. I will. You remember your Bible?Remember those three men, Shadrak, Meshak and Abednegowho were put into the fiery furnace? What saved them, Job?What stopped them from being burned to ashes? Their faith,Job, only their faith.JOB: Their faith in what?MABANDLA: In God, Job.JOB: Which God? Tixo or Qhamata?MABANDLA: Tixo.JOB: You don't answer me properly. In the old days we believedin Qhamata. Then it was Mtsikano who said to us,'Take the white man's Bible. Take his God. But do not takehis money.'MABANDLA: That's true. That's how it was. He was aprophet.JOB: Then he told lies. Because we took the white man'sGod and we have been in trouble ever since. Tixo was calleda god of love, but he was brought to us with guns and spears.MABANDLA: No. You are wrong. He came with themissionaries.JOB: I am right. The missionaries just softened us up beforethe guns arrived. The missionaries made it easier for thewhites to beat us. Our God was Qhamata.MABANDLA: What are you saying, Job? Have you lost yourfaith in Tixo?JOB: Open your ears. I am burning in my own fiery furnace,here, here!MABANDLA: But you are still alive.JOB: Eoaagh! What do you think I am doing? If Tixo wantsme to suffer, that's his business, is it? I am his rubbish. Hisservant. He does with me just what he wants. I curse Tixo formaking me suffer.MABANDLA: Aai, aai. You are very bitter. Here, drink thiscoffee.JOB: Don't make me laugh!MABANDLA: Well, if you don't want it I will drink it myself.I feel the cold, even if you don't, Job. I was fast asleep,you know.JOB: I'm not stopping you. Go back to your bed.MABANDLA: You should drink this coffee. It will help you.(JOB turns his shoulder in disgust. MABANDLA drinks thecoffee with pleasure, and thinks.) Job, you know perfectlywell your children are in heaven.JOB: (quietly) Eei, mfundis. Do you know? Do you know?MABANDLA: You are my blood, Job. I have your suffering.I know. I believe it. The Bible tells us that.JOB: Can the Bible bring my house and my children back tome?MABANDLA: (Standing up, rubbing his hands, gettingsteamed up) Job! Listen to me! I know what you are suffering.I buried your sons, didn't I? I helped put them back intothe ground. I know what you are feeling. And I also knowthat you are a good man. (JOB gets up, offended, mutteringunder his breath. Moves about like a caged leopard.) No!Don't get offended just because I speak the truth. You are agood man. You have helped many people and you have askedno favours. And now you are in trouble. But you must thinkof this before you can get anywhere — you must smell it outinside yourself — that nobody who is truly innocent everperished.JOB: How can you say that to me?MABANDLA: Don't get angry, Job. Anger will get you nowhere.Look at the stars. All of them, God made them! Can aman be greater than God? God does marvellous things, Job.He give us rain and makes our food grow. He sends us thesun, bright and warm and life-giving.JOB: No, mfundisi. You talk. You love talking.MABANDLA: Well, if you want me to go. I was only tryingto help.JOB: You do not answer my question.MABANDLA: What question?JOB: Look. Here is a stone. (He finds one in the rubbish.) Iam not like this. You cannot destroy this stone. But I amweak as water, yet God has filled me up with pain. Whydoesn't he just let me die? He could finish me off like youkill a fly, and I would be glad.MABANDLA: When a man does wrong, then he is destroyed.JOB: What wrong had my children done? If they were badthat is no reason for killing them. And don't say there wassome secret sin they had. I have known worse people thanthem, much worse, and God let them die of old age in theirbeds..MABANDLA: What do you mean?JOB: That I have done no wrong. I have not offended God.Yet I am being tortured alive.MABANDLA: Aai, you are far gone.JOB: I will go further.MABANDLA: I came out of pity for you and your wife.Why won't you listen to my words of comfort?JOB: Are you a man, or a mouth without a body, that youspeak empty words from the Bible?MABANDLA: I am a man.JOB: You have a wife?MABANDLA: You know that perfectly well.JOB: And children?MABANDLA: Anyone would think you had never met mebefore.

JOB: And anyone would think this was the first time youhad ever met Job Mava. Why does God think I am necessaryfor his creation? I am rubbish! Shit!MABANDLA: (Very angry) Enough is enough, Job. Haveyou gone mad? I am a man of God, and I am telling you thatif you had not sinned . . .JOB: (Growls angrily.)MABANDLA: If you were innocent . . .JOB: Get out! Get out! (Exit REVEREND MABANDLA,trying to keep his dignity.) He comes here to torture me. Hedrinks my coffee, then he tells me I have sinned. Aai, goodpeople. How have I sinned? 'Your children are in heaven.' Mychildren are decomposing, rotting in the ground. It's not theywho are alive but me.(JOB proceeds to dig around among the ashes. Finally, heproduces a burned and blackened mirror. He takes the mirrorand sits down.) A mirror. My shaving mirror. Beginning ofevery day. Up, down, across. I was looking at myself everyday and I didn't see myself. It looks like my life — burnedblack. Full of shadows. A burned mirror like the face of God.Laughing at me. You know he is laughing at me. Listen! Doyou hear it? There! By Egazini. A donkey. Yes. A donkey,braying. God is laughing like a donkey.JOB imitates the ee-aae of a donkey. He laughs at himself.Suddenly he is aware of physical pain in his body. Hislaughter turns to anguish, to his own howls of grief. Hebecomes a sort of human donkey in his misery. The absurdbellowing finally turns into weeping. He finishes by collapsinginto the ashes. Trembling with pain, JOB unfolds theblanket, pulls it over himself, and lies down, moaning. Aftera while he is silent. Enter ZIZAMELE, with a small lamp. Heis a petty thief, and a bottle and bone collector, dressed inshabby clothes, and carrying a sack. He looks cautiouslyaround him, carrying the sack over his shoulder. He startsprodding, pushing and turning over the ashes. First he findsJOB's mirror, examines it, puts it in his sack. Then he bagssome of the tins. Then he goes to the blanket and gently tugsit off, revealing JOB underneath.ZIZAMELE: (Getting a fright) Oh!Hey, sorry! I didn't knowyou were hiding under there. Sorry. (Hastily, he puts it back.But overcome by curiosity, he pulls it off JOB's head again.)Hey! Who are you? What's wrong with you? (ZIZAMELE,seeing JOB is a sick man, spots the cup and picks it up,examines it with pleasure, drinks the coffee and puts the cupinto his sack.) I'll take this too. You don't mind? It's notyours is it? I'm just making a living. While everyone sleeps Imake a living.JOB: Who are you?ZIZAMELE: Me, I'm Zizamele. Where did you steal thatblanket?JOB: I live here. This is my house.ZIZAMELE: (Looking at the remains) Yes. I see that, ofcourse.JOB: This is my place.ZIZAMELE: Aah. Your place. That's a bit different. Youshould see my place. Municipal Rubbish Dump. Ja. That'swhere I live. A lot more rubbish and ashes than this one.Where I stay there are whole mountains of rubbish, youknow. Mountains. And the treasures you find, I'm tellingyou.JOB: Is your rubbish heap better than mine?ZIZAMELE: My friend, there is no comparison. It's huge.And there is much more variety. I've been looking aroundhere. But I haven't found much, I'm afraid. Are you new tothe business? I haven't seen you before.JOB: Yes.ZIZAMELE: Well. You live and learn.JOB: Do you?ZIZAMELE: You live. And if you don't learn, what good areyou?JOB: You are asking me that?ZIZAMELE: Why should you live and not learn? I havelearned a lot in my time. I would never choose a place likethis. It's too small. Not enough intake of rubbish. Tell me.Why did you choose this place?JOB: I didn't choose it.ZIZAMELE: You mean someone gave it to you?JOB: Yes. It was my house.ZIZAMELE: This?JOB: My house, shop, everything.ZIZAMELE: Burned to the ground?JOB: Everything.ZIZAMELE: Better to be like me, my friend. I don't ownanything.JOB: Nothing?ZIZAMELE: Nothing. Anything I need I get it from therubbish dump. Nobody wants to take it away from me becauseit's rubbish. Did you say this was your shop?JOB: Yes.ZIZAMELE: You sell food?JOB: I was a shoemaker.ZIZAMELE: Aai. A shoemaker. And everything was burnedto the ground!JOB: See for yourself.ZIZAMELE: Tyhini Tixo. Weren't you insured?JOB: No. I trusted to luck.ZIZAMELE: You are very foolish.JOB: You say so?ZIZAMELE: If you were insured, you would have got it allback.JOB: Aai, aai, aai.ZIZAMELE: (Helping JOB get the blanket back onto hisshoulders and to sit up.) You look like a sick man to me.Where is your wife?JOB: She has left me here.ZIZAMELE: Ow, shame. And your friends?JOB: I have no friends. Only people who want to give meadvice.ZIZAMELE: Well, you look as if you need lots of that.You're in the wrong place, for a start. It's too open here. Atleast the Municipal Rubbish Dump burns at night. It keepsyou warm.JOB: I am not cold.ZIZAMEL: You don't look in the best of health. What's yourfighting weight?JOB: Fighting? My bones ache. I cannot even lie down withoutagony. But you see, God has said I must suffer. I havelost my shop, my two sons, and now he tells me I must packup my life and move to Committee's Drift.ZIZAMELE: Committee's Drift? Where is that?JOB: Twenty-two miles away.ZIZAMELE: Is it a town?JOB: A town! There is nothing there. A big brown river andbare earth. We will have to make everything.ZIZAMELE: There is no municipal rubbish dump there?JOB: No.ZIZAMELE: Then I'm not moving, boy. Not until they makea dump.JOB: You have no choice, friend. They will drive you out.ZIZAMELE: Then what are you worried about? We are all inthe same mess. We will all be there together.JOB: How can you be so happy?ZIZAMELE: If they tell us to go, let us go, then. Do it andsmile — that's my motto. It's the best way. Whites and blacksseparate, live their own lives. It's better that way. I wouldn'tlike to have white people with me at the rubbish dump —they are too bossy.JOB: Have you also come to give me advice.Continued on page 26STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 23

Staffrider GalleryS'BALI'SPEOPLERalph 'S'BalVNdawo, visual poet of the dispossessed, died tragicallyin a motor accident in September 1980. Ralph's photographs documentwith compassion and understanding the experiences of an oppressedpeople. We mourn the loss of this artist, a staunch staffrider from thebeginning, whose images have been a feature of this magazine ever sincethe first issue.A staffrider gone, long before his creative life should have ended, buthis pictures will remain as a chronicle of the society he left behind.m^-' • ' ^ v . ' v v ; .'.•••••••—--^•. - -

Tribute to Ralph Ndawo

JOB MAVAContinued from page 23ZIZAMELE: I got nothing else to give you. No, wait. A pieceof bread. (Job refuses it.) Hey. If you have friends, whydon't you get inside a house. It's too cold out here. Youknow the puddles of water in the road have turned to ice?JOB: I don't feel the cold.ZIZAMELE: Either you are telling a lie or you are superhuman.JOB: I am sub-human. God made me out of clay, like thosemen there in the kloof who make bricks out of clay. Hepoured me out like milk and curdled me like cheese. It wasGod who gave me life — not me.ZIZAMELE: I can't argue with that.JOB: Yet when I am evil, it is my fault. If I am good it isGod's work. I am not supposed to lift up my head.ZIZAMELE: For a sick man you are a big talker.JOB: You know where we are. Look up there. Can you seeit? They call it Dead Horse Kloof, Brick Maker's Kloof. It is avalley of ashes. It is a human farm where ashes grow, andwith a big effort turn into ash-grey men and women whomove about in the sticky black dust. You have seen it. Iknow. At sunset when the sun is very low and orange youhave seen the place filled with smoke. Then the sun goesdown and it starts to get cold. Yes, you know, my brother.You know what I am talking about. I'm talking aboutpeople, people whose houses are the same as the rubbish theythrow out on the rubbish heap.ZIZAMELE: Hey! I tell you! You know old Mrs Dywili. Shelives there. She walks with her bare feet in the cold stinkingwater to cut lilies. And when she's got a big bunch she tiesthem with grass and walks from door to door of the whitepeople's houses. She doesn't know that the white peoplethink that lilies are unlucky. They think they are flowers ofdeath. So they don't like to buy — even for two cents abunch.JOB: I have been sitting here for three days and three nights.Outside. Every night I see the stars and the moon. And it'scold. There must be snow on the mountains. But I don't feelthe cold. I don't feel anything anymore. Why? Because, I'mjust like burning rubbish. You know when you go up there tothe Municipal Rubbish Dump at night you can see it burning.Small red fires. That's me.I am Fingo Village Municipal Rubbish Dump, burning atnight. So, I'm not cold. I am rubbish. God thinks I'm Rubbish.God is right! I am rubbish! You remember the signover my door: JOB MAVA. SHOEMAKER. GOD IS LOVE.You see what is left? Someone pulled it down. This is all thatis left of my house and my shoemaker's shop. You see, I wasa big man. And now, what do you think? God wants me tosuffer. I will tell you.I think it was Saturday — but the day doesn't matter. Mytwo sons went for the day to Port Alfred. They wanted toswim and to play on the sand, just like all the children. Theywere gone all day. My wife and I were eating our food at thetable. There's a knock at the door. 'Come in.' In comes apoliceman. I know him. 'Molweni.' 'Come in. Sit down.' 'No.It's better I stand up.' 'What's wrong?' 'I've got some heavynews for you.' 'Well, tell it, man. Tell it! Is it for both of us?''Yes. It's for both of you. Your children are dead!' 'What?No. No. You don't mean that. How can they be dead? Theyhave gone to Port Alfred.' 'Aai. Then I must tell you. Youknow the road to Port Alfred, ne? Blaaukrantz Pass. Theywere driving very fast. But the sun was in their eyes. Suddenlythey were turning a sharp corner and the car just twistedoff the road. Through the fence and down, down, into thevalley. Turning, turning, turning. Crash! The car is smashedflat like a jam tin. And your sons are dead. They weredrunk!'Aai! Aai! Aai! I, Job Mava, was a big man. I h'A two sonsand now they are dead.We went to the funeral. (He and Zizamele act out theFuneral. Zizamele carries the shop sign. They sing together aprocessional hymn as they walk to the grave-yard.) ReverendMabandla, who is the head of our church, stood by thegraves. Two graves, two coffins. 'My brothers and sisters,' hesaid. 'It is not easy to understand why God takes away thelives of two young men, and leaves the parents childless intheir old age. The ways of God are a mystery. We do notunderstand. But one thing we can be sure of — God does itfor a purpose, to teach us something. Our brother Job Mavahas written above his shop GOD IS LOVE. It is surely true.These things are sent to try us, to test us. 'Though he slayme, yet will I believe in him.' Believe, brother, believe inGod's love.'ZIZAMELE: Amen!JOB: But I ask you: If God loves me, why does he kill mysons? Both my children at once. If you want to prove yourlove to me, do you do it by hurting me? Ow. Aai. Aai. Tixo!I tried to believe. Yes. I tried. I'm a man. What else must Ido? My children were buried, so I began my work again.Idon't want to work, but I must eat. My wife must also eat.Then one day comes a knock at my door. 'Come in,' I say.There comes another man in a uniform. 'Job Mava?' he asks.'Yes, sir.' 'I have a letter for you.' 'A letter for me? Whydoesn't it come to the post office? Is it a special letter?''Yes,' he says. 'It's a special letter.' 'What does it say?' 'Readit!' So I read it:'Job Mava, 37 D Street, Fingo Village, Grahamstown. Noticeis hereby given you that your plot (Number 277R) anddwelling are subject to ordinance number (x, y, z) and thatthis area is to be rezoned as a coloured area. You may acceptthe municipal valuation of your property at R200, or arrangeto sell it before July 1974. You are required to expeditethese arrangements. Yours, etc., etc' 'What does it mean?' Isaid. 'It means,' he said, 'that you must go to Committee'sDrift.' 'Why should I want to go there? This is my ground.''No,' he said. 'It's not yours any longer.' 'Wait, my brother.Do you know how I got this ground?' 'No,' he said. 'And Idon't care.' 'Let me tell you, then. A long time ago, when thewhites first came here, with their guns and their Bibles, theonly people they couldn't beat were the amaXhosa. Everyweek, every month they were fighting. They needed helpbadly. Who did they get? the amaMfengu. You help us, andwe'll help you. We were also having trouble with the ama­Xhosa. Right. So along comes Makana. They stand at the topof the hill, there. All the impis lined up. Makana tells them:'We are going to clear out all this white rubbish and sweep itinto the sea.' So, he says, 'Charge!' And they charge down onthe Fort, there. And who is in the Fort? Whites and usFingos — leading guns. Throwing spears. Eaagh! Egazini! TheField of Blood. We killed our own brothers. And then, whathappened next? Queen Victoria was pleased. She didn't comeherself to thank us. No. But she sent an important messenger,with lots of pieces of paper for us to sign. 'You helped me, Iwill help you. Sign here, and this land is yours for ever andever. Amen.'ZIZAMELE: Amen!JOB: And now you are taking it away. Queen Victoria isdead, my friend. The big mother is gone. Nobody cares for usany more. This time we are the rubbish, and this time we'llbe dumped 22 miles away, where the white people cannotsmell us. Aaw. Tixo. What do you want from me? God islove. God is love.ZIZAMELE: Amen!JOB: Do you know what this is? Ashes. Why? This is myhouse. Three days ago I went to town to buy shoemaker'stwine and nails. I went to that shop in Bathurst Street wherethey sell these things. It was late, and I was tired, so I walked26 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

slowly.My wife, Noamen, was at home, cooking our. samp and beanson the primus stove. She pumped it up and left it. Then shetook a bucket to fetch water from the tap down the road.She didn't hear anything. But the stove exploded. Hot paraffineverywhere! In no time the house was burning. But shedidn't see, because the door was closed. It was cold, you see.So when she came back she opened the door and, fwaagh!'Fire! Fire!' she cried. 'Aaw. Tyhini Tixo. My neighbours!Help! Fire! Kuyatsha! Kuyatsha!' They all came rushing tohelp her with buckets of water. 'Call the fire engine.' 'How?'Don't ask. Just go. We will throw on water. 'Yes, my friend.But how? You know that the nearest tap is fifty yards awayfrom my house.'When I came home, the whole house was burned to theground. Everything was burned — clothes, money, leather, allthe people's shoes, my furniture, my bed, all my leather, andmost of my tools. The only thing that wasn't burned downwas this. Somebody pulled it down from the stoep where itwas hanging. My name, JOB MAVA. SHOEMAKER, GOD ISLOVE. Now, what must I do with this? I have lost everythingnow — my children, my house, all my worldly goods, and myrights to live on my own piece of land. And God is love! Is itmy fault? What have I done? If you know, my brother,please tell me, because / don't know. Is it my fault? God isQueen Victoria — he gives one day, and the next he takesaway. But why me, God? Why me? If you have taken awayeverything, why don't you let me die as well? (JOB sits downon his tree stump.)ZIZAMELE: He's not here. Or here. Or here. For a sick manyou are a big talker. But you ask riddles. You know you askan impossible question, and then you get a guts ache becauseyou cannot answer it. What do you expect? Did you everknow anyone who found God by searching for Him? (Hetakes the lamp and examines JOB's house.)I never found God in the municipal rubbish dump, and I'mtelling you I have looked very hard. Nobody ever finds God.He is like the wind — you cannot hold him in your hands. Youand me, we are just like this lamp of yours. (He blows it out.)We die just like that. And nobody can light us again.JOB: Aai. That is the problem. That is the problem.ZIZAMELE: Sorry. I made it dark again. Here. I'll light it.JOB: If we knew anything, it will die with us.ZIZAMELE: You're so sure?JOB: Sure.ZIZAMELE: I remember once I was preparing my supper atmy place, at the municipal rubbish dump. And I lookeddown there, to town. And what do you think I saw, eh? Ahuge rubbish heap, right in the middle of the town. I wassure it's just my imagination, because you never find arubbish heap, right in the middle of town, in a non-blackarea. You see, those non-blacks don't like rubbish even if it istheir own. And there it was, a huge pile, white and shining inthe middle of town.Of course I was curious, so I picked up my sack. I neverknew my old feet c?,n make fifteen miles an hour, but theydid that day, down Raglan Road. And imagine my surprisewhen I got there and I see it's not rubbish at all but a circusat the Market Place. Hell! Rubbish, circus, anything. I mustget something out of it. So I started looking for anything Icould pick up — bottles here, a bit of chocolate there, abeautiful piece of writing paper. Then I thought, 'Zizamele.You must have a look inside the big tent too.' So withoutthinking I took the beggar's way in and crawled under thecanvas. Aai. That was bad timing. You know where I foundmyself? Right in the corridor where the people go into thering. And boy, when I walked out into that ring you shouldhave heard the ovation from the audience. You would think Iwas Cassius Clay himself entering the ring. Man, and I wasjust beginning to feel like Cassius Clay when I felt a red hotiron across my back. It was not an iron. It was that sjambokthey use on the tigers. The ring master was having a go at myback and the damned audience were laughing like hell andclapping.I ducked under the ring master and tried to get out under thecanvas again. Then a hard boot greeted me right between theeyes. Lights out. Next thing I remember I was lying outsidethe big tent looking up at the stars.JOB: But you didn't learn anything.ZIZAMELE: Wrong! I learned two things: one, keep and usewhat you've got; two, don't look for something you don'tknow.JOB: But I would like one of those big search lights.ZIZAMELE: What's that?JOB: Don't you know those big lights up there at the armycamp? They shine them into the sky at night.ZIZAMELE: What would you do?JOB: Search and search.ZIZAMELE: Ha! But what's the use of a light to a blindman?JOB: Huh?ZIZAMELE: You can have the best light in the world, but ifyou are blind what's the use of it?JOB: Ei. I never thought of that.ZIZAMELE: You like that idea?JOB: It's a good one.ZIZAMELE: Keep it. I haven't anything else to give you.JOB: Why should you give me anything? You know I was abig man, eh? When I went to meetings even the old menwould become quiet and listen to me speak. When I wasaround, no young man would dare to open his mouth:Ncwangco?ZIZAMELE: Me too. I am also a big man. In the municipalrubbish dump the rats always listen when I speak to them.They are very good listeners. 'Rats,' I say. 'You people knownothing about the world. Where do you think all this comesfrom, this beautiful rubbish that you live in? You just take itfor granted. But you are wrong. It is a gift from the angels,from God himself.' Do you know what the rats say to that?JOB: What?ZIZAMELE: (He squeaks, and shows how a rat rubs hiswhiskers with his front feet.) Ja S'true. They always listen tome when I talk to them.JOB: You talk to rats?ZIZAMELE: What do you think? There are people there totalk to? Old women looking for coal, children hunting forscraps of food. They don't stop to talk. They are too busyhunting.JOB: So you talk to the rats?ZIZAMELE: There's nothing wrong with rats. They are goodlisteners. And something else — they never answer you back.JOB: So, what are you trying to tell me?ZIZAMELE: Ssh! Somebody coming. Maybe police. (Hehides backstage behind the broken wall.)Enter NOAMEN. It has been a difficult decision for her tocome back. The meaning of it becomes clear later on. She hasbrought her own blanket. She and JOB exchange looks, thenshe sits down near him, in the ashes. But she sits so that hecannot see her face.JOB: (Whispering) Noamen?JOB remains puzzled by NOAMEN's silence. ZIZAMELEcomes cautiously out of his hiding place. He looks atNOAMEN, and then moves next to JOB.ZIZAMELE: A visitor?JOB: Noamen.ZIZAMELE: Noamen?JOB: My wife.ZIZAMELE: Aah! You got a wife too! You are a very luckyman. Why doesn't she say anything? Is she afraid of you?JOB: No.STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 27

ZIZAMELE: She must be a good wife — she sits so quiet.JOB: What do you know about a wife?ZIZAMELE: Nothing. I never had one. But I've seen lots ofwives. All they do is talk, talk, talk. (He imitates a shrew.)'Oh, my husband. Why do you come home so late? Did youbring the money? And do you want food, now? How canyou expect me to have food for you if you come home solate? Go and make your own food.'JOB: That's not a wife. That is torture.ZIZAMELE: Is your wife like that?JOB: No.ZIZAMELE: You want to be alone together?JOB: No.ZIZAMELE: Then introduce us.JOB: Noamen. Zizamele.ZIZAMELE: Aai. Is that all you can say? Funny mannersyou people have. Come to think of it, a funny marriage too— a man and his wife sitting in the ashes, saying nothing toeach other. You are as bad as two white people. You knowwhite people don't talk to each other. They think it's rude.When you see them in buses or cafes they are always sittingthere like statues with their hands folded. You are notwhites, eh?JOB: I am Job Mava. This is my wife, Noamen.ZIZAMELE: Aai, aai. Be careful. You will exhaust yourselftalking so much.Enter REVEREND MABANDLA, cautious, shame-faced. Hecarries a thermos flask and some cups. He coughs, not surewhether he is welcome or not.ZIZAMELE: Ei. What now? We are going to have a picnic.MABANDLA: (Sees ZIZAMELE) Who is that?ZIZAMELE: Zizamele. Who are you?MABANDLA: I am the Reverend Mabandla. (He turns toJOB.) Job, I have come to apologise. I went home and wasgoing to go to bed, but I felt very angry. You were right —and I was too sensitive about my dignity. Also I was tormentedby the image of you sitting out here, all alone.But worse than that... I was selfish enough to drink yourcup of coffee. That was too bad. So I have come to apologise,and I have brought a thermos flask of hot coffee. May Isit down?ZIZAMELE: Yes, mfundisi. (He brings him a box.)MABANDLA: Job. Have you changed your mind? At leastyou are wearing the blanket now.ZIZAMELE: He's a sick man.MABANDLA: Of course. But the sickness is in here.(Touches his heart.)ZIZAMELE: Oh. I see. You think he is . . . (Hand on heart).MABANDLA: Yes.ZIZAMELE: Hey. Mr Shoemaker. You know what?JOB: What?ZIZAMELE: He thinks you are . . . (Taps his forehead, andopens his mouth.)JOB: We are all mad.ZIZAMELE: That's not fair. One of us is sane.JOB: And who is to blame?ZIZAMELE: Who is to blame?JOB: That's what I asked.ZIZAMELE: Ask the mfundisi.JOB: I tell you what is the work of his church. Somethinggoes wrong, you admit you are guilty, you repent, the churchsays Amen. You go out a new man. Reverend Mabandla hastaken the burden off your neck.MABANDLA: Aai, Job. But what is wrong with that? That isthe job of the church.JOB: (Standing up, wrapped in his blanket) What's wrongwith it? Well, I'll tell you. God is not necessary. You canexplain it all without God. Look. (He places the lamp on topof the box.) There is God. That lamp. He is watching. Godsees my children die, my house burn down, he sees mechased off my land. What happens? Nothing. (JOB blowsthe lamp.) Now. Start again. There is nobody there. No God.No nothing. My children die, my house is still burned down,and I am still chased off my land. It happens whether God isthere or not. So if God is there, what is he doing about it?ZIZAMELE: (Relighting the lamp) Aai. Why do you keepblowing it out. A man like you doesn't enjoy the darkness.MABANDLA: (To JOB) Do you believe that?JOB: Of course.MABANDLA: But God is not like that. He is not a lampthat you can put on top of a box. Nobody knows how to saywhat is God.JOB: Hei. You tell me that, now?MABANDLA: I never said I knew. I have never seen God*JOB: You have never seen him, yet you are sure he exists.MABANDLA: I am sure.ZIZAMELE: Aai. You people are very good talkers. I neverget nice talk like this where I live.MABANDLA: You like to talk about such things?ZIZAMELE: Yes. Very much.MABANDLA: Well. That's good. Did you go to school?ZIZAMELE: Never.MABANDLA: And you talk like an umfundisi.ZIZAMELE: Everybody talks the same way. The onlydifference is that some people talk pure rubbish, others leavesomething th?.t you can use afterwards.MABANDLA: Qh. You are a wise man.ZIZAMELE: If I was, I wouldn't be digging rubbish. Butlisten. I've got an idea. Mr Shoemaker is wrong.JOB: Wrong?ZIZAMELE: Of course. Look here. (He points to the lampon the box.) You said this was God. You are wrong. This isnot God. This is you. And everything else is darkness. Right?JOB: Go on.ZIZAMELE: How much can you see?JOB: I can see you, my wife, the Rev. Mabandla.ZIZAMELE: And beyond that?JOB: The fence. My gate. The road.ZIZAMELE: And then?JOB: Nothing. It is dark. There's no street lights.ZIZAMELE: But you remember?JOB: (Consciously creating the geography). Egazini. Lobengula.Dead Horse Kloof.ZIZAMELE: Then?JOB: Mountains. Rivers. Port Alfred. Sand. The sea.ZIZAMELE: Then?JOB: I don't know where it stops.ZIZAMELE: Is the sea deep?JOB: Very deep.ZIZAMELE: You can't see down?JOB: No.ZIZAMELE: Look up. What can you see?JOB: Some clouds, black sky, and stars.ZIZAMELE: What stars?JOB: Southern Cross. Orion, Zachobe.ZIZAMELE: Ekhe. And beyond that?JOB: Nothing. How can I see that far?ZIZAMELE: Ja, you understand. You are this little light on abox. You see to here. (He walks round the box in a narrowcircle.) But you can't see out there. (Walks into the audience).JOB: No.ZIZAMELE: You see? That's what I mean.JOB: What?ZIZAMELE: You think you are a wise man, but like everybodyelse, you know nothing.JOB: Ei. Did we give birth to ourselves? Did we make theearth?ZIZAMELE: Are you asking me?JOB: How can we know anything like that?28STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

ZIZAMELE:That's what I'm asking you. You are the onewho is making all the noise.MABANDLA: What's your answer, Job?JOB: I don't know. I don't know anything.MABANDLA: Nothing? Aai, that is a change. (Laughs).JOB: Are you still here to lecture me on my sons?MABANDLA: No. I came to confess my own. Have somecoffee.He pours the coffee into three cups. The offer excludesZIZAMELE. He goes to his sack, and shamefacedly producesthe mug he stole earlier on.ZIZAMELE: Yes. I took it. I'm sorry, I didn't know youwanted it.JOB: Keep it.MABANDLA: You also want some coffee?ZIZAMELE: Aah, mfundisi. I think you understand thehuman stomach. (He drinks it.) Ei, it's good. (Even JOBreluctantly drinks his coffee.) It's good, isn't it? You makegood coffee, mfundisi. You know what? I got some bread inhere. Anyone like a piece of bread? (Takes it from his sack.Reluctantly, they each take a piece, and eat. As they eatand drink, the feeling among them changes. They seem tofeel more confident of themselves.)JOB: My wife. You sit there, and say nothing.MABANDLA: Does she have to speak? She sits next to youin the ashes. It says more than words.ZIZAMELE: Yes. Teach him, mfundisi. He is a big talker,but he is also a bit thick-headed.MABANDLA: How is it that a rubbish hunter knows morethan we do?ZIZAMELE: I use my head. I see things properly.MABANDLA: Yes?ZIZAMELE: Yes! What other choice have you got? What elsecan you do but live your life?MABANDLA: Ei! You should be doing my job.ZIZAMELE: Am I right?MABANDLA: Ewe! The man who says all life is shit needs agood wash.ZIZAMELE: That's it! That's it!JOB: And that's me?MABANDLA: If you say so.JOB: No. Tell me.MABANDLA: Aai, Job. You will know what you will know.JOB: (Bitterly) Ag!There is an uncomfortable silence. Nobody seems to knowwhat to do next. ZIZAMELE breaks the silence. He beginsby making his story funny, but soon realises his tone iswrong.ZIZAMELE: Sometimes, when you are digging in the rubbish,looking for bottles, you have to dig very deep. You arejust fishing around, and suddenly your hook touches something,and you pull. You never know what you are going tofind. So you pull. And you see a hand or a foot. And youpull more, and out it all comes.MABANDLA: What?ZIZAMELE: You pull out a small baby.MABANDLA: Aai.ZIZAMEME: You think I am lying? People even throw theirbabies onto the rubbish heap. Little ones, with solemn facesand sad mouths, their heads and bodies covered with ashes.MABANDLA: Aai. Typhini Tixo.ZIZAMEME: Someone has just thrown it away. A whole life.Someone who could be a man or a woman and say to you,'I'm your friend'.MABANDLA: Aai. Aai.ZIZAMELE: I'm telling you the truth.MABANDLA: Yes. I've heard it. But why do you tell usthings like that?JOB: You. (Touching MABANDLA) I know who you are.You were burned alive in the fiery furnace. I cannot helpyou, my friend. You are burned to ashes.MABANDLA: (Shaking his head) Aai, aai, aai. Job. You arefar gone.JOB: (To ZIZAMELE) How do you feel?ZIZAMELE: Cold. Hungry.JOB: Then you feel like a man.MABANDLA: I don't understand you.JOB: Aah. That's it. That's it.ZIZAMELE: This cold wind. You*know what it means?JOB: No!ZIZAMELE: It means very soon we shall have the sun. Thenmy toes will feel warm again. (JOB, sitting on his stump,begins to make shoes, much absorbed in his work.) I'd betterpack up. I've got a long day ahead of me.MABANDLA: Don't go now. You have been a great comfortto Job tonight.ZIZAMELE: I don't know what to say. The rats will feellonely without me.MABANDLA: Well. You know where I live. Any time youneed help, come and see me.ZIZAMELE: I don't know what to say.JOB: Say nothing then.ZIZAMELE: What's he doing?MABANDLA: Making a pair of shoes.ZIZAMELE: Shame.JOB: There you are. Come here, my friend. Come here andsit down. Let's see how they fit you. (He mimes putting apair of shoes on Zizamele's feet) Yes. I knew you wouldremember me. I remember that pair of shoes I made for you.You wanted a strong pair to grip your ankles because of yourjob — standing all day. How do they feel?ZIZAMELE: Wonderful. I never had such a good pair before.JOB: This time, when you walk.you will not feel the stonescutting into your feet.ZIZAMELE: I was only walking home.JOB: I know. It's a long way home, isn't it?ZIZAMELE: (At a loss, fumbling with his bag.) Well. If youdon't need me, I'll just make my way off. So long. Don't forgetthis. (Picks up the sign.)MABANDLA: This?ZIZAMELE: What does it say?MABANDLA: Job Mava. Shoemaker. God is love.ZIZAMELE: Is that what it says?MABANDLA: That's what it says. Come, Job. Let's gohome.Exeunt all but ZIZAMELE. He seems lonely, for a moment,but turns to the audience, talking himself and them into abetter mood.ZIZAMELE: Well. I'm alone again. But that's all right by me.We are born alone, and we all die alone. I am used to it. Yousee, I have had a good night. I got a mirror, a cup, and twofree cups of coffee, and some interesting conversation. That'ssomething, heh?When they get home tonight they will ask themselves, 'Whois that man Zizamele?' The religious ones will say, 'Oh. He isan angel who appeared out of the darkness.' (Laughs) Youknow — I don't think Job won his argument with God. Whynot? Because he was only talking to himself, all the time,really. He just could not stand the idea of suffering. Well,who can? We all suffer, don't we? And did he learn anything?Maybe he learned that it's better to be alive than to be dead.Better to work, eat, sleep and have friends than to lie downthere in the old rubbish dump of the earth.The sun will come up soon. They say the coldest time is alwaysjust before dawn. Well, suppose I'd better be going.Oh, by the way, if ever you go to the Municipal rubbishdump, don't forget. Look out for me.Waves goodbye. Exit.End.STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 29

PoetryPaul Vilakazi, Farouk Stemmet, Kriben Pillay, Achmed Dangor, Nakedi Phosa.FOR VUYISILE MDLELENI AND OTHERSI can hear you brotherjust like the chilly breezewhizzing through the crevicejust above my pillowI can hear you brotherthough your tenor, wasthrown into a freezerI can hear your voicefrom the icetranscending the chillOn the ashes of your effortsrises energies not cupped in wordsPaul Vilakazi'TO THE CAVES, TO THE SWAMPS'Go to the Cavesand seek in the darknesswhere the sun once shoneGo to the Swampsand seek in the depthsfor truthswhich once stood highSpeak to the Baobabfor he can teach youof a timewhen children playedGo to your Mother's breastand drink of the lifethat was to be youbut diedwhen first you ate from the handof the white manSeek also in the deepest recessesof your brother's liberated Spirit,for your brother has arrivedfrom the Caveswhere in the darknesshe saw what lay concealedand grew therebyfrom the Swampswhere from the mudhe retrieved what lay hiddenand grew by itfrom the Baobabon whose wrinkled barkhe read the taleof a people once freeand he learnt therebyfrom his Mother's breastwhere once againhe drank of the lifethat was to be himand he grew therebyhe is now Himselfhis Spirit is now free.Farouk StemmetEYESI remember your eyeswhen they spoke of me,of my race, of my god,of the way I danced.They were not your eyesbut the eyes of years gone by,shaped by sights of imagestoo big to see,and left alone . . .in the dark.Those eyes, archaic,of years gone by,had to be plucked,and in the unwanting sockets,I putmine in yours,yours in mine.I remember my eyes now,when they spoke of youof your race, of your god,of the way you danced.Kriben PillayPIETYThere was a time whenI did not drink wine,for wine was the bloodof my brotherthere was a timeI had forsaken flesh,for flesh was the substanceof my soul,now as I watchthe farmer plough and seed,and reap with his handsthe young anaemic cornI shall give up breathing,for abstinenceis the sum of my virtue.Achmed DangorMY REGISTRASIE NOMMEREk moet dit nooit vergeet nie.Die boek van my registrasie nommer;Waarsonder ek is 'n karsonder 'n registrasie nommer.Dit 'se' waarvandan ek is;Waar ek werkdefineer en klasiefiseer my.Dit noem my dit en dat.Verpligtend plak ek dit aan my agterwereldsoos 'n kar se registrasie nommer.My registrasie nommer;Wat ek teen my sin draw,'n Produk van my baas se wetWie se woord ek is bang om te oortreeDus vergeet ek nooit my registrasie nommer nie.Nakedi Phosa30 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 19^ i

THE SUNAn extract from a novelby Mongane Seroteillustrated by Mpikayiphelii-oli...ilil,.The sun, its rays clinging to the trees, the branches andleaves, was rising up, over Jukskei river. The sky was yellowwhere the sun was peeping, and becoming silver as the raysmoved and moved, spreading further into the vast sky. Thesky is an empty hole? That is disappointing! I walked on.Somewhere a dog was barking, dogs were barking. I thoughtthey may be chasing a horse, a donkey or a cow. I could alsohear drums and whistles. I walked on, down Vasco da GamaStreet; past 17th Avenue. The heat of the sun hit me straighton the forehead. An old lady wearing a sombrero whichalmost obscured her view passed, carrying a spade and abucket. Her legs carried her as if they were creaking. She wasbent forward, miraculously managing not to crash down onher face. Slowly she trod on, and this took her away on herjourney, away from the dead.I went through the gate. Ah, if graves could talk! Therethey were, spread throughout this vast field, their numberplatessticking up in the air, as if they were hands wavingbye-bye. The tombstones looked like miniature sky-scrapers.Some tombstones said something about wealth, others wereordinary, and some graves had no tombstones at all. Birdswere singing. A cow mooed. Cars roared. But, the silence wasstubborn. It stuck in the air, looming over the heaps of soiland those who could still walk. Somewhere in an emptypatch, a car without wheels, if we still call it a car, hadturned colourless: its seats were ashes, smoke still rosefrom somewhere around its bowels. The car stood there,proclaiming its death too. As I approached it, I realised it wasthat year's Valiant. They took what they wanted from it, andleft it there. The owner, probably white, will talk to the deadabout it. I went along the road.There are always many people, children, women, men,families, widows, widowers, all of them busy, busy with thegraves, silent, weeding, putting fresh flowers into vases, manypeople, scattered throughout the cemetery, early on aSunday morning. The silence here is graceful. The silencesounds like the song of the birds, of the trees, of the wind;something about the silence of this place suggests, makes onesuspect that God, or maybe the dead, are looking at one,listening to one, about to talk to one, just about to do it —but they never do. Women, some in fresh black mourningclothes; all of us, for some reason, wearing casual clothes —men trying to walk straight, holding spades and rakes;children, forever children, now and then playing, nowhaving to follow the elders, now being scolded; families,holding to each other by freshening the graves of their beloved,weeding the sides of the graves; a hymn, a desperateprayer, whispers, the wind, the silence of the dead.I was sitting on the grave of my grandfather. I fought thethought that nagged me, which wanted to know whether heheard me when I asked about Fix; and also, when I told himthat I was getting tired of going to the shebeen; and that Iwouldn't go to church. I fought this thought. I will fightfight it forever. By coming here, every Sunday, I will fight it;I know he is listening, and asking whether I was willing tochange. That is where the trouble started — was I willing tochange?I stood up to go.I was washing my hands near the gate, when I saw him.|!§§i ; :-; : .The water wet my trousers. I thought shit, people willthink I peed on my trousers. Where had I seen this old man?He was walking slowly towards the gate. His backside swungleft-right-left-right, and now and then he stood to look at thefield of tombstones and number plates. It was as I got closerthat I recognised him.'I see you, Father,' I said.'Yes.' He stopped and looked at me. He was breathingheavily. His eyes were fixed on me, searching. His hat,flipped over to the back of his head, revealed white, whitehair, which in turn joined the white, white beard. His eyeswere wet and grey. They sure revealed how weary he was. Icould not tell whether he was frowning or whether thosewere permanent old-age folds on his face. He kept staring atme, in silence, then he looked away.'You boys have no sense,' he said. He looked away andwith his stick pointed at the car, which was still smoking.'Why don't you throw that thing in the street? We want torest here, not to be burdened with your foolishness. Look atthat!' He looked at me.'Huh?' I was still trying to search for something to say.'They burn the grass when they clean the rest place, andthen you come and throw stolen cars here? What a curse!'He began to walk. I walked next to him, slowly. He stopped.'You see that tall tombstone?''Yes,' I said.'Nkabinde is resting there.' He began to walk again. 'Youknow Nkabinde? He used to own a shop near Eighth Avenue,he died last year, they say he had bad lungs or something. Hehad a big funeral. Yes, he was a good man, a man of thepeople.' He stopped to take a look again. 'I never used tounderstand why he said we should buy properties fromthe old ladies and from anyone else who wanted to selltheirs. You know, I used to think he was greedy, but no, hehad a head. If we did that time, these Boers would not havetaken our place so easily, like they have. Look at all that!'He pointed with his stick towards Alexandra. For somereason or another, every time I looked at Alexandra fromSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 31

the graveyard, it looked like a graveyard.'Every time I look at all that, myheart bleeds. It breaks. We worked veryhard to build this place.' He stoppedwalking and looked at me.'Whose child are you?''Molope.''Molope at 11th up the street?''Yes father,' I said. He began to walk,now and then looking at me. He was silentfor a long time. Then . . .'How are you living man?''Alright,' I said shrugging my shoulders.'Where is your father?''He is there.''How is his health?''He is living.''Your mother?''She is living too.''That is good to hear. I am still livingtoo, but age is telling now, we are goiing.''Yes, I hear you father.''Have you heard anything about yourbrother?''No.''Nothing?'He sighed 'Nothing.''This is Mokonyama's property,' hesaid, pointing at the yard where manymen were sitting outside in the sun. Hestopped to look at the yard. 'Looks likehe has sold it,' he said.'I think so, because those are themen of the hostel.''We can't get water to drink fromthere anymore,' he said.'Ya, we have been defeated.'He stopped to look again. 'I hearyou. You say your father is still alive?''Yes, he is still going on.''He is still going on, eh?' he laughed.'Yes, your father is a good man. Weused to drink our brandy together. Weused to talk for a long time with him,and then go away to sleep. He is a goodman.' He stopped to take a look at anotheryard. His face, folded as it was,curious as it was, still glimmered withsomething which seemed to get outfrom the eyes and spread throughoutthe face. He murmured something tohimself and started walking again.'Ja, I hear you. I had gone to visit theold lady,' he said. 'I took her flowers.You know, she used to love roses. Wehave beautiful roses in the garden, Itook her some.' The sun was blazing,almost as if to roast our scalps. Sweatran down the old man's face — the tired,weary, old face; the strong, defiant,fear-stricken face, glittering now andthen with a bright smile and soon becominga sad shadow, eyes cold likemarble.'So they are still holding your brother?''Yes,'I said.Every time I lookedat Alexandra fromthe graveyard, itlooked like agraveyard. *'It will be some time before we hearanything. How is your mother takingit?''Well'Ja, I know, I know, when I cameback, the old lady was weary. She wastired. It was only the heart which kepther, her body had long given in, she wastired. Two weeks after I came back,when they brought my banning order,she died.' He was breathing heavily, hestopped to wipe his face and to take abreath. 'Man, those men are fighting,yes, they are fighting,' he said andsuddenly he looked very, very old. Ithought any time I was going to seetears flowing down his face. His eyesgrazed the earth, where there were tins,broken bottles, bricks, dirty water runningfreely on the street; from where dustrose up to the sky, taking along with itbits and pieces of paper. Something wassmelling. I knew what it was, a dead dogor cat lying somewhere in the donga.The children, as usual, were playing,swearing, running across the street,chasing a ball or each other — and likethe children of all places which are likeAlexandra, they watched while running,on the look-out for speeding cars.When I looked back, I saw the steephill which we had climbed at that slowpace, stopping to ponder, at times almostbeginning to cry, laughing, walkingon, thinking about the past, the future.He unbuttoned his shirt, right to thestomach: a snow-white vest showed. Iwondered who washed for him. Yes,maybe his daughter Thula. I had notseen her for a long, long time then.Maybe the last time I saw her was whenI was still at school. She had a friend,Noni. She and Thula, then young, innocent,if ever there is such a thing in aplace like Alexandra, were close friends.It was difficult to see one without theother. I got used to them both when Iwent to see Noni. It was with somelonging that I thought of Noni andthe things-we used to do.'Ja, those were really bad days, butthen we were good men too,' the oldman said. 'I stayed in jail for thirteenmonths, all alone in my cell. But then, itis a goat only which screams when it isin trouble.' He stopped again to look atanother yard. He murmured somethingto himself, and then looking at me hesaid, 'Son, your brother is in greattrouble, he must be a man to be able tomeet the demands of that place, theywill break him, many were brokenthere, young men, their heads werebroken forever. Children should notplay there.''What happens there?' I became curious.'No, leave that alone, leave it alone, Iwill tell you all that some day.' Hesneezed. 'I am going to have a cold,' hesaid. 'Ja, your brother is in trouble, hemust be a man. Tell your father I willcome and see him, tell him if my legsallow me, I will come and see him soon,tell him that.''I will.''You know Thula?''Yes, she was my class mate.''Yes, yes, she is a mother now,' hesaid and looked at me. 'But I cannotunderstand you boys, you love the meatwith hair, but you don't realise that thatthing makes people who eat, who cry,who get sick. When that comes you runaway!' He had a mischievous smile onhis face, then he laughed. 'How old areyou?''I am thirty.'He took a careful look at me.'You even have a little beard,' he saidand laughed. 'No, you are a grown-upnow, Molope has men now, he hasworked, he has grown-up men.' Heraised his stick to greet someone.'Hey, where are you?''We are here!''The sun, hey, the sun.' He pointedto the heavens with his stick and beganto walk again. 'You know,' he said, 'Ican't understand that man, he is in lovewith the church,' he laughed. 'Your fatherloves the church too, but yourfather is a man. That one, he has beenmade a woman by the church.' I let outa groan; I meant it to be laughter. Helooked at me.'Boy, don't laugh at your elders,' hesaid, trying to look serious, suppressinglaughter. He stopped. 'Oh, they arebuilding a bridge there?' He sighed.'Why did I not see it when I was goingto the place of rest, I must have beendreaming, or is it old age?'I said nothing.'They are building bridges, hostels,beerhalls in our place, without even askingus.' He was talking to himself. 'Tobe defeated is a very painful thing,' hesaid. His face was bright, he was like afarmer looking at his crops. 'But, youknow, when you defeat someone andwhile he is lying on the ground, youcontinue to beat him, it just shows youare not a man. Men don't fight like that.That is fear. And I don't blame them,they must fear, they don't know us, yousee, where they come from, when theyfight, they burn everything up. Youmust have read about Hitler. He wipedvillages and villages out, that is the way32 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

they fight/ he said, wiping his forehead.'Hitler put people in an oven, hundredsand hundreds of people and cookedthem up, you would have thought hewas going to eat them, but no, he threwthem away. How can a man fight likethat?' He laughed lightly. 'That is why Idon't respect their god. We talked a lotabout that with your father, he knowsme on that one.' He began to walk againin silence. He seemed to be deep inthought. I could hear his strugglingfootsteps, dragging, slowly slowly, butalso, something about them said a lotabout strength, or the will to go on andon, no matter how hard things were.Someone's voice was flying in thesky, singing about potatoes, how theywere fresh, how mothers needed them,because their children needed them,the meat needed his fresh fresh potatoesto make a tasty stew. Now and thendogs barked at him. Now and then youcould hear children singing his song,about potatoes, oranges, carrots, beetroots,about the Sunday which meantthat you should have good food becauseit is the only day you are with yourfamily, why not cook them somethinggood. Good food makes children happy,makes them lick their fingers.We came near the horse-drawn cart.The old man stopped. He was looking atthe huge, healthy-looking horses, withbright, happy eyes. Then he began totouch the vegetables on the cart.'Hey, Machipisa, I see you man!''Our old man, Zola, where are you?''I am here my old man. The sun andwork. That is all.''That is right, a man must work.Otherwise your family dies. I like yourvegetables, they look fresh.''You know, you must know old man,I try hard,' Machipisa said.'I think I must buy some,' the oldman Zola said, looking at me.'Yes,' I said. He bought cabbage,carrots, potatoes, onions and oranges.'Chew this,' he said, and gave me ahuge orange. 'It must be sweet, orangesare good for your health.' I took it andthanked him. We started walking again.At the corner of Fifteenth and JohnBrandt, the old man stopped, looked atme and said I should give my father hisgreetings, he had to turn there. I shookhis hand, again thanked him for theorange and asked him to give my greetingsto Thula and her daughter. I sawthe old man Zola walk away, slowly,carrying the bag of vegetables and hisjacket. He began to lean on his stick. Hisgait was weary indeed, perhaps defeated.Slowly he went away, and Iwent away, thinking, I must see himsome day.I walked up John Brandt Street. I gothome. My baby was still not home yet. Iput on John Coltrane. I lit the primusstove and put the kettle on. I made upthe bed.My brother came to see me. His eyestold me where he had been. He satdown on the chair and said he wantedcoffee.'Is that Coltrane?''Ja,' I said. He began to sing alongwith Coltrane, tapping his shoe andclapping hands. His head was bowed, asthe branch of a tree, loaded with fruit.He began to murmur something to himself.Then he continued to sing with therecord again.'Ja, all this means that I am acoward,' he said at last. I said nothing. Iknew now what was on his mind.The storm. His eyes were bloodshot,his hair unkempt, and something in hisface said he was angry. A twist on theforehead, or was it a combination of theeyes, the twist, and the words that keptleaping out of his lips.'When last were you home?''Must be a week now,' I said.'I am from there now,' he said,'Mama says they came and asked aboutFix.''What?''All sorts of things,' he said. He wassilent, sipping his coffee, unsteady onhis chair, murmuring.'When did they come?''On Wednesday and on Friday.''Did they say where Fix is?''No, no one is allowed to see him orknow where he is.''You know, I was talking about Fixwith old man Zola today, when I cameback from the graveyard.''I have not been to the graveyard fora long time now,' he said. 'What did theold man say?''No, he asked me if we had heardwhere Fix is.''Maybe they killed him, my brother,they killed him, otherwise why are theyso secretive about him? Why? Theykilled him. You see, I knew what Fixwas doing. I knew, and I told him hewas foolish to think he could get awaywith it, but then, he knows better. Whatbetter things does he know? Now, lookwhere he is . . . look what is happeningto my mother!' He spread his arms.'Bra Ndo'Bra Ndo, Bra Ndo, you are next,don't you bastards listen?' He looked atme, with his red eyes, and the twist onhis forehead which he must have gotfrom my father. 'Bra Ndo, shit Bra Ndo,and quit your shit, don't say Bra Ndo,say Ndo, what matters? Nothing!' Icould hear voices of women and menand children singing a hymn, they wereclapping hands to the accompanimentof a drum which beat on and on, in athick, slow, monotonous sound.'Play Dollar Brand,' Ndo said. 'If Fixknew so much as he wanted to make usbelieve, why could he not know that iswhere he would end? The securitypolice have a wide, efficient informationnetwork, did he know this?''What's the point of talking likethat?''Shut up!''No, I want to know, what is thepoint? You forget about him or we tryto help him. Your talking like thatwon't help,' I said. I said to hell witheverything now, I knew this wascoming, so, let it be. He stared at me.'You are my younger brother,' hesaid, still staring at me.'So what?''So shut up!''I am not going to sit here and listento you talking that type of nonsense.Fix is my brother too!'-He stared at me, looking hurt.'Is he not my brother?''I did not say that . . . watch it, youare spilling your coffee,' I said.'Fuck it!' He threw the cup on thefloor and it went shattering across theroom. He stood up and left the room.I could hear him talking to someoneSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 33

outside. I could not hear the words. ButI knew that he was still talking aboutFix, about me, he was still angry. Ithought of his wife. Wherever she maybe now, she was expecting it, she wasexpecting him to come home, angry,full of shit. Somehow, she had learnt tolive with it, or maybe, she was still tryingto find alternatives. That frightensme, for I have often wondered what shewill do the day she gets tired, the dayshe decides she has had enough. Many atime, so many times, she has come tomy door, finished, having travelled deepinto despair, tears in her eyes, her facestruck with a desperate pain, a pain sodesperate, even the tears refused toswallow it. She would be there at thedoor, her baby held closely in her arms,it would be clinging to its mother as ifafraid to fall, its eyes shot out, like theywere about to burst. Its mother, Ausi-Pule, what is it, strength? Despair?Love? What is it? Ausi-Pule would sitthere on the chair, her boy on her lapsuckling, and she, in terrible calmnesswould relate what had happened. Sometimestears began to flow, sometimesshe would stare straight at me, as if tosay, now you know what your brotheris about, what do you say?Ah, what could I say? I loved Ausi-Pule, I loved my brother, all I wishedwas that they live together like theythought they could. But, even as thisran through my mind, I knew it wasunreal. I knew that her life was aterrible, brutal pain. She must have felt,many a time, trapped by this thingcalled marriage. She must have, many atime, regretted ever meeting Ndo; musthave, many a time, felt herself wanderinto one day, when she would be singleagain. But what was it that made herendure, that made her think that therewas, after all, still hope? I knew by now,every time she heard that word, it waslike she was skinless, her nervesscrapped. Her eyes, which could shootdefiance, anger, love and hatred straightinto your heart with one stare, said it;they said how weary she was, howbewildered, and how she was at theverge of anything, be it to kill, or tomake love until it hurts, or to pourmethylated spirits over her body,set herself alight and laugh at you. Itcould be done.It could be done, so her eyes said,and Alexandra, in ever so many ways,never hesitates to show one how itcould be done. Her face, which all thetime registered her experience, andsometimes seemed indifferent, hadfrowns that ran deep into her flesh, andright there on whatever it is we havecome to call a face you could feel herlistening, carefully, watching, alwaysready for self-protection.Ausi-Pule had a beautiful body.When she was happy, the way shecarried it, with her legs, which almostbulged outward, and her firm shoulders,and her face, which, while clinging to itsbewilderment, let go a smile, throughthe eyes, and her bright white teeth, itwas as if she was going through a teasingdance. She walked . . . and her firmshoulders were like a teasing dance. Shewalked upright, flashing her smile, hereyes bright and running, perhaps mischievously,also at times so innocent,you felt like being very protective. Thatwas the time, when I knew she enjoyedcooking for us, looking after the children,wanting us to rest, dominatingeverything as she moved from the stove,to the table, to the other rooms, talkingto the children, and to us, mocking andteasing about what had happened. Then,it was amazing how she would bemother to all of us, the children, us, thehouse, be a sister to me, and to herhusband be a wife. All the time, hewould be saying, 'Mama you don't mindme playing Dollar Brand?' and Ausi-Pule, 'No, I love him too, I could go onand on with him.' Dollar would stalkthe house, bombard it, rise high andhigh, go low and low, in that journeywhich Dollar takes, sometimes as an antmoving, moving on and on, climbing onthin grass as if it were a huge fallen treetrunk, moving back and forwards as ifseeking something, which he himselfdoes not know, moving on and on, attimes like a tiger, agile, beautiful,ferocious, stalking, knowing, planningand ready for the final attack. Yes,Dollar would dominate the silence andmy brother now and then, in his quietway would talk to his wife, to his child,to me, saying how futile it was to behimself, to be a man, to love, sayingsometimes everything is so beautiful itfrightens. Sometimes I would readpoetry to them. I would feel them as wemoved together, Ausi-Pule holding herson by the hand, trying to keep himquiet as he demanded attention. Shewould kiss him, lift him up, hold him toher bosom, and suddenly we would allbe aware again of Dollar, pacing, pavingall sorts of things, and when the recordended, it would be like the house wassighing.This happened on many occasions.Sometimes it made us sleep well,through many treacherous nights. Sometimesit caused us trouble, for wetossed and tossed in the bed, and in themorning, when we met again, thetrouble would still be written on ourfaces. Sometimes it was just too hard tolisten to Dollar. There would be nonerve, no courage to even suggest thatwe start to listen. Everything would belike a load, pressing down. Every wordthat our lips formed would be like aforce pushing everything away from us.It was when I heard Ndo talk outsidethat I wondered about Ausi-Pule. Hewas gone now. It was painful to try andpicture what was happening wherever hewas now. The coffee, and the shatteringof china, still held me hostage. Fix. Iwondered where he was as all this washappening. I wondered. I began to cleanthe floor, and the smell of coffee cameto my nostrils, and the shattering soundran through my ears. I wondered whereFix was. Where Ndo was, where mymother, my father, were. I decided Iwas not going to tell Lily anythingabout what had happened. She neededrest.Strange. But it is true. I have been inthis house, room, for four years now,and I have done many many things inhere. I have broken cups with coffeemyself. I have fought, wept, got furiouslyangry, right in this room, so manymany times. I have lived in this room,my house, but suddenly, as I moved init, cleaning the floor, washing thedishes, cleaning the stove, I began tofind out that I was a stranger in it. Ithad taken me a long time to knowwhere to put things, like cups anddishes, it took me a long time to makeup the bed.When I finished cleaning the house —what was it — I felt exhausted. Suddenly,Nina Simone's voice became ahammer, pounding and pounding on myhead, shoulders, pounding and poundingme to pulp. I dared not listen to it, Idared not lie down to rest, the walls ofthe room began to stalk at me, to crowdme, I knew that I must try to get somerest, but there was no way I could comeround to doing it.I was in the street. The Sundayafternoon street. Alexandra makes itspeculiar Sunday mornings, afternoonsand nights. The sun, the smell of food,music; the women, in their brand newSunday skirts — something about theway they walk, they smile, they areloud when they talk or laugh — thewomen, lovers, mothers, sisters of somepeople, hug the sun, the light, in theirgestures; and walk, with their bibles,and their children, some dragging theirmen with them; and make a Sundayafternoon. There is a Sunday noise inAlexandra. It purrs and buzzes in theair, in the sun, in the wind, in the eyesof men, in the bodies of the women, itpurrs and purrs and purrs.A funeral procession went by.Lovers, hand in hand, walked thestreets, like the children of this place.Men sat under the trees, drinking, talkingand laughing. Music. Drums. Atrumpet in the distance. A song, sung bya group of men and women of thechurch. Selborne Street, the AlexandraContinued on page 4534 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 198

6JT/WEST\ Story by Ahmed Essop Illustrated by N.D. MazinBorg was an official at the securitypolice headquarters at Rosevale nearLenasia. He was a tall slender man witha face that seemed to be modelled fromweathered rock. His ascetic appearance,his soft measured way of speaking, hisurbane manners — he never questionedanyone without offering a chair —distinguished him from the other officialswho stood upon no ceremony wheninterrogating suspects. In the course ofhis investigations he tried to get the informationhe needed as humanely aspossible, and only when he failed was heforced to turn the suspect over to theothers whose sadistic zealotry requiredconstant gratification.The building occupied by the securitypolice was a former nunnery. Anentrance porch, guarded by a huge oak,led into flanking corridors and roomsand to a courtyard where flowersedged the level rectangular lawn. Manyyears ago the Good Shepherd's Convent,as it was known, had been the home ofnuns and novitiates; here they hadwalked among rose gardens, listened tothe sound of the church bell, sunghymns, fingered their rosaries. Now, attimes and in this very place, the screamsof the tortured might have reminded awell-read listener of the doomed inhabitantsof Dante's Inferno. It was at thesetimes that the irony of the change ofownership came to disturb Borg andmade him a little sad and reflective.One day Borg went to Lenasia toquestion Ranjit, a former school teacher.At one time Ranjit had taughtwith Richard Lake who had recentlybeen arrested and imprisoned for blowingup an electricity pylon. Personal detailsof everyone Richard Lake hadcome into contact with were required,and Borg had been instructed by hissenior, Colonel van Dijk, to go and getthe information.When he rang the doorbell Ranjit'ssister Maya came to the door. She was aplump, dusky woman with ambercolouredeyes. She was dressed in a redfloral sari that exposed much of herample waist. The red dot on her foreheadmatched the flashing ruby in hernose-ring.'May I speak to Ranjit?''He is at Tolstoy Farm where Gandhilived.''Where's that?''Near Lawley Station.''I must speak to Ranjit.''Why?''Nothing serious really. I have somethingto discuss with him,' Borg said ascourteously as possible, not wishing tounsettle Maya whose colourful presenceradiated warmth. 'I will go there.''He may not speak to you. He maybe meditating.''Then I will come this evening. Pleasetell me how to get there.'She walked with him to the gate andgave him directions.Once Borg had passed over the flatterrain on which Lenasia is situated,crossed the railway line, driven over abrick-paved road that skirted hugesmoking chimneys and brick-kilns, hereached a wooded area beyond whichlay a low range of hills. A rusty zincplate on a gate told him that he was atTolstoy Farm.He left his car at the gate, trampedover long grass and reached the steps ofthe house that led to an L-shapedveranda. He paused for a moment andlooked at some gaunt peach trees andsome old unpruned rose bushes. Heknocked at the door but no one openedit. He looked through a window, sawseveral rugs and cushions spread on thefloor, an oriental musical instrument,and a brightly painted portrait ofGandhi above a Victorian fire-place. Hewalked to the back of the house andentering a small veranda knocked at adoor. No one opened it. He saw severalenormous pepper trees on his left andhe walked towards them. And then hesaw him. Wearing a saffron-colouredrobe he was seated under a tree in theclassic yoga meditation posture. For amoment Borg felt that he should notdisturb Ranjit, but he had his work toaccomplish. He went closer, stood infront of Ranjit and said, 'I am from thesecurity police headquarters, I needsome information.' Ranjit did notrespond to the words. Borg looked intoRanjit's eyes; they had a vacant mesmerisedlook that yet strangely seemedto be perceptive of him. And then Borgbecame aware of a state of silence thathe could only have described as heardsilence. He seemed to hear it not aurallybut within an inner spiritual dimension.He began to feel a sense of transgressionin coming there. He decided to leave.As he reached the house he fieard avoice calling, 'Sir, wait please,' and turningaround saw Ranjit coming towardshim. He was a tall man with a muscularcopper-brown body. His clean-shavenhead and face gave him the serene,gentle look of temple statuary. 'Sir,' hesaid, 'I was in meditation. There are notmany visitors who come to TolstoyFarm during the week. I am so glad youhave come. Is it your great interest inGandhi that has brought you here? Youknow it was here that the great manlived and carried out his experiment incommunal living. Hence the name TolstoyFarm.' Ranjit opened the door ofthe house. 'Come in, come in. Ofcourse, this house provided shelter forthe families of men who were involvedin the great and noble struggle to attainhuman equality by offering passive resistance,preferring to go to jail ratherthan being humiliated.' They enteredthe room Borg had looked into earlier.It was a large room and besides what hehad seen already there was a bookshelfin the corner. 'You know,' (Ranjit'sspeech seemed to Borg like an endless,gently flowing stream) 'it was here thatthe great man had his residence — thefarm belonged to his friend Kallenbach— and from here that he pursued hisnoble struggle. Tell me, sir, what is yourname? . . . Borg, perhaps you have comehere because your karmic destiny hasled you to this beautiful place. O pleaseexcuse me, let me get you a chair.' Hewent into an adjoining room andbrought one. 'Sit down while I talk toyou. But first let me play a melody onthe sitar for you.'Ranjit sat down on a carpet and tookthe sitar in his hand. He struck thestrings of the instrument gently with hisfingers and out of it floated a melodythat was a beautiful blend of lyricismand melancholy. Then he continuedtalking.'People who come to Tolstoy Farmeventually come to appreciate that theentire universe is a manifestation of thedivine Creator and that those who seethe world in terms of different races,STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 35

proceed to prey on so-called inferiors,and only succeed in making their ownintellectual, moral and spiritual developmentvery difficult. I am sure you knowsomething about Gandhi?''Very little,' Borg confessed.'Then I think you should begin withGandhi's book about his experiences inthis country.' He went to the bookshelfand came back with a copy. 'I am sureyou will find the book very inspiring.After that you can go on to the Gita,Upanishads . . . 'That was how Borg came to be initiatedinto the world of Hinduism. Hebecame a familiar figure at seminars andmeditation sessions. He listened to visitingyogis from India and spent much ofhis time in philosophic discussions withRanjit. He continued working at Rosevale,though he tried to keep away fromthe premises as much as possible, for hecould not enter without feeling a senseof guilt. The former nunnery's conversioninto a headquarters for the securitypolice began to take on a profoundsymbolic significance: it attested to aflawed civilization.Borg thought of resigning from hiswork, but before he could do so he wassummoned to appear before Colonel vanDijk. A bloated, pale-skinned man withshort curly blond hair and beady blueeyes, van Dijk was usually dressed in asafari-type white suit which gave himthe appearance of a hospital orderly.'I have received information,' theColonel said stiffly from behind hislarge desk, 'that you are spending agreat deal of your time with a religiousgroup in the Indian area of Lenasia.Now this may seem to you a perfectlyharmless activity, but to Security anyperson who mixes socially or in anyother way with people of a differentrace is suspect. You should know that.Therefore, taking the interest of thesafety of the state into consideration, ithas been decided to transfer you toCape Town. I am sure,' the Colonelconcluded, 'that you will not suffer anyinconvenience. After all, you're a bachelor.''For some time now I have beenthinking of resigning,' Borg said calmly.'Resigning?' the Colonel asked, anuance of anger in his voice.'Yes. The direction of my life haschanged.''And throw away your future inSecurity?''Yes.''Impossible! And what of your allegianceto the state?''My allegiance is to the supreme realityBrahman.'The Colonel laughed a little, mockingly.'Come, Borg, you can't tell me thatyou are taking all that, whatever thatBrahman thing is, seriously?''I think Security is taking it seriously.If not, why the transfer?''A good point. But remember, Securityeven takes Security seriously.' TheColonel chuckled.Borg understood the veiled threat.'I shall hand in my resignation today.''You are at liberty to do so,' theColonel said, rising from his chair. 'Butremember my business is to secure thesafety of the state and if anyone, evenmy dearest friend, does anything tothreaten it, I shall have no hesitation inlocking him up. And you know whatthat means. No lawyer, magistrate,member of parliament, or Brahman willbe able to free you.''Thank you, Colonel,' Borg said andleft the office.That evening Borg told Ranjit andMaya of his resignation and what theColonel had said to him.'Good,' Ranjit said, 'you have untieda knot. In the house of cruelty, no onecan find spiritual liberation.''I am worried about the threat,'Maya said. 'And can he stop you fromcoming to visit us and taking part in ouractivities?''I think he is going to try,' Borganswered.'Then we shall oppose him withtruth,' Ranjit said with determination.'And what work will you do now,Borg?' Maya asked.'Oh don't worry about what workBorg will do,' Ranjit said. 'There is somuch to do in every incarnation. He canhelp me at Tolstoy Farm so that we cantransform the place into a memorial tothe Mahatma.''Yes,' Borg agreed. 'I shall be happyto help.''I am beginning to feel,' Ranjit said,'you have come to us to fulfil somepurpose.'Borg now spent most of his time inLenasia, only returning at night to theYork Hotel in downtown Johannesburgto sleep. Besides undertaking, with Ranjit,the Tolstoy Farm project (variouswealthy individuals were approachedand they offered assistance), he furtheredhis knowledge of yoga, practisedausterities and even learnt to play thesitar. He found Hinduism and the yogaway of life to be essentially free fromself-righteousness, authoritarianism,dogmatism, and without a primitiveeschatology based on the conception ofsin and the fall of man. It placed moraland spiritual responsibility on the individualalone rather than on messiahs andsaviours. In time Borg came to perceivethat the flaw at the heart of Judaic-"Christian civilization was its selfrighteousclaim to absolute truth andthat this deception constantly led tobrutal manifestations of various formsof authoritarianism and to theestrangement between reason andaction.After several months Borg received amessage that the Colonel wished tospeak to him. He went immediately inhis car.'I am afraid,' the Colonel said to him,after asking him to be seated in a chair,'that your activities are causing graveconcern to Security.''Concern?''Yes, you are interfering with theIndian people.''Explain that to me, please.''They have their own group areaaccording to state policy. What do youwant there every day?''I am a Hindu.''What! How can a Christian be aHindu? I have never heard anything soabsurd.' The Colonel laughed derisively.'Listen to me, Borg. Let me speak toyou in plain terms. You are challengingthe laws of the state by going to Lenasiadaily and associating with people of anotherrace.''There is no specific law that preventsme from going there, nor a lawthat says that I cannot change my religion.''Don't tell me what I know, Borg,'the Colonel said with menace. 'As far asI am concerned, you are interfering withpeople of another race.''If you wish to interpret my presencein Lenasia in that way you may do so,Colonel van Dijk,' Borg answered.'Don't you dictate to me,' theColonel said angrily. 'There is one otherthing. You are a vagrant with no visiblemeans of support. Where do you getmoney from to live?''I don't need any money at present,'Borg said serenely.'You are defying me,' the Colonelshouted. 'You will soon regret it. Go!'Borg rose from his chair and left theoffice.After taking his vows of renunciation,Borg went on with his life in a quietdignified way. He now wore a saffronrobe, allowed his walnut-coloured hairto grow long, and on his forehead drewthe emblem — mark of the ascetic —two parallel vertical lines in charcoal. Hegave up living at the York Hotel andstayed at Tolstoy Farm. It was not longbefore a posse of security police officersarrived in an American car and arrestedhim. He was taken to Rosevale.Colonel van Dijk, who had been stokingthe fires of his fury at Borg's challengeto his authority by pacing thefloor of his office, stopped suddenlywhen the captive was brought in. Hewas shocked by the long-haired, out-36 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

landish appearance of the man — hissaffron robe, his sandals, the beadsaround his neck and strange mark on hisforehead, all contrasting strongly withthe stiff light-blue uniforms of theofficers. For a moment he believed hewas seeing an illusion. A sense ofprofound fear filled him, his larynxtightened and he could only manage tosay in a soft voice, 'Sit down, Borg.'And then the Colonel did not knowwhat to do. The four men who hadarrested Borg left the room quicklywithout waiting to be dismissed. TheColonel looked at Borg as though heexpected to be addressed. Borg remainedsilent. The Colonel began to feelthat if he did not leave the office hewould be impaled by the look in Borg'sgrey eyes. He turned and hurried out ofthe office. He ran into the next-doorroom, asked an official to leave as hewished to make a private telephone call,and then with brisk, nervous fingersspun the dial.'Brigadier Becket, please. It's veryurgent.'He waited for the call to be putthrough and then said, 'Listen Brigadier,this is van Dijk speaking. Borg is now inmy office and I don't know . . . ''Lock the man up!' Brigadier Becketshouted.'Please listen, how can I lock a manup who does not look like a man.''What, Colonel? Is your eye-sight failingyou?''I don't know how to explain, but heis in a sort of dress . . . ''Listen to me, Colonel. If Security isafraid of the way in which a mandresses, then we might as well closeRosevale and everybody can go home. Isay lock the man up immediately.''But he is wearing a sort of long yellow. . . orange dress.''A man in a dress? He must be mad.Then why arrest him?''On your orders . . . ''Listen, Colonel, I think there issomething wrong with you. You informedme that you wanted Borgarrested for being a traitor and a threatto the security of the state. I think I willspeak to the Honourable Minister aboutgetting a psychiatrist stationed at Rosevale.'Brigadier Becket put the telephonedown.The Colonel returned despondentlyto his office, hoping that Borg hadtaken the opportunity to escape. But hewas still there, sitting very serenely inhis chair. The Colonel sat down in hischair.'I am afraid, Borg,' the Colonel saidapologetically, 'I have to do something Iam very reluctant to do. You know thatorders cannot be stopped by an officialof lower rank. I was forced by the Brigadierto send for you.''You have to do your duty,' Borgsaid. 'The Lord Khrishna in the Gitatells Arjuna the warrior to perform hisduty during battle.'The Colonel picked up the telephoneand summoned the quartet of officerswho had arrested Borg. They camewithin a few minutes and saluted.'Khrishna says that you must performyour duty,' the Colonel said, lookingat Borg.The officers looked at each other andthen at the Colonel.'Why don't you carry out yourduty?' the Colonel asked sharply.'Sir, you said Khrishna said we mustperform our duty,' one of them said.'I didn't say that, stupid! Borg saidthat. Why don't you carry out your responsibilities?''Sir,' Borg addressed the Colonel, 'foryour information my name is Yogi Satyananda.''Please carry out your responsibilities,'the Colonel said to the officers,looking even more disturbed as thoughBorg's words were a potent imprecationagainst him.The officers were mystified. Theyhad been asked to bring Borg to theColonel and they had done so. Theirduty ended there. Now the Colonel wastalking about responsibilities.'What responsibilities, sir?' one ofthem asked.'Fools! You went to . . . Why don'tyou take him to his room?''His room sir?' another officer asked.'Don't you understand . . . therewhere people are kept until they aretried?'In order to assist the Colonel, Borgrose and saying, 'I know where the cellsare,' walked out of the room, followedby the officers.The Colonel was sweating. He didnot want to take on the responsibilityof having Borg locked up. The man hadchanged, changed utterly. One neverknew what forces he could invoke toharm him. He had informed BrigadierBecket of his intention to have Borgarrested and he had approved. Thereforeultimate responsibility lay with him.The telephone rang. It was the Brigadier.'Colonel, what information did youget from Borg about political activitiesin Lenasia?''Nothing, sir.''Nothing? What is happening toRosevale? Don't you fellows know howto get them to say what you want themto say? What have you done to Borg?''He is locked up, I think, accordingto your instructions.''My instructions?''Brigadier . . .'Listen, Colonel. As soon as you getBorg to say what you want him to say,let me know.'The Colonel put the telephone down,but it rang almost immediately.'This is the Morning Star. We havereceived information that YogiSatyananda has been arrested. Is thistrue?''No ... he is not under arrest, buthas been allowed to rest in a room.''Until when?''Well . . . till tonight perhaps.''Can you give us any reason for hisdetention?''He is not in detention and I am notobliged to give any reason.''Is he held under the State SecurityAct?'The Colonel put the telephone downangrily and began pacing his office.In the afternoon an orderly broughta newspaper to the Colonel's office.Thick black headlines lashed his eyeslike vipers: Yogi Satyananda Arrested.Huge Demonstration Planned in Lenasia.The Colonel tore the newspaperand flung it into the litter basket.'Lies! lies! The man is not underarrest!' he shouted.Several officials from nearby roomscame rushing in.'What is the matter, sir?' they allasked.'Nothing!' he shouted. 'Stay in yourrooms until I call you.'They rushed out, but a messengercame in, out of breath.'Sir, a procession of demonstrators ison its way here. It is led by a man in asaffron robe.''How did he get out?'The messenger took a step back.'Who, sir?''The man in the robe.''Get out from where, sir?''Get out of this building?' theColonel screamed.The messenger ran out of the office.There was going to be trouble now,the Colonel knew. He had sensed that assoon as Borg had come into his office.He was now leading a demonstration toRosevale. But how had he managed toget out of his cell and return to Lenasia?The Colonel was afraid to think. EasternSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 37

people were capable of performingstrange magic and perhaps they hadtaught Borg. Some of their holy men(he had heard or read somewhere) couldperform supernatural feats such as beingburied alive and resurrected after severaldays. There were others who instead ofgoing to a mountain called it to come tothem. Perhaps they had taught Borg tobecome invisible and he had walked outof his cell. And what would he tell theBrigadier if he discovered the man hadescaped? He had already accusedRosevale of inefficiency and threatenedto close it.There was a loud noise outside, thevoices of hundreds of demonstrators.The Colonel rushed to the window.Terrified by what he saw, he drew thecurtains, closed his office door,switched on the lights and sat down inhis chair and awaited the worst.The demonstrators massed outsideRosevale, holding aloft placards andbanners calling for the release of YogiSatyananda. Ranjit was their leader. Hewas dressed in a saffron robe and carrieda staff. Maya, in a white cotton sari,stood beside him, beaming confidentlyat press photographers.One of the pressmen came up toRanjit and asked what the demonstratorsintended doing to get Yogi Satyanandareleased.'We have come in peace to take himback with us.'' And if your request is not granted?''We intend staying here until he is released.'There was a knock on the Colonel'sdoor and an officer came in.'Sir, there is a man who wants tospeak to you. He says he comes inpeace.''Let him come in.'Ranjit entered the room and satdown on a chair.The Colonel looked at him in as pleasanta way as possible. He was not goingto get himself into trouble over anotherman in a robe.'May I ask what is your mission?' theColonel asked respectfully.'I have come for the release of YogiSatyananda.''Release? He became invisible andwalked out of this building.''Invisible? Walked out? We yogis arenot magicians.''Yes.''You must be mistaken, sir. He is stillinside.''Did he get back? Impossible!''You can easily find out if he is insideor not.'The Colonel picked up the telephoneand spoke to an officer.'Is Borg in his room? . . . Good, so hegot back again . . . Release him immediatelyand bring him to my office.'Suddenly screams began reverberatingthrough the corridors of the building.'What's that?' Ranjit asked, standingup. 'Someone is hurt.''Relax,' the Colonel said. 'My menare just trying to get the truth.''Truth? What do you mean?''You know, about underground activitiesand so on. We in Security haveto see to the safety of the state.'The screams subsided.'That is a child's voice,' Ranjit said,looking very disturbed.'That's nothing. If Security worriedabout age you and I would not be sittinghere.' The Colonel smiled and foldedhis arms. 'Let's talk about importantmatters. Borg will soon be here and thewhole affair is going to have a happyend. You know the state protects all religionsand you are free to pursue youractivities as long as you don't interferewith those of others. I have a very highrespect for you Indians. You are highlycivilized. I believe you wore clothing inthe old days when people in Europewalked about naked.''Wearing clothing hasn't very muchto do with civilization.''But it does distinguish the savagefrom the civilized man.''I think there are many more savagesin clothing now than there were savageswithout clothing.'The Colonel chuckled, took his penin his hand and said, 'Give me theirnames and I will fix them.'An officer came into the room.'Sir, Borg refuses to leave his cell.''Refuses? What! He doesn't want tobe free.''No, sir. He says that he will shortlybe going into a state of transcendentalmeditation and must not be disturbed.He says that the cell is the ideal placefor that purpose. In the meantime, hefurther says, all those people who areengaged in activities that are not religiousshould vacate this building immediately.He says that the true inheritors ofthe Holy Shepherd Convent are theyogis.''Is the man mad?' the Colonelscreamed, standing up.'No, sir,' Ranjit said firmly. 'Do notat any time call a yogi mad. You are ineffect saying I am mad too.''Please then,' the Colonel said, loweringhis voice and sitting down, 'tell mewhy is he making this absurd demand?''Absurd? What could be morereasonable? In fact none of us will leavethis place if Borg's request is not met.Please give me the keys of this place.''How can Security vacate this place?It is a government building.''Speak to your seniors.'The Colonel picked up the telephoneand got through to Brigadier Becket. Heinformed him of his predicament andthe demand.'Lock them all up!' the Brigadiershouted.'And what if they all later refuse toleave?'The Brigadier laughed derisively. 'So,Colonel van Dijk, you have placed yourselfin the position of a prisoner? Thegovernment spends millions on prisonsannually — in fact we have more prisonsin this country in relation to populationthan any other country in theworld — and now we are unable to usethem.''Sir,' Colonel van Dijk addressed hissuperior, 'there are thousands of demonstratorsoutside Rosevale. Newspaperreporters are having a field day. Ifnothing is done an incident may takeplace that will make us the laughingstock of the world. The whole East mayturn against us and there is no tellingwhat might happen then. Please help.''You know what you may be responsiblefor? An international scandal, notto speak of your own doom,' the Brigadierreplied.'Sir, if nothing is done, you as mysenior will also be implicated.''Implicated? What! Did I order youto arrest Borg?''Sir, please get me out of this situation.If the government falls we are alldoomed.''Colonel van Dijk,' Brigadier Becketsaid solemnly, 'what a lot of troubleyou are giving me. I will have to speakto the Honourable Minister who willhave to get in touch with the PrimeMinister and his Cabinet, for only theycan take the decision to vacate Rosevaleand save you from doom.'The Colonel thanked the Brigadierprofusely and put the telephone downwith a sigh of relief. He turned to Ranjit.'Can you please tell your followers tobe patient. Consultation is now in progressat the highest level in governmentcircles regarding the request made byBorg and supported by you.'Ranjit rose from his chair, shookhands with the Colonel and left theoffice.The Colonel went towards the windowand parted the curtains. Thedemonstrators were swarming all overthe place. Here and there men in robeswere addressing groups. The Colonelclosed the curtains and began pacing hisoffice. The telephone rang and hepounced upon it.'Yes, any news Brigadier Becket?''The Minister was furious at yourhandling of the matter and ordered yourContinued on page 4538 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

Mhalamliala1981By Mothobi MutloatsePPPuf-ffff . . . mbvwvw . . . puuuuuuuduuuuuuuuuuu . .hooh . . . huu . . . wehee . . . weeh . . . hoh . . . huu. Would itever end? Seemed so near and yet so distant. Actually whatwas that sound: was it a horn? Was it Mhalamhala? It wassuch a full-throated sound, such a gusty and appealing sound,so painful, so mournful and so inspiring that it could onlyhave been engineered by the gods, with its eerie thousandfoldecho. Oh, would it ever cease tearing lungs and ears apart;would the blower never stop blowing those sounds ofagitation to the slave masses, rousing them from blissfulslumber in the serfdom of sunny skies, braaivleis, rugby'n . . .But their slavebacks had not totally snapped, so whydidn't they respond to the sound of Mhalamhala, why? Howcome the city slaves had isolated themselves from theircountry cousins in their struggle for survival and liberation:why had they, as the original natives of this country, turnedtheir backs on their own people and cultures by preferringwestern materialism and individualism labelled every-manfor-himself?But why, rootless black slave, why your aimlesswandering and aloofness? Was the sound of Mhalamhala lessattractive than that of Mozart? Was your culture merely likethe curios at the Carlton Centre, existing only for the hedonisticwestern traveller on safari in our holy domain?Initially, it seemed the slavemasses had to resign themselvesto the fact that they were heavily unarmed againsttheir sophisticated, cunning and rough-riding opponentsfrom the wild west — for some slaves had opted for the easyway out, electing to buy freedom and paying with their soulsto get pretonpendenmania at the citieexpense of the legless,landless but law-abiding masses. The baasboy slaves preferredto achieve liberation riding in Mercedes Benzes instead of . . .Their souls were batteryflat, beyond use any more.Death to the Boy Slave Leaders! Down With TyrantAsses! To Hell With The Bastard Leaders! were some of thedowntrodden people's hysterical chants. They knew theyw'ere powerless, but realised not that they were powerful intheir powerlessness at the same time, because their potentialpower yet had to be utilised. In their silent way the peoplebegan pondering how they could unchain themselves,mentally first, then physically.Black national states — black national shit, exclaimed avillage teacher during a matric history lesson, in which thewesterner's ideology was euphemised as education. One dayhe would have to come to terms with the paradox of teachingpupils what he himself found disgustingly abhorrent andintellectually repulsive, the Village Teacher reflected. Hecould no longer live with The Lie; sleep with it and be paidby The Lie. And worse, ram it down the throats of innocentyoung people of Afrika so that they received the distinctionof a certificate and the coveted tag of: isifundiswa. That wasthe ultimate objective: to boast to the less fortunate and earna higher position as a server to other people, forever and evera-hell!Would it ever end?Was it that hopeless . . . ? It was two years after the bundufarce had taken place when the rumblings began to be felt byboth the masses and their offspring: it was an electric feelingof physical struggle, not mere idealistic sloganising andtamati-box rhetorics abused to hell-and-gone by theoreticians— endlessly intellectualising about struggle, to possibly coverup their fear of Tshona! For that meant soiling their shirtsleevesand high-heeled shoes. Nevertheless the spirit of mhalamhala,the ancestor's wailing and hailing, had strongly em*bedded itself in the young bones of the young people of theland of the black man. Unarmed as heavily as they were, theChildren Rose As One Body against Goliath armed withmechanical hippos and blood-thirsty bullets, some of whichwere trademarked Made In Belgium.Would the cries of the dying Children never stop?How could ancestral spirits be so cruel as to render theyoung as sacrificial lambs in the liberation struggle? Couldn'tadults have been used to liberate the masses? But the masseswere THE CHILDREN THEMSELVES!And soon the sound of mhalamhala was being experiencedin nearly every nook in the slavecommunity, with pupils revoltingagainst their teachers in the classrooms, and in theirhomes to the amazement of their petrified parents, for thewesterner had indoctrinated the slavebabas seemingly beyondrepair, that the west and the rest were the standards ofcivilised societies, therefore they as elder 'pupils' had tomimic the westerner to be greater. Enough was enough, saidthe ancestors through the clenched powerfists of theChildren.Now the gods had finally decreed . . . there was no turningback.One specific blue Monday, on the lawn of a park situatedon the northern side of the Johannesburg traffic department'slegalised hijacking yard, in the 5 o'clock hours of themorning, three slavehoboes, two men and a mother, weredrying themselves around a paper-fire after they had beensoaked to their black and beautiful skins the whole night bya sudden angry downpour. Perhaps the Gods were cleansingthem for a mission ahead of them. They were thoroughlylashed and thrashed and washed — gratis — by the rain. Itcould have been a comical scene were it not that this was adaily experience of the hoboes every summer. They had totake a bath, twice or thrice daily — much against their will,for the rains also invited flu and other annoying ailments fornomadics like them who had no shelter, except the open skySTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981 39

and/or concrete lawn. In the land of their birth.The woman looked outrageous: her rags were raggier thanbefore, and when she tried to squeeze her rag dress dry shecaused it to cling to her like glue, and it tore into shredswhen she attempted apartheid — separating clothing fromskin. In the end, she found herself wearing only her muchpatchednavy blue bloomers, provoking uncontrollablelaughter from the men sharing a zoll.This infuriated the somewhat emaciated little woman toshriek at them: 'Stop it now, or I'll moer all of you again.'Fatso retorted: 'We've been telling you to stop frustratingyour ezzies with the white man's tablecloths. Be like us andaerate your body the natural way, regularly, by not wearingunderwear.'This was provocative stuff, and like any woman scorned,she let go of the boiling water from the red-hot stove: 'Yah,you! What a shame, sis! You're a useless lot: the bloody twoof you can't even naai me properly without my guidance. Ag,shut up, ma'an, or else you don't get any blue waters today.'She had them really under her skin. And they knew it,they were trapped. Caught with their pants down.Suddenly, before she could resume her biting sermonfrom the hip, 4-by-5 found herself knocked to the ground bya manslave who appeared to be running as if the devil himselfwas on his heels. Naked fright was conspicuously sculpturedin his face. He was a man on the run — from the dombookpolice.Pandemonium: with the Runner trying frantically to hideamong the hoboes, and with the hoboes simultaneously battlingto cover up their female companion in disarray. Therunner's dompas sprint had come to an abrupt end, and heknew what would follow next. Like lightning, a heavier manslavedescended on the group, and baton-charged the Runnerin rugby-style, knocking the unsuspecting hoboes off theirfeet. With vengeance clearly mirrored in his face, the heavyhand of the law began crushing the head of the Runner, whowas elusive, and kept ducking, bobbing and weaving like aseasoned boxer. But that didn't help, for the slavelawmanused his booted feet to cover the Runner's cries of pain.Then he jumped on his man, boots, fist and baton, an actionwhich propelled the hoboes into reaction.'Leave him alone, son of a dog. Let him go!' they shoutedat the policeman.'The law doesn't say you must act like a god and do asyou like. Stop punishing him, he's a fellow black! 4-by-5screamed at the lawless lawman. It appeared that he wasdeaf, and perhaps dumb. He kept on kicking and punchingthe defenceless dombook victim. This is going too far, Thohowhispered to himself, and, without warning, assailed thelawman from behind. However, one punch sent Thohosprawling on the ground. Lo and behold, Thoho shed blood— and not meths — from the bruise he sustained on the lowerlip. And the taste of his own blood enraged him. 'You fuckenbastard, you'll know your mother, today,' he yelled whilecharging. But a booted kick in the groin got Thoho screamingin pain: 'Ijoo! Ijoo! He's gonna die now!'Seeing their comrade in hoboism being 'plastered', boiledthe blood of both Fatso and 4-by-5: through some unexplainedsimultaneous instinct, they too charged at the lawlessnessin plainclothes, to the res'cue of Thoho. But theywere similarly sent packing, and, like Thoho, were unyieldingand continued to come back either for a boot or a batonpunchor at times, both kick and punch, until all three werebleeding profusely from their mouths. They were unarmedwhereas he was — well-armed: but then they were armedwith one of the most persistent weapons: guts. They kept oncharging, singly as well as collectively; and were thrashedrespectively. It seemed the mini massacre would never end.They were surely made of sterner stuff — perhaps rubber,for they kept on bouncing back onto their feet each timethey were grounded. Then it struck 4-by-5's mind that therewas one particular spot in which man was both the strongestas well as weakest.'Grab his balls, Thoho. Grab them!' she shouted.She couldn't have spoken sooner for Thoho, always goodon the ear, dived head straight towards the law's balls, gothold of them, and amid piercing screams of anguish begansqueezing them as if they were mere oranges. Just then theother two threw themselves onto the slavecop and startedscratching, biting, kicking and squeezing him unmercifully.The Runner, who by now was about to lose consciousness,got up groggily. Fatso coaxed him to give the torturer agoodbye kick and a punch too before he scuttled out ofsight. The Runner obliged, and a kick from him sent thelawman into sleep. Thoho would still not release his groingrip.'Come on, gents, leave the dog alone now. We've moeredhim enough,' 4-by-5 argued.'No!' protested Thoho. 'We've only just begun — 'The Runner landed another kick in the face . . .'Hey, we're not sadists, let go of him now. And what'smore, other women still need his services,' 4-by-5 retorted.Yet Thoho was unrepentant. 'I must have him taste hisown beetroot too,' he said, punching the man with his unoccupiedleft hand.'Well, if this bugger gets up he's going to moer us again; orhis chommies will get here and bliksem us to pieces. And youThoho, stop playing Jack Palance, Me-Myself-and-All-The-Barbarians-Under-My-Command. This is not the bioscope,jong. It's real. Let's go. And this is for the last time!'The threatening tone in her voice was enough of a command,and off they ran, in a comical manner, through thequiet streets and unpeopled alleys.Unbeknown to them, earlier on, a passing tourist with acamera, equipped with an alert eye for photographic material,captured the assault on Thoho through a telephotolens. Ready-made front page material for a morning newspaper.LAWMAN ON THE ATTACK screamed the headline tothe brutally chilling photograph of the hoboes being pulverisedby the law. It appears that the passing amateurphotographer was so disgusted by what he had filmed that hefelt he could not let this apparent abuse of power go pastunrecorded and unexposed.However the whole front page seemed ridiculous —probably the work of a crank. Next to this blood-curdlingphotographic masterpiece was the first-class journalisticmanure of an upper-class 'madam' boasting about how sheloved sleeping with her sweet bitch; and how she loved sendingit weekly for shampooing and the like, to a private exclusivevet. Below that story ran another equally stinking cowdungstory in which a certain slave master croaked abouthow great the master race was, and how slaves were kept inbondage until Kingdom Come, oblivious of the fact that asfar as the slaves were concerned, Kingdom Come had come —and landed heavily and unmercifully on their heads. Theywere now awaiting the Utopian hell, because at least it wasunknown, exciting, and thirdly, uncontrolled by the puremaster race.And to crown it all, there was another brag by the Presidentof State and Other Affairs (not in the political dictionary)— so paranoiac that he even suspected his house serf ofbeing the secret agent of an unknown underground movement,not yet detected by the see-all-hear-all-but-catchnobodyintelligence section — that the future of the southerntip of Africa South would not be settled around a conferencetable, but rather, in a public convenience. Or, to use thepeople's lingo, in a loo for all races and sexes.However, at the other side of the town, in the village of asupposedly black national reserve bantu-pendence, a 'state40 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

the man in question was really his lost father, because thewhole village had also been awaiting his role in chieftaincy —ever since he had lost his mind after going to Johannesburgto visit relations there.The newspaper photograph had set a son afire. He wasablaze with hope, and his face beamed like Mr Sunbeam's,perhaps rather more with feeling. It was almost sensual. Ooh,it was like being born again. Not in a biblical sense. Biologically?Maybe . . .And in his haste, the Son collected several speeding finestotalling R150, but that still didn't deter him nor dampen hisspirits. He was on his way to find his father, and no man ordog was going to come between Father and Son. 'He wasalive! I knew it; I always believed it!' the Son kept onmuttering to himself even though the traffic officer on themain national road leading into Johannesburg a few minutesdrive away, was slowly scrawling out yet another traffic fine.On reaching Johannesburg, he drove straight to the trafficdepartment's scrapyard, making quick inquiries about thehoboes who frequented the northern wing, but without anysuccess. In fact most of his questions either drew a blank orhopeless answers, mainly because he was too excited andpanting too heavily to be coherent in his speech. He wasbabbling rather than speaking. They are all a bunch ofbastards — all damn stupid asses, he said to himself afterhaving run out of both ideas and stamina. He had had it. Hethen drove slowly and dejectedly without any specificdirection, and inevitably found himself in Hillbrow, almostknocking down a jaywalking hobo. That shook him upimmediately. 'Excuse me, can you please help me — ''Fuck off — help yourself in your car. Leave me alone.'And the chap was gone before the Son could even explain hisimportant mission to him.Without thinking, he drove down what he thought was anarrow street, actually an alley, and came face to face with asinging group of 'cats'. They were boozing, and jiving. It wasa bizarre scene —both visually and aurally. The group wassinging a topical ghetto historical piece, even providing theirown percussion on dustbin lids coupled with empty beercans. And rhythm flowed so naturally; they had the beatamid the heat. They chanted drunkenly, rhythmically:president' sent out his henchmen to demand R5 from eachand every household as a donation towards the marriage ofhis daughter to the son of another puppet of a bundu regime,labelling the occasion as a political breakthrough betweentwo African states. And the local bush university, operatedby remote control from Pretoria, hundreds of kilometresaway, honoured him with an honorary doctorate in law, forthe honourable leader's humanitarian services to all mankind,in particular the small nation of 500 000 in this region. Thisis what our forefathers themselves wanted and fought for. Apiece of ground. Thus read the citation decorated withspelling and grammatical errors.'It can't be! Father! My long-lost Baba!' a man exclaimedin the simple hut of the village headman and only teacher inthe area. He could not believe his eyes when he saw thephotograph in the morning newspaper. He didn't waste amoment — he jumped into his coughing family car, after havinginformed his three mothers that he was driving as fast ashe could to Johannesburg, to search for his father. For oneof the hoboes bore an uncanny resemblance to the man hisblood Mother always told him of — especially the scar on theman's forehead inflicted during a clash with police over thedombook in the Dinokana area, many, many years ago. Theonly tying up left for him to do now was to verify whetherA huna vhudzuloa huna vhulalori do it a handi?Kha ri Iwe!A huna mishumoa huna mulalori do it a hani?Kha ri IweThe song was too familiar to the Son. This was yet anothercommentary on the slave-situation by the people'sscribe, Maano, and the Son rammed on the breaks, jumpedout, and dashed straight at the bewildered group. By someunexplained stroke of nature, Father and Son recognisedeach other like thirsty young lovers who had been told theyhad a few minutes to live . . .'But, Son, I can't leave my comrades behind. We live andeat and sleep together,' the Father began arguing.'That's no problem, then. Then that's fixed. We'll allreturn home.''What did you say?' 4-by-5 wanted to know.'My Son here — my own flesh and blood — has come tofetch us — all three of us — and take us home. What do yousay to that?''Come on, let's go then!' was the unanimous reply. Whiledriving back, the Comrades Trio resumed their song about:no place to stay; no place to sleep; what are we to do? Let'sfight; no jobs; no peace; what are we to do? Let's fight.Surely, ancestral spirits were on the move behind thescenes, motivating, rearranging the course of events, redirectingthe destiny of not only Father and Son, but also ofa beleagured people. The gutsy sounds of mhalamhala wereSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

unning through the blood vessels of the comrades; throughthe restless blood circulation of the Son. It was just no coincidence:it had been planned, long planned by the badzimo.There was much work to be done, and it was such importantwork it could be done only with dedication, by an unselfishgroup of people without any hangups whatsoever, andaccording to the amadlozi, the Comrades Trio and Son fittedthe requirement like a glove.The first obstacle was to deal with — perhaps topple — thetyrannical puppet, after which the people would decide whatto do next. That was the Son's suggestion, accepted withoutany deliberation: that tyranny was the order of the day forthe masses was not the real issue, only how to deal with it.Fatso pondered: 'Unzima lomthwalo, comrades, butnevertheless it is not insurmountable.''We've only got to be united, then we'll be a formidableforce against the evil forces,' 4-by-5 philosophised.'However,' reacted the Father, 'we should be carefulabout being over-hasty.''You're wrong, Father,' said the Son politely. 'Freedomdoes not wait for anybody.''You gotta grab it with both hands before it slips out ofyour grasp forever,' Fatso retorted.'Yes, because . . . ', then she started singing in a surprisinglysweet and inspired voice:'Hayi umkhulu lomsebenziumsebenzi wenkululekou-Mandela ufuna amajoniamajoni enkululekonaba oSamora bafuna amajonihayi amajoni obu bhanxa.''Hey, 4-by-5,' an animated Father shouted, 'where the helldid you get that song. I think I like it — it's many years sinceI heard it.'•It was a bizarre scene.The group was singing a topicalghetto historical piece, providingtheir own percussion on dustbinlids and empty beer cans ...J'Oh, that's nothing . . . this car trip reminds me of ourdrive to Pretoria, 20 000 of us women, with MaNgoyi leadingus in the '50s.'Meanwhile ... As the evening approached back at theSon's village, the Village Sage, old and frail, had got up tothe amazement of everybody, and performed what was tohim a holy ritual he last performed many, many decades ago:blowing his mhalamhala. Within minutes, people from allover the village began trudging to the Main House, with litnatural torches in their hands; men, women and children.They came, one and all — as one. The Village Sage's horncarried some tidings they reckoned, for the Old Man hadbeen the natural advisor to the Son during his Father's absencefrom his traditional inheritence of being the villagechief.On the other hand ... as the Comrades Trio and Sonapproached the village, the Son firmly placed his palm on themechanical horn, and when he removed his palm to avoidbeing a nuisance, he found that the hooter would not stoptooting: it was now on automatic! Try as he might the hornwould not refrain from blowing, as if responding to the OldMan's horn, because he had not stopped blowing either.Indeed the Old Man's horn stopped only when the car hadcome to a standstill in front of him, amid the ululations fromthe maidens and mothers alike. And with a frenzied ibongireciting the Father's and clan's history at record speed.'He's backckckckckckckckckckckckckckckck!!!' was allthat the Old Man said, in a soft voice after he had motionedwith his right hand for silence. Then he stepped forward,scooped a piece of umhlaba with his right hand, while holdingonto his horn dearly, and when the Father climbed out ofthe car, said: 'This is yours, my son. Retrieve it.'And he did.'I've been waiting; we've been waiting all these years foryou. We've been ready to go into battle for our rights, but wedared not do so without you, our traditional Head, becausewe would have invoked the wrath of the gods. But now thatyou are back with us once more, we can face up to thechallenges before us, especially the arrogant onethat each and every family household must popout R5 in two days' time, to that despicable""snake that is giving us hell. Now that you're back, there's nomore time to waste; we'll attack tonight.''But, Wise Father, don't you think that is too risky?''No, Father: we've had enough. We can only take thismuch — 'Still the Father was not absolutely convinced.'There are mostly women here and . . . 'Retorted 4-by-5 in her old defiant tone, which she quicklywatered down on observing the expressions of disapprovalfrom some of the mothers next to the Village Sage: 'Chief,we all know that a battle can't be delayed indefinitely becauseof lack of adequate equipment: we ourselves — all of ushere — are sufficient weapons to do anything we aim toaccomplish. And another thing — liberation does not onlywear trousers, it also happens to wear a dress.'And for that, 4-by-5 received a thunderous applause.'We'll liberate ourselves,' said the Old Man'excitedly, 'andthen we'll march further and liberate our brothers and sistersin the cities too.'But before that, the Father had to be reunited with hisfamily first while he awaited the sounding of mhalamhala,the horn of Afrika, and . . . ppfff . ., .puudududuuu . . . •42 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

Staff rider WorkshopPOLITICS AND LITERATURE IN AFRICA: A REVIEWAfrican writing has become synonymous with politics inthe minds of many. There's nothing wrong with that. Africa'smost pressing problems are political and any writing thatprofesses to come to grips with Africa today cannot be otherthan political. We can look at such writing from two angles:First, the literature of the countries under white domination;secondly, the literature of independent Africa.POLITICS OF RESISTANCE:This kind of literature thrives in plural societies whereAfricans live or have lived under a white-settler minorityregime. It was common in East Africa; it persists in SouthernAfrica.Ngugi wa Thiong'o is probably the leading exponent ofsuch writing in East Africa. His first published novel, WeepNot Child, is based on the Mau Mau emergency. Since he'slooking back after independence he's able to go beyondcataloguing mere grievances and events, and concentrates oncharacter and relationships. He re-enacts the tension of thewhole war situation within a single family and shows howevents from without contribute towards creating strainedrelations. A Grain of Wheat, considered by many to beNgugi's best novel, is set in the early days of Kenya's independencebut actually takes us back to the era of the MauMau. It is structurally more complex and linguistically moresophisticated than any of Ngugi's other novels. The novelgradually unfolds towards an understanding of Ngotho'smysterious character and an exposure of Waiyaki's betrayer,one of the leaders of the Mau Mau. Ngugi manages to showthe effects the long years of struggle have produced oncontemporary Kenyans: shame, guilt, fear, suspicion and soon.Godwin Wachira's Ordeal in the Forest is also based onthe Mau Mau revolution. Wachira depicts the ordeal of fiveboys, who are hounded out of their homes and forced to fleeschool in order to join the freedom fighters in the forest.This kind of writing is now of historical interest to EastAfricans and it is highly probable that less and less will beheard about the Mau Mau era. But the issue of white dominationis still a burning one in southern Africa, hence most ofthe literature in this region focuses on the problem.The opening of Alex La Guma's In the Fog of a Season'sEnd shows the polarization of political attitudes betweenblack and white in South Africa. The black and white viewsappear irreconcilable. The white Major of the Special Branchaddresses his prisoner in the following paternalistic terms:/ do not understand the ingratitude of your people . . .Look at what we, our Government, have done for yourpeople. We have given you nice jobs, houses, education. Education,ja. Take education for instance. We have allowed youpeople to get education, your own special schools, but youare not satisfied. No, you want more than what you get. Ihave heard that some of your young people even want tolearn mathematics.The prisoner replies in the following uncompromisingterms:You want me to co-operate. You have shot my peoplewhen they have protested against unjust treatment; you havetorn people from their homes, imprisoned them, not forstealing or murder, but for not having your permission tolive. Our children live in rags and die of hunger. And youwant me to co-operate with'you? It is not possible.Predictably, the black man in the novel is imprisoned andlocked up and that marks the end to the dialogue. La Gumagives this instance as the background to black guerilla resistancein South Africa, which is the subject of his novel. HisSTAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY lV»iThis article by the authorof Mzala (Staffrider SeriesNo 5) is part of a longerpaper in which he alsodiscusses the question ofliterature and culture.Mbulelo Mzamane iscurrently preparing athesis on South Africanwriting at SheffieldUniversity in England.He is also writinghis first novel.Mbulelo Mzamanemmother works And A Threefold Cord, A Walk in the Night andThe Stone Country are also concerned with the conditionsunder which the blacks of South Africa live.In A Night of their Own Peter Abrahams, though withconsiderably less skill than La Guma, also deals with politicalresistance to white oppression. He's as much concerned withthe fate of blacks as with that of whites. His novel, however,suffers as creative writing because of his over-reliance uponreal events. The South African situation has provided himwith ready-made plots like the so-called Durban riots, theSharpeville massacre, the Rivonia trial and so on. The novelturns documentary. His characterization here, as in his othernovels, suffers because he compels his characters to stand forhis ideas. His technique as a novelist in general is deficient,but his value as a pioneer and an inspiration in the field ofAfrican literature has been acknowledged by such prominentwriters as Ngugi and Mphahlele.Dennis Brutus, one of the most prolific poets SouthAfrica has produced, evokes the hardships under which theblacks in South Africa live. The predominant image in hispoetry is that of the forces of oppression; police batons,sirens, prisons and so forth. Though Brutus can be verydepressing he never completely despairs. In a poem like'Somehow We Survive' the sense of life amidst oppressionand the will to live are very strong. Letters to Martha arepoems which primarily deal with his experiences as a politicalprisoner on Robben Island. They're characterized, in DanielAbasiekon's words, by 'vigour, integrity and defiant hopefulness.'His other poetry publications are Sirens, Knuckles,Boots, A Simple Lust and Poems from Algiers.Keorapetse Kgositsile says he hopes by his revolutionarypoetry to bring together blacks everywhere. His poetry, as inMy Name is Afrika, shows signs of Afro-American influences.His other poetry publications include Spirits Unchanged andFor Melba: Poems.Richard Rive is known more for his novel, Emergency(about the political upheavals of the sixties) and as a shortstory writer than as a poet. 'Where the Rainbow Ends' is anexpression of his firm commitment to non-racialism. Hedemands an equal place under the non-racial sun:Where the rainbow endsThere s going to be a place, brother,Where the world can sing all sorts of songs,and we 're going to sing together, brother,You and I, though you 're white and I'm notIt's going to be a sad song, brother,Because we don't know the tuneAnd it's a difficult tune to learn,But we can learn brother, you and I,There's no such tune as a black tune.There's no such tune as a white tune.

There's only music, brother,And it's music we're going to singWhere the rainbow ends.Stephen Smith's poetry (and the rest of the poems inBlack Voices Shout) is meant to arouse his fellow blacks tomore positive action, not necessarily to a violent uprising ashis detractors are inclined to think. He is, like most of theemerging black poets, an inward-looking poet who addresseshimself primarily to his fellow blacks:You buyStupidBlack Power StickersWhich you thinkwill bring aboutA changeA change of whatI don't knowYou greet each otherScreaming 'Power'which you labelThe Black TraditionBut you sit on your arsesAccepting the whiteSlave-trader actI tell you brotherYou 're a fool.POLITICS OF RECONSTRUCTIONThis is the kind of literature that's commonest in independentAfrica; it is an area in which the West Africans excel.The purpose of the literature in this category is reconstruction.The writers who undertake such a task mean to serveas the consciences of their respective peoples. They're usuallyunsparing in their criticism of their own political institutions.Such are the writings of Armah, Achebe, Aluko and Okara inWest Africa; Rubadiri and Serumaga in East Africa.Ayi Kwei Armah's The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Bornis a scathing attack on the black political opportunists who,while they live in very great comfort, make everybody else'slife miserable. The novel explains the disillusionment amongGhanaians which led to Nkrumah's coup. One need onlycomment on what is perhaps the novel's most misunderstoodfeature, to bring out Armah's technique as well as hisstrength. The novel abounds with images of putrefaction,excreta and vomit as well as with the expletives of the type —'Your mother's rotten cunt.' The technique brings out in nouncertain terms Armah's disgust with the System. Thecorruption, the living conditions and the general decadenceall around him are abominable. The language is fittinglyshocking, suitable, that is, to the subject.His other novels, Fragments (also an attack on corruptpoliticians) and Why are we so Blest? (about a young Africanintellectual's problems) are written in an equally erudite stylewhich reminds one very much of Soyinka.Though Achebe's technique differs from Armah's, hisnovel, A Man of the People, has the same theme as TheBeautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born. The unprincipled, opportunisticpolitician, Komsoon, in Armah's novel is ChiefNanga's counterpart in A Man of the People; the protagonistsof both novels are alike in their opposition to corruption andin their impotent rage. Both novels culminate in the overthrowof the detestable regimes.David Rubadiri's novel, No Bride Price, like Achebe's AMan of the People, also predicts the era of coups and militarytake-overs in East Africa. It is about Lombe's disillusioningexperiences as a civil servant under a corrupt governmentuntil a coup finally topples the government. Rubadiri is alsoa poet whose poetry is concerned with the problem of•All these writers are viewing, asthough through a lens, Africa'smost pressing problems, ^magnifying them for all to see.^adjustment in a continent recently freed from white domination.Another novel which is concerned with the problem ofgovernment in Africa is Timothy Aluko's Chief, the HonourableMinister. Aluko has largely modelled himself afterAchebe, as have most West African novelists. His Kinsmanand Foreman is about corruption and nepotism, likeAchebe's No Longer at Ease. His hero, like Achebe's, mustwithstand the claims of relatives and clansmen for favours.Another novel, One Man One Matchet, deals with the problemof resistance to change among traditionalists.A slightly different novel is Gabriel Okara's The Voice. Inthe novel Okolo seeks to vindicate his integrity — this is themeaning of his search for 'it' — in a world marked bywickedness and corruption. He sees his society's disintegrationas a product of moral degeneracy and materialism. Amost interesting aspect of the book is its language. Okaraattempts to reproduce Ijaw speech inflexions in his English,as when he writes:/ am — I mean — we are soft-hearted people, soft likewater. . . Our insides are soft like water even if you say ourinsides are filled with stone. Our eyes too are soft and theycannot fall on suffering. We have been turning it even in ourinsides since you threw your back at us and left. Our highestson, Abadi, has been telling me an English saying, which Iagree fits you, and that saying is that when I do not see you,you will not be in my inside.Inherent in Okara's writing, especially in his poetry, is alament for the loss of Africa's innocence, expressed in apoem like 'Once Upon A Time'. 'The Call of the River Nun'which won the Nigerian Festival of Arts Award in 1953, is asearch for roots and a glorification of the African past inNegritude fashion.Soyinka's The Interpreters is about a group of disillusionedyoung intellectuals trying to come to terms withan exceedingly exasperating world of corrupt politicians,gross inefficiency, religious charlatans and affected academics(who say 'meral' when they mean 'moral'). The book is oftenspoilt by Soyinka's delight in verbiage. His story may becomplex, his characters may be very sophisticated and profoundthinkers even, but the novel doesn't always benefitfrom the further obscurity imposed on it by the difficultlanguage. Sometimes one is left with the impression that theauthor is merely proving his mastery over English, for whichhe's been highly praised.Robert Serumaga's Return to the Shadows is based on the1966 Ugandan crisis which led to the military confrontationbetween the forces of the Kabaka and Obote's. Serumaga'smessage is that tension in East Africa could easily culminatein bloody rivalry which would mark a return to the 'shadows 1of the Mau Mau.All these are writers viewing, as through a lens, Africa'smost pressing political problems, magnifying them for all tosee. Their purpose, as has been said, is clinical so that byfocussing on these problems they hope that those in authoritywill heed their word and do something to remedy thesituation. Their writings often keep pace with politicalevents, so that a writer like Achebe has written about theearly days of independence, the period immediately leadingto the Nigerian coup and, more recently, in Girls at War, theBiafran war. This makes their work topical and relevant. •44 STAFFRIDER, DECEMBER 1980/JANUARY 1981

IN THE SUNContinued from page 34bus, taxi street, was deserted, except forlone lovers, hand in hand, walking tothe stadium.I saw the light gleaming through thecurtains. The sun had long set. Therewere many people now in the yard.They were still drinking and laughing. Ientered the yard, the light from mywindow, our window, told me that Lilyhad come back from work.'How was your day?' she asked, leaningagainst the table, looking me in theeye.'Okay/ I said, 'you?''Okay, I was tired though, when Icame.' She looked at me.'I waited for you to come, but aftersome time, I could not take being in thehouse.''Where did you go?''Spent some time with Mama, then Iwent to see John, and he and I went fora drive. When he went to Pretoria Icame home.''How's mama?''She's okay,' I said, 'I think the oldlady is a bit weary now.' Silence fell.EAST/WESTContinued from page 38instant dismissal. It took me a lot ofeffort to explain the situation and pleadon your behalf. He has now communicatedwith the Prime Minister who hassummoned a special meeting of theCabinet in Pretoria to discuss thematter. As soon as I receive further informationI shall contact you.'The Colonel thanked the Brigadier,but as soon as he put the telephonedown it rang again. It was a newspapereditor. In fact for the next hour thetelephone went on ringing. Newspapermenwanted answers to several questions.Was it true that Yogi Satyanandahad refused to leave Rosevale? Were theauthorities going to accede to hisdemand and that of his supporters? Whowas considering the matter? Whenwould a decision be taken?After answering the questions with asmuch equivocation as possible, theColonel went towards the window andparted the curtains. The demonstratorsseemed to have taken possession ofRosevale already: some were strollingalong the tarmac driveways, others overthe lawns, some had brought food andwere picnicking under the trees, childrenwere playing games. A group ofrobed men were sitting motionlessunder the giant oak tree, intoning thewords of a ritual hymn. The atmosphereLily was working her pots, dishes, cups,spoons and all that. I went to the recordplayer. 'Members don't get weary . . . 'Max Roach was saying.'Have they heard anything aboutFix?''Ja.' I thought of Mama. 'Ja, theyhave only heard that the security policewanted to know how many brothers Fixhad.'She looked at me. What could I say.'Members don't get weary . . . ' Roachkept saying. Otherwise, there was absolutesilence. A comfortable silence, for Iknew Lily and I, at that point, weretossed about, in search of what thatquestion from the security policemeant. 'Members don't get weary . . . 'the singer kept saying.In our silence Lily and I becamecloser. No, it was not silence at all. Itwas a knowing. Lily knew Fix throughme. I came to know Fix more, throughLily. He used to talk to me about her. Iknow he used to talk to her about me.We used to talk, all of us, laugh, fear,cry, love together.How many brothers or sisters did Fixhave? My mother had asked: 'What hasthat to do with you?' They had said,'We want to know and we have toseemed to be one of celebration.The Colonel continued pacing hisoffice. After the passage of two hoursthe Brigadier's telephone call camethrough: 'Order the evacuation ofSecurity headquarters immediately. TheHonourable Minister will soon be thereby helicopter to hand over the keys at aformal ceremony.'The Colonel immediately telephonedan officer to summon Ranjit. and informeveryone at Rosevale to start packingand to prepare to leave. As soon asRanjit and several other yogis /enteredthe office the Colonel informed them ofthe government's decision.'Thank you very much, sir,' Ranjitsaid. 'Perhaps the decision is the resultof Yogi Satyananda's communion withthe supreme Reality.''I don't understand your religion,'the Colonel said. 'I am a practical, godfearingChristian involved in day-to-daymatters, especially matters connectedwith the security of the state. I shall beglad if you will tell your followers ofthe government's decision and get themready to welcome the Honourable Ministerwho is on his way here by helicopter.''Please do not regard,' Ranjit said,'the giving over of the former GoodShepherd's Convent to the yogis as adefeat on your part and the government'spart, but as a victory of truthover the irrational. Incleed, let mecongratulate you personally on yourcontribution to that victory.'Ranjit and the other yogis shookknow.' And they wrote the numberdown. My mother had said to me, 'Whathave you all been doing?' She said it, orasked that question as if she had neverknown me, had never seen me before,would never ever guess what I could do.She had carried her arms folded on herbosom, looked at me, as if watching mecarefully, every step, so she could protecther life, protect herself from me.She did not want to hurt. She did notwant to be hurt by strangers, strangersdon't care. She asked me 'What haveyou all been doing?' That was a hardquestion. I tried to think what we hadbeen doing. What had I been doing, atleast. I did not know. She had stared atme, with her eyes and her face. In silence,she had stared at me. At last Isaid, 'Mama, truly I do not know what Ihave been doing.' We had tea. Did nottalk. I had to go, because the weight ofthe silence was too heavy for me. Shehad barely managed to say bye, when Ishut the door behind me.Lily gave me food. We ate in silence.The food was good. I did not know Iwas so hungry. After food, we had tea.We went to bed in silence. I rememberhow I clung to her. •hands with the Colonel and left theoffice. Soon afterwards they saw a helicopterhovering over Rosevale, thenslowly descend onto a stretch of lawn.Everyone crowded around the helicopterand the Honourable Minister emerged.In front of him he saw a bandof men in saffron robes. On his left hesaw several trucks laden with boxes,desks, cupboards, ready to leave. Thenhe saw Colonel van Dijk and a group ofofficials and officers appear from theentrance of Security headquarters andmarch towards him. The crowd madeway for them. The Colonel saluted andhanded the Honourable Minister abunch of keys. The Colonel then signalledto Ranjit to come and stand closeto him. The Honourable Minister beganhis speech:'Ladies and gentlemen, in pursuanceof my .government's policy of fosteringharmonious relations among the variousraces that make up the peoples of ourbeautiful country, I am proud to begiven the opportunity of handing overthe keys of the building in front of meto your most highly respected leader. Ithas always been my government's policyto grant every race complete religiousfreedom and in compliance with thatpolicy to offer every possible assistance,whether moral, material or technological.It should always be appreciated byall of us that since our country is part ofthe great Christian, democratic freeworld . . . 'Meanwhile, in his cell, Borg meditated.•

Music^eyyaefrom Africa tothe Caribbean -and bach againReggae bloodlines run from Africa to the Caribbeanand back again. Jamaica is free from the British andthe Spanish invaders but not free from oppression.The rich are still rich and the pressure is always up.The city is too full — it balances on a thin wire —the reggae rhythms step down the street, lethal,spiritual and prophetic.words by Chris Chapmanmusic by Madi PhalaSlave driver the tables are turningCatch a fire you gonna get burned nowEvery time I hear the crack of the whipMy blood runs cold . . .— Bob MarleyThe inhabitants of Jamaica aredescendants of African slaves. (Theindigenous Arawak Indians becameextinct soon after contact was madewith Europeans.) Their ancestors weretransported from the Gold and Ivorycoasts in slave-ships and put to work onthe sugar plantations, or sold to Americanbuyers. The spirit of resistance wasborn amongst the slaves but the numerousuprisings were put down with force.A small band of renegades made it intothe hills where they waged continualwar against the planters who dominatedthe arable lands and reaped the rewards,growing rich and getting plenty sugar tosweeten their tea. Just when thestruggle seemed lost, slavery wasabolished by an act of grace from theBritish crown.The gap between rich and poorworsened and the planters in their hilltophouses became fearful of the blackman with the bush-knife held casually inhis hands, courting the maid. So thecolony was more troubled than it wasworth and it was made independent in1962. The Jamaicans inherited a crazymixed-up land where poverty was areality for the dispossessed. There begana gradual movement out of the hills andinto town with its glittering chance ofgetting a Buick.Town means Kingston with itsshaded suburbs and spreading cardboardshanty towns. Life revolves around thestreet-corner or the local record shop,knife in pocket, rude boys rule. Politicalviolence abounds as governments riseand fall amid a weak economy and aturbulent society. Harsh laws make thepossession of firearms a mandatory lifesentence and outlaw the use of ganja(dagga), the spiritual herb of theRastafarians and source of money andguns for many others. Meanwhile thesound systems pump out reggae, thepulse beat of the people.Sound coming down the king's musiciron/ The rhythm just bubbling andbackfiring/ Raging and rising . . .— Linton Kwesi JohnsonThe rhythm came from Africa withthe slaves. Music is in the blood. Withthe influence of the radio, Americanrhythm & blues and sold, mobile disco'smushroomed. Music was the releasefrom the pressure on the street. Soundsystem deejays began to record localmusic called ska. Fast, hypnotic riffs, afusion of soul and African heart-beat,dance music to the core.But ska was too fast for the summerheat so it slowed down to rocksteadyuntil Toots Hibbert of Toots and theMaytals did a song called 'Do TheReggay' and the music of Jamaica becameknown as reggae.'Reggae means regular people whoare suffering. . . . Reggae means comingfrom the people, from* majority,'explained the legendary Toots.Social, political and spiritual conceptsentered the lyrics of reggae,mainly due to the influence of Rastafari.Reggae musicians became Jamaica'sprophets and high priests.Rastafarians are the main culturalforce in Jamaica today. The movementis the most recent expression of thehistory of suffering and resistance todomination of the black Jamaicans. It isa highly religious and revolutionarymovement that hinges on the belief thatredemption for the black man can onlycome through his return to Africa. Itembodies the Ethiopian ideology thatEthiopians and Egyptians are one andthe same race, both black, and creatorsof one of the world's greatest civilizations.Rastafarians worship HaileSelassie, the former emperor of Ethiopia,who they believe was the living godaccording to the prophesies of Marcus

• Bob Marley is theblack prince of reggae.He is a third worldspokesman expressingthe suffering and defianceof black people through theseductive rhythms of reggae. 'Garvey. According to Garvey, the whitepeople have their own white gods. 'Wenegroes believe in the God of Ethiopia.'Rastafarians are essentially peaceloving,they don't eat meat or drinkalcohol. They grow their hair intodreadlocks following the instructions ofthe Old Testament. Locksmen are thewarriors of Ethiopia. A central elementin their spiritual belief and ritual is theingestion of ganja. The most importantexponents of reggae music are Rastafarians.The ex-Prime Minister of Jamaica,Michael Manley, says of Rastafarians:*Look around you and see what colonialismhas done to a displaced people.Man has a deep need for a religiousconviction and Rasta resolves thecontradictions of a white man's God ina colonial society. They're a verybeautiful and remarkable people.'Bob Marley is the black prince ofBob Marley at Rufaro, Zimbabwe Independence Celebrations, photo, Paul Weinbergreggae. He is a Rastafarian, prophet of anation, and inspiration to musicians allover the world. Bob is a third worldspokesman expressing the suffering anddefiance of black people through theseductive rhythms of reggae. His songsare anthems of violence and love,repression and liberation.Emancipate yourselves from mentalslaverynone but ourselves can free our mindshave no fear for atomic energy'cause none of them can stop the timeHow long shall they kill our prophetsWhile we stand, aside and lookSome say it's just a part of itWe 've got to fulfill the bookWon't you help to singThese songs of freedom'cause all I ever heardRedemption songsRedemption songs . . .— Bob MarleyMarley grew up in a ghetto so heknows about poverty and the law of therazor. He was paid a total of £60 for hisfirst six singles. When British musicianEric Clapton recorded 'I Shot TheSherriff it became an international hitand Bob Marley became a householdword from New York to Salisbury. Bythis time though he was already a legendin Jamaica. ('I Shot The Sherriff wasoriginally entitled 'I Shot The Police'but was changed to keep Bob out oftrouble in Jamaica).In 1976 Manley's socialist governmentcalled a general election and Marleyagreed to appear at a mass rally insupport. But three days before the rallytwo limousines pulled in to a bandpractice session and sprayed the entireMarley clan with machine-gun fire. Bobwas hit in the arm and chest. A bulletglanced off his wife's head. Bob'smanager, Don Taylor, took five bulletsin the groin. Miraculously, no one waskilled. The band performed at the rallythree days later, some of them inbandages, and Manley was elected.In 1980, reggae returned to Africa47

4 ln 1980, Reggae f >returned to Africa,where its deepestroots lie.'where its deepest roots lie. Bob Marie)and the Wallers performed at theZimbabwe Independence Day celebrationsat Rufaro stadium before thousandsof jubilant Zimbabweans. Theprophecy was fulfilled, redemption atlast.Another reggae master, Jimmy Cliff,completed a controversial tour of SouthAfrica earlier this year. (Marley refusesto set foot in South Africa until discriminationis wiped out.) Cliff was instrumentalin breaking reggae music to theworld with his role as Ivan O. Martin inthe film 'The Harder They Come' whichdocuments Jamaican street life and thearchetypal struggle of the rude-boy toget his songs on the hit parade and thusclimb out of the ghetto. The film endswhen Ivan falls foul of the law, isbetrayed by his friends, tries to jump afreighter to Cuba, misses the boat anddies laughing at the wrong end of apolice gun. In real life Cliff left Jamaicato live in England and became a Muslim.Regarded as something of an outsider heis nevertheless a reggae musician of greatimportance.Burning Spear do not sing of love orsex. They are a political, Rasta propagandamachine. The name is taken fromthe Burning Spear of Kenya, JomoKenyatta. Spear are a vital part of thereggae landscape and Winston Rodney isarguably the definitive reggae singer.Cry blood cry AfricaNo more invasionNo more black blood na go run innariver JordanCry blood cry AfricaFree Africa cry blood . . .— Burning SpearDUB MUSICDUB is roots music, a kind of submarineform of reggae. It burned in themarket places, the streets, the bloosdances.Deejays with princely namesoperated their sound systems right intothe crowd — the latest soul disc fromAmerica or a local reggae band. To getthe edge over his competitors, or just towhip up some enthusiasm, the on-thespotjockey started jive-talking, shrieking,stirring up the atmosphere — pushinghis system's output to greaterheights.The art of deejaying extended intothe studio where the vocals on a recordwould be rubbed out and a 'jay' wouldpunctuate the pre-recorded rhythm withJ ^8Jimmy Cliff photo, Biddy Crewehis own vocal interpretation. Dub isdriven by a heavy bass sound so thepeople on the street could not miss thebeat. The best deejays are I and IRastafarians, preaching Jah love and J ahculture. U. Roy, Big Youth andDillinger are dub prophets.JAH RHYTHMS IN ENGLANDEngland is a bitch . . .— Linton Kwesi JohnsonJah rhythms reached England via theWest Indian immigrants. Reggae burnsin the tenement houses of Brixton asthe brethren search for work and meetthe British workless head-on. Racism isnot law but is often felt to exist. Englandis the heart of a giant rock-musicindustry and reggae music was verystrange at first. The influence of theblack men from the West Indies on theEnglish culture was strongest on themusic front.The first kids to pick up on the offbeatsof reggae were the skinheads, thebad boys who had a strong affinity withthe Jamaican rude-boy, the ethos ofwhich is an essential element in reggae.From there it took off and reggaecarved inroads into the rock corporatemachine and into the minds of adespairing nation.Off-beats ruled by the end of theseventies. Bob Marley was completing atriumphant tour of Europe and England,supported on all concerts by anEnglish pure reggae band, Steel Pulse.Peter Tosh was scorching at the Rainbowin London to a swaying crowd ofWest Indian and English fans, smokinggiant spliffs shoulder to shoulder. 'Nomatter where you come from as long asyou're a black man you're an African'sang Tosh with locks flying, shaking alarge finger at the spellbound multitude,stalking panther-like down the stagefront,dagger in his waistband and a pairof handcuffs hanging uselessly from onewrist.In Brixton, a poor area in SouthLondon, a Jamaican immigrant andRastafarian without locks, Linton KwesiJohnson, was chanting the ancient•rhythms of dub and getting heard.And when reggae fused with punkrock it turned into a form of ska revival— fast skanking off-beats, a mutationthat draws heavily on reggae roots,African roots. The saxophone licks belongin the jazz traditions of the townships— as the toasting belongs in aKingston sound-system. The raw guitarbelongs in the hands of the punk. Notonly is the music a mixture of styles butthe musicians are a mixture of races.Nothing new, but significant becausethe two-tone bands present a unifiedfront, soul front, at a time when theevils of racism are rampant close tohome.JAMAICAN CONSERVATIVESA landslide victory for the new conservativegovernment in Jamaica's recentelection could set back the Rastafaricultural movement on the island.The new Prime Minister, Mr EdwardSeage, is unlikely to look kindly uponthe anti-establishment anti-capitalistphilosophies of the brethren, and theirganja-smoking rituals will cause alarm.These policies are in contrast toformer Prime Minister Michael Manley'sinterest and support for the rastarnen.Manley's socialism and connectionwith Cuba have also been reversed bySeaga who is encouraging foreigninvestment and has already ended theCuban influence.But the conservatives will draw thefire of reggae musicians who havealready infiltrated the world with theirrhythms, and they won't like that.Shake dem locks and a weak heartdrop.STOP PRESSBOBMARLEYMAYHAVECANCER.At the time of going to press ithad been reported that BobMarley was critically ill, possiblywith cancer. His London concerthad been cancelled and hismillions of fans the world overwait for news of his condition.STAFFRIHFRnPfPMRPR 1 980/IANUARY 1 Oc1

BACKHOMEMIRIAM MAKEBAHUGH MASEKELAAlsofeaturingHarari • Spirits Rejoice and JoyKorimoraba and The MineralsMaseru Holiday Inn 25 December;Gaborone Capital Cinema 3 January;Maseru National Stadium 26 & 27 December; Swazi Spa 9 January;Gaborone National Stadium 1 & 2 January; Swazi National Stadium 10 & 11 January.Presented by Down South Promotions.AFRIKA is a news magazine forand about the people of SouthAfrica-YOU!Every second FridayAFRIKA is on sale at yourbus stop and railway station,at the shop near you or on yourstreet.AFRIKA writes about YOU:YOUR jobsYOUR trade unionsYOUR housingYOUR organisationsYOUR sportThe movies and plays YOU want to seeThe laws and rules that controleverytying you do every dayThe people and organisations who makethose lawsAFRIKA is on sale for 10c, the lowest priceof any paper in the country.South Africa' s latest paper!DON'T MISS IT!SUBSCRIPTIONSFor three copies of eachedition:South AfricaSix months R4,68One year R9,36Institutions (One yearonly) R16,56Overseas (One year only)Individuals R18 (Thisincludes airmail postage).Institutions R30,00AFRIKA subscriptionsPrivate Bag 17Braamfontein 2017(Cheques or postal ordersto be made out to RIPSA)DAVID PHILIP,Publishers, P.O. Box 408 Claremont 7735, are nowdistributors of Staffrider and Ravan Press books inthe Western Cape.VoiceTHE VOICE OF THE VOICELESSOUR RATES:Local surface mail — R7,20Local airmail — R9,20Overseas surface mail — R12,00Overseas airmail — R36,40Subscriptions to:Circulation Department,The VoiceP.O. Box 320572017 BraamfonteinHISTORY WORKSHOP AT WITSOn Saturday, 7 February 1981.Photographic exhibition, book display,music, a film on Alex — past and present— slide-tape shows, incuding people'sresistance in the 1950s, and plays byJunction Avenue Theatre Company andSoyikwa. Watch press for further details.

"•'•.'••>':'•'•".;'•"•'•'• • • • • : • : ' • • : , . : , : ' ' 'i § ^ i ^ ••••.-Azanian Love SongLike a tall oakI lift my arms to catch the windwith bruised fingers,and somewhere in the ghettoa Child is born,a mother's anxiety and painhide in a forest of hope.Like a straight pineI point my finger at Godcounting a million scarson my dreamsand somewhere in the ghettoa Child is weeping,a woman writes her legacyon leaves of despair.Like a weeping willowI drop my soul into a pool of firesomewhere in a dark sanctuaryI hear the sound of a Freedom SonjThe Child has risenand walks defiantlytowards the lion's lairundaunted, unafraid . . .Omarrudin