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

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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 <strong>1980</strong>/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 <strong>1980</strong>/JANUARY 1981 9
Page 2: Introducing theSTAFFRIDERPOSTER SER
Page 5 and 6: Voices from the GhettoMrs T H, anof
Page 7 and 8: THE CANE IS SINGINGBY NARAIN AIYERT
Page 9: PoetryThabo Mooke, Kedisaletse Mash
Page 13 and 14: 'My Dear Madam...by Nokugcina Sigwi
Page 15 and 16: Poor Business for the ArtistBy Nang
Page 17 and 18: Staffrider Gallery Goodman Mabote,S
Page 19 and 20: D.John Simon.IN MEMORIAM-BERNARD FO
Page 21 and 22: Charles Rukuni64 We are up againstC
Page 23 and 24: DramaThe Ikwezi PlayersJob MavaA wo
Page 25 and 26: JOB: And anyone would think this wa
Page 27 and 28: Tribute to Ralph Ndawo
Page 29 and 30: slowly.My wife, Noamen, was at home
Page 31 and 32: ZIZAMELE:That's what I'm asking you
Page 33 and 34: THE SUNAn extract from a novelby Mo
Page 35 and 36: they fight/ he said, wiping his for
Page 37 and 38: 6JT/WEST\ Story by Ahmed Essop Illu
Page 39 and 40: landish appearance of the man — h
Page 41 and 42: Mhalamliala1981By Mothobi Mutloatse
Page 43 and 44: the man in question was really his
Page 45 and 46: Staff rider WorkshopPOLITICS AND LI
Page 47 and 48: IN THE SUNContinued from page 34bus
Page 49 and 50: • Bob Marley is theblack prince o
Page 51 and 52: BACKHOMEMIRIAM MAKEBAHUGH MASEKELAA

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

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