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

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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
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 and 10: PoetryThabo Mooke, Kedisaletse Mash
Page 11: mess. His mind clouded for a moment
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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