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

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