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

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