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

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

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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

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 <strong>1980</strong>/JANUARY 1981 33

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