Vol. 2 No. 2 April/May 1979

Still Riding: TLALI, GORDIMER, MATSHOBA, ABRAHAMS, MUTLOATSE, GRAY, SILUMA, POLAND, MPHAHLELE, WILDMAN, BAYAJULA, KWANZA, SOARTA, ZAMANI, MBAKASIMA, CYA, GUYO, ABANGANI, MOROPA, GARTASSO, MADI, MPUMALANGA, MALOPOETS, KHAULEZA and many others. RAVAN PRESS

Here are some of our titles: lots more to come. Write in for details of our special offer to regular Ravan readers. Support Ravan Press and help us to create a literature for the people.

New Books:

CHIRUNDU SAY A LITTLE MANTRA FOR ME LABOUR, TOWNSHIPS & PROTEST A novel by Esk'ia Mphahlele. Es'kia A novel by Yvonne Burgess. The comic Studies in the social history of the Wit- Mphahlele is back, after 20 years in exile, surface of the novel is a constant delight: watersrand. Compiled and introduced by with a powerful successor to Down Second under it flows a deeper current, the essential Belinda Bozzoli. A multi-disciplinary collec­ Avenue and The Wanderers. Chirundu deals loneliness of 3 generations of women. R5.85 tion of original research papers, this book with a mesh of intertwined conflicts in an (Paper) looks at the unsung makers of the golden independent African country. R5.85 (Paper) city, the men and women whose labour and lives built Johannesburg. R9.00 (Paper)

THE FIRST SOUTH AFRICAN AFRICA MY BEGINNING 20TH CENTURY S. AFRICAN HISTORY By Fatima Dike. Ravan Playscript No. 4. The poetry of Ingoapele Madingoane. Teachers and students who don't believe 'The First South African' is a 'white' man The epic Black Trial, and 'the cry for in a 'straitjacket' approach will be interested living 'black' in Langa township. The play Africa's exploited soul' in the title poem, by Jose Druker's collection of documents highlights the insanity which, ever-present in are both included in the poet's first book. for the teaching of Std. 10 South African the society, gradually envelops the symbolic Rl.50 (Paper) history. R1.50 (Paper) hero. R2.75 (Paper) CONTENTS

Two letters on the banning of Staffrider Nakedi waPhosa (Dube) A Poem 36 Vol 2 No. 1 March 1979 2-3 Duncan Foster (Alberton) Poems 36 Soweto Speaking to Miriam Tlali 4 — 6 Lehlohonolo Tshabalala/David Khauleza Creative Society (Alexandra) Poems by Sibusiso Damoyi/Mmaphuti Maotwana (Bloemfontein) Poems 37 wa Mailula 6 Bulara Diphoto (Kroonstad) A poem 37 Zamani Art Association (Dobsonville) Poems by Maswabi a'Legwale/Batlang Madi Group (Katlehong) It does not wa Pule 7 help. A story by Letshaba Thubela 38-39 Michael Siluma (Zola II, Soweto) The Rebel Soweto Art Association (Klipspruit) Leader/A story. Illustrations by Poems by Themba ka Miya 7 Mzwakhe 40-41

Bayajula Group (Kwa-Thema). Drawings Albert G.T.K. Malikongwa/Cedric by Madi Phala/Sam Nhlengetwa/Poems L. Thobega (Botswana) Poems . . . 42 — 43 by Tim Dladla/Zakhel' Amandla Mtsweni .... 8-9 Kelwyn Sole (Namibia) Mtutuzeli Matshoba (Orlando West) A poem 43 A Pilgrimage to the Isle of Makana/ A Story. Illustrations by Mzwakhe 10 — 21 Christopher Wildman (Cape Town) The Promise/A story. Illustration by Kwanza Creative Society (Mabopane) Nick Curwell 44-45 Profile of a Historian by Risimati jaMathonsi 21 Nkos'omzi Ngcukana/Zoli Kota (Guguletu) Poems 45 Malopoets (Mariannridge) Drawing by Eugene Skeef. Poems by Eugene Skeef/ Skhumbuzo Zondo (Bergville, Natal) Ben Langa 22 — 23 A poem 45

Abangani Durban Open School Gartasso (Ga-Rankuwa) Poems by David Poems by Derro Maphumulc 24 Mphuso/Anthony More/Anthony Makou 46

Mpumalanga Arts (Hammarsdale) Drama Section /Extract from a play by Poems by Mafika Pascal Gwala 24 Nape Motana/Cincinnati reviewed by Brenda Leibowitz 47-49 Mothobi Mutloatse (Pimville) The Patriot/A Story. Staffrider Workshop III/Es'kia Illustrations by Mzwakhe . 25 — 28 Mphahlele 50-51

Moropa Art Association (Randfontein) Book Reviews/Robert N. St. Clair, Poem by Victor Sello 28 Milton Doyle/Amelia House/Mafika Pascal Gwala 52 — 54 Mbakasima Group (Evaton/Sebokeng) Poems by Richard Thutloe/Abia Eye/Mzwakhe Nhlabatsi on visual arts 54 — 55 Ramalebo Diutloeleng 29 Children's Section /Drawing by Frankie Harry Nkoane Moyaga (Hammanskraal) Ntsu kaDitshego/ Photos by Robert A Drawing 30 Magwaza/Ralph Ndawo/Biddy Crewe/ Leonard Maseko/Vusumzi and the Inqola Guyo Book Club (Sibasa) A letter to Competition. A story by Marguerite Staffrider/Poems by Maano Dzeani Poland/A poem by Sikhalo kaMthembu . . . . 56 — 59 Tuwani/Tshilidzi Shonisani 31

Creative Youth Association (Diepkloof) Photographs/Ralph Ndawo (55, 58), Drawings by Peter Mashishi/Tate Mmuso Robert Magwaza (56, 57), Biddy Crewe Koele/Poems by Frank Mashigo/Masilo (58), Leonard Maseko (50), Rabothata/Matsemela Manaka/Makhulu Helen Aron/Back cover. waLedwaba/Mabuse A. Letlhage/Rakau Mphulo 32-33 Graphics/ Madi Phala (8), Sam Nhlengetwa (9), Eugene Skeef (23), Harry Nadine Gordimer (Johannesburg) Moyaga (30), Peter Mashishi (32), Tate Mmuso The Meeting/work in progress 34 Koele (33), Nick Curwell (44), Frankie Ntsu kaDitshego (56), Mzwakhe Nhlabatsi/ Jeremy Gordin/Stephen Gray Front cover and illustrations to stories. Lionel Abrahams (Johannesburg) Poems . . . . 35 — 36 THE BANNING OF STAFFRIDER VOL. 2 NO. 1 - MARCH 1979: TWO LETTERS

A LETTER TO THE PUBLISHERS FROM THE PUBLICATIONS DIRECTORATE Dear Sirs,

PUBLICATIONS ACT, 1974: PUBLICATION: 'STAFFRIDER' - VOL. 2, NO. 1, MARCH 1979

In reply to your letter dated 4 April 1979, I have to inform you that the committee's reasons for declaring that the above-mentioned publication is undesirable within the meaning of section 47 (2) (e) of the Publications Act, 1974, were as follows:

1. Introductory remarks: The publication is a literary magazine providing writers and poets (mostly Black) with a medium of expression. It is published by Ravan Press, Braamfontein, and printed by Zenith Press of the same address. The quality of the paper and the printing is high, and the publication is probably heavily subsidized. These factors, of course, do not in themselves add up to undesirability. This is the fifth consecutive issue to come before the committee. The first one was found to be undesirable under section 47 (2) (a), (d) and (e). Several of the subsequent issues were found to contain material of a doubtful nature, but the commit­ tee decided that, on balance, they could be let through. The present issue, however, does not fall into this category, and the committee has found it to be undesirable under section 47 (2) (e). This does not, however, imply that every article, poem or illustration is necessarily undesirable, and does not prohibit them being published separately or in another publication.

2. In assessing the present publication the committee took into consideration favourable factors such as — that protest literature is an acknowledged literary genre; that the publication is not without literary merit and could, divested of its undesirable aspects, be an acceptable medium of literary expression for, particu­ larly, Black writers; that the threshold of undesirability is less easily crossed in the case of Blacks who do not have the same avenues of public protest as Whites; that poetic licence generally applies to publications of this nature; and, finally, that the probable reader in South Africa would mainly include persons inter­ ested in the development of Black literature.

The committee found, however, that the factors mentioned do not outweigh the undesirable material present in this particular issue.

3. The undesirable material is mostly confined to unfair, one-sided and offensive portrayals of police actions and methods, calculated to evoke hatred and contempt of them. The Appeal Board has on several occa­ sions pointed out that the police have been authorized by the State to maintain law and order, and that material calculated to bring them into contempt and to undermine their authority as a body is prejudicial to the safety of the State under section 47 (2) (e).

4. Material which is particularly calculated to promote the undesirable results mentioned in the previous para­ graph includes the following:

(a) The article Awakening by Amelia House (p.8), whose address is given as Kentucky, USA. (It is not impro­ bable that this may be a pseudonym for someone more closely connected to South Africa and, should this decision become the subject of appeal, the committee may call on the Appellant to identify this person more clearly. She (or he) is conversant with Afrikaans, as can be judged from the phrases 'kaffir', 'geleerde Hotnot', 'dronklap' and 'Hou jou bek, hotnot' in the article).

The undesirability of the article consists mainly in the scene in which the policeman indirectly encourages other arrested persons to urinate on Eric, a Black student; the scene where the 'good' Sergeant De Vos cannot force himself to protect Eric; the reference to the police shooting students in the back; the scenes of the brutal treatment of Dr. Jay and Eric; and the knife fight during the urinating incident.

(b) The poem Tribute to Mapetha by Bafana Buthelezi/Botswana on p. 49. Two persons with that name are known — one a member of SASO and the other a member of the ANC. The committee has no conclu­ sive proof that the writer of this poem is one of the two. Mapetla Mohapi who had been detained under the Terrorism Act, had been found hanged in his cell in the Kei Road jail in King William's Town. Unsub­ stantiated allegations that he had been killed by the police were subsequently made. The inquest magis­ trate found that Mohapi's death was due to anoxia and suffocation as a result of hanging, and was not brought about by any act of commission or omission by any living person. The poem appears to regard Mohapi as a revolutionary, and he is lauded as such. His blood supposedly would have nourished the Black Power fist after he had been 'murdered'. The people, as in Vietnam and Cuba, would also have been more powerful than the guns of Azania. ('Azania', incidentally, is the PAC/Poqo term for South Africa). The poem is calculated to approve of subversive deeds; and to present Communist victories as laudable, as well as being a foretaste of what is to come in South Africa. The poet also accuses the police of murder. These factors taken together make the poem prejudicial to the safety of the State under section 47 (2) (e).

The undesirability of these two poems also makes the whole of the publication undesirable. An aggrava­ ting factor is that Staff rider is also off ering a medium of expression for virulent attacks on South Africa's institutions by hostile persons living abroad.

5. Other poems or articles which contain undesirable matter under section 47 (2) (e) but which, on their own, could have been balanced by the favourable factors mentioned in par. 2, are the following: They are 'Why, Tumelo My Son?' on p. 11 (Tumelo is found hanged in his cell. He had been beaten up by the po­ lice): 'Staffrider' on p. 12; 'Silence in Jail' on p.17 (by Peter Horn); 'An African Woman' on p. 36; 'A Son

2 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 of the First Generation' (a story of a transgression of the Immorality Act) (p.24); and 'Notes on the Steps' on p. 42. Taken collectively, these poems and article add up to material which is definitely undesirable.

Mention should also be made of the sour attitude of Sheila Fugard in her poem 'The Voortrekkers, against the Afrikaners the latter should return to the countries of their origin lest the Blacks shoot them. Such racist attacks are of course most deplorable, but the committee believes that the average Afrikaner can absorb and adapt this particular piece of incentive coming from the indicated source (p.48), and it does accordingly not fall within the meaning of section 47 (2) (c) and (d).'

Yours faithfully, (SIGNED) DIRECTOR OF PUBLICATIONS

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE DIRECTOR OF PUBLICATIONS Dear Sir,

Thank you for your letter giving us reasons for the committee's banning* of Staff rider Vol. 2 No. 1. Once again we have delayed an issue in order to publish your letter and our reply, since we regard this as an important dialogue which we are anxious to sustain in the hope that it may lead to something yet more important: the freedom and security of a debate within South Africa in which all may participate. It is our belief that art may prove to be the catalyst for such a debate, the chief topic of which would be the reconciliation of all South Africans within a society which would heal the bitterness presently felt — and so amply testified by black writers in particular. We welcome the fullness of your letter: when you list the 'favourable factors' taken into consideration by the committee it is clear that a genuine inclination towards tolerance exists, on excellent grounds. The survival of Staffrider during 1978 (after the first banning and our exchange of views at that time) was already evidence of this, which is now confirmed. However we know that you will expect us, in the spirit of dialogue, to challenge your rea­ sons with our own: here goes. We feel that the brunt of your objection to Vol. 2 No. 1 is carried in point four of your letter, which relates to The Awakening and Tribute to Mapetla. That this story and this poem have been singled out and pointedly des­ cribed as 'virulent attacks on South Africa's institutions by hostile persons living abroad' highlights, in our view, an absolutely central issue: is the debate in South Africa, in which art may lead the way, to exclude South Africans in exile? Whether Amelia House is Amelia House, whether Bafana Buthelezi is a member of SASO or the ANC (we are inviting them to write and tell us, if they wish to, in the pages of Staffrider; and asking Amelia, too, whether she regards your interest in whether she's male or female as an instance of sexism) — these, you may agree, are not the vital points. What is really at stake is whether South Africans in exile (and, at the final count, will they be less South Africans for that?) are to be included in the internal debate if they wish to participate, or not? We must expect their contri­ butions to be critical, but can we equate 'hostility' to what they perceive as the injustice of certain institutions and events, with hostility to their motherland itself? We believe very strongly that the exclusion of exiled South Africans — of whatever political persuasion in our in­ creasingly wide spectrum — from the practice of art in our country, and the ongoing debate on our future which art can stimulate, will be fatal to the already vulnerable hope of our writers and black countrymen for a peaceful future society enriched and nourished by a truly South African art. It is an 'aggravating factor' that to rule in favour of such an exclusion now will make it doubtful whether the response to any future invitation would be positive. It is an aggravating factor that, deprived of the significant exile voices, our internal art and dialogue through art will lack credibility. It must be acknowleged too that a high proportion of established black South African writers are exiles. We had hoped that in time their voices would be heard in Staffrider; your letter is, to say the least, a blow to that hope. The other main point in your letter (para. 3) we answered in our open letter in reply to the banning of Vol. 1 No. 1. To this defence we still hold: the perception of the police as brutal by black writers, who are in rapport with the black community at large, is a sad fact of South African life which cannot be wished away. To disguise it by cen­ sorship can only exacerbate, not alleviate the problem. We accept that this perception must be deeply galling to some fine officers and men, but we believe that they would be the last to advocate sweeping the problem under the carpet. Your objection (para. 5) to Why Tumelo My Son?, Staffrider (the poem), An African Woman and Notes on the Steps is answered above: in these cases your objection is based on the perceptions of the police displayed. We can only say that the story and three poems all convey fresh and genuine feelings: the impression they make is not one of cynical propaganda. They are clearly not intended as thorough and factual reports on reality: they axe per­ ceptions of reality, about which the reader can say, 'This is honestly felt' or 'I am not convinced that these feelings are genuine.' When honestly felt perceptions of reality are not permitted a hearing, we argue that the peaceful future of our society is endangered. Your objection to Silence in Jail emphasizes the crucial nature of the representations we have made above on the question of exile writers: at present, indeed, their 'music crosses the border' only: 'on waves of ether through every crack between the heavily armed border posts.' Your objection to The Son of the First Generation is particularly disheartening, since this is such a fresh and humane approach to the ancient theme of the Immorality Act. The controversial nature of the Act — the necessity of which has been disputed recently even by prominent members of the ruling party — surely makes it an obvious theme for fictional treatment. Your closing remarks on Sheila Fugard's poem The Voortrekkers, in which you find a 'sour attitude' and a 'racist attack' seem to us to have mistaken the tone of her poem entirely. We are asking her to answer you in our next issue.

Yours sincerely, THE PUBLISHERS * banned only for distribution

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 3 Soweto Speaking

to Miriam Tlali

Annanias Ndaba, a Soweto self-em­ everything here like you say.' to the passage without even asking and ployed plumber, sat on the kitchen 'You don't seem to be very happy, went straight through into the toilet! chair, took out a cigarette packet and though.' The madam was in the bathroom having match-box from his shirt pocket, lit one 'It's because I'm thinking about a bath. Then she just heard footsteps in cigarette, drawing long puffs from it. something that happened this morning. the passage. She must have been sur­ 'Yes, my sister; so you have come About the quarrel I had with one of the prised because I don't think it would be back safely from phesheya (abroad).' white workmen:these who are busy here a usual practice for the African servant 'Yes, Ndaba/ in Soweto changing these telephone to go into their toilet, especially while 'How was it? I'm sure you enjoyed it lines.' she was having a bath. She shouted: "Is very much. What is the name of the 'Oh. So you've already "collided" that you William? What do you want?" place you went to?' with this thing here, right at the en­ Then the Boer shouted from the toilet 'Iowa.' trance ? (Ushayise nen t 'em nyango ),' next door:"It's me; the plumber!" The 'Where's that now, England?' I went on to relate how I thought I woman got such a shock, she stormed 'No, America.' was alone in the house, when all of a out of the bathroom in her robe and 'Yes? Iowa.' (He said, smiling, and sudden, I heard a white man's voice when she saw the plumber she showing some of his nicotine-stained answering the telephone in my lounge, screamed: "What the hell are you doing teeth.) when . . . in my house? How did you come in here 'Yes.' 'You need not say much more, my without even knocking or asking any 'I understand you went to many sister. I know all about that. You see, questions?" He wanted to say some­ other countries. What are they?' they regard us like small kids. What he thing about seeing only a boy when the 'England, Germany, France, Italy, knows and has been taught is that when woman grabbed his shirt here (he points Egypt, Kenya he enters a black's house, he is really go­ at his neck) by the collar, and pushed 'What, Egypt? Did you see the ing into a small child's house. At the him through the passage, out through Arabs?' (He asked, twisting his arms firm where I used to work before I de­ the kitchen door. We were standing on above his head as if he was wearing a cided to leave and be my own boss, we either side of the door looking on, sur­ turban. We both laughed.) had one exactly like that one. He was prised at what was happening. Awu, 'Yes, many. Oh there are many, just as spiteful and uncouth as that one. madodal It was a sight, my sister; I tell many of them. Cairo is a big, big city; He was also a Boer. I wonder why they you it was a sight! We had to really and crowded.' always behave like that. He did the same control ourselves not to burst out laugh­ 'Yes, Egypt. Makes one remember thing at the house of another madam ing. She was furious-. "C'mon, get out. Hitler's war . . . How is it, phesheya? I who was from overseas. He ignored the Get out of my house!" she shouted, understand there are no passes. Every­ black worker and got what he wanted.' pushing him hard. " I don't want to see body is free.' 'How?' you in my house. C'mon, go!" Awu! We 'Yes, there are no passes.' 'We were sent out from the firm to were astonished.' 'Hm . . . Now why did you come go to a certain house in Edenvale. There 'What did he do; go back to the back? If I were to go there I would ne­ were two of us blacks and, of course, firm?' ver think of coming back. My family this Boer was in charge. We waited out­ 'No. He stood there like a rain- and children would never see me again.' side the house and he went in. He enter­ drenched cock, his face turned down, (I laugh.) ed through the open kitchen door where shaking his head.' (We laugh.) 'We just 'Hm . . . (Ndaba shakes his head and there was an African man standing near looked at him and said nothing.' looks at me smiling) So you've seen the kitchen sink washing dishes. We (Ndaba, smiling, crushed the cigar­ most of the whole world!' were supposed to fix up a leaking tap in ette stump on the ashtray and lighted 'I suppose one could say that, yes.' the toilet. That madam's house is nearly another one.) 'Hm . . . Even if you should drop like this one of yours . . . ' 'And then?' dead now, you wouldn't care, my sister; (I raise my eyebrows, surprised.) 'We heard the woman's loud voice on you would die in peace eh?' 'I mean the plan, my sister, the plan. the telephone. She was speaking to our (I laugh.) There is a passage leading from the kit­ big boss at the firm. She said: "Why do 'Are you happy you're back now? chen to the bedrooms; and the bath­ you send me a dog instead of a plumb­ Back to the passes; everything here?' room and toilet. To go to the toilet, you er?" They must have asked why she 'Yes I am happy that I'm back. But pass the bathroom door first. This Boer called him a dog because she shouted not happy to be back to the passes and just ignored the African man, passed in­ back: "I say dog because he can't speak. 4 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 SOWETO SPEAKING

He came into my house without knock­ put under another one. Oh, that one drink together. He said where he came ing or asking any questions. He just was very good. He was from phesheya from, phesheya, everybody did the went past my servant in the kitchen, let (abroad). He used to laugh with us and same work as everybody. Nothing like himself into the passage to the toilet make jokes about all these things these "you are black, and must do dirty without saying anything; just like that. white people here do to us. He told us a work." No. You know what, then the Next time you must send me a person, lot of stories. Then the Boer would also poor Boer would not even drink the tea not a dog!" She banged the 'phone (re­ smile a little. He sort of softened up a or coffee because we were there. Then ceiver) down, came to the kitchen door little. What's the use of sulking around the one from overseas would ask him: and banged it in our faces.' when everybody else is smiling and jok­ "What do you want me to do, chase 'Then?' ing? This other one from overseas didn't these blacks away; ask them to go and 'Then he asked us: "Wat sal ons care. He used to treat us like people, not get jam tins and stand far away and maak nou? Die missus is kwaad. Ons dogs. I remember when we went to an­ drink their tea? I can't do that." ' kannie werk nie". Umsila was'upantsi other house one day. You know, when (Annanias shakes his head in despair, manje — the tail was down now. (We we came to a house and he wanted to I smile.) laugh.) He now spoke with a soft voice make tea, he never used to say: "You go 'I used to tell this Boer sometimes: like a young girl. (We laugh.) Then we and make tea for us," to the black wor­ "All you white people of this land went back to the firm.' kers, no. He used to stand up, put hasn't got God." Then he asks: "What 'Was he chased away from the firm?' enough cups and saucers for all of us on do you mean, Annanias? What do you 'No. But from that time we had to the table, make tea or coffee and pour mean we got no God?" Then I tell him: have another white man when we went it; put a packet of biscuits there on the "You all got bad hearts!" ' out. He was no more in charge; he was table, and ask us all to sit down and

THE SOWETO 'NOT-SO-MERRY-GO-ROUND' ...An Interview

Mrs. Flora Mooketsane lives in Jabavu. Her husband died on 17 December 1976. This is her story, as she told it to Miriam Tlali.

/ have run around. I have run around and I have almost for the week which they had not paid him for AND his holi­ lost hope. Every time after moving from one place to an­ day pay which was due at the time of his death. other, I am sent back to the Bantu Commissioner's offices 'Is this all I must get?' where, instead of getting aid, I end up with nothing. Life is 'Yes.' hebbie (heavy). 'How can it be? My husband has been working all along. First I went to the Bantu Commissioner's office for the His 'unemployment' (U.I.F.) has been withdrawn from his Death Certificate so that I may collect his money from his pay all these years; he has never drawn it.' employers. After getting the certificate, I went to the WRAB 'It's your fault. You said your husband was a Botswana offices where he was employed. person.' (The following is a precis of what happened): 'I never said that. How can I say that? My husband was WRAB OFFICES (Employer): born in Zeerust in the Transvaal. He only changed his pass 'Go to the Labour office and collect your husband's E & and took a Botswana passport. He has been working here all F Cards. We do not have your husband's cards here. You said along and he lived here all along.' your husband was a Botswana national. No cards are issued 'There's nothing we can do for you.' here for Botswana people.' After a few days I decided to go to the Labour offices / then went to Labour. again. LABOUR OFFICES: LABOUR OFFICES: 'They are refusing to give me my husband's cards at the 'At my husband's place of work, they say I cannot draw WRAB. They say they don't have his cards.' unemployment benefits because my husband was a Botswana 'Oh, do they say that? They're mad. Alright, take this person.' letter to Pretoria and they will give you his cards.' 'Go to the Bantu Commissioner's offices and tell them The following day I travelled to Pretoria. about your claim.' PRETORIA: / had moved around so much, and I had spent so much 'At the Labour office in Johannesburg they gave me this money that I felt discouraged. After some time I became letter to bring here and collect my husband's cards.' restless again and decided to try once more. I went back to They immediately looked at the papers and without much the Bantu Commissioner's office. fuss handed me the cards. BANTU COMMISSIONER: I later took these to WRAB. 'You say your husband was born in Zeerust?' WRAB OFFICES: 'Yes.' 'I have brought the cards. May I please have what was due 'Go and bring proof that he was born there.' to him.' I went back home. I had stood in so many queues, and 'Where did you get these cards from?' moved around so much that I felt helpless. After some time, 'Don't ask nie many questions. Just let me have what you I decided to go and present the matter to his elder brother are supposed to give me. Fill in what is required.' who was willing to give evidence that my husband was born They filled in the cards, and at the same time, gave me a in the Transvaal. We both went to the Bantu Commissioner's cheque for R 16,00 which, they said, was my husband's pay office. There, they gave me a letter to take to the Labour

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 SOWETO SPEAKING

offices. you have isn't even right. This is only a "duplicate" and not LABOUR OFFICES: the certificate itself. Go back to the Bantu Affairs office and 'We shall take these documents of yours and send them to ask for the real Death Certificate.' Pretoria. It is true that there is some money your husband Then I went back to the Bantu Commissioner's for the must get, but it's only a few shillings. Anyway, it is right real Death Certificate and only then did they give it to me. I that it should be paid out to you. Take this letter to the Ban­ had been moving around with a thing and all the time no one tu Commissioner and they will tell you what to do.' told me that it was not the right thing. BANTU COMMISSIONER: Then they said I must go and try to get my husband's 'Go home and wait. We shall send you a letter and tell you pension money. They said perhaps, perhaps they might give when to come. Your husband's money is not much but you it to me. are entitled to it.' At the Bantu Commissioner's office, they said I must go / went home and waited. After some time, a letter arrived to the WRAB Head Office and ask for it. They said it's near from the Bantu Commissioner's office. It said: 'Come on Faraday Station. I have travelled so much. Throughout all such and such a day and bring your eldest son with you.' the mourning period, I moved around in black like a lost per­ BANTU COMMISSIONER: son. (She shakes her head and buries her face in her hands.) When we got there, they let my son sign some documents And to think that my husband never stayed home. He and handed me a cheque. Do you know how much it was? worked for the Municipality for seventeen years. When he R4-70 — Four Rand Seventy! was about to draw his pension, they said he was still too Then just the other day, I was called to our local WRAB young and they laid him off because he was supposed to get office. an increase and they did not want 'old' workers. So he left JABAVU WRAB OFFICE: and worked for these last employers WRAB. He worked only When a lady clerk there looked at my documents, she for the Government. He always chose the "maropane" said: (cheats, robbers). 'Poor woman, you have been thrown about like this and Someone advised me to go to Black Sash. They say they all this time, nothing of yours is right. This Death Certificate sometimes help people.

Miriam Tlali's 'Soweto Speaking' column has been a feature of Staffrider since the first issue. Her novel, Muriel At Metro­ politan, has now been published internationally and a Dutch translation is in preparation. Two stories, 'Soweto Hijack' and 'The Point of No Return' have appeared in Staffrider. A third, 'Just The Two of Us' recently enjoyed the rare fate of being banned before it was published.

KHAULEZA - ALEXANDRA

'CIVILIZATION' HAMBA KAHLE CASEY

What is this civilization, you have worn the blanket that knows differences between races? of this earth Why do I need to be civilized? bugs bugging you up Please tell me, who is not civilized? worms disintegrating your frame to feed this earth They say I belong to the homelands we owed Because I am not civilized. i spoke to you I am paid less, for more work you neither spoke nor laughed Because I am not civilized. but stared at me your empty eye sockets Tell me then, why do you give me Independence, planted fear into my soul knowing that I am not civilized? casey i eyed you alive . . . How can I rule uncivilized people? alive in a dream What will I achieve? covered with laughter to the world of no return Civilization I don't need you. the world of the unknown You are a poison to me. todd matshikiza You are a thorn in my heart. • can themba I will not rest till you are no more. nat nakasa casey motsisi . . . Civilization leave Our Country, our world is drained ... Leave Our People. Maybe your brothers and sisters need you. Mmaphuti wa Mailula We have suffered enough because of you.

Sibusiso Bafana J. Damoyi

KHAULEZA is an association of writers and other artists based in Alexandra. Writers wishing to join can contact the committee through Staffrider or P.E.N. 6 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 DOBSONVILLE/SOW ETO

I WONDERED

I looked through the window to see the first rays of dawn ZAMANI chasing the last trace of darkness. ART I stood there surprised and amazed ASSOCIATION I wondered.

I was looking at the poor souls that passed. Biting pain struck me like rusty chains CUNNING BROTHER SERPENT eating slave flesh I looked down in pathos I wondered. Cunning poisonous brother serpent I see you walking through the long grass I looked down to see my shadow to get a clear view of me. it was there, black like me; Side by side Hundreds of feet stampeding on it you walk with me smiling depriving it of its image and dignity to bite my heel. I looked away I mistook you for a friend I wondered. and freely I talked about the felling of unwanted trees. I was crying at the nakedness Cunningly you went to your gardeners of my shadow and behind bars I landed. tears from my eyes falling down my cheeks Far in the deserted land I'm banished like a river flowing down a steep hill. where loneliness will haunt my shadow. I looked away But, thick-bellied serpent, I'm here. I wondered.

Maswabi a'Legwale Batlang wa Pule

KLIPSPRUIT/SOWETO

I AM

SOARTA Sometimes I gaze defiantly back at this blinking soulless Soweto Art Association City of many eyes

I even refuse to come near its parks for I've never WHY THE PAIN smelt the fragrance of its roses from this wind whistling My blood boils in my veins thick news on charred planes climbing barricaded mountains Then there's this voice tragic as the grass nourishes that keeps telling me on human blood in times of war the sun never sets It's the earth turning as the mountains descend onto rivers overflowing When I go back to my reality with blood of resistance I see my Soweto and puke at the corridors Its scarred soul lying helplessly bordering distances where Beneath tabernacles of the law we cannot see each other our time glorying in unspent Beloved moments as we long for each Every time I rise to fight other's lands Defending what remains The ruins I treasure i have come to listen Yours, mine, ours to your heart beat and, I feel I can kill brother, when i touch War without terms yours i feel mine But then — here I am why the pain in us, brother? I come to you as I am: Hopeless Themba ka Miya Themba ka Miya

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 BAYAJ ULA/KWA-THEMA

THIS DROOPY-OUT

Yet another dropsy He's been drooping out Almost all his life Told that his education Is the forte of life He never said lousy This droopy-out!

Here today, At gate number three Grinders (Pty) Limited Here he meets Obed Droopy Standard Three friend A just-been-fired For having much in his pocket.

Here this morning All stranded before the gate All branded by the sun Uncompromisingly so.

Applications? He did to the not-so-corrupt Personnel factotums, Who with non-remunerated considerations Regretted his inexperienced labour.

He had read in the Mail About his kind in Plural; Of their Idle Bill and How it will savour He never wanted to be ill So he came this morning.

From the college in the bush Perhaps frustrated by 'courses' Or the Rhyme Odds of life - Or is it the riots of fire? On and off he flickers This flim-flam droopy-out!

Industries he cannot tolerate 'cause he is 'aware' Beware! Flip per ty-flopperty he goes again Madi Phala/Sp/flsZ? for he is not rare.

Indeed that is why they attend cool-edge his granny gaped So as not to work — they are not like us, his father yawned How uneven even himself This dreary droopy-out! Bayajula's artists are now well known to Staffrider readers. Tim Dladla The good news is that their work will be shown in Germany later this year.

8 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 BAYAJ ULA/KWA-THEMA

Sam Nhlengethwa/My Strange Dream

DEAD END STREET MAMA THE DUSTMAN'S MORNING

Somebody loved you, His mid-day face bears no resemblance Sheltered you from drenching rains; To his morning appearance: You once knew the cosiness This dirt of a satin-bound blanket His feeding fund, in times of the setting winter; This baggage his living, though it now retires round your waist Wasting the day held by a super size safety pin. To raise the pay. He's heard them say Familiar with every crossroad, 'Someday he'll bear his sins as he does the bin.' You stand cautioned He claims they will prove lighter. at an amber-coloured robot, Like all men, carrying your hobo-physique He has gone a step higher with experience; a safe distance from the 'betters'. Emptying bins down three streets is an hour's trick. Yet extend a hand for anything. To him dirt specks stick I saw how you smiled back to a grin, As the morning glory to the wall. Hoping to receive He gets up early and goes to toil — Nothing, absolutely nothing He doesn't think much of the job, Since yesterday's 'two-iron' But it's sure better than his pass. And a basketful of shame, Like all men, And sympathies galore! He's had the worst moments of his working days: In the bin's refuge he's found the articles refused Zakhel' Amandla Mtsweni By the refuse-rich suburbs. He has blessed himself a mortician of the dead: Animals that have ended their lives of service, The abandoned baby's lost life Grinning, smiling, gritting, screaming And telling pain. Like all men, He says he is doing his best.

Zakhel' Amandla Mtsweni

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 A Pilgrimage to the Isle of Makana

A story by Mtutuzeli Matshoba, illustrated by Mzwakhe. The day it arrived, the brown official They came back to me, those days for a visit? I answered, 'Yes,' and to my envelope with a red Prisons Department when they had come to my beloved huge relief they left without another stamp had set my heart at a gallop, and kennel to make sure that I was the man word. my hands shook like an alcoholic's as I who had applied. Now the letter in the brown envelope started to open it. Twice they had come, both times told me when my pilgrimage had been According to an admittedly blurred scaring me out of my wits. The first set for, the departure time of the boat memory I had never in my life even time they had not found me in. A white from the Cape Town docks, the time of dreamt of making penpals with anybody man and a black man had come looking its return. The rest, I presumed, was left to do with prisons. What could it be? It for me: the kind of news that goes to me. was addressed by hand, an arrogant- straight to my bladder. The second time Another memory floated across the seeming scrawl which probably reflected I was cornered, in the room I share with screen of my mind — the day they took the writer's indifference as to whether my two brothers when they are both at him away. It was a bolt out of the blue the missive reached its destination or home. You know how it is: you want to for everyone, his colleagues at work and not. My name without the bare courtesy crash out of the window and run for the folks at home. For me it was not, of a 'Mr.' . . . your life when you hear a white man's because I have long since accepted arbi­ Forgive me, friends, if I happen to voice in the other room — asking for trary arrest as part and parcel of the sound prejudiced, or attach importance you in Afrikaans! South African lifestyle. They took him to small matters. After all, which of you I went out to meet my fate. There from work, after assuring the people can tell me with a straight face that he were two of them. One white and one there that it was only for half an hour in regards prisons without any bias? Espe­ sellout, black and burly. their car outside. His employers sugges­ cially when someone is trying to involve They asked me if I responded to my ted that the interview could take place him in prison affairs? name. Who could deny it? Their eyes inside their building. While a room was When I had opened it my heart beat told me that they already knew. Perhaps being prepared for them, they slipped still faster, but with sudden relief now, from a mugshot they had picked up out with him to the car, and that was and a new excitement. from the pass department. Had I applied the last time anyone at work saw him. 10 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 ORLANDO WEST

A friend — can't remember who it A JOURNEY THROUGH SOUTH I guess we all have a bit of this, and I was, there being always a guy hanging a- AFRICAN LIFE guess most of us need all we have. The round with me (I reckon I hate loneli­ The fourteenth of December had train would leave at ten thirty from ness) — this guy, he brought my mind come and there I was, setting out on a Platform Fourteen. back to the Prisons Department epistle. journey that was to open the eye of my 'What is it, Chuck?' Guys'll always have mind to truths I'd never pondered be­ Over the next few days, every­ a better tag than the original for you. fore. one who happened to get wind of I told him. Ja, I remember now. It I had discovered that people bound my destination wanted to talk of was Joe. I gave him the letter to read in for my destination, either as prisoners nothing else. * case he should think I was lying about or visitors, carry with them the wishes getting permission to embark on a pil­ and desires of many others. It was good My friend arrived in his little blue grimage to the holiest of holies. to know that so many people cared. My van to take me on the first leg of my Over the next few days everyone friends, their folks and friends, the pilgrimage. I could have gone to Park who happened to get wind of my des­ friends of the incarcerated man, their Station by commuter train, but because tination wanted to talk of nothing else. folks and friends. It was good to be go­ this was a pilgrimage and not just a jolly What I found interesting was how the ing there for everybody. trip, he had offered to burn a few litres talk always embraced all the people at I had this small black bag, a blanket of invaluable petrol to take me there. At 'the shrine'. and a paper bag of food prepared for me least that's how I thought he saw it. 'Will you see him too?' by the old lady, all ready, and I sat on Joe accompanied us, folding his Her­ 'What do you actually want to know, the stoep counting the minutes before culean figure in behind until he could ndoda} In any prison you only see the the actual take-off. You see, I prefer to scarcely breathe. As the little van zoom­ person you've visited. Or would you ex­ travel with my hands in my pockets be­ ed away, taking the 'So we to highway', I pect everyone to be paraded before cause, in the first place, I'm scared of felt as if I were leaving my dear loca­ you?' long distances. More so if I am going to tion, dear old Mzimhlope forever. I 'Naw — I mean you might see him by be confined by two parallel rails. I get thought with a weight on my dia­ chance.' this eerie feeling: I'm a stiff in a coffin, phragm: they say it is rough in there. 'Well, I don't know.' en route for the grave and the unknown. They fear to go there. They call it 'Slag- Another one: 'How many people are It was my first visit to Cape Town pan'. Yet I do not see what they fear — kept there?' Another: 'Do they do hard and there'd be time, soon, to compare to me it is home, and no place is better labour?' And another: 'Do they wear those images of the city stored in my than home. There have been stabbings, the same uniform as ordinary convicts? imagination with the real place. tragic 'factions', inkunzi (muggings) and And how many to one cell? They eat Were it not for the Conference rape, I concede. But where else, in a well? Sleep on beds?' people I would not even know what to land of hate, haven't these things hap­ 'I'll find out,' I would say although I do with myself when I got there. I felt pened? had no idea how. like a goduka going to the city for the Orlando East. My friend, 'Chicken'. 'Greet all those you'll see.' Plural. first time in his life, afraid the city Wonder why they gave him that one? Not only him, but the others too. might swallow him, afraid he might not Noordgesig on my left. So-called Co­ The preparations were not anywhere return from the dark earth's entrails of loured township. So-called because I bet near exhausting, thanks to the mother gold. Up to that day I had never known you my skin to flay, they never gave of one of the inhabitants of the Isle (for the fear of being lost in a city: after all, themselves that one but somebody else six years he must remain there). She in­ I was born and bred in one. did. And I'm positive they would have troduced us to a practical, humane Was it a fear of Cape Town, the un­ preferred to be known only as human association of people who care, called known city, or was it a fear of some­ beings, South Africans, nothing more, the Dependants Conference. I had never thing else? I tried to analyse my feel­ nothing less, further details to be kept heard of these people and the first time ings. That was where they landed, back in the file of life: if you get what I that I made myself known to them I in the seventeenth century. That was mean. In case you don't, let me try to was greeted with a helping hand. They where it all started. This life of endless explain my words: one thing that goes a provided me with the fare. Eighty-four warring; of massacres; of detentions long way towards impairing human re­ rand for a second class ticket and three without access to the law; of maiming lations in our fatherland is the fact that rand for provisions! and death in detention; this railroad to South Africans have had it deeply in­ The little that one gives grows mani­ prison; this denial of millions of people, grained in their characters to place fold in the heart of the recipient. The guilty of only one 'crime' — the pigmen­ emphasis on physical features (race) in recipient, not me, but the man incar­ tation of their skins. the evaluation of human nature. Even a cerated. The Christian saying goes some­ That must have been what was rattl­ moron will tell you that this is a nega­ thing like: when I was in prison you vi­ ing me. It had to be more intense in the tive and destructive attitude which feeds sited me. It may be hard for those Western Cape, at its in tensest in the Pen­ the flame of many antagonistic nationa­ whom the imprisoned man desires to insula, the westernmost Cape. Only re­ lisms within the borders of one country, see most, his folks. But because the cently the papers (not the papers, the which the moron will also tell you is not Conference is there, there is no need to laws reported in the papers) had been healthy . . . kodwa ithemba alibulali. go without or even steal (that's possible, declaring that blacks would not be tol­ Yes, it is hope that keeps us going, that you know?) in order to travel more than erated there. They were to be excluded makes the difference between the will one thousand and five hundred kilo­ from even the minor concessions gran­ to survive and despair. This living hope metres to give strength to those re­ ted to urban blacks. Crossroads . . . that one day we shall all overcome these moved from life, and with your smile, where was I going? To the holiest of ho­ divisions and live as South Africans. No! if you can still manage one, show them lies. As Azanians, because South Africans that life goes on in spite of all the injus­ We would see. The spirit of adven­ have been divided for three centuries. tices that drove them out of it. ture relieved some of the tension in me. This living hope is the driving force.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 11 I ORLANDO WEST . ] vantage of a friendly offer to get more May be something to it, however. out of the giver. Those young ones are sure worth a little 'Naw, I don't mind. How can you candy after a laborious year, a taste of say that when I'm at your service, the crumbs that have been scraped to­ ndodaV He had always been a generous gether, plus a new set of clothes to last fella, that one; so much so that at times them through the coming trial. 'Back­ you just felt like refusing because you pay' time is the only chance to buy were always the recipient and seldom more than just mieliemeal. But apart the giver. But to refuse generosity is to from this, it's all an unreasonable fuss. kill an endangered virtue on earth. So Hire-purchase — bedroom suites, dining- seldom did I refuse. room suites, hi-fi sets and instalments The city was bustling with mothers the whole year round, repossessions, who reminded me of hens with newly smooth talk and psychological anaesthe­ hatched chickens, leading the little tics. Nxa! Pawns, but pawns in an inter­ chicks all over the fowl-run, scratching national chess game. Don't fall for the up the dirt, pecking here and there as if hypocrite who assures you that he will showing the young crowd what to pick argue your case fruitfully with your ex­ out of the rubbish, to subsist. ploiter. They're all in the conspiracy a- 'Christmas shopping has already star­ gainst you. It's your baby, black boy. ted, huh. Only the fourteenth and the All the hollering is just to ease their scramble is on,' observed one of my consciences. Your hard toil is an Ameri­ friends. can magnate's investment. The rape is as 'By the time Christmas arrives they'll subtle as seduction . . . all be penniless. Better if they waited 'Give me the directions, mfowethu! until the last week,' the other one said. 'You know where Race Relations is?' 'Rather take the peak of the rush than (Awu. I know this city like the back face the big day with nothing. The of my hand, boy.' food's got to be used immediately. Not 'Okay, you go just there.' every house has a freezer, phela.' Having forgotten that I had already 'Ya, sonny, say it again. The whole told them that I wanted to salute year's sweat squandered in a single friends, I expected him to ask what I week,' I added. 'No. One day. Few can had to do with Race Relations. If he afford a double shopping spree. Christ­ had, I would have answered: 'I am con­ mas ought to be renamed "commercial cerned! They gotta improve in a posi­ season" instead of festive season, or tive direction. Otherwise the whole season of joy. Or, even more frankly, country is in danger of sinking to an "spending spree season", the time when animal degree of savagery!' the owners of the means of production Mark and Motsamai bade me farewell rake back the pittance that they've been and I could tell it was not the kind of The freeway is also the physical divi­ paying the workers for running the parting salutation that you make to sion between Orlando East — 'Plurals' — means.' someone going on vacation. No 'have-a- and Noordgesig — 'Coloureds'. Ridicu­ We found that tickling. Different good-time', or that sort of stuff. lous! visual stimuli divided our attention. At the station we walked down the Diepkloof. 'Eyi sonny!' And were it Mine hung onto the Christmas plunder. platform past many white people going not for his many years' experience be­ One single swoop and the thing is done on holiday to the coast or seeing others hind a wheel we would have crashed. — by taking advantage of the suckers' off. A maudlin scene, fifteen coaches Because that cry came from my friend superstitious instincts. The extra lights, long, down to the first three 'non-white' the wheelman who, instead of fixing his the artificial Christmas trees hanging all second-class coaches. A few farewell- i eyes on the road ahead, had them pas­ over the commercial heart of the Rand. bidders there. I was glad to note that ted on some delicately contoured crea­ The Christmas carols blaring all over the 'our' part of the train was relatively em­ ture thumbing a lift on the roadside. Joe Golden City. All the trimmings. Because pty. I had travelled hundreds of kilo­ was wriggling his huge frame to peep Jesus is coming you must buy, sucker. If metres in 'third class' coaches with two through the rear window. One right no you don't celebrate the anniversary of people to a compartment bunk, one or one can take away from you — to ap­ his birth you stand a chance of frying two on the floor and people as well as preciate the beautiful things with which in hell. So the suckers go all out on their baggage in the corridors. the world is adorned. 'savings' and 'backpays' for Thanksgiv­ The reservations list said Mrs. Myself, Past an old mine compound, the gum ing. Thanks for what? For mass exploi­ among five other matrons and misses. trees and mine dumps, towards Booy- tation, for brutalization, evictions, forc­ Call my reaction chauvinism or sexism, sens with its rusty factories, ahead. ed bantustan citizenship, unemploy­ whatever you like: but one thing you 'Seems we're going to wait nearly an ment, bannings, Tabalaza's death, hostel must know is that I don't like silly mis­ hour at the station,' said my driving life, mine deaths, the wars in progress takes which provide my friends with friend after glancing at his watch. and those looming over us. Thanks for hilarious entertainment at my expense. I 'If there's one thing I hate, it's wait­ the great cause of racism euphemised as did not like this mistake at all. ing for a train. You don't mind if we apartheid, separate development. I decided to ask the guys working on cross over to Braamfontein? Some guys Thanks for Damien and Lucifer's pres­ the train what to do, seeing I was not a I'd like to say good-bye to there,' I re­ ence in Africa. Never! That cannot be. Mrs. but a Mr. This bushy-haired guy in turned, feeling ashamed of taking ad- Thanks for survival — maybe! a blue denim uniform, sitting on a 12 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 ORLANDO WEST

trolley on the platform, was sorry that to master 'the language' to a communi­ absorb a last snapshot of my home. he could not help. 'Gaan maar net in cative level but have none of the hall­ Chiawelo, Dlamini, the two locations I die trein in, my bro. As die inspekteur marks which place you on the rung of had traversed so many times to Avalon kom vertel horn jou moeilikheid.' I took the gentleman, you know enough to to bury the faithful departed. his advice. Rather than stand in the compensate for the latter with the for­ Having seen what we could of So­ corridor with my little baggage, I mer: so you use 'the language', when weto we went into the compartment. thought it better to keep it in another the person addressed happens to be 'A long journey ahead of us, huh?' I compartment, also full of aunties and a wearing a suit. prodded for information which would 'coloured' lass who made me wish I 'Say, mister, haven't I met you help me to estimate how long we would were one of those guys who fall in love somewhere?' spend together in the coffin. instantly. 'Oh, Mtutu. Were we not together 'Ya. Cape Town is faraway. But for­ My two friends bade me farewell. eDikeni?' That's Alice in the Eastern tunately this is a fast train. Otherwise Again, not the sort of farewell you bid a Cape. we would be bored stiff by the time we holiday maker. 'What now?' I thought 'Ho, ja! Now I remember.' That got there.' when they left. Stand in the passage and place. That hell of my mental strife. My 'How many days on the rail?' watch the guys offloading mailbags out refusal to conform to a training aimed 'We get there tomorrow afternoon.' of a mail coach onto a Railways truck. at raising me above the grass-roots level I felt some relief at that, because I Tireless brutes, they are. Remind me of of life, to pioneer a 'middle-class' or had braced myself for three days' con­ anti-aircraft gunners in the heat of help make the Bantustans viable. Se­ tinuous motion. And, as I have said, I battle, although I've never seen, nor do I venty Six, and my loss of interest in am not an easy traveller. wish to see the said gunners at work. academic pursuits that had come to Then I could settle down and allow Another man boarded the train. A seem selfish. The many others who wan­ my mind to drift with the motion. big man in a grey suit who might have ted to go on with 'their studies' as if the 'Why don't you bring your parcels aroused my wariness were his face not nation was not undergoing an upheaval. in here,' the man offered before I asked familiar. Sellouts seldom go around with Death did not mean anything, as long as him if he would not mind. familiar faces. Not that he looked like they lived in dreams of 'comfortable 'Ya. I think that's better. You know one; not by any means. But wisdom futures'. . . . ' I told him my reservation joke. A says that any stranger may be a sell-out. Soweto sprawled to the horizons like common plight united us. a reposing giant. I could not help feeling We had hardly warmed our seats Soweto sprawled to the hori­ something like awe, a clutch at the heart when the inspector showed up grunting zons like a reposing giant. I could of my being. With due respect, the train his 'Tickets, gou, Jong, gou.' not help feeling something like decelerated to a crawl as it left New We took them out. awe, a clutch at the heart of my Canada station behind and crossed 'Naam?' and his fat lungs expelled a being. * Noordgesig towards Mlamlankunzi sta­ gust that would have blown out all his tion, below Orlando Stadium. birthday candles at one go. It went The man stood a few paces to my 'There, near that high building which 'hiss-s-s' out of his thin nostrils, with a left down the corridor, his travelling is Mzimhlope station, is where I stay. jelly-like motion of his neck — I could bags in both hands as if he did not know This is Phomolong, beyond is Killarney. not tell where the face started. Where it what to do with them. Just then Bushy Further up is the hostel — the one that was supposed to start was a blue patch Hair came in dragging a mailbag. engaged in the faction of Seventy Six. on his pink flesh, which made me won­ Almost the same problem as mine. The horizon is Meadowlands. The der why his friends, if he had any, never Booked, but his name did not appear on school with a green roof to the right of told him to leave the beard on. His eyes the list. So what was he supposed to do? that ridge, is Orlando West High where directed an indifferent blue stare into Same advice. The single compartment the first bullet of Seventy Six snuffed my face. 'Mrs. (Myself),' I told him. was empty. Why couldn't he park there out thirteen-year-old Hector Peterson's A gust of wind and a look which told while waiting for the inspector to solve life.' I pointed it out to my companion, me that jokes from our kind didn't the problem? Bushy Hair obliged thinking that perhaps one day when tickle his humour, if he had any. without question, although he might Bantu Education and all the black man's 'Mrs. (Myself),' I repeated — serious­ have to explain later who had empower­ other ogres have been defeated I shall ly this time. He studied me, seemingly ed him, a black worker, to allocate suggest that the school be named after to discover if I were really a Mrs., or space on the train. Hector Peterson, for reasons well under­ what. 'Look it up on the list.' He dragged his mailbag past me. stood. The stare wandered over the paper as \ Then something struck his mind. He My friend looked attentively at the if nothing was written on it. I rose to turned to me with an angelic grin. living map I pointed at, like a determin­ help him find it. Life sprang into the 'Hoekom wag jy maar ook nie daar bin- ed school child in a geography class. blue pebbles. 'O ja, nou sien ek wat is ne?' He did not wait for me to say Trouble was, our class was moving and jou probleem. Hoekom se jy nie?' thanks. we missed some landmarks. 'And that 'Hoekom is because I wanted you to The familiar man came out into the there should be Dube,' he said, pointing. see the humorous side of life, fatty, and corridor and wedged himself between 'Ya,' I agreed, stopping short of patting you failed to do so. You're surely a dis­ the two walls, looking outside like me. him on the back, 'Nancefield hostel: appointing specimen, you are,' is what He turned his eyes towards me. They didn't know they were still enlarging went through my mind at that question, remained on me just too long to be those human sties.' but I let him be. those of someone who had never seen 'And this?' My ancestors! This penguin. Exactly! me before. 'Kliptown . . . Lenz, for the Indians. This seabird complete with white shirt, I ambled over to him as the train And on this side a military camp or base black epaulettes and ellipsoid shape. ground into motion. or something.' The lesson ended as I Good old penguin. His left paddle If you've been to school long enough j took a last glance at Chiawelo, as if to reached out for the ticket which he

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 13 ORLANDO WEST

clipped and handed back. All the time hannesburg station. Whose mistake? the compartments are used by the staff. sending down jets of hot wind out of his Mine or the S.A.R.'s?' Where should the passengers travel? In lungs, he scribbled on the list and grun­ Penguin rested his obesity on the the corridor?' ted: 'Kompartment B ' and stood there doorframe: 'You want to say it's mine 'Listen; I don't allocate places on the waiting for me to grab my baggage and now?' train. That is done at the office where light out to crowd the 'coloured' youths 'You are the Railways' official in you booked. Those people give the staff and an old man I had seen down the charge of this train and, I believe, your these kompartemente. I only . . . ' coach. duties include seeing to the well-being 'What do I do then? Because I want 'Later. I'll go later. Ek sit nog so 'n of passengers, black and white alike.' to get to Cape Town and I've paid for bietjie en gesels.' At the mention of 'black and white' it.' He had been to Pretoria to mark ex­ The last part got him where it count­ Penguin fluttered his eyes incredulously. ternal examination papers and I bet he ed. He melted like ice-cream on a hot He sucked air with effort before saying: was missing his family. day into a sweet fat Afrikaner boy: 'Ja. 'The trouble with you people is you 'The trouble with you people is you Jy kan maar sit en gesels, jong.' don't want to understand. I am not the don't want to understand . . . ' My companion explained that he had one who allocates the bookings . . . ' 'That you have no initiative neh? In­ reserved a first-class compartment, but 'But you are here to see to it that stead of clearing space for passengers his name did not appear. passengers travel comfortably. That's who've paid their money, you tell me 'Why did you come on this train why you're called inspector — to inspect you don't allocate. You can stop the then, if your name was not on the book­ and ensure the passengers' welfare.' train'at the next station and phone back ing list, huh?' Penguin left his little red Penguin was angry, the way fat to headquarters to find out if I'm on beak open in what ought to have re­ people get angry: 'You want to tell me this train or not, if that'll suit you,' said presented a sneer and was nothing but a what to do with my work? I've worked my companion. little red 'o'. for the Railways . . . ' 'Okay, give me your ticket,' and the 'I don't care how long you've work­ paddle shot out to receive the white My black mate seated himself firmly ed!' Two workers flinging their frustra­ piece of paper which served the same and launched his counter-attack: tions at each other across the colour purpose: 'But this is a rail warrant. You 'Look,' he said, 'I confirmed my book­ line. 'All I'm doing is presenting you didn't pay anything. Your case is just ing at both stations, Pretoria and Jo­ with my problem, and as highest repre­ paperwork. You didn't pay a cent!' hannesburg, and was told that I was on sentative of the Railways on this train I 'My department has paid all my ex­ this train — the ten thirty a.m. to Cape expect a solution from you and not penses! If other means of service ex­ Town from Platform Fourteen at Jo­ your biography. This train is empty. All change are a miracle to you, I'm not a-

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 ORLANDO WEST

bout to start explaining them.' My hear my name. Shivers through my over and see Angie on the black side,' I friend was losing patience. nerve tree render me a raving wholesale said, 'gave them permission while var­ 'Okay, then. I try to explain things slaughterer. Power has rendered me in­ nishing her nails.' Damned sceptic, I to you and you don't want to under­ sane. There must be some means, some thought. stand. I leave you just as you are,' said power to counter this crushing power. My mate chuckled: 'Even the inno­ Penguin, sensing it. He clipped the tick­ For every action there is an equal and cent cannot cross the line without per­ et and left. opposite reaction, the physicist states mission.' 'This was getting interesting, you undeniably. I can't stretch a spring in­ 'Which goes to show that racial pre­ know? It's a pity it ended so abruptly,' I finitely. Somewhere it has to break. I judice is an acquired and not a natural remarked to my mate. think this applies to people too. Yet I attitude. All racists must know that 'The whole trouble in this land turns go on hating and feeling insecure. There they're nothing but a bunch of brain­ on the question of attitudes. There can is no turning back for fear that the washed zombies.' never be any inter-racial personal com­ ghosts who lie on the roadside behind We laughed at that. munication without hostility becoming may rise in retribution. To reverse 'The worst part of it is that these are the medium. And always they start it.' things is to bring the ghosts back to life, fanatics that no one can simply ignore — 'It is because they believe hate and for it is like reversing time to a time be­ the common fate of other cultists. May­ contempt to be their salvation. How? I fore they died at my hands, my chains be it is because should they attain can't tell. All I can say of them is that and my guns. Yet there shall be no re­ power over others, the lives of millions it's a strenuous effort to strike reason­ tribution on the backward road if it is a are placed in jeopardy. They are in dan­ able contact with them.' road to love. For in the way of love one ger of a racial catastrophe. A separatist While my friend's tension diffused, I finds only love.' cannot be tolerated in any position of tried to find the logic of hate, but my Plains to the right and left of our power because he is a divisive force a- mind failed me. I could only deduce one train. Fertile farmland for the chosen to gainst the unity of the subjects over negative aspect of it, namely: that it was grow sunflowers, potatoes and maize. whom he wields authority, obsessed as a self-destructive life philosophy. If I Acres of it that stretched to infinity. he is with colour and ethnicity. A flame hate another human being, being human Convicts, (black of course) at labour, of destruction burns him and threatens myself, it means that I hate my own who greeted us. Little insignificant sta­ to burn everybody. What can one say on image. I hate myself. The same ap­ tions I hardly had time to read the his behalf?' plies to contempt. And oppression; if I names of before we swept past. A trac­ The penguin tried to play hawk but despise or oppress my own image, it tor droning far away and raising a dust the chickens might not have known means I despise and oppress myself also. column to the blue heavens. anything about hawks as yet, because Practically, I see it this way: when I And a revolution! they did not scatter or crawl under the start hating I do not expect the reaction Three lovely little white fairies peep­ nanny's wings. lWat soek julle hierso?' to be love. I expect a reaction equal to ed into our compartment down one side came his growl. my action, a relationship of hate for of the door, one head above the other in The kids continued playfully with hate. So if I hate, the same hatred order of their ages and heights. Three the black ladies, apparently because boomerangs on me with the same inten­ most innocent pairs of questioning blue they did not see anything amiss. They sity. eyes, most sincere little smiles, most thought the growl was directed else­ Now, hatred breeds distrust and melodious child voice from the tallest where. consequently insecurity. I hate someone toothless one: 'Excuse us, please mister. 'They have just paid their mother a else. Therefore, I know that he hates me Haven't you seen Angie?' visit from their other mother, oubasie' too. And because he hates me I do not 'Oh no girlie. Try next door,' I said. replied Angie with a smile by way of trust him. I do not feel secure against 'Thank you.' explanation. I could feel that she was the one I hate. What shall I do to feel Two little boys, apparently their bro­ praying against an outburst that would secure? There are two alternatives. One: thers, followed. They looked at us with embarrass her before the children. But replace the hatred with love and receive the indifference of little boys to old because those were white kids in the love in return, then trust, then security. people, busy discovering the train. midst of blacks they loved, there was Two: remove these objects of my hatred 'Innocent little ones,' said my com­ none. They were not harried out of who try to resist hate with hate, and panion with a paternal voice. there as black kids would have been if railroad them to the Isle of Makana. 'Ya,' I agreed, ashamed of myself for found on white premises. The scene Which of the two is the more lasting? thinking, 'Innocent little whites growing closed with a gentle reprimand: 'They The first, obviously: replacing hatred into guilty big whites. Nxa! This racism need a special permit to come here.' with love, learning to trust and feel se­ is infectious.' Whites can go anywhere blacks can cure. The second is a futile attempt at 'They know no other mother but go. But blacks cannot go everywhere establishing security because, for every Angie.' whites can go. The law of the country object of hate who responds with hate, I peered around the doorframe. They I was traversing in my train. and whom I remove either by termina­ had found her and she was uttering ma­ I went down the coach to the toilet, tion of life or incarceration on the Isle ternal sounds, ruffling hair, kissing and past that compartment I was supposed of Makana, ten more arise to cry out the fondling. I pulled myself back, relaxed to cram myself into. The 'coloured' injustice of my second alternative. They and felt good. It made me feel good to youths looked at me with such open rise and overwhelm me with their call come across rare innocence. friendliness that I found myself obliged for justice and in the fury of their call I 'Mother gave them permission to go to greet, and ask for matches although I

When I start hating I do not expect the reaction to be love. I expect a reac ion equal to my action, a relation- ship of hate for hate. So if I hate, the same hatred boomerangs on me witi the same intensity.*

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 15 ORLANDO WEST had mine. While I shared a smoke with a loved one. locomotive was making a fuss of it. the only one who was hooked on the A greyish patch of dried marshland Pounding with such enthusiasm one habit of lung-busting we chatted about towards sunset. Plants, shrubs, crying would have thought we were going at life in general — where we came from, out to deaf and blind heavens for rain. over a few hundred kilometres an hour, what it was like, where we were going, A golf course. White golfers and black when all we were doing was dragging until I forgot about the excess water in caddies. A human habitat looming a- with jerks and jolts across an ink black my body. head. Kimberley: life and relief from Karoo. Judging by the angle of the sun it loneliness. Tin shacks. A civilized 'co­ The little white children paid us an­ was now about three hours past the loured' residence. The light skinned other visit as promised, and this time meridian. I'd rather have a hazy idea of family men sat barebreasted on the they brought their mother along. The the time when I'm travelling, because I shades of their verandahs. Matrons wa­ ladies next door had run out of hymns don't want to know how much longer tering gardens. and hilarity. I'm going to be confined. 'Damn!' I Platform One. Kimberley, Kimber­ A full moon materialized and hung thought, 'They ought to show movies in ley, Kimberley, confirmed the luminous up there like an ominous silver ball. A long distance trains, or at least allow station signs. Strange faces looked at station, its name has slipped my mind. blacks into the saloon so's everybody passing strangers. Three 'coloured' youths who might can while away the time making friends. An old 'coloured' man, accompanied never have been out of the Karoo in all It's not like we were prisoners, mos.' on the platform by his son, daughter-in- their lives, went up and down the plat­ Klerksdorp. No one left or boarded law and grandchildren, was the only pas­ form greeting everybody who was peer­ the train. Nothing to that small town. senger to join the train. One grandchild ing out of the windows for the duration Unlike what a friend wanted me believe. stood out among them with her arrest­ of our stop. Each time he went there you'd think he ing beauty draped in a white frock, her Our neighbours came to our com­ was going to Wonderland. But maybe in black hair reaching down to the middle partment and asked why we did not the location there was life. Never a dull of her back. I thought of a friend who make travelling friends. We told them moment in a location if you stay awake. used to say: 'When God makes a we were shy and that tickled them. We I was beginning to long for home, I woman he's in real earnest.' I thought talked about this and that until we ar­ guess. he had been right. Nature knows that rived at the reasons for our journeys. When the train pulled slowly out, as without beautiful things to admire life 'I'm going to Cape Town with my if disappointed by the vain wait, I felt would not be worth living. master and madam,' said one. better. More rich and flat lands. I won­ 'Oh? All expenses paid by them?' dered if they were flattened at the be­ 'Of course. They are going on holi­ ginning of time or by man. 'Part of the day, not me. I had asked my madam to eighty seven percent that belongs to the give me the money instead, so that I chosen.' So it did not matter whether I could also go and spend Christmas with solved that one or not. I did not care my people, but her husband would not who had flattened the land. hear of it. Said he was not prepared to One good thing about that pilgrimage eat tinned stuff.' was that it took me out of the quick­ I thought: 'Because you're black, sand of location life for a while, to open you shall not do those things which it is plains which allowed me to think about in your heart to do.' just anything which entered my mind. 'So the wife can't cook?' For even the liveliness of a location 'Awuwa! What else can a white wo­ turns inwards, is of itself and no other man do? I'm her physical extension. Her place, chaining the mind. housewifely chores end in bed.' We Warrenton. Plains cut up into fields, laughed at the joke. thornbushes. Riverton. Both moss- lWena? Where are you going?' growing stations reminded me of old 'Also Cape Town.' western movies we saw at Mahala 'To spend Christmas?' bioscope on Mondays when we were 'No. To visit someone at Robben Is­ kids. So dead there was no need for the It made me feel quite sore to think land.' train to stop. that by the decree of the powerful I was A hush fell over the compartment. The little white girls (the boys having supposed to look upon her only as dif­ The locomotive gave a shrill whistle in left long before on an adventure) pro­ ferent, not as beautiful. Blast it! Was I the night. mised us they would see us again at going to conform to that sort of lowly 'Was he one of the 'Power' lot?' Kimberley. The emptiness of the plains thinking? What was beautiful was beau­ 'Meaning by that that he has some again filled me with a deep longing for tiful, black, white, 'coloured', Indian or areas of disagreement with the govern­ the city. The women next door sang whatever. To hell with all differing opi­ ment, or what?' church hymns and, after a lengthy wail­ nions! 'Mh.' ing, paused to laugh like banshees. The The train was jolted. Goodbye kisses 'Well, yes. Otherwise he would not sun slipped behind dark rain clouds. and handshakes for the old man. A few be there.' Sunbeams shafted through to illuminate minutes and the locomotive was into its 'Do they allow you to visit them?' patches on faraway plains. Iron wheels stride. 'Yes.' skated on iron rails as we hurtled into Carboniferous mine dumps — char­ 'So he's there with boMandela le bo- infinity. A man with a bicycle next to coal-coloured compared to the gold Sisulu le boMbeki? Tell him to say ba- him knelt by the side of the railway mine dunes — moved slowly back to­ ye the for us to all the great men there clasping his hands in supplication over a wards Kimberley. who have sacrificed themselves for us. pile of stone — his shrine or the grave of It became unexpectedly dark. The Molimo! I remember the days of the 16 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 ORLANDO WEST

Congress. I was this small then.' companion's turn to give me a geogra­ 'For the sake of justice,' I corrected. phy lesson, in a voice that told me he 'And justice is not only for black was happy to be home again. While he people. There are also whites on the Is­ pointed out the landmarks and I ap­ land for similar reasons as the blacks peared to be listening, my mind tried to there.' conjure up what it was like to be him. 'Awu?' To be told that you do not belong to 'Ya.' where you were born and bred. Obvi­ We talked for a while and they said ously his mind or his very being did not goodnight. believe a single word of that. So I Out of the blue the war in Zimbabwe thought he did not pain himself think­ came into my mind. Up there Africans ing about that aspect of his existence. were carrying their homes on their Which is one main shortcoming of the heads and moving away. The sky was black man. We are concerned only with burning. the immediate, as if we believed in policemen were mostly black. It was late and we decided to sleep. I manana — never doing today what we Acres of graveyard with skyscraper went out like a lightbulb and in spite of can do tomorrow — while the conspira­ tombstones. One sweep of the eye tells the braggart dragging us I slept like the cy against our human rights goes on: or, you thousands of the faithful departed dead till dawn. we simply lack foresight. Yet tomorrow are spending their eternity there. Would I woke up to ragged and uninhabited the fact of our uprooting may grow to be really interesting to wake each one country. It seemed that God had forgot­ true proportions and we may find it's and ask what they did with their lives. ten that part of the earth, for he had too late to voice our protestations Wonder how many would confess to apparently sent no rain to it for centu­ against laws that nullify us. racial prejudice. ries. The shrubs were widely spaced like In the other cities blacks may at Cranes rose into the sky like giant the hair on the head of a black child most be tolerated, on leasehold, or steel claws. 'That's where the docks are,' suffering from malnutrition. Perhaps for ninety nine years — ag, that sort of my mate said. 'On the other side of the they survived on mist and frost — where stuff, maan. But why should these train, Table Mountain. You can see the from I did not know, because the rivers people here be counted out? Are they Island very well from up there.' had dried up long ago and on some river not urban blacks? Or simply South 'The top?' beds I could make out car tracks. Africans worthy a stake in their father­ 'Yes, but not necessarily. You can al­ The scrub began to undulate and I land? so see it from other vantage points guessed we must be nearing mountain­ Ho-o-o ... I see. The labour. It's the uptown.' ous country. labour that counts. In the Western Cape The top of the Table was covered in I was right. The mountains rose high there is enough of it in the so called clouds. 'They call that cloud the table­ to shoulder the heavens. Clouds formed 'coloured' form, so that 'blacks' are not cloth.' halos around the peaks and the majesty needed except as reserves; which deal A dome-shaped concrete monster of the whole sight gave me an impres­ has been fixed with the bantustan pup­ stooped to our left. 'Good Hope sion of holiness although, truly speak­ pets. So you see how it is the labour Centre.' ing, I've never known what holiness is, that counts more than a black person's 'Where they have the big fights?' having been caught up in evil since I was being? The 'coloured' blacks can stay in 'Ya. It's on permit.' born. the Western Cape because they provide I lost interest in the Centre as soon as Touwsriver. While the coaches were enough labour. Nothing but units in the I heard that. being shunted everyone left the train to apartheid machine. I just wonder how Table Mountain was green. The stretch legs on the platform. Blatant my dear brothers see themselves. In the cranes clawed at the sky. A shade. Cape apartheid! The station bridge was divid­ other cities, too, they can stay and work Town station. A cave of more than ed in the middle with another wall for because they are so few, relatively, they twenty platforms supported on a forest obvious reasons. 'This is it,' I thought. pose no threat to white property. It is of concrete pillars. We went into the last 'You're getting closer to what you fear­ not because they are 'related' to the platform. The anxiety was back with ed. This was where it started.' white man, as some maintain. If they me. Would those people be waiting? I Vineyards, acres of them stretching are anything to the white man they are had expected the journey to last three towards where we were crawling pre­ rejected 'relatives'. days, which would have meant arriving cariously on the mountainside. Damn We were moving in some kind of the following day, Saturday, and that's engineers! There was the valley down natural trough — jagged grey mountains when they expected me. How were we there where we could be travelling safe­ faraway, rising unexpectedly out of flat going to make each other out? Not that ly, and they chose a railway on preci­ land all around the horizon. I feared getting lost, or that I might pices, if only to show off their building The avalanche of impressions enter­ have nowhere to sleep. If there is one skills. A great boulder diminished the ing my mind made me feel a bit faint. I thing black people can give, it is a roof train to a toy and the other mountains decided that the best thing to do was over a stranger's head. I thanked what­ to mere anthills. De Doring. I saw no just to look and not register anything ever Power was behind my being born ebony-skinned people like myself but for a while. But one thing I could not ig­ black. A taxi to the nearest location and golden men who smiled and greeted us nore as we passed many crowded little the rest would happen naturally. Even welcomingly. stations were the railway labour gangs my travelling companion, from what I After dusty Worcester I could feel it composed totally of 'coloureds' and the could gather from his disposition, was in the atmosphere that I was nearing the railway constables on the beat: set one not going to part with me until he was end of that part of my journey. Anxiety 'coloured' to catch another. Where I sure I was not stranded. was building up as the distance to Cape came from and in other places I had When the train stopped I got out on Town shortened. It was my travelling been in all four provinces, workmen and the platform to receive baggage through

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 17 ORLANDO WEST

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I have always been that way — I feel good in the company of good people, and have an instinct which warms me or warns me when it comes to picking the good from the bad. Not that I'm good myself but neither do I consider myself a hellish villain. * the windows. In no time everybody was ther of the man incarcerated for six suddenly turning in her seat and point­ down and I stood there not knowing years on the Isle of Makana, had said: ing above the docks. 'That black patch which way to go, waiting to follow my 'And I hope you meet that girl and all on the sea's horizon.' friend, at least to the taxis. At the same the others.' So I had known all along Everything else melted out of sight as time my eyes were scanning all the faces that it was not an ordinary skirt- my vision transmitted my mind's whole on the platform, looking for two people dangling girl I was going to meet. I was attention onto that isolated little coun­ I had never seen. I shall call the man glad that that was confirmed. I would try surrounded by a natural moat of Martin after Luther King Jnr. for the not have liked to meet a disappointment lapping green waters. 'There they are,' I love of people I was to discover in him first thing in Cape Town. thought and something happened deep once we had met. S'Monde was the Martin came closer. His head was down in my soul. All those men of clear woman I was looking for. crowned with brownish curly hair, neat­ conscience imprisoned for intolerance Two 'coloured' porters pulled a trol­ ly combed into the shape stylists call of injustice. I was about to take off in ley, loading all the baggage. I wanted to Afro, that set off clearly what I thought my imagination to the Isle, when it dip­ stop them taking mine. You see, I did to be a dauntless face. Strong cleft chin, ped out of sight. not trust having anything of mine out of unwavering eyes and a golden brown 'Quite near — heh? I always thought sight. I would carry my own load. complexion that reminded me of a Red it was a bit further out in the sea.' 'No, never mind. They are safe,' my Indian brave. A man I could trust with 'The ferry takes about fifteen to companion tried to assure me. my very life. twenty minutes to get there. Comes to 'Is it an apparition or what?' I asked S'Monde acquainted us in a woman's the mainland three times a day, morn­ myself. 'In Cape Town there are porters voice that did not need to sing for one ing, midday and evening. Fifty cents a for everybody. Even blacks don't have to listen to it. return trip.' to carry their own baggage out of the I shook hands with Martin. All the anxiety that I had had in me station.' That might have been nothing 'Mtutu is the first name.' I don't like up to that stage of my pilgrimage was to you but to me it was quite striking. being called Mister as if I were some fast seeping away. I have always been Not that I enjoy having someone else member of a community council or that way — I feel good in the company carrying my load for me; that is a privi­ something. of good people, and have an instinct lege of the rich, to have others do every­ 'Good, Mtutu. Aren't there other which warms me or warns me when it thing for them while they do nothing people who came down with you?' comes to picking the good from the for anyone . . . S'Monde asked. bad. Not that I'm good myself but nei­ I wouldn't mistake a black man and a 'If there are I didn't meet them.' ther do I consider myself a hellish vil­ black woman anywhere in the world. I My travelling companion came over. lain. It's just that in my life I have ex­ mean a black woman and a black man, 'So you've found your people Mtutu? perienced more evil than good, that be­ not 'non-whites'. There is something That's great,' he said, as pleased as I was ing the state of affairs in the world into about a black person which tells you at about it. which I was born. Good being a rarity, I a distance what he or she is. Something No other new arrival was on a pil­ find myself naturally searching for it in about the 'auras' of those two people grimage. My two parcels and a blanket both other people and myself: it needs drew me towards them in a way I could were on the trolley. When I wanted to to be shared, and if one is on the look­ not resist. Maybe it was the way they follow the porter I was told not to wor­ out for it and prepared to give one can­ appeared to be looking for people just ry, we would find them outside. not miss it. arrived in the train that made me notice I followed my people to the stair­ 'Groote Schuur,' said Nomonde, them. Anyway I approached the tiny cases past ticket examiners who did not pointing. woman. So tiny in a very feminine way ask for any tickets. Three or four en­ We turned left and went down a sub­ that I immediately felt like offering her trances to platforms. Neat architecture, urban street. The greenery, trees, hedges some kind of protection. nearly the same as the black section of and creepers overshadowed the dwell­ 'Er, sorry, sisi,' I said to her. Park Station. Packed with people com­ ings. It's the same in all white residential I was not so sure about the protec­ ing and going for Christmas festivities. areas, anyway. Nothing new to it. We tion anymore. Little serene eyes which Light brown people mostly. crossed a busy street. A bus terminus. made me wish for her protection in a Near the main entrance with a U- 'Buses to the black townships,' said strange city looked into mine. She shaped car park just outside we found S'Monde and I believe her 'blacks' em­ looked no more than a teenager. You the porters waiting with the trolley. I braced all but the whites, because I saw may have your laugh at a guy wishing removed the parcels. Martin took the mostly light brown people. 'That's for a girl's protection, but that was what small bag and I took the paperbag and Mowbray station.' A train was just pull­ I felt and I was not going to suppress the blanket. We said goodbye to my tra­ ing out, as packed as ever, township- my feelings. velling mate and left. bound. 'Sister, are you looking for people The Kombi was parked on the far Martin swung the Kombi into the last who have come to visit, er . . . the Is­ side of the U. My people went in front street and about half-way down it we land? My name is . . . ' and I told her. and I behind, and we drove away. We stopped. 'Institute of Race Relations.' I 'Oh! We were only expecting you turned to face the docks and the claw­ prefer 'Institute of Human Relations' to tomorrow.' ing cranes, the city to our left and be­ the present title. Anyway, Martin told That was how I got to know No- hind, then right onto a highway. me to leave my parcels in the car. monde in person. Our friend, the mo­ 'There's the Island,' said Nomonde, We went in, down a passage past a STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 19 ORLANDO WEST door open on a room with books and want Cape Town-born blacks in Cape the other two rooms to greet. The own­ African crafts, across another room and Town what will they say about others er of the house, his young matron and out into a small square with walls on coming in from outside?' v the two women on the verandah. I'm which were painted black figures — We turned and went into a narrow ashamed of my memory when it comes mothers carrying babies, children cling­ street lined by continuous 'houses' to names. When I came to the one who ing to their long skirts against the back­ which reminded me of Meadowlands, was from Mzimhlope I noted recogni­ ground of a dog-kennel house. On one only they were delicate-looking. As tion in her eyes but she did not know wall of the square one saw rows of dog- everywhere, people try to enliven their exactly where to place me or who I kennels on both sides of a street, with a environs; even if it means growing flow­ might be. The generation gap. I bridged group of men being herded into a kwela- ers in sand. We stopped outside two ad­ it by telling her exactly where I stay in kwela. The office door was diagonally joining houses, behind a simple cream- Mzimhlope and who my people are. She opposite the back entrance to the small white car. I could not make out exactly knew me then through her contempor­ yard, in a corner. Another door in the which one of the two doors with a aries and neighbours. The young woman same wall, with a young white woman common doorpost was ours. It was the also came from Soweto. working seriously at her desk in the of­ one on the right. Everyone was smiling. Somehow the fice. common purpose of our meeting so far Our office was very small. Too small I reckon that I am most con­ away from home brought us closer to­ for the immeasurable work that was cerned with what I call the charac­ gether, and bound us to the people who done there. Martin and Nomonde shared ter of life, the impressions that life cared and helped. And our confidence a single medium-sized desk, working on leaves on my mind. Names, in each other's trust was reflected in our opposite sides. An automatic tele­ though I do honour them once I smiles which vanquished all the sadness phone that looked out of place in the have grasped them, do not come that might have been in our souls. simple room rested on the table. The first in my consideration of life. * The matron of the house offered us rest of the space was taken up by a fil­ cool drink. She had sent a child to buy ing cabinet behind the door, a small And whom did I find there, if not a it from the shops. But we had to rush table in the remaining corner and two lady from Mzimhlope! One of those off, with due apologies for turning chairs on adjacent sides of the table, one women who have had to face life with­ down her generosity. between the table and the cabinet and out their husbands; mothers of father­ We transferred my two parcels from the other in front of the table on less children; fathers crushed under the the Kombi to the cream-white car, said Nomonde's side of the desk. juggernaut of racism. Her husband is on so long to Martin and then the three of By way of decoration there was a the island in perpetuity, by decree never us — the owner of the house we had just picture with portraits of the peoples of to return, and it was this that had visited, Nomonde and I — got into the the different continents. Some young brought her more than a thousand small car. and jubilant, others pensive and one kilometres to Kwa Langa. And with her As our new friend started the car striking age-wrinkled face. 'Togetherness a much younger woman, a girl by com­ someone came out of the door that irrespective of race and creed, and the parison, who had also come to visit shared a doorpost with his. Our driver burden of life feels lighter: the message her husband — on the Island for I don't peered out of his side window. in some of those faces,' I thought. know how long. 'Let's go man,' he shouted amicably. We all took seats; they at their re­ They were sitting on a very small and One good thing about friendship is: a spective places across the desk, and I on gloomy verandah, the younger lady friend seldom asks 'where to' before he the chair in front of the table and facing spinning a plastic ball in her hands, per­ has joined you. It was only when he had the door. haps still nostalgic for the days of play, got into the back seat next to me and It was hot. the other one knitting pensively. Mother greeted everybody, giving me a hand­ After my arrival was confirmed and and child facing the same plight silently. shake and his name, that he asked where the time of my visit noted, we left the Most probably there was still hope in we were off to. way we had come, to the Kombi and the younger heart, in the elder only a I reckon that I am most concerned god knew where — if it were not for prayer for a miracle. Many people in with what I call the character of life, the Nomonde who told me: 'We're going to this world, but very few to cry to. Wo­ impressions that life leaves on my mind. kwaLanga now.' I nodded as if I knew man and child who could cry no more. Names, though I do honour them once I where that was. We descended onto a What would it help, because tears would have grasped them, do not come first in freeway that ran under the railway-line melt neither prison walls nor their ma­ my consideration of life. I mean life from Mowbray, towards a power-sta­ kers. would still be interesting even if every­ tion, past it, turned left: and it needed A fresh tot of about two came boun­ thing were not known by name. I be­ no one to tell me that we had arrived cing over to Nomonde wth unrestrained lieve in discovery and then naming ra­ kwaLanga. 'You prick up your ears gaiety. They had a short chat while I ther than memorizing and applying when you come to your own kind of hesitantly took a seat, trying to avoid a names already given. environment, bastard,' I said to myself visual exploration of the new surround­ We had hardly driven fifteen minutes when I got the same sinking feeling that ings, and Martin crossed into the kit­ before I had discovered that the man I always experience after being out of a chen to greet the people there. The little sitting next to me was the kind of location environment for some time. girl was now through with Nomonde person that is good to have in company Nothing attractive but the human inha­ and trying to pull Martin down to her irrespective of how long you've known bitants. 'Administration Board offices.' little height; 'Martin, Martin ndiph'i- him: his soul overflowed with conversa­ Nomonde pointed to our right, turned cent,' which the latter would not have tion and mirth. left and pointed again to a prefabricated understood but for the last word. The only snag was that we were on structure: 'Pass Offence Court.' Nomonde lovingly reproved the little different wavelengths. Same humour, 'May the permit to the shrine save one for the root of evil. but his mind was filled with the Infor­ me from them,' I thought. 'If they don't The people of the house came out of mation scandal and mine with Smith's 20 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 ORLANDO WEST

burning skyline. He talked about 'Info': our souls. 'Ilele phaya i first victim do but await your calling to labour,' I 'It has proved to everybody, including yethu ka Seventy Six.' The graveyard thought. the staunchest supporters of the govern­ consisted of sand mounds with dust A minute later we were on the way ment, that we're all a flock of sheep wreaths. again. Two ragged young soccer teams that cannot do anything about be­ A brief pause in our thoughts to pay were kicking it out on an equally ragged ing sheared.' homage to the memory of that year of pitch opposite the police station on our 'Awu, thank you Judge Mostert!' repression. No black man who survived right. I could not have missed the police grunted the driver. that indiscriminate massacre will ever station for the kwela-kwela that was 'Yes,' I said. 'It shows one cannot forget it. I can still hear the bullets parked in front and the tattered 'vier- give one's support blindly. Look at whizzing past my ears, and smell the kleur'. We stopped and Nomonde got Smith right now. I wonder what all gas. out to deliver a Christmas wrap to a de­ those who backed him when he led that We stopped at a butchery that did stitute family. country on its first steps to disaster are not look like one because it was a town­ After that I noticed that we were saying now. Phela, the destruction of ship butchery. Nomonde pointed out to moving out of kwaLanga. Who was I to Rhodesia's biggest fuel dump is the me where she lives. No different from ask where to? We drove on a highway greatest setback yet for his side's al­ other locations I had been to on the full of buzzing vehicles on a late Friday ready futile war effort. Man, fuel is life.' Rand and elsewhere, except that this afternoon. We followed a maze of roads. lYa, too much power in the hands of was another place. Boys with nothing to I saw many light brown people. Sudden­ a few is dangerous.' do lay on the grass patches on the sides ly we stopped in front of an old Dutch- It was Nomonde who brought our of the street. Others were dribbling a style house and everybody got out and attention back to something closer to flat plastic ball. 'Black child, nothing to went in.

This is the first part of a new work of short fiction by the author of 'My Friend the Outcast, Call Me Not A Man,' 'A Glimpse of Slavery' and 'A Son of the First Generation'. Look out for Matshoba's first collection of stories, to be published by Ravan soon.

KWANZA/MABOPANE

PROFILE OF THE HISTORIAN WALTER BENSON RUBUSANE

B Y RISIMA TI JAMA THONSI

Very few in this country know about He realised that he must stand firm Act, he and his fellow leaders John Ten- the black historians who recorded and on the moment when the country was go Jabavu and W.P. Schreiner flew to participated in Africa's awesome saga. about to 'vomit blood', as an East Afri­ London to express their disgust with it. Among the unknown historians are can proverb says. Even during his stu­ With flames in their eyes they told the Jonas Ntsiko alias Uhadi Wa Se Luhla- dies under McKinley University (U.S.A.) British that the Act was leading to seg­ ngeni, Everitt Lechesa Segoete, Zwelin- he could foresee his black society being regation. zime A. Ngani, Walter Benson Rubusane dragged to a life of drudgery. Rubusane was by then immune to and others. Representing the Tembus of Somer­ the detention which he had suffered in The bug bit Rubusane at an early set East in 1910 he became the first 1905, 1908 and 1913 for his political age, sending him around collecting African candidate on the provincial activities. He returned to his pen to proverbs and traditional praise poems. council in the Cape. Showing realism write his masterpiece History of South While his one hand was immersed in and courage he was among the founder Africa from the Native Standpoint. studies he never let go what his other members of the South African Native In 1858 Mbonjana Rubusane never ink-itching hand was scribbling. He National Congress in 1912. With the thought his baby would grow into a satisfied the journalism monkey which backing of the Congress he protested man who would dig beneath the skin of was sitting on his shoulders with his against the German occupation of South South African history. book Zem'Inkomo Magwalandini West Africa. Again, when apartheid (Cattle Are Going Away You Cowards) emerged in the form of the 1913 Land Risimati jaMathonsi is the secretary of Kwanza, an arts group based in Ma- bopane East and Pretoria.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 21 MARIANNRIDGE

(On the 17 th of July 1967 John Coltrane passed from before our closed eyes with the heavy weight of song. On the 17 th of July 1978 the souls of Malopoets were totally imbued with the energizing spirit of this bard of sound. For this timely birth we have the unity of life to humbly thank.) In the next issue, Malopoet Mafika P. Mbuli's poem, 'In Memoriam: Speak Like A Child' will appear.

Attend warily my mahogany silence embracing the drum the oracular quivering BIRTH OF MALOPOETS to the dance of shades With my tempered blood-surge In the temporal margin the dismembered horn of night and light must cry the cow to life In the spatial flight between birth and death Hear my portentous timbre we await our souls for I am the Gwababa perched on a wrinkled twig Who am I of the mortar tree singing dissonant sonnets Who am I above the raucous glee Standing amid the harmattan's disarray I am the midnight sough the light of day Who am I is the unfolding of my song the elephant-skinned drum echoing the dawn of creation My son is the sigh of Gods Listen high and low Who am I for my voice is far-reaching the memories in songs of supple maidens Eugene Skeef balancing embellished calabashes on their plaited heads THE DIVIDING LINE

Who am I Life of perpetual separation — with ivory beads in my eyes Group Areas, Migrant Labour, straining under the kingly weight Race Classification etc., of the child of human time Keeps us apart all the time. Yet in my bearing And each time I crawl to my kraal, my mirth is echoed in universal thunder I feel, in the deep recesses of my soul, The agonies of happiness Who am I The sores eternally festering in the heat of my passion. whose tears of timeless wails have quenched the world's lustful thirst I long for the blanket of darkness whose sweat anoints To crawl out of my pained heart the stone and steel To reach out for the sourness of joy of her every tower Yet knowing that the dark night is a refuge Protecting me from the pain of unfulfilled promises. Who am I. . . In the deep recesses of my heart, Strung taut between my zenith Countless hours of pain and hurt, and the weaning earth-mother Fill the cavities left by fleeting tenderness. what plaintive melody I carve into the mysterious night Across the dividing line Let me live earnestly, love painlessly Balm the scalds on my burnt body To live to love love, Painlessly.

Ben Langa

22 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 MALOPOETS/MARIANNRIDGE

Eugene Skeef/For Bantu Steve Biko

PRAYER FOR STEVE BIKO FOR THE TRUE WOMAN

Fragments of people Woman — to string stern mother to child as blessed beads tender friend of man firm comrade of the withered soul You are the sworn chamber of the fallen creature bead I too have been held by which in the comfort of your swollen shrine the mother's head is finally borne noble Woman — warm threshold of the sunken comer Eugene Skeef fresh field for the silver flesh of the stiff snake slain lame to sire not hewers of mahogany but sensitive sculptors of tomorrow's history . . .

Woman — these cries you hear elicit crimson tears .

Eugene Skeef

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 23 ABANGANIDURBAN OPEN SCHOOL

CHAMELEON

That is wonderful, To see a creature Seeming to understand, TWO POEMS But not yet. BY That is marvellous, DERRO MAPHUMULO To look at a tiny chameleon moving. It seems as if it is afraid, But not yet.

That is impossible, To watch the clothes of the chameleon. SCULPTOR It seems as if somebody Always cleans it. Stone you are my father. But not yet. Your behaviour is giving Me more enjoyment. That is impossible, Food I eat seems to be you. To see the chameleon Taking off its clothes. Stone you are wonderful, But it seems as if To be so kind to me. It has got many clothes. Your kindness is forgotten But not yet. In our days. You can buy yours, Stone you are so hard But the chameleon not. To be understood, You can change yours, But the world is you, But the chameleon not. The earth was you before. Colours you have. Stone I trust you, Chameleon has got it. Because you are stable. Where does it come from? Nobody can chase you away. No one knows. I thank you lovely stone. God knows.

MPUMALANGA - HAMMARSDALE, NATAL

TIME OF THE HERO

Time of the hero is when blacks start TWO POEMS pissing on Mankuku's lament BY refusing to bemoan their blackness MAFIKA PASCAL GWALA — is when music fans drop out of pancake blues and appletart classics — is when Mannenberg's untoothed mamas chew 'druiwe by die tros' — is when Ngoye students blow Graffitti Blues on the System — is when the ghetto goes for imbuya herbs & butterbeans chitterlings. Time of the hero STORY OF THE TRACTOR is when leftovers give blacks constipation — is when ghetto trains We walk down spill out racecards thru the windows tractored streets — with blacks refusing to bet on their poverty turn round anymore. tractored corners Time of the hero enter is when Durban's Golden Mile tractored buildings stops being golden ride up — is when Jo'burg The Big Apple turns fluffy tractored stairs — not with Soweto massing the streets. into Time of the hero tractored rooms is when the struggle weeds out occupied by people alcoholic glances & syphillitic frowns. with tractored minds The moment of the times shall have come.

24 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 The Patriot

A story by Mothobi Mutloatse, illustrated by Mzwakhe

Indeed, Kefentse Morumi was a veri­ stench that seemed to characterize the today as there is no-one to teach be­ table lover, a lover of his own country. dilapidated loO in which empty bottles cause of these troublesome students. A die-hard patriot, to the degree that his of booze were strewn all over the place. And there is no point any more in my young and shapely wife and childhood As soon as he left the loo, he headed going to school to empty classes. Se­ sweetheart had reason to object. His straight for the nearest police station condly, I don't anticipate any problems love for her and their eight-year-old son, where he duly presented himself as a with the department because of my de­ Mandla, seemed to be flickering towards potential army recruit! Right there on cision to go to the border.' extinction. the spot. Said the sergeant: 'Don't worry This happened soon after Kefentse He was willing; he was raring to have about that: we will take care of that as­ had come across a magazine, probably a go at the bloody communists, he told pect right away. Be here in two weeks, government-owned, in which all young the sergeant at the counter. And he right?' and able bodied men 'of all races' were wanted so much to show the terrorists, Kefentse thanked the sergeant for his invited to join the army and 'fight for as he called them, a thing or two. help, walking out of the police station your country'. 'They just cannot come here and as proud as a peacock. Kefentse was totally hypnotized by take our country like that,' he snapped From there, he popped in at the de­ the article, and decided on the spur of his fingers demonstratively. partment's regional office where he had the moment to do .as he was requested. And the sergeant was impressed. no hassles in getting his 24 hours resig­ That is, to do his patriotic thing! 'The country needs more young men nation, plus three months bonus. There­ He knew something about warfare, as like you, who are not power-mad', he after he took a dark train homeward he was the history master at the local told the grinning teacher. 'Do you think bound, but on the way, he decided to high school — and an enthusiast, at that. you can offer your services in two visit his boss — the principal — at his He had come across the magazine weeks' time?' home and tell him the good news. while answering nature's call at a public 'There is no question about that. I But the principal was unimpressed. toilet in town, amid the unpleasant can hand in my resignation at school In fact, he and Kefentse had never got

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 25 PIMVILLE, SOWETO i When the big day came, Mmabat ho packed her belongings and those of Mandla and left for her in-laws' place even before her husband left for the border. Without as much as wisshin g him bon voyage. *

along well since the principal's two- play outside. drank my own urine to stay alive in the week detention after he had lectured 'I'm warning you,' said Mmabatho, desert, and I'm still drinking my own Kefentse's class on human rights in the 'if you walk out of this house to go and urine to survive in my own country!' country, and how they were non-exist­ defend your so-called country, don't The sarcasm was strong. ent. expect to find us here.' Kefentse's mother also entered the All that the principal said to his visi­ 'Cool off,' he pleaded with her and arena. tor was: 'I shall be having important vi­ tried to touch her. 'But son, how can you leave your sitors in a short while, will you please She almost shrieked at him. wife and child in these troubled times?' excuse me?' 'Don't you dare touch me . . . don't 'Once the communists are defeated, Kefentse got the cue and quietly you dare touch me ... I have lost Ma, then everything will be well again,' went out, almost cursing his ex-boss. friends because of your stance at school. said Kefentse. When he reached home, he found his And now this!' 'Like when?' yelled his father. wife, Mmabatho, reading a newspaper in She almost spat on the floor. Mmabatho intervened: 'There is no the small dining-room-cum-lounge, and 'Don't you understand, I'll be doing use in trying to dissuade him from go­ Mandla playing with his train-set at her all this for the good of the country. ing. He has made up his mind, and that's feet. Something must be done about these that with him.' He put up a smile: 'Hello, every­ communists . . . they won't let us sleep 'If that is the case,' said Kefentse's body.' in a few months. We must do all we can father in a threatening tone, 'then I Mandla got up from the floor and ran to prevent them from making us slaves.' don't think Kefentse is welcome in this towards his father who eagerly scooped But Mmabatho, who had by now be­ house any more.' him into his arms. come so agitated that she was left Kefentse, shaken a bit, replied: 'You 'Papa, what have you brought from speechless, suddenly stormed towards don't really mean that, dad, it's only the town for me?' Mandla asked as Kefentse their bedroom, banging the door behind nerves — ' ambled towards his wife. her. His father shouted back: 'Give me And he blushed suddenly. The Kefentse just stood there, shaking his that nerves rubbish again and you'll end thought had never entered his mind. To head in confusion, as if to say, 'Oh, this up with a broken neck . . . just you dis­ buy something for his son, that is. He difficult woman . . . ' appear from my sight.' looked so apologetic that it hurt. But still, that did not move him to When the big day came, Mmabatho The best thing left for him to do rescind his decision. packed her belongings and those of then was to lie. For the next few days, there was no Mandla and left for her in-laws' place 'Oh son,' he mumbled, 'I think I left dialogue between them or sharing of the even before her husband left for the your bananas on my table at school. marital bed. border. Without as much as wishing him Don't worry, I'll buy some more tomor­ She went to tell her in-laws as a last bon voyage. row. Now, be a good boy and go and resort, in a bid to make her husband And yet, Kefentse was adamant a- play with your toys.' change his mind. bout serving on the border. He eventu­ He said to his wife: 'Darling, some­ Nix. He was still as stubborn. ally left that evening with the hope that thing great; something of value has hap­ He told his parents the die had been his wife would recover from her slumber pened to me . . . ' cast. and endorse his stand. Without taking her eyes off the pa­ At this, his father almost jumped at After six letters home, which Were per, Mmabatho replied: 'Can you let us him. never answered or acknowledged, Ke­ into the secret?' 'What do you know about war?' he fentse began to feel uneasy. He sent te­ 'It's no longer a secret. Even the de­ asked. 'Do you think they care for you? legrams to his parents, but they too, re­ partment knows about it.' I know what I am talking about. I, too, fused to answer him. 'What are you talking about, then?' was in the army ... I was in North Afri­ And this gradually affected his mor­ 'I'm going to join the army.' ca. I saw Tobruk fall with my own eyes. ale so that he was unable to sleep com­ She was startled. I was not told about it — I escaped fortably. Three months later, just before 'You are going to join what?' twice from German captivity, fighting Christmas, Kefentse asked for two 'Now, now, don't get emotional.' for what I believed was my country. weeks' leave which he got immediately, 'What have you been up to this And after all that sacrifice, in which I but with the friendly warning that he time?' almost lost this right leg of mine — look could be recalled before the leave had 'I only said I have signed up to go to I've got this scar on my knee' — he lif­ expired. the border and fight for our country.' ted his trousers to reveal an ugly-looking When he and the other border fresh­ 'And who gave you permission to do long scar around the right knee — ' . . . men arrived at their destination, which so?' all that I got for my services in North was the local township police station, it 'The department.' Africa, is a second class citizenship.' was about 11 p.m. And there was no po­ 'The department you say, always the 'But, father,' Kefentse charged, lice van to take them to their various department, which you seem to respect 'times have changed. We are now faced homes. more than your own family.' with a greater risk. Communists. They All that was left for them to do was 'Now, Mmabatho, don't let's argue in want to rule the whole world. We can­ either to foot it home or hire cars. front of the child.' not just sit back and let our riches be Nervously, Kefentse footed it alone 'I don't care,' Mmabatho answered in taken away from us.' to the main tar road, where he thought a raised voice. 'Don't give me any of that rubbish, he could hire 'special delivery' home. He Kefentse ordered Mandla to go and you hear,' Kefentse's father retorted. 'I had been waiting there for half an hour 26 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 PIMVILLE, SOWETO

when he spotted a car approaching. room with a nip of whisky! victims of the pass raid. Frantically, without realising he was The next morning, he was given a lift Not a sound nor a whisper would laying himself open to a hit-and-run to his home by a guest at the den. At his come out of his mouth. motorist, Kefentse ran into the middle gate, Kefentse was confronted by a It was as if he had been frozen. of the street, waving at the oncoming mean-looking bull-dog he had never seen Having travelled the whole township car to stop. previously. for full two hours snapping up more The car screeched to a dead halt a And he had to beat a hasty retreat casualties of the vicious laws, the police few paces in front of him and he quick­ just in the nick of time, or else the then dumped their load at the dumping ly ran to the driver's side, together with mongrel would have bitten a chink off court. his suitcase, heavy with presents for his his calf. There the men spent the night hud­ wife and son. He was shocked and confused. dled in a small cell that could only safe­ 'Please, driver, take me home and I'll But Mmabatho was one who never ly accommodate twelve men, whereas pay you well,' Kefentse begged. liked dogs, he thought to himself. its occupants exceeded twenty. There were four people inside. Three Just then, a man came out of the Early the next morning, the group men and a tipsy woman who could not house with hostility written clearly in was kicked out of the cell into a gaping stop giggling. She remarked: 'Oh, he's a his face. magistrate's court in which sixteen men soldier. Let's take him and charge the 'What the hell do you want here?' were found guilty and fined, in just un­ bill to the state.' der fifteen minutes. Kefentse did not wait for a reply and Kefentse was the seventeenth accu­ got in next to the giggling woman on sed. the front seat. He was asked by the interpreter, who The driver said: 'I think I'll only was reeking of liquor, what his plea was. charge you a bottle of whisky, brother. To what? How about that?' 'I'm not guilty of anything,' protes­ 'That's fine by me,' Kefentse quickly ted Kefentse, though he didn't know replied. He didn't want them to change what the charge or charges were. their mind all too soon. 'Look here,' whispered the interpre­ The next thing, two hours later, he ter to him, 'don't come here and waste woke up to find himself lying in a ditch, your time. Just plead guilty and we'll bleeding from the back of the head just make fast-move for you.' wearing his underpants. 'But, but,' said Kefentse, 'I don't — ' His assailants were nowhere to be 'Not guilty, your worship,' the impa­ seen. He was in another township. An­ tient interpreter intercepted, giving Ke­ other city. fentse a mean look. And so did the pro­ He heaved his heavy body up after a secutor, who muttered under his breath. struggle that seemed a century, and cast The prosecutor leaned out: 'Mr. In­ his eyes on the surroundings. It was an terpreter, ask the accused whether he open field, a football ground probably, does not wish to change his mind.' overlooking a row of houses that looked Kefentse got hold of himself sudden­ drab, and with similar and monotonous ly, and blurted out: 'I'm not guilty, designs. your worship. I mean, I am just from Just then, he saw a police patrol van Kefentse could not believe his ears. the border where I defended my coun­ passing and he darted like a springbok 'I said what do you want here? I try ... I killed thirteen terrorists ... I over thorns, towards it. don't like visitors; don't you see the sign was robbed on my way home, your 'Please help me, I've just been rob­ on the gate?' worship.' bed. The sign read: 'No visitors are allow­ The magistrate, who appeared to The driver, who looked stinkingly ed except by appointment.' have been dozing, raised his head: drunk, laughed at Kefentse: 'Look here Protested Kefentse: 'But this is MY 'Mr. Interpreter, warn the accused that I can't help you. Unfortunately I've just house . . . ' this is a court of law and not a theatre been having sex. Good night.' 'You're bloody mad . . . one more for actors. And tell him also that I've And with that, he drove off, bump­ noise from you and I'll set my dog loose heard that cock and bull story all too ing against the mini-pavement while try­ on you to make mincemeat out of you. frequently in this court.' ing to drive in a straight line that was as Just clear off from here.' Mr. Interpreter sheepishly muttered, straight as hell. As he said this, the man slightly 'Yes, your worship, Yes, your worship,' Kefentse found himself in a strange opened the gate and Kefentse, smelling and turned around to face Kefentse who house whose occupants were still awake defeat and possible injury, quickly was shivering in the witness box, anxi­ at that time of night: because it was an sprinted three houses away where he ously. illegal all-night drinking den! stood in the street. The magistrate went on: 'And, He got in at the back, and luckily, he He could not get head or tail of what Mr. Interpreter, tell the accused that the bumped into the queen of the den, and was happening. fine is eight days' farm labour, seeing he because she'd handled all types of town­ He was still pondering when a police has not got money to pay the fine.' ship cases with expertise, as if she was a van stopped next to him, and two po­ On hearing this, Kefentse nearly psychiatrist, she immediately took pity licemen came out. One of the men went berserk and shouted: 'I'm inno­ on Kefentse and in no time had him barked at him: 'Where's your book of cent. I'm a soldier . . . I've done noth­ clothed with her roving husband's life?' And the stunned Kefentse, with ing, as the army will be able to ... ' clothes. Fed sufficiently as well as ac­ his mouth wide open in bewilderment, The court orderly rushed to him and commodated for the night in the store­ was bundled into the van packed with clubbed him several times on the head

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 27 PIMVILLE, SOWETO jintil Kefentse stopped his court antics. Mmabatho; hello Pa ... ' Tears unwillingly started rolling He was then pushed down the stairs It then struck him that something down Kefentse's cheeks, but he appear­ into the cell where he rejoined his WAS greatly wrong. Somebody special ed not to have been aware of them. group, which had been allocated to a was missing. Someone dear. His father said: 'By the way, we are farm 200 km away. He then ran back towards his wife, now going to where we know nobody And the owner was notorious for his dressed all in black, grabbed her roughly and have never been before: because we cracking whip on naked backs and his by the shoulders and half-shouted: 'Wh- also lost even our second class citizen­ fondness and preference for dogs over where is he . . . where is he . . . where's ship following the independence of dark human beings. my son?' what is said to be our country. And But the first night as a farm labourer Mmabatho, unmoved, glanced across son, you have not been excluded from happened to be Kefentse's last. Among her shoulder at her father-in-law for this ruling.' the labourers was one jail-bird who sta­ help. Kefentse looked sour: 'What do you ged an escape — he had in fact done it a And he did offer it gladly, sadly: mean by that?' dozen times at different farm-jails. Ke­ 'He's gone 'Don't be daft,' said Mmabatho, fentse wasted no time in joining the 'Gone where to?' 'we've just been made pariahs and out­ group that escaped that cold moonlit 'He's dead casts in our own motherland by some night. 'He's what?' political trick while you were fighting He was missing his family terribly. 'Dead . . . killed by a stray bullet at your communists! And my son was be­ Along the way, the convicts split up school. And take your paws off Mma­ ing shot accidentally several times.' and went their different ways. batho,' Kefentse's father suddenly shou­ Kefentse was still not convinced: Kefentse footed it home, without ted. 'But they know me well at the capital; bothering even to hike. Kefentse did so reluctantly, momen­ they wouldn't do such a thing to me. He reached home, whatever that was, tarily paralyzed. They know I'm a soldier . . . ' at sunrise, heading straight for his fa­ 'And there's nothing more that can 'They may well know you son,' said ther's place. He could not risk his, as it be done about it,' added Kefentse's mo­ the old veteran, 'but they don't damn had a bad omen. ther. care about your family!' At the gate of his parents' home, he After he had recovered from his ini­ 'I'm going to do something about found people loading furniture onto a tial shock, Kefentse said: 'It can't be this', insisted Kefentse. huge truck. A removal underway. true . . . my Mandla can't be dead it's a And Mmabatho had the final crush­ Smelling a rat, Kefentse ran into the great big joke ... he didn't do anything ing word: 'Like bringing my son back house. And found his parents and his wrong... he couldn't fight anybody from the grave!' wife packing some clothes in the bed­ . . . being so little and so fragile . . . ' This time, Kefentse knew it: he was room. Suppressing anger, Kefentse's father trapped. It was too tall an order — even A few seconds' silence ensued until said: 'Will you now leave us in peace, for a patriot. Kefentse said in a shaky voice: 'Wh-wha- son?' what is going on? Oh, hello Ma, hello 'Please,' added Mmabatho.

MOROPA ARTS ASSOCIATION, RANDFONTEIN

OH, DISTANCE!

Oh, distance! you were polite, authentic and cool Lovely words I hear no more — the mighty gossiper you were innocent she kept a low profile. the mighty destroyer you left me alone Oh, distance oh, distance in the arena of confusion have mercy and return her. the adamant initiator. I am nowhere I'll regard you as a good initiator, I am in darkness I'll worship the ground on which you stand. My head is big oh, distance empty and hot have mercy. I hate your strategy like fire. Stillness! My soul is troubled I hate your sweet tongue It's plunged me mute my heart is pounding painfully I hate your soft touch, I am desolated, deflated, inside me Lovely words pouring from your I am cold, dead without her I am mad, mad, mad. mouth — venom: distance, oh, distance oh distance return her, I'll worship I am troubled have mercy. the ground on which you stand I am nowhere oh, distance I am in darkness A sight of her! I don't know Have mercy. oh, distance her countenance; it's faded away have mercy. since you claimed her. Victor Sello

28 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 MBAKASIMA/SEBOKENG AND EVATON

POOR ME BLACK JESUS CHRIST I began to doubt my doubt, All over the world Questioned life and death Christians are waiting Lost in a labyrinth of complexities, For the coming of Jesus Christ. Living in a climate of stress, Jesus is in South Africa Believing in my own judgement As a blackman at Crossroads in a twilight zone between He is suffering more than consciousness and unconsciousness: He suffered on the cross. This was just the beginning — Poor me! He was woken up at night by cops, Arrested for permit and pass, Day by day I knew He was kicked out of a white church (he's black), I had been fooled: He could not eat in whites-only restaurants, Living in an era of compulsion, He had an accident with his white boss Erecting schools and But couldn't be taken to hospital with his boss deprived of an education: In a whites-only ambulance. Poor me!

He was detained by the security cops Pardon me, yeah, I beg your pardon, Under section six, I lived in a climate of tension The law of the Nazis. Accepting distasteful deals Like some of the detainees under that Act of the so-called Barter Trade, He took his sweet life. changing my true identity He shot himself with a Russian-made gun — into how-do-you-do Mr. Richard: How? When? Where did he get the gun? This was just the beginning — Was he not searched before by security cops? Poor me! Who is next, and how will he die? A voice emerged from nowhere Abia Ramalebo Diutloileng speaking vague words of encouragement To you in person: 'Son of Tophet .... You deserve death But There is, a room for reconciliation' — Poor me!

You created prisons To imprison your esteem: You taught me not to be afraid of myself, MY MOTHERS SON Urging me to savoir-faire — Yet you cry over oozing blood! Walking to and fro This was just the beginning: In the streets of Evaton Poor me! Patience be with me For I am searching You said you are a fusion For the soul I destroyed of two parties in love: The soul of my maimed mother You made me cut Who brought me into this sinful world my ties of friendship and my parents; Stomaching all the pains of pregnancy my final destination Waiting for so long for me to be born - was a world of your own — Yet I could not wait for her Poor me! When she took a night tour. Stand up, you are fortunate, I regret chasing her away — forget about travelling in style — Come back mother, Look into tomorrow . . . Your son's heart is slipping away You've got the responsibility, In self-pity, You applied for the adoption, Death is gradually taking me away. taking the burdens of my parents Come to me, mama onto your broad well-shaped shoulders. I am for you: This is just the beginning — I am for Evaton, mama I am Pregnant: I am what I am. Poor me! Begin! Richard Thutloe Richard Thutloe

The Mbakasima writers' group, based in Sebokeng and Evaton, can be contacted through Staffrider or P.E.N.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 29 o-- ~_ >< ^< '

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.

Harry Nkoane Moyaga/ Untitled. (Work by the same artist appeared on the covers of Staffrider Vol 2 No. 1 March 1979).

30 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 GUYO BOOK CLUB/SIBASA

THREE POEMS AND A LETTER

ZWO NWALWA MURAHU HA DULU THE SONG SAID (kha Duma kaNdlovu na Risimati j'Mathonsi) the song said of pasadena of massachussetts and Naho nda funzea lune ndi si tsha pfesesa of California Thi nga tendi u Matshili o vhuya-vho a nwala phondiri, Zwe a nwala na u ro andesa never about Ho sokou vha u tambisa mabambiri. folsom soledad E kha lihanya la u dobedza zwe vhanwe vha lata and U ndi hone ndi khou fhululedza; san quentin Ri tshi amba nga Fhululedzani a songo kwata Vhunga u ralo ndi u mu nea-vho tshedza. azanians are told to sing of sibasa Ra fhumula u mu eletshedza seshego Vhuvhava hawe vhu do tou andesa, mmabatho O tanganya na raimi yawe ya u kombetshedza and U do di ri tshirendo tsho fanela u lapfesa. umtata

Zwirendi zwihulu ri tenda ene Sigwavhulimu never about Na livhanda Euclid Tshisaphungo, the fort Ndi one mavhanda a u thoma u pfuka musengavhadzimu, modderbee He a kanda hothe hu pfala nga muungo. and robben island U ngafhi mukalaha Nenzhelele? Zwo kunda a nga si tsha engedza, Maano Dzeani Tuwani Arali ndo guda u zwifha a mpfarele Nga a rume Nemukovhani u do nkhevhedza.

Tshindane Mashuwa na Maumela vho didina, WE GATHER Ngavhe vha tshi di dovha u engedza Naho ri si nga vhuyi ra vha vhambedza na Madima. Why such a shameful nature we cherish Always ill with the desire to gather D.M. Ngwana ndi ene khotsi a zwirendi When God wants us to live together? Vhatsila vho veta-veta vha fhedza nga u posa peni kule, Always gathering for ourselves Hhuvha hu a fhisa shangoni la vhurendi What God gave us to share. A zwi divhaho na u sasaladzwa a nga si gungule While my family for a fortnight Naho nda funzea lune ndi si tsha pfesesa On half a score pounds can thrive Nga u tevhela milayo nda do hanedza na vhupfi hanga, Why at the expense of my fellow brother Madima na Ratshifanga vha do divha vha u konesa. Against the norm of our corrupt society - Ndi vhone vhane vha vha midzimu yanga. Should I strive for luxury?

Maano Dzeani Tuwani Tshilidzi Shonisani

Dear Fellowrider, Our group feels that perhaps Staffrider could run some short story and poetry competitions during the course of this year. Although book reviews are going very well, Staffrider could from time to time give us some papers on African literature and related topics. Essays like 'What do African Intellectuals Read?', 'The African Writer and the English Language', 'The Novelist as Teacher' — all by Chinua Lomugo Achebe. And some other critics like Richard Rive, Mbulelo Visikhungo Mzamane, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Misere Mugo etc. We vow to be part of the struggle — the struggle of creating and promoting African literature, and we wish and hope to end this decade with a high literary development in this part of the continent. Your fellowriders, GUYO BOOK CLUB P.S. We have noticed that in the March 1979 issue, one of our pages reads: Guyo Sibasa/Venda. This is incorrect and very embarrassing as it made us appear tribalist and the other jive, as Mafika Gwala would say.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 31 CREATIVE YOUTH ASSOCIATION/DIEPKLOOF

ANOTHER KING GONE

Another king gone who from his mother's womb prowled the music scene sounds and rhythms rivering from the mountain of his heart spirits of Africa converging our black heritage bulging within ourselves

This epileptic fit depriving him of his heartbeat will never engulf the sounds and rhythms of Africa

Naked he wriggled out of his mother's womb silent he dripped into his mother's tomb sounds that were not wounds lived in his motherland

The tomb is trembling a turmoil within our hearts relatives and friends roof the soiled coffin with wreaths as he flowers the grave of his son and is gone, but done done, but gone

Your life is done but gone graveward lies your body soundward lifts your spirit • il ! the roof of traditional afro rock is Harari H\ A L.M m Jo 4 T H 6..N m irr

Harari will live with africa Peter M&shishi/Malombo at Newport (lone wandering is inane) as you lived with africa black heritage the norm of your sounds the creative skulls of our ancestors unscuttled

We perished in the scalding thoughts of your death, but africa is pregnant with the sounds of our grief DESTITUTES IN THE CITY the african baby is about to be born and the womb drumming into the ears of africa Our brothers, owned by the city parks hopes of bright life lopping So sleep well, Selby Their longevity accommodated by comfort of death sleep well soulking of Africa. When the sun hides its softly prickling rays to recharge them Matsemela Manaka gloomy faces are left in solitude as mist of dusk descends escorted by cold wind sticking on their FOR YOUR DEFENCE bodies like glue on paper

Afrika! They are allergic to penicillin t Grow a big head the conspicuous aluminium metal around And their wrists Sharpen your elbow. to warn ignorant 'doctors'

Makhulu waLedwaba Bodies harbouring lice to keep them company Lying on their 'beds' attentive to a choir of flies FREEDOM humming a lullaby with drums of a groaning stomach If the freedom I cry for is beneath the big Manila tree Oh! Brothers your dignity and pride I'll use my hands to dig it free. is excoriated by the relentless hand of misery. Makhulu waLedwaba Rakau Mphulo

32 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 CYA/DIEPKLOOF

LOST IN THE DESERT OF LIFE

Keep your ears to the ground And ignore my sorrows. I clamour for happiness not sadness But the deaf lord and blind, dumb land Brought on copious sorrows.

I cry the iron tears My tears are full of salt My body is losing hope of life My life is like a long lonely load Which is roughly conveyed by angry lions.

Maybe I am lost in the desert of life My feelings of life are galloping and despairing While the frozen heart is tired of life And my impregnable body wants to die For I am tired of living in the pool of sorrows.

Graves are shivering, The soulless body is on its way to death. My family is out of pity They don't want to satisfy my needs Surely I am lost in the desert of life.

Great forests are weeping Tall grasses are marching My mother is no more my mother But my great enemy So, there's no happiness in my life.

I lay on my broken bed I lay on my bloodied sheets I took my sorrowful book to read But in vain: sorrows are playing in my mind.

Girls have become my enemies They are my love disasters I tried, they refused. I tried, they promised. They kept empty promises in my full heart.

They turned me into a dog in slums Tate Mmuso Koele/Untitled , I cried to the merciless land, but just wasted my tears SOWETO IS . . . I left my tears on the notorious land I watched them dissolving in dark soil A hundred thousand tiny factories Which seems to sympathise with me. Patched in similarity on the ground Uniform and stable in produce, I am not good to live Harbours of crime and forced merriment I am useless to die Enslaved by ailments and darkness. Now where should I go? Maybe somewhere to the sunless land And here's the yield of my patch, my factory: Slowly I am lost in the desert of life. The smog frustrates my lung's wish. My eyes tearful and painful, Frank Mashigo My years stolen away from me I'm driven back to infancy.

Smog-smell burns in my eye NEED I Like the sneeze of the 1976 teargas, It pricks my brain to ask Need I The darkened factories the same again: Convince anybody Why, S owe to, why you, tell me That beneath Why shower my eyes with tormentors' gases, This black skin of mine Why bring blindness to my eyes There flows blood That I may not see your pains? Human blood? Should I stand back and pretend bliss? Mabuse A. Letlhage Masilo Rabothata

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 33 JOHANNESBURG

THE MEETING work in progress by Nadine Gordimer

Gordimer in the Seventies: A Guest of Honour (1970), Livingstone's Companions (1972), The Conservationist (1974, in Penguin 1978), Selected Stories (1975, in Penguin as No Place Like, 1978), Some Monday for Sure (stories, 1976).

I skirted Flora's assembly and sat bring the discourse to an end with flour­ two-piece dresses pleaded, were com­ down at the back. The meeting had just ishing nods. A redhead whose expres­ plaining, opportuning for the creches, begun. After the cube of courtyard sun, sion was blurred by freckles floral as her orphans, blind, crippled or aged of their dark breathing splotches furred with dress asked passionately that the meet­ 'place'. They asked for 'old' cots, 'old' light transformed the big livingroom. ing launch a Courtesy Year to promote school primers, 'old' toys and furniture, Everyone — I began to see them proper­ understanding between races. She had 'old' braille typewriters, 'old' building ly — bunched together in the middle her slogan ready, SMILE AND SAY material. They had come through the and back seats, the black women out of THANKS. There was a soft splutter of front door but the logic was still of the old habit of finding themselves alloted tittering crossed by a groan of approval back door. They didn't believe they'd secondary status and the white ones out like some half-hearted response in get anything but what was cast-off; they of anxiety not to assume first place. church, but a young white woman didn't, any of them, believe there was Flora's gay and jostling objections star­ jumped up with fists at her hips — anything else to be had from white wo­ ted a screech of chairs, general forward- Thank you for what? Maybe the lady men, it was all they were good for. shuffle and talk; I was all right where I has plenty to thank for. But was the ob­ And all the time those blacks like the was — her quick attention took me in, a ject of action for women to make black elderly one near me, in her doek with bird alert from the height of a telephone women 'thankful' for the hovels they Thursday church badges pinned to it, a pole. After the addresses of the white lived in, the menial jobs their men did, piece cut out of her left shoe to ease a woman lawyer and a black social wel­ the inferior education their children bunion, a cardigan smelling of coal- fare officer, a pretty, syrup-eyed Indian got? Thankful for the humiliation dealt smoke and a shopping bag stuffed with with a soft roll of midriff flesh showing out to them by white women living pri­ newspaper parcels, listened to no one; in her seductive version of the dress of vileged, protected lives, who had the were there; offered only their existence, eastern female subjection, spoke about vote and made the laws — And so on as acknowledgement of speakers, listen­ uplift and sisterhood. Flora kept calling and so on. I saw her falter, lose concen­ ers and the meaning of the gathering. It upon people — masterly at pronouncing tration as three black girls in jeans who was enough. They didn't know why African names — to speak from the had only just come in got up and they were there, but as cross-purpose floor. Some were trapped hares in head­ walked out as if they had come to the and unimaginable digressions grew loud­ lights but there were others who sat wrong place. A white woman had thrust er with each half-audible, rambling or forward on the hired chairs straining to up an arm for permission to speak — We dignified or unconsciously funny dis­ attract attention. A white-haired dame don't need to bring politics into the course, clearer with each voluble in- with the queenly coy patience of an old fellowship of women. — Applause from articulacy, each clumsy, pathetic or charity chairwoman kept holding up a the group with whom she sat. Black ma­ pompous formulation of need in a life gilt ballpoint. Along my half-empty row trons ignored both the white girl and none of us white women (careful not to a black woman urged between the whis­ black girls, busily briefing each other in smile at broken English) live or would pers of two friends could not be got to the sussurations and gutturals, clicks know how to live, no matter how much speak. and quiet exclamations of their own Flora protests the common possession In respectful silences for the weak­ languages. They responded only to the of vaginas, wombs and breasts, the bear­ ness of our sex, the flesh that can come sort of housewives' league white ladies ing of children and awful compulsive upon any of us as women, black ma­ who stuck to health services and 'com­ love of them — the silent old blacks still trons were handed slowly, backside and modity price rises in the family budget' dressed like respectable servants on a belly, along past knees to the table as practical problems that were women's day off, although they were sitting in where Flora had a microphone rigged lot, like menstruation, and did not re­ Flora's room, these were everything up. Others spoke from where they sat or late them to any other circumstances. Flora's meeting was not succeeding to stood, suddenly set apart by the gift of The black ladies' fear of drawing atten­ be about. The cosmetic perfumes of the tongues, while the faces wheeled to see. tion as 'agitators' and the white ladies' middle-class white and black ladies and The old white woman's crusade turned determination to have 'nothing to do' the coal-smoke and vaginal odours of out to be road safety, a campaign in with the politics that determined the old poor black women — I shifted on which 'our Bantu women must pull to­ problems they were talking about, made the hard chair, a deep breath in Flora's gether with us' — she trembled on in the a warmth that would last until the tea­ livingroom took this draught inside me. sweet, chuckly voice of a deaf upper- cups cooled. Dressed in their best, one class Englishwoman while Flora tried to after another, black women in wigs and J 34 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 JOHANNESBURG

THE LOCAL GAMES from FALSE BAY NOTEBOOK

Fog is turning everything cold and white. when your ma full of caution & konfyt Nevertheless, they're playing mixed doubles & your pa with the bugle call at the Wynberg Lawn Tennis Club tonight. of blood arrive from your past determined that all else It's a peculiar kind of tennis, you'll agree. would go right if only your friends The men can't find partners to join the sport simply by strolling round the edge of a court. (the kaffers) would not come to dinner & you'd straighten like a door­ They must choose on a corner one block away frame & bottled fruit & the secret and, whether handsome or not, they must pay society would hold you for those ladies who often show overmuch to your schooldays when you knew of a brown or black thigh, think that for tennis the only music was Beethoven & the a non-white skirt and cheap plastic boots are fine, only gun a roer and even elect to serve yards from the base-line, the only earth a Boer se troos & grace before meals & weeding bent over the bonnet of a car. And there're no out to the fence all rotten undergrowth rackets or shouts, though sometimes a false moan. Then the men take their balls and drive off home. Stephen Gray

The angry club members in big houses nearby say all this on their daughters' daytime wicket from FALSE BAY NOTEBOOK is really not what anyone could call cricket. there's no way you can understand But I am one who would remind them of patriotism. how deeply I envy Let our sports critics rant in Tel-Aviv or Bonn. your legal right to walk with her All's obviously well here while our local games go on. through the harbour holding her legalised hand Jeremy Gordin for us behind your back there is the furtive planning on vacant flats to occupy for an hour of illicit loving fit to kill us both

and after that we retreat side AUBADE by side in public unable to show that in the air In my dream between our warm bodies I was crossing town in a bus when I saw him ghostly fingers try to hold on trussed on the back seat of a long black car. He said he'd finally found someone stronger Stephen Gray for when someone slapped him back his teeth and palate fell out and cracked on the floor. He said from FALSE BAY NOTEBOOK he couldn't face walking a dark street anymore. I tell you the snoek are running now in False Bay I'd never seen such sadness in my father before. that we know from the catchers " presumably they run in alignment My reply, my sympathy was a cynical white smile. not just silver waywardness And from my forehead, where I generate so many but an organized drift on the graze fine thoughts and words for the black and poor, oozed one pus-coloured tear shaped like a crocodile. they're forward built for the lower jaw claps over a chromium lip Father, I forgive you for teaching me so well streamlined for speed and cumbered the lesson you learnt from the camp inmates with headlamp eyes when you helped in the relief work over there: & packed arranged strips of flesh that it is not in the homes of we who can go with at least some teeth, in a long black car, why one despises them is they all that charity has to begin, it is elsewhere. look like the next & once you've knifed up from the dorsal Jeremy Gordin through the bipartite cranium they all fillet out in the same style

Stephen Gray

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 35 JOHANNESBURG/DUBE

THRESHOLDS OF IDENTITY I AM NOT A FLY

Visitors, indignant, didactic, pronounce Please look at me their solutions or dooms. I'm not a fly A home poet comments: 'They speak and go back. In this place it is you and me.' you can't wish me away I apprehend the challenge in his thought: by the flick of a hand Inhabitants, we are alone I'm not a fly and the difference that still lies between us I drink milk Yet he and I agree enough but never vomit in my crucible to discount the old divides for I'm not a fly of pigmentation, culture, class; nor would he or I endorse I move from place to place the use of blood spilt on the street sometimes in my capacity as a beggar or silence of the blackened cell. yet I'm not a fly 1 In this we are joined. So far have we come. But as I calmly sorrow Nakedi waPhosa/Dube over acts of years that grind his feeling small and his thought narrow or sputter anger over days that smash him into terror, grief and rage, so he would deplore, merely deplore the ferocity that in its turn could make the children of my race bleed.

Lionel Abrahams/Johannesburg

ALBERTON

WELL IN ALL FAIRNESS, IT MUST BE SAID . . . THE THIRD MAN (Spoken on Calvary) We met at the corner of Eloff and Fox in a Saturday morning crush, 'It's a long time to wait, me feeling secure with my handbag that locks where the shade is slender, coming only from the pale itself, and you in an indecent rush. though I don't feel the sweat on my face so much now, for this wind is drying my brow; I felt the light touch as you brushed past my arm I feel it drying. to pass on my unguarded side; I gripped my handbag with a sense of alarm I'm the last, I think, of us three: and thanked God for the pistol inside. Him I never knew, nor the other one either, but he — the other one, I mean — was a mocker, But you were not quite past me before all my fear and worse than a robber, he was: had taken command of my brain; And I never said that I was a king or a god, I say in defence that you did not appear or may God himself strike me as I be here now: to be merely in haste for your train. yes, may He strike me: And I wish that I had said it too, So the next thing I know was the pistol went off that He might strike me, swiftly. (As you, of course, heard, felt and saw) And the police had to rush to our side of Eloff I'll not be waiting much longer now. I'll not have to. to execute justice and law. It's not allowed: I break the law even now, by waiting too long: Our devotion to fairness can only impress And for that they break your legs: it's agony, it must be. and we'll file a report without fail: He's well safe, anyway, him that's dead 'A white woman was treated for shock and distress (As for the other, I don't know, I can't be sure) and a wounded black taken to gaol.' But him that's dead — he's well safe: they'll not break his legs: Duncan Foster though they'll break mine . . . '

Duncan Foster

36 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 BLOEMFONTEIN/KROONSTAD

IN MY SLEEP THE GREAT LONELINESS

I see faces It drives us together into pairs and odds white faces and black faces It binds us together like beans in pods • wearing police hats It congregates like dirty chaff into nooks and corners in my sleep Why should sons leave their mothers with empty hands and I come to And wander far off among strangers and unknown lands?

I sleep again It drives us apart like frightened small birds I hear a white voice shouting loud It makes us fall like tossed pence, into tails and heads Attention' to a silent obedient group It makes us feel lost in the dreary lifeless desert of blacks in rust uniforms and brown boots It blows the distance between lovers like an expert stampeding the ground It drowns words of love and sympathy completely. in my sleep Is it the son of destiny or messenger apparent? and I come to Cities are full of people I sleep once again But more with loneliness congested. I hear dogs barking, grunting and chasing Community is more of a cripple children and mothers crying But more numerous churches are constructed. in my sleep Some choose the noose of the rope and I come to Some prefer the cloak of dope Some prefer to walk the street I continue to sleep Some choose no signs to heed. I feel teargas in my eyes in my sleep I cannot see Oh I would this loneliness would let me be I rub them with my fingers But like a shadow yielding, tenacious it clings to me. in my sleep they get swollen Could I be better off befriending this loneliness? I feel pain in my sleep Could I be better seeking refuge in emptiness? and I come to Perhaps loneliness too is seeking a friend after all. Sages befriended him and gave a nobler name — solitude: I sleep for the fifth time Perhaps by lending a heart to him we would be a better I see fingers multitude. holding machine guns and revolver triggers about to press or pull or whatever, David Maotwana/Bloemfontein in my sleep and I come to

I tell myself I sleep for the last time I hear a bullet shot from close range piercing my skin through into my heart to explode in it in my sleep trembling from fear and pain once more I wake up, set my sights I am still awake — forever. HE PASSED AWAY

Lehlohonolo Tshabalala/Bloernfontein Somewhere smoke curls And whirls haphazardly but sure Above a house from Dawn till dusk Signifying a departed soul.

People walk in and out In groups and singles LAMENT OF A FORMER DETAINEE In silent and singing sympathy With the bereaved. Here fades one of these sad days. Oh, how I wish I could hide my face and cry. He passed away in the morning I should enjoy the prosperity of S.A. in many ways. Leaving his children mourning I want to be employed and give life yet another try. In the morning of their lives

Work-givers are not happy to offer, The silent sobs, the hysteric weeping No matter how I plead. Sweeps the home To bed I go on empty stomach because of the dry coffer The grief-stricken family is And I cannot steal to make ends meet. Tear spilling in shock disbelief — a fatherless future? Bulara Diphoto/Kroonstad Lechesa Tsenoli/Kroonstad

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 37 MADI/KATLEHONG

IT DOES NOT HELP/ A story by Letshaba Thubela

The neon lights flashed outside the time. She did not look back, for not on­ 'I . . . I . . . ' she faltered. dilapidated double-storey red brick ly was she not interested, but the ex­ 'You coming for a swing?' building, and the message: WINE, perience had unnerved her badly. 'Yes,' she smiled showing her even DINE & DANCE flashed across the Her heart was pounding wildly as if white teeth. 'How much?' she asked. panel board fastened just above the to wrench itself free of the veins and ar­ 'By courtesy of Ian 'Fancy' Styles' — door, with the name: SHINDIG NITE teries that held it down so suffocatingly, he proffered his well-trained hand — 'it CLUB. and she thought about all those horrific will be on the house. I happen to be a The inside of the club vibrated to the stories she had heard or read in the shareholder here.' He winked and blaring of Afro Rock music and the newspapers about Jo'burg. Once, she smiled. stomping of the feet of the night revel­ had heard about how girls were merci­ Captivated by the smile, she smiled lers. The inner stage of the club, obvi­ lessly beaten and raped by the brutes back awkwardly. ously the dancing ground, was full to that crawl the darkened streets of eGoli. Ian realised that though she looked a capacity, and placed around it were a She had also read of girls being grue- country bumpkin, and was dressed as a scattering of tables with chairs, occu-i somely murdered and mutilated by the slut, she somehow had class. There was pied. Through the flash of the kaleido- \ thoughtless fiends that abound in all the nothing awkward about her: a finely scopic dazzle of the club's lights, one devilish haunts that are part of the chiselled ebony face, a well-sculp tore d could see some of the patrons swilling makeup of the golden city. torso and moulded feet befitting a man­ their beer with abandoned relish. She handed her ticket to the sleepy nequin. At the far end, opposite the en­ ticket examiner who took it and scruti­ 'Easy fresh meat,' he thought. trance, a bar with no liquor visible on its nized it indifferently. Having regained 'Like a drink?' He flashed his infecti­ shelves was in full swing, as evidenced possession of it, she clutched it momen­ ous smile. by the crowd of die-hard sots lolling tarily in her sweating palm before push­ 'Yes.' She blushed inexplicably. with fists full of booze on its stools. The ing it into her purse. She felt so alone He pushed the door to let her in, and crowd here, as in the club's interior, was and so afraid. With trembling knees she once inside, he took her hand and ex­ multi-racial, with the males of the white headed for the town thinking all the pertly manoeuvred her around the danc­ species and females of the black species time of what might happen to her at ing revellers and the reeling inebriates being in the majority, all kissing and any moment. She had taken time to towards the bar. 'What will it be? A cuddling and doing things imaginable prepare herself. Her friend, Molly, had highball do?' asked Ian knowingly. He only to an inebriated or downright fil­ told her of the dread which she herself knew his cards, an expert at his game. thy mind. had once experienced. Only, Molly had 'Yes,' she said. Even though she Mary alighted from the late night had no need to it. She did it just for would have nothing to do with liquor train at Johannesburg station. She had the fun of it. Mary's ordeal was of ne­ by choice, Molly had counselled her to travelled all the way from her home in cessity. accept drinks when offered, telling her KwaThema alone, afraid and lonely. She 'If Molly could do it,' she thought, that otherwise she had no hope of mak­ had to do it or god only knows what 'why can't I? It is necessary.' ing it in the hurly-burly world which she fate would await her and her family She walked on, headed for the inner was now poised to enter, albeit reluc­ come next Monday. She knew the risk part of the city, all the time keeping tantly. she was taking when she boarded the within the well-lit streets of the town. The pulsating rhythm of the Afro train at that late hour, but there was no­ She knew where she was going, she Rock music soothed her taut nerves and thing she could do about it. She had to knew where the Shindig Nite Club was. she began to take stock of her situation. do it. She was so desperate that even She came to the entrance of the dila­ It was, she thought, not all that bad. when she got into the train she had pidated building and stood wondering 'Come from out of town?' Ian was clean forgotten how vulnerable she was. what her next move would be. Molly sending out his antennae. Her mini skirt had been purposefully had warned her to steer clear of the 'KwaThema, Springs.' put on even though she had realised its swarthy ones: 'They are brutes Mary,' 'Expecting someone?' implications as far as incitement was she had admonished, 'give them just a 'Not necessarily.' concerned at that late hour of the night. hint of a smile and they are apt to think 'A dame like you alone?' — he She could have put on an ordinary full- that you are willing to spend a night in feigned surprise — 'your boyfriend must length dress, or a pair of jeans or even a bed with them and all for free. How do be nuts.' maxi, but that would have been coun­ you like that, all for FREE, f-r-e-e. Mark 'I haven't got one.' ter-productive as it would have defeated my words, don't ever go for that type 'You lie.' Ian was right, indeed she the very purpose of her risking her life however smartly they might be dressed.' was lying and he saw it written all over in the first place. It was the first time she had visited her face, in her eyes and in her shifty She took faltering steps towards the this place, and though Molly had given movements. platform exit feeling guiltily naked. her all the ropes about the place, at this Of course, like any beautiful girl her 'My, my!' A drunkard staggered pur­ moment they had flown out of her age, she had a boyfriend, an educated posefully towards her and she quicken­ benumbed mind. Suddenly the door one for that matter. The only reason ed her steps. 'Wait my shishter . . . hie flew open and a blond head stuck out to she was here, was that she needed mon­ . . . hell. . . ' He made a determined take a peek. It was a cherubic handsome ey and she needed it fast. Her graduate effort to catch up with her but face and Mary liked what she saw. For a boyfriend, Zizwe, did not have it. There stumbled and fell with his nose absorb­ moment the young man stood looking was also no likelihood of his having it ing the full impact of the platform gra­ at her, and then he stepped outside clos­ soon, for he was out of employment. As vel. She hurried on and climbed the ing the door behind him: 'What can I do a last resort Molly had suggested that steps leading to the outside two at a for you lady?' she come here.

38 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 MADI/KATLEHONG

'The drinks, sir.' The wine steward would do of course,' she answered, half 'You don't seem alright.' Ian feigned materialized with the highballs and convinced of the right of what she had worry. 'Let's go outside, the air is cooler placed them on the counter in front of planned to do. there. I have a car, we'll rest there a bit.' Ian and Mary. Just then, Ian was busy talking to She nodded her heavy head. One As Ian was fidgeting for his wallet, someone nearby and, left alone, she was moment she had been so hilariously Mary was exercising her novice's mind trying with all her might to convince happy and now the next, she felt so on speculating about Ian: what he was herself that it was worth doing. Her life sick. She felt like throwing up there and worth and the likely price she would and that of her family depended on it. then, but expert Ian restrained her and wean from him. Molly had said the go­ It was the last straw they could hope to motioned her to the door, out of the ing price was ten rand a stint, and Ian, clutch onto in order to survive. lobby, and into the street, where he definitely a man of means, was worth She came of a family of five children, made her throw up. Then purposefully, far more than a paltry ten rand. His she being the second youngest. Her fa­ he dragged her, in full view of the others fashionable 'Man-About-Town' clothes ther had been disabled during the war who were there, behind the red struc­ spoke for themselves; his shiny shoes, in 1945, six years before she was born. ture, put her down on the dirt and his bearing and all; a self-made man. Her mother was now bedridden with ripped her panties off. She tried to Her eyes strayed to the well-stacked chronic asthma. Her father's meagre war struggle but his powerful hands kept her wallet and they would have popped out pension, and her mother's limping old down. 'No! Ian no!' She began to of their sockets but for the instinctive age pension fell far short of covering the wriggle with the last ounce of strength and timely restraint inculcated into her cost of keeping her home and also pro­ that was in her. by her mentor, Molly. This well prac­ viding her mother's medical expenses. 'No!' but it was no use. tised and well-presented act, however, To crown it all, she was unemployed. 'Alright. . . alright. . ' Ian was brea­ did not escape Ian's trained eye. He All her elder brothers were hopeless thing heavily now, his fingers fumbling feigned a nervous cough and assumed a drunks and there was nothing anybody for his belt buckle. 'Alright. . . alright regal bearing. The waiter left smiling could do about them. Instead, whenever . . . ' he kept moaning through heavy happily as he pocketed his large tip. she could, she would give them some­ breathing. 'So, no boyfriend.' He changed his thing to eat in order that a scandalous In the recesses of her mind, a word, a tack, holding his glass delicately in his thing like death through starvation forgotten idea came into being: 'Ten long fingers. could be avoided. More than that, she rand, Ian . . . ten rand . . . ' she blabbed 'Yes,' she replied. knew quite well that she could not af­ lamely, and it went on and on in her 'Then we might as well have our­ ford burial expenses and that a pauper's mind until she lost consciousness. selves a ball.' He sipped his drink. funeral would blemish her otherwise The sun came over the horizon and a Imitating her experienced and obvi­ proud genealogy beyond recognition. chilly breeze swayed the grass and the ously sophisticated host, she held her And this, she feared more than most. branches of the trees. An obnoxious glass like he did and sipped her drink. Her younger sister had not yet come odour wafted in her direction and she 'A walk-over to a good lay,' thought of age and was still at school through blinked. The sky had turned a clear Ian without compunction, as he eyed the generosity of a kind uncle. grey. Her mouth felt sour and dry, her her well-rounded thighs protruding from On the previous day, she had come throat was parched. She blinked again under her brief skirt. home from visiting Molly to find under and closed her eyes. Her body was ach­ Nervously she tried to draw the skirt their front door an unenveloped letter ing all over. She remained with her eyes to cover them but it was no use, the from the East Rand Administration closed, afraid to move lest she saw what skirt was too short and she hated herself Board's Superintendent, stating that she imagined had happened. It had hap­ for the degradation she had flung herself they were now three months in arrears pened alright, it did not matter. into. with their rent. The letter had succinct­ Suddenly she opened her eyes and 'Haw . . . haw . . . haw . . . ', guffaw­ ly stated that, if they had not paid their hoisted herself onto her elbows. As she ed Ian, 'come on man, you are no rent by Monday morning, they would had feared, she was alone with garbage virgin now, right? Besides, it is good be evicted without recourse to any and flies for company. Her purse, she when a man admires that which is na­ higher official. And this, the letter, her remembered. Frantically she searched tural and . . . ' he leered lustfully. letter, her dilemma, her family's dilem­ for it. Using her bare hands she clawed 'Of course not.' She was desperate ma, had driven her thus far. at the garbage like a demented scaven­ now. Her morals, her womanhood, the 'Mother hen,' coaxed Ian as he ger, but there was no purse to be found. very sanctity of her own body was at placed his hand on her thigh, 'brooding How utterly degraded and how utter­ stake. She was being torn by her good over crippled chickens, eh?' He laughed, ly humiliated she was. Vilified she was, Christian up bringing on the one side, not realising the irony implied in his and she knew it, never mind the ten and her outwardly insurmountable jest. rand which was not there anyway. plight on the other — the latter being 'No,' she said lamely. 'How am I going to get home,' she strengthened by the dulling effect of the 'Come on then' — he pointed to the wailed, freezing in the chilling breeze. 'I whisky on her. glasses on the counter — 'let's drink to should not have done it' — her body 'I don't know . . . ' she trailed off, your health.' was wracked with sobs — 'it was not lamely trying to salvage whatever pride 'Oh' — she did not see the waiter worth it, it does not help.' there was left. placing the glasses before them — 'Another drink would perhaps loosen 'I . . . ' She sighed, preferring to say us up for a jig. Waiter!' he hollered and nothing. Ian gulped, and she gulped. the steward appeared and immediately An hour later they were on the dance went back as soon as Ian had snapped floor and her head was spinning. They Extracts from /, Teacher, Humble his fingers. had drunk four shots a piece and now Servant, a novel in progress by Letshaba 'How do you feel?' he enquired. the shots were beginning to take their Thubela, were published in Staffrider 'Just okay, maybe another drink toll. Vol. 1, Numbers 3 and 4.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 39 The Rebel Leader

A story by Michael Siluma, illustrated by Mzwakhe

Pluralville was a big township with a ted that they were the authentic repres­ located to themselves. It was not child's population of more than a million entatives of the Pluralvillers. play to run a place as vast as Pluralville. people which, despite its meteoric Mr. Mthengisi's last public appear­ 'To some of them it is really a sacrifice growth over the years, had remained ance had been at the local stadium when to work for P.T.A.B.,' he reminded the what it had always been: a squalid, mal- the residents had packed it to discuss people. He concluded, amid murmurs of administered and dangerous-to-live-in the increased rentals which the P.T.A.B. disapproval, by saying: 'Batho ba heso, place. had wanted to introduce in the town­ le se ke la mamela Makomonisi, hobane Naturally the people of Pluralville ship. ha le ntshuwa matlong ha a no le thusa. were not content with their lot. For Speaker after speaker came out Makgowa ona a tla reng he le sa patale many years they had pleaded with and strongly against the rent increase, and rente?' (My people, please do not listen tried to persuade the Pluralville Town­ the people, who knew they could not to the Communists. They won't be a- ship Administration Board (P.T.A.B.) to afford the increase because of their mis­ round to help you when you are evicted improve the situation in the township. erable earnings, had agreed with these from, your houses. And what will the But because of the difference in aims men. White people say if you don't pay and strategy of the leaders, the people's The inarticulate Mr. Mthengisi was rent?). fight against the P.T.A.B. had failed to given a chance to air his views. Among He had hardly shut his mouth when bring about even the slightest change. other things he said that though the someone yelled: 'Sellout', and another There was Mr. Mthengisi and his people always attacked the P.T.A.B. for shouted: 'Makashaywe.' The people group of men nominated by P.T.A.B. to the bad roads in the township and for started booing him. Two youths poun­ lead the residents. They called them­ its failure to bring electricity to Plural­ ced on him, threatened him with assault selves the Pluralville Civic Committee. ville, they were refusing to pay higher and angrily ordered him and his cronies These men lived in plush homes, rode in rentals. Where the hell did they think out of the stadium. That happened BMW's and received fat cheques every the Board would get the money from? three years ago. month from the P.T.A.B. In a calm and appealing tone he ask­ All he had done since had been to They had little support, if any, in the ed the people to stop complaining about issue pro-P.T.A.B. press statements and township, butjtheir masters always insis- the high salaries the P.T.A.B. officials al­ attend functions in white suburbs. 40 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 ZOLAIISOWETO

His humiliation at Pluralville Stadium He differed in many ways from his communicated with his people through had been but one in a stream of humili­ rivals. Although he lived in a beautiful the press and was more outspoken than ations he suffered because of his pro- mansion he allowed even the poorest of ever. He would bundle up the Board and P.T.A.B. utterances. The most remark­ the residents to enter through the front Mr. Mthengisi and make mince meat out able had been at a women's meeting door, something the rich never did. Un­ of them. The people were unwavering in convened by him and the P.T.A.B. at like Mr. Mthengisi and Mr. Kgatello, their support for him, but the Pluralville the Pluralville Hall. The women had who wore expensive suits and had broad Township Administration Board was been called to discuss the health situa­ neck-ties dangling from their fat necks, not yet beaten. If detention could not tion in the township. Refuse was not be­ Mr. Nhlabathi wore Afro-shirts and change Mr. Nhlabathi, other tactics had ing collected and some people were khaki trousers. to be used. dumping it in the streets. Blocked toi­ Mr. Nhlabathi started having noctur­ lets and burst water pipes had gone un­ nal visitors at his home. At first these repaired, turning the township into a surreptitious visits were intermittent but muddy, filthy place with a stench even a The women started murmuring soon they became a regular thing. pig could not tolerate. and when he tried to quieten them Sometimes Mr. Nhlabathi would secret­ Mr. Mthengisi made a speech in they clapped hands, making it im­ ly visit the offices of the P.T.A.B. The which he warned the people of the possible for him to continue. officials would give him V.I.P. treat­ health dangers of staying in such a squa­ Some even howled at him. He was ment and have lengthy talks with him. lid township as Pluralville. Why, some­ ultimately hounded out of the hall The World, a local newspaper, had one asked, was the Board not doing with tears in his eyes.* always been efficient and untiring in its anything about the situation. 'Every coverage of township events, particular­ month we pay rent, don't we, ly those involving Mr. Nhlabathi, the Mr. Mthengisi? I would like to know people's leader. But the newspaper ne­ what the Board does with that money. I Mr. Nhlabathi had opposed the rent ver mentioned the meetings between always thought it was meant, among increase at the meeting from which Mr. Nhlabathi and the P.T.A.B. It was other things, for such problems as the Mr. Mthengisi had been ejected. Meet­ simply not aware of them. one facing us today.' ings convened by him were well-attend­ The Pluralville people did not realise The cleanliness of the township, ed, and his speeches would be punctua­ that Mr. Nhlabathi had undergone a Mr. Mthengisi replied, was the joint res­ ted with cries of 'Amandla!' change which had split him in two. He ponsibility of the residents and the As Mr. Nhlabathi's popularity grew, was still the public figure, an uncom­ Board, not of the Board alone. He add­ so the Pluralville Township Administra­ promising and implacable opponent of ed: 'It is up to us, the people of Plural­ tion Board's fear and hatred for him in­ the P.T.A.B. — and also the friend and ville, to show the Board that we love tensified. His image dwarfed that of collaborator of the Board. our township; that we are capable of Mr. Mthengisi, the Board's protegee, and Mr. Nhlabathi held them under a keeping Pluralville clean. It is only when the Board was not going to take it sitt­ spell from which they could not break we have proved to the Board that we ing down. Mr. Nhlabathi was an obstacle free. They saw him as their true and on­ care for Pluralville that they might con­ to their plans. He had to be removed ly leader who could not set a foot sider granting us autonomy.' from the scene; he had to be taught a wrong. Hence, when the P.T.A.B. sud­ The women started murmuring and lesson. denly made Pluralville Stadium available when he tried to quieten them they His home was raided one morning at to Mr. Nhlabathi and his Pluralville clapped hands, making it impossible for 3.30 a.m. They took him away without People's Movement, no one questioned him to continue. Some even howled at saying where they were taking him. He the change in attitude towards him. He was ultimately hounded out of was detained for six months. During this Mr. Nhlabathi. the hall with tears in his eyes. time Mrs. Nhlabathi tried to pay her At the township meetings he assured For collaborating with those who husband a visit but they made it clear the people that they would win in their made the lives of Pluralville people mis­ that no one, not even his wife, could see fight against the Board. But at functions erable, Mr. Mthengisi had become the him. 'Your husband is a good-for-noth­ in white suburbs he told the whites that villain of the township. But he could ing grown-up who cannot look after Black people were naturally patient and find solace in the knowledge that the himself when he is free. We are going to tolerant and that he, the people's leader, people knew him and knew what he take care of this trouble-maker husband believed that Pluralville's problems stood for. of yours,' an officer at the police station could only be solved through negotia­ This could not be said of Mr. Kgatel- told her. tion with the Board. 'We hope and trust lo, chairman of the United Residents' After his release, Mr. Nhlabathi ad­ that the Board will, one day, fulfil its Association. Very few people knew any­ dressed a meeting at the Pluralville Stad­ promise of making Pluralville the most thing about him or his Association's ob­ ium. His ideas had not changed one bit. beautiful township in the country,' he'd jectives. Even the P.T.A.B. wanted noth­ He was still bitterly opposed to the tell his audiences. ing to do with Mr. Kgatello. P.T.A.B. and support for him had, if Although the people became aware The stated aim of U.R.A. was to anything, increased after his detention. of their leader's double-talk, they were fight for the betterment of living condi­ The P.T.A.B. was infuriated by these paralysed by the belief that he could tions in Pluralville. They rarely broke developments. They had to find ways of never betray their popular cause. their characteristic silence. When they containing this 'anarchist'. They barred Meanwhile, rent in the township did, it was over irrelevant matters during him from using either the township hall spiralled, families were evicted from arguments with Mr. Mthengisi's P.C.C. or the stadium. He was also prohibited their houses, the streets became rivers of Only Mr. Nhlabathi, a successful from addressing meetings of any kind in filth from blocked sewerage pipes, and businessman and leader of the Pluralville Pluralville. the Board continued making promises. People's Movement, had the support of Mr. Nhlabathi was not daunted by both old and young in the township. this. He now attacked the Board and

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 41 BOTSWANA

A PROTEST FROM A BUSHMAN

I

This is my native land I and my fellow men and women Sleep under trees or in caves My real native land Or on the open ground I know every tree and bush by its name Or around the open fire place I care not that I am poor We starve and die of thirst I have lived in this land The finest part of our rich land is gone And hunted all over these mountains We live in these dry and sandy hot deserts And looked at the skies We can no longer hunt freely And wondered how the stars Life is a scourge, a curse And the moon and the sun It is tremulous like The rainbow and the milky way Rush from day to day like busy people. A water drop on a mophani leaf.

I have enjoyed this life The light in the stars II The lilt in the music or songs The joy in the flowers Man has become an intruder, The plumage in the birds A puzzler, unstable, a sick being The charm in women's breasts A mafia to me and my brothers The inward warmth and rich vitality Dispossessed am I of my land The distant music of cowbells Barbed wire do I see all over All these lightened the burden of my sorrows The austerity of human laws do I feel I have nothing outside this body I bow down to red tape I have neither a house nor property I frown on the insensitivity of my countrymen I roamed where I liked And on those that paraphrase my plight and my life And hunted wherever I chose. And with plethora of questions and stories Donate bushmen paintings I have enjoyed the bounce of youth To foreign museums and archives And stayed wherever I chose To boost the coffers of selfish men I have danced in the sun Life is tremulous like I have danced in the wind a drop of water on a mophani leaf. I have danced around the fire place But now and I say now My countryman has become an intruder There is a swelling crescendo of sorrow A puzzler, unstable, lured by the fetters That makes goose-pimples on my body Of a civilization he does not understand I live in sick apprehension Hungrier, ever grabbing and balkanizing my land Freedom is gone Shackling it with iron and cement bridges Life is tremulous like Wounding, burrowing holes into its river bed. A drop of water on a mophani leaf. This land was once my private garden Whereon I hunted as I pleased The talk is bushman everywhere And enjoyed the free kiss of the breeze I am called a nobody Bushman am I A race of rugged filthy people Bushman in the blood Who cannot clean their floors Bushman in the heart Whose blanket is the fire My land is gone Who spit and sneeze freely everywhere Life is tremulous like Whose bodies smell of root ointment A drop of water on a mophani leaf. Or like a cowhide soaked in the river water My countrymen call me names I frown on the insensitivity of my countrymen I am torn between life and death And on those who paraphrase my plight and my life Propped between freedom and slavery Into parables of ifs and perhapses I am almost like a wandering ghost The erosive action of man's intransigence Outshines the prudence of honest men My tears glide in pairs down my cheeks And man is now at variance with himself, My hands shake because of old age With his fellow men, and is forever grabbing. Sometimes I am struck with a horse whip These are the dynamics of a sick society I am no more than a refugee The austerity of human laws do I feel A loafer they say yet others loaf too No more do I enjoy the free laughter of the wind Whilst other men work No more do I enjoy the ferocity of lightning It is true I do not worry for lunch No more do I enjoy the comforts of bushman medicine As birds do not worry about theirs too This is tabooed My countrymen eat, drink and laugh Life is tremulous like They live in beautiful houses A drop of water on a mophani leaf. My life is tremulous like A drop of water on a mophani leaf Albert G.T.K. Malikongwa/Botswana

42 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 BOTSWANA/NAMIBIA

BOIPUSO KE JOO - GABORONE

A dikidika di go wele, Gaborone, Ke palame tshutshumakgala maloba, A masego a go wele, Gaborone: Ke tswa kwa Teemaneng, ka nosinyana: Motse o manne mo Botswana — Ka feta goo-Letlamoreng — A — Tshidi, Wa etelwa ke baditshabatshaba, Sebokolodi sa tla se le maphethephethe, Ba o etela ka metlhobodika, Ke re ke se akole, se nne se pholethe, Ba tswana gareng ga dikaka, Sa rarala dithaba tsa kwa Lobatse, Melao ya dirwa, e e popota, Sa phethekgana, se lebile Gaborone, A melao e e thata selobota, Khunwana, kgongwana ya goroga, Boipuso ke joo - GABORONE,. . . Ya tsena teng e ntse e e kgwa mosi, Ka okomela ka bona GABORONE teng, Ana mmatla — kgwana ga a robale, Ka re a ke bona Gauteng yo monnye nnaa? Phokojwe wa morago masetlela; E se Gauteng, e le sepakasedi sa GABORONE . . . Ke masetlela, ka batho ba mmonye — Gaborone e otla mogolo le monnye, Gaborone, o kile wa bo o le sekaka, E otla Mosweu le Montsho Le ntlo go sena e e agilweng koo: Gaborone ke letlharapa-legolo, Ke go bona fa o le letshonkoko — La go mokanelwa ke dinonyane, O sa nnwe le ke yone tota, koko, Go thailwe melao e e botsatsa, Ga agiwa matlo a a bophadiphadi — Ka ke yone e eletsegang — GABORONE . . . Ra felelwa ke a a mantsi matsadi, Masiela a sianela kwa go wena, Engelane ya re fa masetla, Matlhomela a go etela ka boganka, Masetla ra a mokona segolwane: Wa etelwa le ke baswagadi jaaka dikgaka, E rile fa re ntse re sa ntse, Dikgaka di bony bonno bo masisi — Ra bona fa batho ba thibetse; O naledi e e phatshimang ka metlha, Batho ba tloga ba leboga Morwa Seretse, O pekema fela o so tshabe le mogaka, „ Ba re a tlhogole a gole jaaka tlou; A noka e e sa kgaleng, PHUTHADITSHABA . . . WEE - Matlo a mantle, a diphuthego, a tla, WEE - GABORONE. . . Botswana ya nna makopanelo a ditihaba, Gaborone ya ratwa ka phetakepajana, Cedric L. Thobega/Botswana Dip one tsa masigo tsa tloga tsa agwa . . .

Mekoti e e sa itseweng, ya eptswa, THE GREEN HOUSE Teemane ya lotlololwa kwa Orapa: (for Johan van Wyk) Le yone mekoti ya menyafala — Ya menagana, ya nna mentsi, The hermaphrodite earth, Ditiro tsa phatlhalatsa batho, full of crisp shadows and questions, sings. Gaborone ya amogela batho pharagatlha, Day brushes its hair and wears clean clothes Mapai bangwe, ba tloga ba a latlha, Se se sa feleng sone, se a tlhola, but my mouth is full of stone A re felela a mantsinyana, matlhomola, Wee — Wee — Dumela Gaborone wa rona! . . . Stars click their nails like cats on the stockings of a beautiful woman: A Ditakaneng le yone e bonwe tlheng, at night the mirror curls up patiently A ditakaneng le yone e nne ntleyana: in my room purring for her elusive body. Mekgabiso wee — e nne tengnyana — Bakwena ba busiwa kwa Molepolole, i dig between my toes Bangwato ba busi wa kwa Goo-Mmabesi-A-Kgama, for ways of losing Letsholathebe a tshola Batwana Knosi Lincwe a lay a boo-Kgafela, new lovers tear at their meat Gotwe a bogosi bo se lebalwe, (small mouths blunt with lust) Ipuso ga se go dira bonweenwee, and if they smell decay only think Dithamaga, dikenene lo tlhogoleng, others must have eaten too. Gaborone ga se leruarua, ke mmitsa — i sharpen Nna o kokotlele, Gaborone, DUMELA GABORONE WEE an okapi against the bedroom wall

A mosadi yo a otlang Botswana! The pregnant sun hangs: A thele e geletseng masi: Myself? I am aging E a pharolela kwa Gaborone, E a ntsha mo Gaborone ka bontle, and rifle the handbags of old ladies E a gasetse kwa Pandamatenga — for their teeth and memories E a gasetse kwa Bokalaka kwa, Le kwa Borolong e go etele, I have stood too long in the wedding wind: Kgongwana e e thulang e sa gadime, was born on just such a day as this Ka go sa etelwe, o ipatlela tlala, straddling the veld Sefepha-bontsi se se ramagana, Nka go bona kae, ka go etela, GABORONE? Kelwyn Sole/Namibia

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 43 CAPE TOWN

THE PROMISE A short story by Christopher Wildman Illustration by Nick Curwell

The university pool was like a blessing in the bright Pretoria morning sun. Mariette prepared herself for the dive. The 'boys' had just finished swabbing the stone floors and the grass banks were freshly swept green carpets. She sliced the water in a clear, knife-edge dive. Lying on her back, Mariette smiled to herself at the memory of all those chaste morning swims in the ladies' pool these four years she'd studied at Pretoria. But there was a promise in this morning sun that offered the future as a perfect counterweight to those four years: she was going to America. The South African Diplomatic Service had found her un­ usually satisfactory for the task, sensing, without her having to spell it out, the conservative cast of her mind. Dutch Reformed Church, political science and sociology as supports to her English degree: she would make a good ambassador's secretarial assistant. Washington was only two days away. The sky above her was an immaculate blue. One silver jet plane would cut across that blueness and carry her far from this suburban neatness for which she had come to feel such affection. Soon she would be inside a completely different scene — crowded, international and sophisticated. The anticipation thrilled her with its vague yet shiny forms — its giddy ether. She climbed out and shivered with excitement, enrobing herself in her freshly laundered white towel-coat. She was even glad she'd be free of Paulus's haunted face. She had been careful not to get entangled with any of her admirers this past year; marriage, which had originally been the logical climax to her degree, had been deftly postponed. She'd even found it quite easy to gently remove all thoughts of engagement to Paulus. It had all been very flattering, his devotion born out of sleepless nights culminating in his proposal of marriage that last Sunday morning before term ended. Marriage itself seemed to be aptly supplanted by the diplomatic oppor­ tunity in America. As she looked at the sparkling light on the surface of the empty pool she was reassured by the simplicity of it all; being able to serve her country even if only in her small female way. Her morning swim, which she had come to regard as a kind of baptism strengthening her against the small challenges of the day, seemed this morning doubly significant. Yet the thrill of what these next few days would challenge her with actually made her squeeze her towel tightly as she stared, transfixed, at the shiny surface of the water. Then, in a sudden burst of movement, she ran to do the final packing. She seemed to have slept for hours when she awoke at 10 a.m. in the Hotel Mayfair, Washington D.C. America. I'm actually here! Her body was still aching with the excitement and discomfort of that long flight via Rio. She seemed to be surrounded by a million reflections in mirrors and glass: skyscrapers, highways, clouds, brash colours and jet planes queueing up to land. The reflections seemed to be telling her of the thousand new experiences opening up before her. But first, the swim. The raucous atmosphere of soul music mixed with the early morning drinks. Combined with the booming horizons of noise, it swamped her excited mind as she approached the hotel pool. My God! She'd forgot­ ten. There were black bodies everywhere — of course! One slender negro, with large shades and a gold medallion on his proud black chest; was gently fondling the waist of a rather indifferent tall blonde — she's maybe Californian! An exciting shock passed through Mariette. Imagine this in Pretoria! She really couldn't take her eyes off these confident negroes, mixing so casually among the many hotel guests. She felt a mixture of panic and awe at all this sudden newness. As she shyly walked to the edge of the pool she found she had caught the eye of an almost silken dark brown form at the far end of the pool: he'd almost waved at her from the steps where he sat. Just like that! A sudden burst of confidence made her dive assertively in his direction. He'd notice the perfection of that dive if he wasn't blind! The water shocked her with its warmth — and it seemed so alive with the carefree shrieks and high-pitched shouts of the various swimmers. It was like a Hollywood movie soundtrack.

44 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 CAPE TOWN

Why am I swimming towards him? What would my making it obvious that he would be ready for her when she friends say in Pretoria? — on my first morning, too! As her reached it. Lazily, he lay his full length on the very edge eyes caught the other side he seemed statuesque yet vi­ and propped his face on his elbow so that the gold bracelet brant, his knees drawn up and his strong shoulders leaning set off the warm glow of his large, clear features. His dark on his ebony fore-arm with its huge gold bracelet. He was eyes were smiling broadly at her and they seemed frankly looking away, but just as her head dived down she saw how to gather all her energy into that smile. What am I doing? swiftly he looked in her direction. I'll simply climb out Do I want this? Supposing he ignores me — or grabs me? right in front of him — and smile! — she thought. But I Mariette felt the confusion in her blood mixing with the won't let him touch me. The mere anticipation made her dark blue water which seemed almost unbearably warm. heart panic. I mustn't be too coy, but then (she thought of She made her final burst for the side, right below his Paulus and those firm rejections) I mustn't lose control. patient, receptive smile. He was about to speak — and a The water seemed almost blue-black to her now. The flood of strange relief swept through her as she raised her temptation to slow up and back- out was becoming strong streaming face, confident that the intimacy of his glance but she forced herself to swim even faster, although she was meant he was going to speak to her. His voice, dreamlike careful not to move so quickly as to lose grace. He was yet direct, had a luxurious warmth and clarity: 'Tell me, do moving, she noticed. He came right to the pool side: he was you believe in Jesus Christ?'

GUGULETU BERGVILLE, NATAL

In your prayers remember . . . Modderdam

In your prayers remember . . . Werkgenoot

In your prayers COME QUICKLY remember . . . Unibell Fairest of the young You're as slender as the clove Think of the squatter babies You're an unblown rose! Let our prayers I have loved you, Meet at the CROSSROADS!!! You have not known it.

Nkos'omzi Ngcukana Have pity on my passion I faint every hour. Give me some hope, I'm sick with love, May I die and all my years be yours.

INTELLECTUAL FREEDOM May you be pleased and your sorrows be mine. Suffer me to be your slave: Black people seek for Your price is not to be found, intellectual freedom But my fortune is yours. I burn, I burn, my flame consumes me. The right to think to inquire and to learn the right to hold opinions Don't turn away your face from me. the right to practice art freely Crown of my head! to evaluate and to criticize My two eyes the right to listen, to discuss and to publish and to read. I die — come quickly.

These rights are guaranteed to our tradition Skhumbuzo Zondo Let's give them a chance to function Let us not be deafened by the oppressors.

Come good people . . . seek for intellectual freedom.

Zoli Kota

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 45 GARTASSO - GA-RANKUWA

YOUNG BOYS Can damage irreparably A human society. Nix piece and jam; nix piece and jam; It's good Happy In its presence. faces going up and down; feeling But in its absence pity It spills beans for the ground underneath their And breaks cups. feet Like the have-nots feeling downtrodden, This illusion is poisonous born To the learners. to beg and steal Like sponges they absorb it, Happy faces behind counters Like an arrow from a bow Empty faces before counters It goes Counters that break families To pierce through the tiny heart, that know neither spending Killing a life that depended nor the secret of sparing On its charm, the beauty of young boys This complete illusion. Consider not This total unawareness like the truancy they proved to me of your fate. successful. Sis, the witches of the night Anthony More Bring back my monies lest the devil comes in your sleep tonight tomorrow to have black shawls under the WHERE ARE THEY? blue sky. Tiny legs carrying big heads or big It was country at first monies, Covered with mat accordingly So, that Auntie Kokie ease it With the thick mat of nature with carried-bones The green grass all sure Until only dry clean bones are left in the dark corners of the" When standing on a high place not hummock loo. Over the place casting your eyes Promising bodies needing tameness Admiring the beauty of nature while teachers preach distinctions With joy and contentment preachers proclaiming Utopias Beating in your heart proclamations made daily Daily Mail reporting arrests The sweet green grass grazed by the cattle reporters telling it in black and The grass showered by rain water white, learned and unlearned about Rains prayed by our great people young boys. With their young others moving lazily That was a sign of peace. David Mphuso During summer, sunny days Under the tree shade, at home men seated, COMPLETE ILLUSION From one to another pass the calabash In the veld the herdboys Total unawareness of your fate. Busy with their craftwork Complete ignorance of the obscured That was a sign of peace Truth. A truth to open your eyes To the very same mountain go To this hallucination as strong Over the very same scene look as the winds. Can you see them again? The whirlwind like the breath Where are they? of a dragon What has made this slip Hissing as it careers along the valley Through your fingers In its purity; And left you startled? Sweeping along the impurities of earth Can you tell — Where are they? The impurities of doom and final Destruction. Now your tears are falling And the soil is showered by them Why can a life be dependent Those tears are salty Upon an ice that hates heat? Unlike rain water Why can an inspiration be In the soil A piece of cloth? Some chemical reaction takes place. There is no substance of consequence, Nor a material of long guarantee The green grass is no longer green In this thing called love Cattle are dying In erotic sense. And poverty is creeping It's an illusion to drown a nation, People are starving. A screen that Where are they? If removed, Anthony Makou

46 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 Drama Section

JUST BECAUSE I'M AN ARTIST Extract from a play by Nape Motana

CHARACTERS: FRED: (Mimics Lesiba) 'Gumba, gumba,' that's what you know best.. When we go uptown you think FRED: 28 Years, graphic artist. we go for wine. Now you . . . MONIKA: 24 Years, Fred's wife. LESIBA: Ssh, don't take your heart too far. I. . . SAFIRA: Monika's mother. FRED: You shut up! 'Gumba, gumba,' that's what you LESIBA: Fred's friend. are after, bloody sucker! LESIBA: (Pats Fred on the shoulder) Please chommie, Act One don't take your heart too far. I didn't mean to harm you. Scene One FRED: (Points a finger) You mustn't talk like that in future. Fred in a single room, unkempt hair, and surrounded by art LESIBA: (Looks at his watch) Look, it's getting late. What material. He yawns. A knock at the door. must I bring you? FRED: (Fumbles at his pockets) Take this, I want to kill FRED: (Yawning) C-o-m-e in! (Enter Lesiba) babalaaz. Bring a half-jack of brandy. LESIBA: Howzitpal! LESIBA: That's okay. Goodbye! FRED: Number one! What have you got for me? FRED: 'Bye! LESIBA: (Smiles) Nothing. I came to say hello. I am on (EXUENT) my way to town. Act One FRED: I see. LESIBA: You are a busy bee these days. How is the art go­ Scene Two ing? FRED: Yes I'm a busy bee. Painting can be painful, but Fred's single room. He scrutinises his incomplete paints; it leaves you with satisfaction when you think lights a cigarette, smokes; looks at his wrist watch. that what you have done is good. LESIBA: Oh I see. Are you preparing for another exhibi­ FRED: (Soliloquy) This girl won't come. She said tion? twelve, now it's half-past one. Girls can give you FRED: I'm just working ... no specific exhibition in a thumb to suck; they can be tricky. (Scratches mind. painting with pencil). But I trust Monika. Monika LESIBA: How was the previous exhibition? is often the source of my inspiration. I must ex­ FRED: Superb! cuse her late-coming, because she must look her LESIBA: How many artists were there? best. That's what makes me tick. (Laughter.) Let FRED: We were only three. me while away time. (Continues painting.) This LESIBA: (Examines Fred) You look babalaazed pal. room is too quiet for my liking. (Plays jazz FRED: Of course! Our host gave us a lot of wine. (Fred music.) I'm afraid, if Lesiba arrives first I'll kill takes out two cigarettes, offers Lesiba one, lights babalaaz, and she will find me drunk. (Knock at them; they smoke.) the door.) It must be Monika. Come in! LESIBA: Who was your host? (En ter Lesiba.) FRED: Professor Wolfgang. Ah, look at him. I expected a girl, not beards, LESIBA: Oh, the one who stays at Waterkloof ? what will I do with you? FRED: Yes. LESIBA: Nothing but booze and booze, until it's lights- LESIBA: Ya, a cunning man ... he makes you drunk when off. (Fred shakes his head.) Who do you ex­ you need money. pect? FRED: You need not be so bitter. He is not as bad as FRED: A chick. you think. LESIBA: Who is she? LESIBA: But what has he done for you? He keeps on milk­ FRED: Monika. ing you poor artists. LESIBA: When did you catch the bird? FRED: What? FRED: Last month. LESIBA: Ya, you've heard me! LESIBA: Last month? But why didn't you tell me? FRED: You are provoking me Lesiba! All I can say is: he FRED: I just wanted to surprise you. Right, let's have gave us his house, and he invited some art collec­ that half-jack, we are celebrating! tors. (Short pause) LESIBA: But you said it's for taking out babalaaz. LESIBA: (friendly tone) Have they bought any of your FRED: (Brings glasses.) Let it be babalaaz of her love. works? (They pour.) I love Monika very much. FRED: You can see for yourself. . . eight out of ten LESIBA: More than this brandy? sold! FRED: Yes; let's down a short. (Fred and Lesiba raise LESIBA: G-great boy! (Stretches hand) Have my paw! glasses.) This is to announce the death of baba­ (Fred ignores his hand) What's wrong with you? laaz! FRED: Nothing wrong. LESIBA: (Looks around the room.) You stay alone in this LESIBA: (Pitched voice) Congrats man! Are you throwing room? a gumba? FRED: Yes. All by myself! No cat, no dog, no chicken.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 47 DRAMA SECTION

LESIBA: (Points at the bed.) What about the bugs? all the money for every painting I sold. FRED: Not even one! (They smoke.) LESIBA: Did you tell your uncle? LESIBA: You will run mad one day. FRED: Yes. FRED: I am an artist. LESIBA: Why? LESIBA: And so what? Look how dirty the floor is. FRED: You can guess . . . he's wearing (gesticulation) a FRED: Man, don't worry about the floor. Let's drink. cap over the eyes. Tell me, are you a health inspector? LESIBA: Ya, you had it tough. (Short pause.) I must go LESIBA: I'm giving you advice as a friend. You need a home, friend. woman. FRED: Okay (pointing at the bottle), let's squash it. FRED: For what? (Both pour and drink whilst standing.) I will take LESIBA: (Pours brandy) Cooking, washing and cleaning you half-way, that girl won't come. your room. LESIBA: (Staggers) She'll come tomorrow, man. And FRED: (Pours) You must be old fashioned. I have my er . . . you must marry her . . . (Fred supports ten fingers and two legs. him.) Do you hear? LESIBA: I bet you won't say the same tomorrow. And why did you leave your uncle? (EXEUNT) FRED: It's because of that woman, my aunt. She wanted

CINCINATTI Reviewed by Brenda Leibowitz

Conceived and directed by Barney Simon Cast: Barrie Shah, Vanessa Cooke, Bo Petersen, Sam Williams, Thoko Ntshinga, Peter Piccolo, Marcel van Heerden, Ron Smerczak, Lesley Nott. Venue: Upstairs at the Market Theatre.

Cincinatti is one of the most origi­ people and white people can meet. especially the rotating discotheque nal and refreshing local plays I have Right? light between scenes, with disco music, seen for many years. Whilst exploring Candy: Well, to dance. in particular Freak Out, which recre­ various aspects of Jo'burg city life Pat: Well, when you get there you ates the frenetic atmosphere of a with considerable depth as well as hu­ can't talk to people anyway. disco, insecure, empty and struggling, mour, it is devoid of the angst-ridden Candy: But you don't. . . which is typical of the lives of many of 'heavies' which plague so many of our Pat: 'Cos the music's too loud. the characters in the play, although serious plays, and the humour is nei­ When you want to buy a drink they they always have some interesting ther gross nor simplistic. Very human charge you such crazy prices, danger quality as human beings, and as the and honest, it has a wide audience pay, half those black people who go play stresses, they are all alive, despite appeal. there can't afford to buy drinks any­ vacuousness, lack of political aware­ 'Cincinatti', the name of a club in way. ness, or whatever. And people like Fordsburg where, according to Sheila, Candy: I don't know. People seem Thembsi and Candy manage to gen­ the lead guitarist's wife, in her intro­ to buy drinks. I don't know. erate tremendous excitement on stage, ductory monologue, 'company direc­ Pat: And so they go and spend their about this newish social scene which tors dance with domestic servants, whole week's salary on buying drinks the police manage to shut down, gays in satin, guys in denim', where at the Cincinatti. arriving in their 'dog carts.' people feel, 'My God, my Jesus, I'm Candy: Ah! but they have a good The roles devised by/for the actors ALIVE,' or it is 'freedom floating like time there, man, you know, it's the are as follows: Sheila, an Indian from a lost balloon.' The latter description only place they can go. Where else can Grey town, Natal, who married a musi­ does sum it all up though, because the we go ? cian 'of another faith' and came to live multiracial club where the music is too with him in Johannesburg. She sings loud for people to talk, is euphoric, The plot is very simple: Cincinatti the opening song 'Cincinatti', which operating in a vacuum; the people who is closed down by the police and the she composed with Duccio Alessandri, go there to dance are distanced from play develops as a set of scenes where very well, but her role is fairly weak the factors operating in the surround­ various people going home from Cin­ and self-conscious, not particularly re­ ing society, consciously or unconsci­ cinatti or involved with people from vealing. Vicky, a gawky, raw go-go ously. This dialogue between the Club Cincinatti interact, and we learn dancer from Carltonville appears racist accountant's wife, Pat, and one of the about their lives, their attitudes to and ignorant, and can be seen as a foil main groupies, Candy, points out the 'city life' and, of course, to politics — to the more intelligent and aware ambiguous value of Club Cincinatti: (those who have as much as thought Sheila in the opening scene: about politics.) Pat: Ah well. It's just that I really The 'Cincinatti' episode acts as a Sheila: PASSIVE RESISTANCE. think that they rip people off. . . Well, unifying structure for the play, and Vicky: Hey? Oh . . . they use it as a place where black the few props are used magnificently, 1 48 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 DRAMA SECTION

But the pathos surrounding Vicki's Nightwatch: Drum, Post? again with a British bisexual who has 'nowhere' life is already becoming evi­ Thembsi: Did you see my picture in somehow made South Africa his home dent: her boyfriend, Hedley Smit, is a Drum in the Coca Cola advert? I'm the and tries to seduce Pieter, and later deadweight guitarist without a job, girl on the right eating a naartjie, my with Candy, one of the 'vacuous' types; who doesn't even meditate anymore, boyfriend is pouring me a coke. Candy doesn't bear in mind things like she claims, and is still living in 1966! the war in Rhodesia when she speaks Vicky wants luxury, to be supported — Always propositioned by men, she to a Rhodesian, but she is open to all by a wealthy man like Gustav the rejects both Hedley Smit, who meets experience, even to Pieter from Boe- pimp who, although 'he's always in the her at the station and thinks he can get goeberg, and she dances with 'just shit', according to Hedley, 'at least he a quick screw for nothing 'cos she is anybody' at the club. One of the final carries his shit around in an Alfa Sprint'. black, and Abraham Luthuli, the and most important points in the play Their relationship is one of the most nightwatch from Cincinatti, who has a is when she berates Pieter for talking of interesting, because although they don't son her age. In fact, it is because his 'kaffirs', 'Bantoes' and even 'Hotten­ question their values, about South son was arrested by the Special Branch tots'. She doesn't give a political sub­ African society in particular, (she won't at the time of the riots, that Abraham stantiation for her anger, just tells him, dance in front of 'coolies' and 'bantoes' has left his farm and wife in New­ 'Your head sal opgeklop wees' in and he says, 'Listen! In five years time castle, where he lives 'far from the Johannesburg for saying that. She goes the afs are going to be running the white man' to help his son in Johan­ on to explain to the earthy and raw show. Where's the boere going to be nesburg. It is Abraham who makes the (and verkrampt) Pieter that 'in Jo'burg then?') they feel dissatisfaction with the 'political statement' at the end of the you must feel the vibes, be like a bok — directionless lives they lead. play, and although this has been well smell people, feel people' (words not Thembsi, from Soweto, operates prepared by his earlier behaviour, it is exact) and act accordingly. This seems late hours in Hillbrow, will dance with less exciting than the indirect 'state­ more or less to sum up the play, but white or black men at the club, but ment' made by himself and Thembsi at perhaps I have seized upon this com­ doesn't read the papers, doesn't think the station where they were rude to a ment for its mostly positive value. of conditions in Soweto when she 'plaasjaapie' who had the nerve to Nevertheless, I do think it an impor­ dances in Club Cincinatti, once for come onto the black side of the sta­ tant and fairly subtle way of asking 'five hours non-stop!' — tion — 'Witman, wag daar, nie hier. the audience for a whole lot more out Apartheid.' — and together ritualistical- of their lives and behaviour in this Nightwatch: You didn't read about ly chased Hedley away after he became crazy city. him? offensive to Thembsi, a high moment Thembsi: Where Bab a, in the news­ in the play. paper? No, I don't read newspapers. The 'plaasjaapie', Pieter, features

SUGGESTED READING LIST: AFRICAN DRAMA

FROM HEINEMANN AFRICAN WRITERS SERIES FROM RAVAN PRESS

Short East African Plays in English edited by David Cook Contemporary South African Plays edited by E. Pereira and Miles Lee Ten One-Act Plays edited by Cosmo Pieterse Ravan Play scripts: Short African Plays edited by Cosmo Pieterse No. 1 Not His Pride by Makwedini Julius Mtsaka Five African Plays edited by Cosmo Pieterse No. 2 The Fantastical History of a Useless Man devised African Theatre edited by Gwyneth Henderson by Malcolm Pur key and the Junction Avenue African Plays for Playing 1 and 2 edited by Michael Theatre Co. Ether ton No. 3 Lindiwe by Shimano Solly Mekgoe The trial of Dedan Kimathi by Ngugi wa Thiong'o No. 4 The First South African by Fatima Dike

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 49 Staffrider Workshop

This is the third in a series of articles for STAFFRIDER WORKSHOP by Esk'ia ('Zeke') Mphahlele. In it Zeke continues his discussion of short story technique by considering further examples of work by leading African writers. Chirundu — the new Mphahlele novel — was published last month by Ravan Press.

Under the theme 'Betrayal' we have cera . . . the reader a chance to be drawn into the three excerpts: (a) from a short story, He felt like getting out of there, tension and then reflect upon it. (b) from a novel and (c) from a short screamingly, elbowing everything out of There are no hard and fast rules con­ story. his way. He wished this insane trip were cerning impressionistic style. We are liv­ over, and then again, he recoiled at the ing in an age of stress and tension. And (a) Can Themba/THE SUIT thought of getting home. He made a in a country where these are concentra­ 'Son,' (the old man) said, 'If I tremendous resolve to gather in all the ted, often to a point where we want to could've avoided this, believe you me I torn, tingling threads of his nerves con­ scream, we, especially Africans, feel would, but my wife is nagging the spice torting in the raw. By a merciless act of compelled to employ a language (or dic­ out of my life for not talking to you will, he kept them in subjugation as he tion — choice of words) that pushes and about it.' stepped out of the bus back in the Vic­ pushes and drives a meaning home with It just did not become blustering old toria Road terminus, Sophiatown. the force of bare fists, a language that Maphikela to sound so grave and Phile­ breathes like wrestlers, to quote a Black mon took compassion upon him. Can Themba was the kind of writer American poet. Impressionistic diction 'Go ahead, dad,' he said generously. who went to great lengths in the use of is quite common among Black Ameri­ 'You know you can talk to me about what is called impressionistic language — cans, whose life is also riddled through anything'. language that is meant to startle or with pain. We simply recommend that The old man gave a pathetic smile. shake you up as a reader. He did this the writer should not lose control once 'We-e-e-ll, it's not really any of our bu­ mostly by using strong words and ima­ he has decided that the subject calls for siness . . . er. . . but my wife felt you ges: 'nagging the spice out of my life'; impressionistic diction. Other writers, see. Damn it all! I wish these women 'it was not like the explosion of a devas­ like Nadine Gordimer, Hemingway and would not snoop around so much.' tating bomb. It was more like the criti­ so on, use other ways to produce im­ Then he rushed it. 'Anyway, it seems cal breakdown . . . ' 'deep in its inner­ pressionistic effects. See again how there's a young man who's going to visit most recesses, menacing electrical flash­ Miss Gordimer uses objects and gestures your wife every morning. . . ah . . . for es were leaping from coil to coil . . . fuel to create a vivid impression. these last bloomin' three months. And tanks . . . ' and so on. We can imagine Intensive language that is maintained that wife of mine swears by her heathen something like this breakdown in the for a number of lines; intensive images gods you don't know a thing about it.' husband's wounded self-pride; we can through which the writer works out It was not quite like the explosion of imagine his nerves reacting like electric feelings and thoughts so that we can a devastating bomb. It was more like the flashes, and then, like a car engine, go­ best understand them; images that are critical breakdown in an infinitely deli­ ing dead. 'Philemon heard gears grinding contained in concrete, visible, tangible cate piece of mechanism. From outside and screaming in his head.' The writer objects; an intensive arrangement of the machine just seemed to have gone continues with the image of the car, to words or lines, short and long, so that a dead. But deep in its innermost recesses, the extent that what Philemon imagines vivid effect is produced; the intensive menacing electrical flashes were leaping seems real. recording of physical surroundings and from coil to coil, and hot, viscous mol­ A word of caution: Can Themba of­ details of behaviour — all these are ten metal was creeping upon the fuel ten succeeded with this impressionistic techniques we use for impressionistic ef­ tanks. . . language. But he could also overdo it, so fect. Some writers sustain such language Philemon heard gears grinding and that reading it would be like biting into longer than others in any one piece. screaming in his head. . . He turned a slice of bread with a layer of butter And it has nothing to do with whether round and did not hear old Maphikela's 3 cm. thick. It is not fair to ask the read­ we are describing rural or urban life. anxious, 'Steady, son. Steady, son.' er to take so many hammerstrokes in Life everywhere can be, and is being, The bus ride home was a torture of the form of words and images overload­ felt intensively. This must be said numb dread and suffocating despair. ed with meaning and associations, and though: that however much we feel raw Though the bus was now emptier coming in quick succession, relentlessly life intensively, we do not simply trans­ Philemon suffered crushing claustro­ pounding on his senses. The mood or late that feeling into words on the page. phobia. There were immense washer­ feeling or dramatic tension you want to The writer has to choose a suitable women whose immense bundles of soil­ express should tell you whether to use language (diction) for it and find a pro­ ed laundry seemed to baulk and menace impressionist language or not. Just as we per place for it in the story, determined him. From those bundles crept miasma­ experience in life moments of tension by his or her own intention. This is the ta of sweaty intimacies that sent nause­ and of ease, from one to the other, we central function of all art: to transform ous waves up and down from his vis­ need to demonstrate this. It also gives raw experience so that the final product 50 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 STAFFRIDER WORKSHOP is a thing of beauty. Beauty here means silence between him and the woman be ty thing into silence, he thought. . . ' that it has the power to move us, and to now crossed? To what end the cross­ These powerful words, notice, are broaden and deepen our emotions and ing . . . ? No, this silence was eter­ arranged in a way that form images thoughts as viewers, readers, listeners. nal . . . The silence to which he had (word pictures). Each image vibrates Thus sorrow or grief can be expressed now returned was dead . . . Perhaps through our physical senses — sight, with beauty through art, even though in daylight would show the way. hearing, touch, and through our feel­ our experience of grief in the raw we But the sun did not bring relief Ear­ ings: we begin to feel Gikonyo's anger, may suffer shock and even slump on the ly in the morning the child shrieked for sense of weariness, oppressive sorrow, ground, unconscious. attention, Mumbi lit the fire and again accentuated by the silence. And then we held the child to her breasts. The child are set thinking: about the fate that (b) Ngugi wa Thiong'o/A GRAIN OF went on whimpering, tearing into Gi­ must have befallen so many other de­ WHEAT konyo's nerves. Smash the child onto tainees, about Mumbi's betrayal. Her Note: Gikonyo has just returned the floor, haul the dirty thing into sil­ own silence tells us that she has surren­ from a Mau Mau detention camp to find ence, he thought, without attempting to dered herself to the fate: Tt is done,' that his wife, Mumbi, has a child whose rise from the bed. He did not want to she seems to say to her husband. This is father is a government-appointed guard see Mumbi's eyes, nose, mouth — yet how a rich image should take us beyond and an enemy of the Mau Mau, also a how that face had pleasantly tormented the experience itself. It should lead us former friend of Gikonyo's. After his him in detention? Now he recoiled with­ out through several associations the wife has broken the news, in, at the passing thought of Mumbi's picture excites in our minds towards an Gikonyo did not move. He only sat, hands on his body . . . expanded or increased awareness. leaning backwards, against a post behind Consider the beauty in the manner in It is this larger awareness of life that him, his eyes now immobile, now roll­ which grief, resulting from a sense of our readers want out of literature and ing, without registering anything. Even betrayal, is expressed in Ngugi wa the other fine arts. At the same time, the thought that Mumbi had been to Thiong'o's novel A Grain of Wheat. when they are exploring our images, other men's beds every night for the last Read the passage over and over again. their ability to see, feel, imagine, think, six years seemed not to disturb him. As Powerful words carrying powerful feel­ is increased and they become aware of if drugged, Gikonyo did not feel the ings, or powerful feelings expressed in more aspects of life, new ways of res­ wound; could not tell what caused this powerful words. That is what we want ponding to it. This is what we mean by terrible exhaustion. in good writing. Powerful words spell searching for a meaning — the search He failed to sleep. Gikonyo lay on beauty of expression, e.g. that the writer is taking us on. Remem­ his back and stared into the darkness, 1. As if drugged, Gikonyo did not feel ber: meaning is not a. solution to a pro­ every minute conscious of the heavy the wound; could not tell what blem, not the answer to a question. It breathing from the two women (Mumbi caused this terrible exhaustion.' can only be explored by the writer's use and his mother). Six years he had 2. '. . . stared into the darkness, every of such images as illuminate the various waited for this day; six years through minute conscious of the heavy dimensions of life, reveal the many sides seven detention camps had he longed breathing from the two women . . . of an experience. The reader's awareness for it, feeling, all the time, that life's 1. . . feeling that life s meaning was of these many facets of life in turn in­ meaning was contained in his final contained in his final return to creases his ability to see, to feel, to return to Mumbi. Nothing else had Mumbi. Nothing else mattered: the think. It is an education for him. And to mattered; the camps, mountains, val­ camps, mountains, valleys . . . ' the extent that the reader is increased, leys, everything could have been wiped 'Little did he then think, never moved, educated, he is revitalized, re­ from the face of the earth and Gikonyo thought it could ever be a turn to newed. Thus literature is engaged in a would have watched this, without silence.' continuous revolution. Not a revolution flinching, if he had known that he 'Could the valley of silence between that spills blood, but a revolution in would, in the end, go back to the him and the woman be now crossed? thought, feeling, in some part of the woman he had left behind. Little did he . . . The child went on whimpering, personality that experiences a release, then think, never thought it could ever tearing into Gikonyo's nerves. Smash busting the chains that define its small- be a turn to silence. Could the valley of the child onto the floor, haul the dir­ ness.

AFRICAN LITERATURE: AWARD

A new annual prize of $3 000 is now available to African writers and scholars whose work is published in Africa. The award's sponsor is Mr. Shoichi Noma, president of the major Japanese publishing firm Kodansha Ltd. Conscious of the fact that book needs are particularly acute in Africa and that encouragement should be given to the publication of works by African writers and scholars within that continent — instead of abroad as is too often the case at present — Mr. Noma has established an annual award for an outstanding new book written by an African author, and published in Africa by an indigenous African publisher. The award will be presented for works in one of the following three categories, rotating from year to year: (1) scholarly or academic, (2) books for children, (3) literature and creative writing (fiction, drama and poetry, as well as essays on African literature.) Further details about the Award can be obtained through Staff rider.

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 51 Book reviews

We killed Mangy-Dog by Luis Bernado Honwana. Reviewed by Mafika Gwala.

Hill of Fools by R.L. Peteni. Reviewed by Amelia House.

Mhudi by Sol. T. Plaatjie. Reviewed by Milton Doyle.

Batouala by Rene Maran. Reviewed by Robert N. St. Clair.

We Killed Mangy-Dog/Luis Bernado ho (Ginho) and dares to confront the Hill ofFools/R.L. Peteni Honwana manhood-seeking Quim. Really stands The story of the Hill of Fools can be Dear brother Staffrider, up to the superiority-complexed Quim. simply told. Between the Hlubi village, You are surely coming up right with Honwana also wrote a moving story which lies below the Hill of Fools, and the Staff riding. Let it go! On! — Papa, the snake and I. It's not neces­ the Thembu village, which lies across Perhaps it would be of benefit to the sarily the political message that I'd like the Xesi River, there is a bitter rivalry. Staffrider venture to have a readers' to point out. It's become irrelevant Zuziwe, the Hlubi village beauty is en­ page for the expression of views regard­ now; contextually speaking. 'Cos Freli- gaged to Ntabeni. He is a prosperous ing the current trends in South African mo did their thing and the story is farmer and avid churchgoer, who has arts and literature. More especially, set during the colonial period. Essenti­ been accepted by her family as a suit­ since there is developing a South Afri­ ally, the relevance lies in the socio-poli­ able future husband. Ntabeni is much can English that is a continuation from tical and fatherly expression of Ginho's older than Zuziwe. She falls in love with where people like Can Themba, Casey, father when he has to say, 'Even a poor Bhuqa, a leader of the Thembu warriors. etc. left off . . . into the Black awareness man has to have something. Even if it is They have to meet in secret. Ntabeni literature of the early seventies; up to a false hope!' This is after the white far­ tries to gain her back, but only succeeds Soweto '76; and after. mer, Senhor Castro, has been to him in igniting another fight between the This letter has been urged by the re­ demanding compensation for his dead villages. Zuziwe's brother is killed. She view of Luis Bernardo Honwana's col­ dog which was bitten by a mamba in discovers she is going to bear Bhuqa's lection of stories, We Killed Mangy-Dog. Ginho's yard. child. An abortion attempt has tragic The review has been finked. Hon­ Ginho's father is finding himself endings for her. wana is one of the early Southern Afri­ when he says to Ginho: 'People don't The theme of the story has been used can writers who went beyond 'protest mount wild horses, and they only make by many writers. It is the time-tried literature' without the artistic message use of the hungry, docile ones. Yet star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet, getting banal. when a tame horse goes wild, it gets theme. This theme was also used by Mangy-Dog. It's a dynamic story shot down; and it's all finished. But Lewis Nkosi in The Rhythm of Vio­ with balanced brakes, applied where the tame horses die every day.' For being lence. As with each writer using this race/master-servant conflict would tame. theme, Peteni brings a new vitality to otherwise slip out of hand. 'Ginho . . . What irked me was to see the com­ the story. It is not the Montagues and you are cross with me? Shouldn't we plete reality of Honwana's stories being Capulets merely transported to South have killed the dog? Senhor Duarte told toned down to non-identity. Have met Africa. The Hlubis and Themus are Af­ us to . . . you were there too.' But the people with the same reaction. Yet how rica. The story is told with simple ease damage has been done. The guilt must important is Honwana's method to local and although one guesses at the inevit­ be transferred to Senhor Duarte but the writers. More, the reviewer himself able one feels almost compelled to fin­ machismo remains with the killers. Just agrees that Honwana 'never preaches, ish it at one sitting. as with soldiers/mercenaries in oppres­ never raises his voice' — is a subtle ob­ The simple story is but a small part sion wars. server. of what the book has to offer. Peteni Another character, Changhai, also One is forced to remember how, in brings to the English language a rich projects the same feelings to the protec­ the sixties, the literary circles (obviously African idiom. Chinua Achebe said he ting Isuara who wants to save the dog liberal) ignored an important writer like was going to use well this language that (the depraved). Her helplessness and Doris Lessing. She was so vital to S.A. had been given to him and Peteni de­ failure to save the dog fit in well with literature. Author of worthy books, in­ monstrates this sentiment. the prevalent hot position of Black Sash cluding Winter in July (stories), The Diliza, a young Hlubi warrior, ex­ and other liberal agencies. Habit of Loving, A Man and Two Wo­ plains to Zuziwe why he must hate the Quim, chief executioner of the kill­ men and a trilogy Children of Violence. Thembus and builds up a series of im­ ing, doesn't need any such persuasion or Has also published several books after ages to make the point that he does not tact. He counts on his pride: 'Hey, gang settling overseas, one of them a docu­ really understand the hatred. After nam­ we've got to kill the dog . . . Senhor mentary on the English. One can say she ing many things and creatures in nature, Duarte told us to. He said he was count­ was true Zimbabwean! Just as Olive he says, 'Don't ask me. Ask the maker ing on us.' The way Jimmy Kruger has Schreiner had deep insight into the na­ of these things and the maker of me.' It to count on his preying police depart­ tive-settler dispute. Doris Lessing, ig­ is the timeless Africa that we feel. There ments. nored! is no hurry to get to the point. We can The sympathetic character, Ginho, is Let us not let it happen when we spend time observing the sun, the moon, obviously black. Faruk, Asiatic. Like Staff ride. Please. the stars, the rain and the wind. We can Gulamo. But Gulamo sides with Tuicin- Best of thoughts — Mafika Gwala. embrace the vastness of Africa.

52 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 REVIEWS

Peteni takes the time-tried story and acceptance of the values of white 'civili­ Baralong view of history. Much research makes it work on an old and new level sation'. The review draws our attention is necessary in order to allow us to un­ in South Africa. It is at the same time to the words and phrases used by derstand both the historical conditions held within no boundaries (like the sun, Plaatjie which suggest that life as led by which originally produced those con­ stars and moon) and yet within narrow the 'natives' before the arrival of (white) flicts and the present conditions which village boundaries. Throughout the 'civilization' was 'primitive', 'simple', keep them artificially alive. book these two opposing points are 'barbaric'. Plaatjie can be seen as standing at made to work. Within the characters Mshengu sees Plaatjie as talking several 'crossroads'. As an educated themselves there is the struggle to exist about 'native life' from a position out­ Christian and part of a black elite he put on both levels. They need to belong to a side of it, and contrasts this with the himself at the service of his people in wider world and yet the village bound­ position of Achebe, Dikobe or Casey the campaigns against the injustice of aries must be observed. Motsisi who wrote about the experi­ the Land Act. Part of this campaign was The jealously of the other girls over ences of black people from within. to write this book which shows the cir­ Zuziwe leads them to attack her. Ntom- Mshengu's review is concerned to point cumstances in which the blacks were bi, cousin of Ntabeni, leads the attack out repugnant and dangerous thoughts robbed of their land. The campaigns supposedly to side with her kinsman. in the novel and to warn readers and also included pleas and petitions to the When Zuziwe's family go to Ntombi's students about the effect of this (and British government and appeals to their family and she is to be punished, we other) work on them. sense of 'fair play'. (Plaatjie dedicated have a description of dogs attacking a But no work — book, poem, or pic­ Native Life to Queen Victoria.) cat. 'They had not attacked the cat be­ ture — ever has it all its own way. The Plaatjie was the first Black South cause they wanted food to eat, but be­ book does not always merely have an African novelist writing in English. His cause the instinct to kill had been rous­ effect. The purpose of the review is not education tore him from his peasant ed.' These parallels in nature appear as just to put people on their guard. What origins and set him firmly on the road an extra motif. any book will yield up to us is largely a to a (western) 'civilisation'. But he re­ Hill of Fools works for me on an­ result of the way in which we approach tains sufficient connection with his own other level too. I cannot but draw paral­ it. And this is why the differences be­ Baralong people to be able to recon­ lels with the Immorality Act. Boundar­ tween Mshengu's review and Tim struct, probably from verbal accounts, a ies are drawn on colour lines and love Couzens's introduction are so impor­ crucial moment in their history, and to cannot go across them. We are brought tant: they pose the problem of how we save that piece of history from oblivion. up to hate. Diliza has learned to accept are to approach literature which has He is at one and the same time one 'civi­ the hatred without question and in a been handed down to us. lized' man talking to another about the similar manner, as a means of survival as I began this review by saying that 'uncivilized', and a chronicler acting in enforcers of a social pattern, parents Mhudi is an extremely 'mixed' work. accordance with the truth that nothing and teachers perpetuate hatred across This means more than that there can be which has happened should be regarded colour boundaries. The Romeo and Ju­ more than one valid opinion about the as lost for history. liet story is played out daily in a very book. The book is itself a product of a Let us not forget the mobilizing real way in South Africa. conflict of perspectives. Plaatjie does power of the story which Plaatjie tells. This book should prove of use to use the language of white 'civilization' Mhudi is written in the conviction that students in various disciplines. It will to distance himself from the 'barbaric' the inventions brought by the whites not only be analysed by students of li­ past of his forefathers. But he also gives (the gun, but also the ox waggon and terature, but also by students of lingu­ account of their customs and political many others) have utterly changed 'na­ istics, sociology and political science. traditions which show these 'barbarians' tive life', for good and ill. Nothing will to have been highly civilized by any ever be the same again. But the rule of Mhudi/Sol T. Plaatjie reasonable standards. The Boers (except the white tribe is as fragile as that of the Sol Plaatjie's Mhudi is an extremely the de Villiers clan) are shown to have Matabele. As oppressors they cannot mixed work. In Tim Couzens's intro­ been a crude, rigid and unimaginative hold out forever against the solidarity of duction and two very different reviews people who could have learnt a lot from all those that they oppress. in Staffrider (November/December 'native life'. When Plaatjie talks about 1978 and March 1979) the book has the 'natives' he does use words which Batouala/Maxan, Rene provoked a number of sharply conflict­ show that he was deeply complicit in This novel centres around Batouala, ing responses. What can no longer be in the 'civilization' of white rule. But the the chief of one of the tribes in French doubt is the importance of this work. It words he puts into the mouths of the Equatorial Africa. The story begins with is a book which has forced into the Baralong point to the vitality and rich­ a description of his period of courtship open the most vital issues on the ques­ ness of the culture which white 'civiliza­ with the beautiful Yassigui'indya and tion of how we are to read works which tion' has long been in the process of de­ the establishment of their conjugal resi­ come down to us from the past. stroying. dence within the village. It ends with his In Tim Couzens's introduction to the Mshengu correctly points out that prolonged encounter with death after H.E.B. edition the novel is interpreted Plaatjie's is not an unbiased view of the being severely attacked by Mourou, the as a 'corrective view of history'. Mhudi tribal conflicts he describes. But it helps treacherous black Panther. But, there is seen as revealing and correcting the not at all to try and blot out the mem­ are other themes throughout the novel. distortion and suppression of our his­ ory of those conflicts. In order to One of them deals with the social world tory which has been a consequence of achieve unity and solidarity against of Yassigui'indya and her love affair white rule and colonialist and national­ Nationalist Party divide-and-rule strate­ with Bissibi'ingui, a young man who is ist ideology. Mshengu, who reviewed the gy it is important to understand those continually sought after by the wo­ novel in the March Staffrider reminded conflicts. Novels such as Mhudi can pro­ men of the village for his portrayal of us of Plaatjie's Christianity and his vide only a starting point: it is clearly a manhood. Another theme involves the STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 53 REVIEWS

Boundjous, the French colonialists. It setting. He is clothed with the warm at­ hood in the French colonial service, his tells about how they have exploited the tributes of friendship and contributes to literary expression does provoke a depth natural ecology of the region and have the foreground of Batouala's social of perception characteristically associa­ also oppressed its local population by world. ted with the participant-observer tradi­ viewing them solely in terms of a labour Rene Maran writes within a pheno- tion. It was for this reason, among class. It is perhaps this aspect of the menological tradition. His concerns are others, that he was awarded the re­ novel that has created so much fervour those of the participant-observer. He nowned Prix Goncourt and shares among its French critics. Some doubted expresses the world as it is seen by the honours with Marcel Proust in re­ its veracity and have challenged its des­ Batouala. He views women as Bassibi'in- cognition for his contribution to French criptions of social abuse and others were gui would. And he shares the warm literature. incensed by it. emotions that Yassigui'indya experi­ In the introduction to the English For some literary scholars, the story ences. When he describes the initiation translation, Donald Her deck of George­ of Batouala is a vivid description of na­ ceremony and the feast of circumcision, town University notes how this work turalism. In it, they find detailed evalua­ Ga'anza, it is alive. You feel as though has contributed to the Negritude tions of nature and its importance for you were physically present among the Movement. It was this novel that pro­ village life. There are lengthy accounts participants sharing their agony and vided the model for the writings of of animal life and the fauna of the re­ partaking in their triumph. Although Aime Cesaire, Leon Damas, and Leo­ gion. Djouma, the pet dog, takes on Rene Maran was born in Martinique and pold Senghor. added significance in this naturalistic spent some two decades of his adult-

EYE

Mzwakhe Nhlabatsi on visual arts

The most disturbing factor in my money with whites in town.' They for­ mind today, about art, is the question get that what they are seeing should of contact between the artist and the actually be preserved for the future cul­ black public: whether it's there or whe­ tural heritage, not sold as money-mak­ ther there is none today. ing objects that have no place or pur­ During the past twenty years, have pose in our lives and our community. black art and artists been in touch with Now there is some light that the Drawing by Mzwakhe Nhlabatsi the black community? The answer as I younger generation is throwing into the see it is, 'No, not all'. The black artist art world — in the form of art exhibi­ has been working for or within the tions, often combined with poetry read­ I want to give praise and courage to framework of white exploiters, with ings. And this is taking place deep in the those who are the propelling power be­ their questionable promises that they'll heart of the black communities, not in hind art exhibitions and poetry reading make them great masters of our times — town where it becomes something irre­ sessions. Events like these are always without caring, however, whether the levant to the environment. cultural and educational: in the way amount they give or pay for their work I'm not saying that exhibiting in they are presented, they are reminiscent is enough to let them do better work town is unwise, but it's not my idea, my of the events that came out of the Dada- and live without hassles. direction. It's great and praiseworthy if ist, Futurist, Surrealist and other The other problem is the talk of the black art events should start first in So- movements in Europe, in the trying older generation which leads to our weto or any other black township to times before and after the two world downfall. When they see a talented or give the roots and meaning of art to the wars. In the manner and style they are creative young artist, they always instil people, and to educate and instil an presented in the black community, they into him or her ideas of making money: appreciation of art into all those who really enlighten many aspiring artists 'If you keep up with this kind of talent are in the dark about artistic concepts, who are groping in the dark — especially you will sell well and make a lot of aims and expression. those that didn't know how to express

54 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 EYE

themselves. enormous need for art schools and col­ to blame are the ones who exploited Through these events, people are be­ leges to be built within black areas, them for their own ends without caring ginning to be aware of how to express where self-taught artists and those inter­ what happened to the records of their to other nations the sordid life they ested in art could be introduced to the lives. live. Gradually and seriously they deve­ rapidly-changing industrial demands for To sum it all up, the younger genera­ lop in the process of attending these artistic skills, and to other avenues of tion is becoming dedicated to the art events. Sooner or later we will have employment which are closed to black scene. We are taking the utmost care more Picassos and Michaelangelos emer­ artists at present because we lack formal and interest in safe-guarding our heri­ ging out of our own life style, doing art training and qualifications. These tage, culture and art. The way things are bigger and better things. colleges could be of great help in offer­ being led now, I feel sure that we are The most appalling and destructive ing diplomas in courses like fine arts, heading somewhere, and building con­ restraint on our art and on our commu-- graphic design, ceramic design, interior tact between the black artist and the nity (Black), is the financial and politi­ design and industrial design. We would community. cal structure of our country. It's bad. If have fewer starving artists if we had there could be some change somehow, formal qualifications which would give Note: where we could live and share equally, us access to jobs in industry. the heritage and interest in art could be I would like to suggest to the youth Staffrider looked around and dis­ so much more beneficial. All the people, programme organizers that if possible covered a few sources of analyses of black and white, could afford to express they should change their set-ups into Black South African Art: themselves as they liked; and they could proper art and design colleges, offering afford to buy any work that suited their diplomas at the end of each course giv­ 1. A.J. de Jager Contemporary African pocket and their taste. But how can a en. The ELC art and craft centre in Art in South Africa C. Struik. person afford or appreciate art if he is Natal is attempting to fill this need. Here the illustrations of art works are oppressed? Places like the Witwatersrand College useful but the text is slightly patro­ The environmental art expression for Advanced Technical Education, and nising. The author negates any politi­ that prevails now is very much politi­ the Michaelis Art School in Cape Town cal or social criticism in the content cally inclined. The younger generation is are models of what we need. of Township Art. in great need of freedom. So in the The incentive to write about art has, whole environment of their art one can for me, been very great. I tried to find 2. African Art see a concern with struggle. A struggle historic reference material (art books A journal put out by the University to be free: to be able to express oneself for example) about black art in South of California, Los Angeles. Some as one wishes. But at the moment this is Africa — but in vain! I was searching to numbers of this journal have con­ impossible, because around us we feel know about the lives and backgrounds tained articles on Black South Afri­ and see pain, hardship, starvation. We of the artists that lived before I got into can Art. Not all have been good but live oppression. A clamp-down of free­ art. It's so sad that there are no books at again the illustrations are useful. dom of expression; bannings, deten­ all about their lives, their aims, their tions, death — and a waste of all crea­ achievements, their problems. Even 3. Art Look tivity: these factors, too, kill our inter­ more heart-breaking is the possibility A journal published in Johannesburg. est in art. that we won't be able to see their work, The standard is usually high. One of the most urgent needs today due to the fact that there are no slides is to build instincts of art appreciation, or records available. So in a tragic way 4. Lantern by introducing art subjects into lower our art is lost to us. A government journal. The illustra­ primary, post primary, secondary and They are not to be blamed for what tions are useful. high schools. And related to this, is .the. happened to their history. The people

Ralph Ndawo/Photo STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 55 Vusumzi and the

inqola

competition

A story by Marguerite Poland

In our last issue, Vol. 2 No. 1., the boys wanted more wire and the best place was Yeko's store. The woman work­ ing at the shop was not helpful, but Mr. Yeko came to the rescue of the boys. As a patron of the youth clubs, he could not refuse their request. They found the wire and ran back to the youth club. Mrs. Dladla gave them a pair of pliers to share and they sat together in a corner sorting their pieces.

Vusumzi worked so hard his face was cars near the hawkers' place. Ask for Then he went to Mama Djantjies who damp and gleaming and he muttered to small springs,' and he held up his fingers sold vetkoek. They were plump and himself as he tried to cut a thick strand. to show the right size. stained the paper round them with oil. At last it snapped and the longest piece Vusumzi went to the hawkers' place He bought two. He ate them as he went shot away and skidded across the floor. where his mother had a stall. She sat on along, licking the rich fat off his fingers Josiah Penxa who was still playing darts a wooden box next to the mat where and crunching the crisp bits at the corn­ with Velaphi, kicked at it. Vusumzi put her fruit and vegetables were laid in neat ers. He stood near the bus-shelter watch­ down the pliers and went to fetch it but pyramids. It was an art to make the ing people climbing off the bus from Josiah snatched it away while Velaphi fruit balance. Today she had potatoes town; old women in black shawls with pounced on the pliers. They pranced a- and oranges with thin, crinkled skins; heavy parcels; young men bantering round the room keeping just out of tomatoes which she kept in an enamel with girls in big, bright shoes who reach. Vusumzi was much smaller but basin and ginger beer in every sort of laughed and nudged each other. Vusum­ he pursued them, protesting ferociously. bottle that Vusumzi could find in the zi idly ran one greasy finger round the The older boys teased and jeered until City dump. rim of his basin and wondered at their Mrs. Dladla bustled over and ordered 'Ewe Mama,' he greeted. silliness. them outside. 'Ewe mntan'am,' she smiled. He Vusumzi's mother was packing her So Vusumzi worked, and while he waited as she counted out tomatoes for fruit and ginger beer into a carton. worked he thought of the red-brown a customer. He sat down and dismantled 'Take the meat home to Mkhulu,' she guitar with the cowboy transfer. He a mound of fruit and then piled it up said tiredly as she hoisted the box onto modelled his car very carefully. He used again; it fell and oranges rolled about her head. Vusumzi started to protest flattened bottle tops for headlights and upsetting the potatoes. but thought better of it. Once he reach­ made number plates by cutting up an 'Suka Vusumzi!' cried his mother ir­ ed the house, he moved quietly. He did old fish tin and hammering it out. The ritably. 'Pick those up!' He restored the not want his grandmother to see him — neighbour's lodger was a painter and he oranges and potatoes to their places and she always found housework for him to asked him for a little paint. The old man complained that he was hungry. do. He put the meat on the kitchen came and admired his work. He squat­ 'I wish for vetkoek,' he said. table and hearing Mkhulu shuffling in ted down next to him in his speckled 'Aw, aw, aw, always hungry. There is from the yard, he slipped out, running overall, puffing at his pipe and advising surely a big worm inside you that eats down Njoli Road as fast as he could. how best to draw the tiny numbers. all the food I give you and leaves noth­ Vusumzi looked through the strag­ 'Heee!' he exclaimed, tapping his ing for your stomach.' She took a hand­ gling hedge round Mr. Nene's workshop. big stained teeth with the stem of his kerchief from inside her blouse and un­ Six cars were parked there. Some with­ pipe. 'But that is very good my son, but tied it carefully. She gave him four out wheels rested on blocks. One was a that is beautiful!' He tilted his hat back cents. 'And here,' she added, 'is fifty bright blue van with 'Funerals — Easy and scratched his head. 'You will win cents for you to buy meat. Bring it back Terms' written in big, black letters on indeed with such an inqola.' The old straight away.' He took the money and the side. Mr. Nene the mechanic was man clicked his tongue in admiration, trailed past the other hawkers to the peering under the bonnet of an old turning the car over in his bony hands. meat stall. white Valiant. Several other men stood An old woman had meat and offal around smoking. Mr. Nene popped up 'You must have the right wheels Vu­ laid out on newspapers. Flies crawled every now and then for a tool and to sumzi, mntan'am, with springs,' said the lazily across it buzzing irritably when wipe his sweating face. painter. disturbed. Vusumzi bought offal — it Vusumzi crept through the hedge 'Springs Bawo?' Vusumzi looked at was cheap and when boiled with chilis and laying down his car he scuffed his his car and back at the old man. 'Where was a good relish for mealie-meal. He feet in the dust looking for springs or can I find that thing?' held out the small basin his mother had scraps of wire. The men glanced at the 'You must ask the man who repairs given him and the meat was weighed. small, thin boy and forgot him. He

56 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 CHILDREN'S SECTION found nothing and though he wanted to boy and said kindly, 'Where is your car, tic as Vusumzi. Mr. Nene laughed as he ask Mr. Nene if he had any springs to mfan'am?' lit another cigarette. 'We are just like spare, he dared not interrupt men's con­ Vusumzi fetched it from the hedge kids, hey Boxer?' versation. At last Mr. Nene emerged and it was passed round among the men. 'Speak for yourself,' growled Boxer from the inside of the car. He wiped his 'Hayibo! But this is very nice,' said but he grinned. hands on a cloth which he slung over his Mr. Nene. 'This is very nice indeed!' They watched Vusumzi fit the shoulder, and rummaging in his pocket, 'What's nice?' said a voice, and round springs giving advice and clicking with he brought out a packet of cigarettes. the corner of the workshop swaggered impatience when he fumbled, but he He lit one and blew a miraculously long Boxer Nxumalo, the man from the mus­ would not let them help him. Mr. Nene stream of smoke through his nostrils. He ic shop. found some old pieces of tyre and Vu­ noticed Vusumzi and called, 'Weh 'Yo Boxer!' said Nene, playfully put­ sumzi cut them into strips and fastened mfana! Wenzani — what are you doing?' ting up his fists and sparring for a mo­ them round the small, wire-spoked Vusumzi said nothing and hovered un­ ment. 'This car of yours is giving plenty wheels. When his car was finished it was certainly. 'Come here,' said Mr. Nene, of troubles!' beautiful. beckoning. 'What's this?' asked Boxer, glancing 'Yo!' cried Vusumzi hopping from Vusumzi went forward with his eyes at Vusumzi's inqola. 'You going in for one foot to the other and forgetting to on the ground. 'I want springs please,' second-hand models these days Nene?' be shy. 'Yo! This will win the inqola he said awkwardly, 'for my car.' They laughed. Vusumzi squirmed. But competition.' 'Yo!' exclaimed Mr. Nene with mock Boxer took the car and whistled admir­ 'So it will,' agreed Mr. Nene, snap­ surprise. 'You have got a car?' ingly. 'Hey man,' he said, sliding his big ping off the top of a cooldrink. They sat 'Ehhe!' Vusumzi shuffled his dusty sunglasses onto the top of his head,'this round the table and drank. Vusumzi, feet. is something. You must put on the even though his head was not very high 'A big van?' The other men laughed wheels now ... ' above the table-top, felt like a man a- and Vusumzi's ears felt hot. He shook 'And springs,' interrupted Vuzumzi mong men. his head. in a small voice. 'You've got a taxi heh?' 'Yes,' said Boxer. 'If this car had a In our next issue, read the last part Vusumzi grinned shyly but said noth­ good suspension, it would be great.' of the story with the dramatic results of ing. He examined a stone very carefully So Vusumzi and Boxer and Mr. Nene the contest. with his toes. went into the workshop and sorted Mr. Nene stopped teasing the little springs. The men were just as enthusias­

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 57 CHILDREN'S SECTION

CRY NOT LITTLE ONE

Cry not little one Mourn not little one Mama will live To love and raise

Cry not my love Mama rests She is not dead But has gone To prepare for you Better place

Cry not little one I am here To protect and To love and raise you

Little one At your infancy You already know You know of suffering And my little one, I don't want To fool you Try to console you with lies That this world is Canaan No, it is hell It is cruel It devours People here Ralph Ndawo/P&oto Kill Rob Rape Exploit Hate There are wild animals that will eat you So, little one Trust no one but yourself Your conscience

And I saw a woman With a child on her back A child so beautiful So black Kneeling in front of me With the child held in offering And she said to me in tears Bless my child Let him not grow In suffering like you

Bless my child And let him not grow To exploit, to kill To roband to hate But let him grow To be fair To love, to respect And to praise His ancestors like you And hearing this I blessed I prayed I cried!

Biddy Crewe/Photo

58 STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 CHILDREN'S SECTION

Leonard Maseko/P/?o£o

And I saw children I want to sing Playing and laughing My favourite song At nothing I want to dance Seeing jokes in everything My favourite dance I want to recite In my mind My favourite poem I saw myself a child After hours A child who could think I want to sit at the fireplace A child who could judge By your side And walked towards them I want to listen To your deep voice I saw their faces Taking advice and ideas Losing happiness 'Cause you're wisdom When they saw me After hours And they started crying Our souls will mingle 'Cause they saw through me You'll be me 'Cause I was not one of them I'll be you 'Cause I was evil After hours. 'Cause I was a grown-up Sikhalo kaMthembu/Orlando West

STAFFRIDER, APRIL/MAY 1979 59 NEWS FROM SOUTHERN AFRICAN PEN CENTRE (JOHANNESBURG)

What is P.E.N.? In short it's a world association of writefs — 1 000 approximately — and stands for the ideal of one humanity living in peace in one world. Members pledge themselves to do their utmost to dispel race, class and national hatreds. P.E.N, is op­ posed to any form of suppression of freedom of expression and opposes arbitrary censorship in times of peace. Membership is open to all writers, editors and translators who subscribe to these aims regardless of nationality, race, colour or religion.

Presently we are planning to have a 'writers wagon' that will visit groups outside the reef area, and hold readings and writing workshops and discussions within the wagon. All writers are invited to join the first trip to the north.

At present readings are taking place approximately once a fortnight or on special occasions. Writers' groups are expected to give notice of their readings a month in advance. For information on forthcoming readings, availability of transport, etc. tele­ phone the chairman of the Centre at Johannesburg 391178 or the secretary at Jo­ hannesburg 7252096. All Staffrider readers are cordially invited to read their work or to join the audience on these occasions. One will be held at Dube Y.W.C.A., Soweto, on 18 and 19 May — Africa Arts Festival — featuring all groups in the reef area and outside. The Centre will be having its conference on South African Writers in July.

The Centre's task is to secure the right to write, free from institutionalized harass­ ment, for all South African writers. It is therefore taking up cases of alleged harassment whenever these are reported and asking writers to stand firm and united on this issue. It is also raising and distributing financial support for the dependants of imprisoned writers and those in detention. Two young writers, Lebenya Mokgeseng and Molifi Mosekili, were detained recently and are still in detention.

THE MOFOLO - PLOMER PRIZE

1. The Mofoio-Plomer Prize (named after the writers Thomas Deon Divigny for his novel, THE ISLAND OF THE BIRD Mofolo, 1877 - 1948, author of CHAKA; and William and E.B. Lurie for his novel, THE BEGINNING IS END­ Plomer, 1903 - 1973, author of TURBOTT WOLFE) is LESS. awarded for an unpublished novel or volume of short The judges were Athol Fugard and Ezekiel Mphahlele stories with a length of not less than 30 000 words written who made the choice out of 23 manuscripts submitted. by a writer resident in southern Africa or a .southern The authors, both of whom come from Cape Town, will African writer living abroad. Entries must be in English. each receive R250. Previous Mofoio-Plomer winners were: 2. There is no age limitation for the 1979 prize and it is the 1976 Mbulelo Mzamane: MY COUSIN COMES TO intention of the Committee to encourage writers who are JO'BURG not yet established. 1976 Peter Wilhelm: AN ISLAND FULL OF GRASS 1977 J.M. Coetsee: IN THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 3. The prize is R500 - donated by Nadine Gordimer, the (Published by Ravan Press and Seeker & Warburg, Lon­ founder of the Prize, and three Johannesburg publishers don. Also won the CNA Literary Award 1977). (Bateleur Press, Ad. Donker and Ravan Press). The 1979 Prize will be announced later this year and entries have to reach the Prize Committee by 31 May 1979. 4. The names of the judges will be announced later. Two type-written copies of each entry should be sent to:

5. The organisers regret that they cannot undertake to re­ The Mofoio-Plomer Prize Committee turn entries without return postage, which should be en­ c/o Ad. Donker (Pty) Ltd. closed in the form of a postal order or cheque. Nor can P.O. Box 41021 the organisers offer detailed criticisms of manuscripts re­ Craighall ceived. 2024

The Committee of The Mofoio-Plomer Prize is pleased to Entries sent to the previous address, c/o Ravan Press, will announce the awarding of the 1978 prize to the joint win­ be forwarded to the Committee. ners:

Printed by Zenith Printers (Pty) Ltd., 60 Juta Street, Braamfontein, Johannesburg 2001 for the Publishers, Ravan Press (Pty) Ltd., 105 Corbett Place, 62 De Korte Street, Braamfontein, Johannesburg 2001. m

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