He had to get to the village, home to safety. He found himself running and did not stop until he had reached the fence of the village. By that time he had forgotten that he had left a white man dying under a smashed car, and he did not ever afterward believe that he had seen it. Fear drove the sense of that reality completely out of his consciousness and he could never speak of it.

THE DOORS ARE OPENING TO ALL Sheila Fugard

The doors are opening wide Like a scene from Goya Dumiie, you showed us the doors And they opened — The gaols where the thousands marched out . .. The hospitals where the hundreds limped back to life . . . The asyiums where the one, two and three wild birds flew back to the sun All the keys turning Cities Castles Houses Doors opening and shutting Releasing people In strange new ways of thought Look — People point First at the blue of bruises Then the green sea And the sun Whirling like a vortex against the blue of the sky Caught up in the cry of birds In the strange out of season fall out of Autumn leaves Palling Across faces shining russet, red and golden Crooked in greeting Those so hard to love Our brothers who limp from behind strange doors Black, silent and apart .... AN EASTER YODEL FOR UNBELIEVER- Peter Horn

Now come, fire! break through the rubble-dump, saxophone, with a heart-breaking squeal and rumble! Explode our naked discomfort in this black-cursed brandy-land. Oh-yeah-men-neer, when our cerebration flees through the excuse exit into the kingdom of that blue heaven for whites only. Down world! Voertsek! White is my face, and down right frightening the jumping cat life on my throat. Hammerheaded silence approaches along the double track of red. Yeah! Sorely healed we wait for the saviour to save us from ourselves, yeah, we dream of him, cross and spear ready to crucify him who managed to rise from the dead, damn him, sing about him, yodellng up and down the tinny larynx scale. Halleluyah! Now come, blood-thirsty mad-house rabble: come! The marble game against death is in progress. The black constellation and the star-swarms have arrived on flapping wings to celebrate our resurrection from world-wide death. Eyes askew on blinking neon-signs which announce our return to international sports and life we read blood-clot legends on barbed wire, names which got caught in the steel-branches of grandfather state. Come now, saviour, come in the owl’s hour, risen from hell into another, climb into the black field, visit this landscape of RAND and CENTS, raining through our brains, and nail banners in jet writing against the stars. And tell us, from acid mouth to acid mouth, the simple monkey truth. Tell us, stammering anti-creatures, flooding the earth, tell us with whirling well-ventilated lips, tell us that all is fine in this best of all worlds, so that we don’t have to crucify you again.

\h HOMAGE (to Notsie walls*) Richard Kiya-Hinidza

I wanted to see them, I wanted to see those ancient walls Of old Notsie. So I set off gently, In one midnight dream And was thus transplanted. I saw them miles ahead. Could not even recognise me. But lay buried In the grasses. Oh! It Is pitiful. Tens of grandsons forgotten. At the elapse of ages! Origin of men. Through the early Ewes I heard. Who your first sons had been. Slashing whips they endured. Tyrannies they suffered. They laboured in flowing tears. Walls of Notsie, Fortress of men’s origin long. You live in our dally dreams. I bring greetings. That of ancient men and my own. Live not in the grasses! I’ll take leave of you now. And call if time demands; Your thickly shape will then be seen. Walls of Notsie, great walls. Grandsons will pay a call. If age will not permit me. My former mighty wall, I feel to leave but sad, My blood once lived in you. So I was told.

*Notsie is an old town where the early Ewes once lived before migrating to Ghana where they now stay in a region named Volta Region. Notsie still exists somewhere in Togo but without the mighty wall which housed earlier inhabitants under a stern ruler. The walls were so thick that their remains are still said to be in heaps that can be seen.

IN YOUR OWN BACK YARD Babs Cole

How do you keep Your own back yard? Is it full of prejudice and trash? Does it have corners dark with fear where no light can penetrate? Are there patches of clarity; But so small that all the other layers obscure and overlay? To keep your own back yard clear and full of light let integrity flourish. Speak up at injustice that you see around. Do not clutter up your own back yard with irresolution fear and apathy. Is this all that is left to us to keep our own back yard tidy? Is it enough? Should we not try to sweep a larger yard. THE ORDEAL ‘Long’

JgY six-thirty on that Sunday evening, a loose warmth had crept into all the twelve, crowded guests at Sello’s engagement party. It had crept as stealthily as the autumn dusk that had come. The guests had arrived In pairs that early afternoon. The married men escorting wives, the single ones their lovers. Having dwelled together in the location for so long, the guests were quite familiar with one another but were not close friends. Sello s parents, not knowing anything about such novelties as engagement-parties, had retired to the kitchen, ‘leaving the young people to themselves,’ as his father had said. The party had gone on for three hours. It had begun and had gone the way parties do when guests are not free with one another — a deal of embarrassing formalities, a deal of tortured smiles, a deal of reticence made the more unsettling by snatches of self-conscious talking and exacting dry laughter, in response to flat commonplace jokes. There were roving eyes that shunned other eyes and a good deal of underhand appraisement of grace charm and beauty among the ladles, as well as concealed boredom in the young men. For an eternity of three in- sufferable hours, the ordeal had wormed along its way. S h H been eaten, with affected delicacy and without any relish, in that tense air. Then the table had been cleared stiffly. Bottles of brandy, oi wine, of whisky, of a variety of soft drinks lor dash, canisters of beers, and many empty tumblers had all been brought in such a way that you would have thought they were being got rid of. Then followed nervous speech and mechanical clapping of hands, after nervous speech and mechanical clapping of hands. The speeches had been listened to and the hands clapped out of mere courtesy. The first thimbleful had been sipped with pretended » *be third. And fourth. And fifth. And soon, a quaffing of liquor had been let loose bottle after bottle of spirits and canister after canister Of beers were emptied. The ladies, as they said, ‘Going strictly for beers.’ And now a loose warmth, a vague sensuous feeling of '''’ell-being had crept into everyone. When Sello felt it, he was more relieved at the thought that everybody else was feeling it. A good secretive smile oegan to play on his thick lips. His fingers began to twirl Pleasantly. His round beaming face was grey and metallic ‘h the wash of electric light. He turned and faced his hanc6 sitting beside him and felt hot and splendid. He lowered his face to her hands which rested on the table, ^hd saw the new shining ring he had just inserted on her Inger. This time the smile spread uncontrollably over Ws whole face. His voice was mellow when he said: ‘Yes, Maggie. How’s it with you, Maggie?’ He lashed his arm around her shoulders and rose to his feet. She said: ‘I’m ^11 right.’ ‘Good,’ he said and belched. ‘Good, my love!’ The guests were now talking lively. He too wished to say Something but did not have anything in mind then. He was feeling great and very soft inside. He could even f®el his real self rise richly in him, like the froth of good Pome-brewed beer over the brim of a clay pot, and become ^ Part of the guests, a part of his Maggie, a part of every- thlng else in the house, and a part of this world too. Then Ps wanted music together with the coolness of air to go ^long with that noble feeling; wanted them the way an pverfed suckling would still want the feel of the nipple in Ps mouth between tight gums. The radiogram stood against the wall below the broad closed front windows on the right. He walked in that direction, saying: ‘And now for music!’ Everybody cried out: Yeah! Yeah!’ He parted the floral curtains. A clean line lace was re- ''caled through which the pale-blue sky could be seen ^agueiy. The wide part of sky that was revealed was stud- P®d with small winking stars each of which seemed to be eating and vomiting itself in smoke. Faint beautiful Indivi- Ppal-iooklng stars. Sello opened the windows A cool air, ^Plch awakened the smell of cigarettes and liquor in the Pouse, rushed in bringing close behind it the outside noises ^PP the odour of damp sweet-rotting vegetation of an ^Ptumn evening. He began to play a favourite record. As soon as its sweet '^°Und burst out everybody rose in one excited accord — the '’oung men smiling with arms extended, the young women tittering. And this moment of suspended animation was the beginning of Maria’s end. Marla was what is known as a ‘social drinker’. Which means that she had, for the most part, the desire for drink but got the chance to fulfil it only when there was an occasion to ‘celebrate’. She was a tall, lithe, slightly self- assured young woman and had dark brooding eyes and a small round mouth. The rest of her features were regular Her husband was a soft-spoken loveable kind man, Danny who was now trying to jostle his way to her with an attrac- live large-as-love smile. The quantity of beers — Maria herself did not know how many she had taken — were finding their way in her She felt easy and wide and confident and thrilled and marvel­ lous. At the time the music began, she was talking ani­ matedly with another young woman beside her about the difficulties of managing a home. She was enjoying the vague, loose feeling that swam inside her, and the sudden crude friendliness in the house. Then the music began as if from nowhere. ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ Maria had said, rising and giving herself up to something. And as she swung back, her stiletto heel landed on Paul’s shoe and sent all her weight on his foot. ‘Oh, my!’ she cried and turned round. You understand, she was not tipsy yet. She was still in that pleasant, serene, all-at-peace mood that fore-runs intoxication. So when she turned round and met Paul’s wincing face, she was hurt. Out of innocence and exuber­ ance and pity, she cried out: ‘Paul, my sweetie! I’m sorry my Paulie! I’m sorry, love!’ She embraced Paul and kissed him playfully. ‘That’ll ease the hurt,’ she said and began to laugh, her dark eyes glowing beautifully — the outer corners of her eyelids creased merrily. Laughing, she released him and turned round only to meet the cold, half-brutal, half-tortured eyes of petrified Danny. She hesitated a moment. Their eyes had met in an instant. These two were so devoted to each other that in that split second Marla had felt the white-hotness of his shaking heart and had averted her eyes out of a curious fear, out of an unfounded sickening guilt. And now, without looking at him any more, she knew the deadly male in him was raging furiously and soon the anger would deepen into a blind self-destroying hate. Soon her feelings would be incapable of making a way into him. Then would follow a near-deadness, an agony, a blackness, a loneliness, a near­ nothingness! And she resented and dreaded all this. ‘But • ■ . but.. There’s no wrong I’ve done. There’s no wrong I ve done. I’ve done no wrong whatsoever.’ She was trying to protect herself from this thing which had built Itself so mysteriously and was about to bear down upon her. And still the cruel hardness of those eyes came again and again into her mazed mind, and a parched ache fingered her heart. What was happening to her? What was happening? She was In such a sudden conflict of emotions that she could not exactly know how she felt. What she only knew was, she was breaking breaking breaking gradually. A vague voice was saying; ‘... Come! Come now Marla! Come dance with me!’ It was Paul’s. He wore a fat smile cn his face and held his arms out towards her, Marla’s mind whirled In the greyness of confusion. The beers she had taken were bringing about an annoying foggy sensation which made it Impossible for her to think clearly. She swallowed and felt the dry coat of beer in her mouth. She collected herself and managed to smile at Paul. ‘Sorry. Not at the moment,’ she said. Then she looked in the direction of Danny and shouted: T want to dance with Canny. Come on, come on my Danny-boy. Come along, my Danny-boy. Come along, my Hubby! Sweetie batho!’ Her voice sounded embarrassingly self-conscious and soon dropped silent when she saw how tight his heavy obstinate Jaw was set. She lowered her face. It was as if the skin of her fear had been ripped open so as to expose its shameful bone to everyone. She looked at Danny once again and saw the detached coldness on his face. Struggling to control her voice, she said: ‘Oh, Oh, I see! You’re not In the mood yet. You’ll soon be. Don’t worry. You’ll soon be.’ Her face smouldered and her nostrils were dilated as she left the toom. She waited In the veranda, hoping he would follow. She Wanted to explain. Explain? Explain what? She did not know. She wanted to see him alone and talk to him anyway. A group of children were playing at hop-scotch across the street under an electric light. Their voices and laughter *!Ut deep into the misty evening. The evasive scent from Flowers near the veranda had a strange green bitter under­ tone of aloe juice. She rested her arms against the cold wall of the house, supported her forehead on them, and waited. Danny wasn’t coming. There was shouting and wrangling from the playing Children. There was shuffling of feet and music and babb- bng and suppressed laughter from inside the house. There Was, in the rest of the world, that extraordinary indifferent Impending danger. And Danny wasn’t coming There was the tear for that which was to happen, without exactly knowing what would and how It wiU happen. Sm waited and waited. And also waited, eagerly, couldn’t wait any more now. He wouldn’t come. He I waiting outside, it’s just that he doesn’t want to come. "The fool and his jealousy, she told herself. ‘Oh, the fool and his jealousy!’ She walked back into the house crest-fallen faint appalled. believe that the matter was unimportant and had not been noticed by anyone — that it was Danny’s and hers only. She could not. Details, which no-one could have observed tortured and filled her with resentment. Oh, this world! This capricious, unconcerned world, where smallest matter of chance may save or ruin your The big table that had stood In the centre of the room was pushed against a wall when she returned. It was still loaded with half-filled bottles and tumblers, and there was enjoyment in the puffing room. Marla felt sick. She saw Danny sitting at a small table close to the opposite wall, playing draughts with Ray. Two brim-full umblers stood before them. The other people were dancing laughingly and warmly. She walked to Danny with a drained, half-love, half-hate ache inside her. ‘Plavlne draughts, eh?’ ^ ® She rested her arms on his shoulders. Only Ray answered. The feel of Danny’s broad and heavy shoulders under her arms, the close sight of his thick black-shining hair on the back of his head, the awareness that he was now be­ ginning to resent her nearness burned as though to kill. ‘Which are your pieces, Danny?’ He murmured. ‘Eh?’ She lowered her face to his and saw the dull shim­ mer of anger and dislike on his shining face. ‘Can’t you see which are mine?’ After a pause, ‘I’ve said blacks. Blacks.’ He was trying to free his shoulders from the burden of her arms. ‘O-o-o-h-h!’ Hre heart was beating loud and she was shivering inside. ‘Whose move?’ ‘His,’ Ray said, indicating with a toss of the head and a corresponding flourish of the hand. ‘Move this to here!’ A thoughtless move. ‘Wait!’ Danny said, shoving her hand off the board and then putting the piece back to its place. ‘You wait. Can’t you leave us in peace? Can’t you?’ He too felt the hurt and said: ‘Watch in silence. Don’t muddle me. Watch in silence, Maria.’ She stood erect behind him, feeling the surge of the inevitable drawing nearer and nearer. Gone was the earlier light-heartedness of the party. Everything seemed gone. A terrible gloom had set in. And, standing there, she felt slighted, embarrassed, exposed to ridicule. Black with fury, she tried to hold herself tight against the dis­ integration that had begun to work in her. ‘Danny!’ No reply. ‘Danny!’ No reply. Her throat began to work nervously. She looked pathetic right to her round slightly protruding cheeks. ‘Danny, isn’t it time we left?’ ‘Why not go and enjoy yourself?’ ‘I’m tired now, Danny. And you’ll be going to work in the morning.’ ‘Does it matter?’ ‘Honest, Danny. I’m tired.’ ‘Well, I’m not.’ Then he looked squarely at his opponent and said: ‘What was your move?’ Ralph indicated. ‘Honest, Danny. I’m tired. Besides, I’m not feeling well.’ She was miserable and disgusted. ‘Can’t you give me a chance to enjoy myself too?’ She walked away heavily. Her bronze pitiful shoulders that were revealed above the top seam of her dress were hunched in humiliation, her head was lowered and her neck stiffened. She was holding herself from tears. As fate would have it. Paul cut across the room to her — still asking to dance with her. She had no alternative. They began to dance. She could not get herself into the rhythm of the dance. The dancing joy was not in her. Though she could hear the music, somehow it would not settle and crowd itself in her, so as to create the warm, peculiar veins-tickllng desire for beauty and goodness and fullness that brings about rhythmic working of the whole body — that throat-grappling moment of incomplete self- discovery instilled by music! Though Paul was folding her so close she could not feel his inner touch and he could not send her into the timeless, spaceless trance of dancing. The thrilling, subconscious alertness which feeds the mind with sweet, rich, smooth under-surface dreams Though she held so tight to him, she could not pour into him the feel of the music, could not pass on its message so as to oil and blend their movements into harmony. And so it is that she danced without enjoying herself. Now and then when the opportunity arose, she darted her dark eyes over Paul’s shoulder to where Danny was sitting. His ease and calm were destroying and puzzling. Modimo! How could a distraught, dancing woman tell an uncaring, out-of-reach husband without other people knowing that she wasn’t enjoying herself! That she was not likely to do so as long as he carried on that way? It seemed odd to Maria that she alone should be so anguished at that time. There should be, there should be a way of making Danny realize the misery he was causing her, she thought. Only if he would think, feel, see clearty. But no, he did not want to. He could not afford to. His love for her had turned into giving him a pleasure in being mean to her. The party ended deep into the moonless night. The guests bade good-night and left. Maria and Danny were accom- panied home by two other couples, who lived at their end of the location. They walked along the dead street that was lit from one side. The match-box houses along either side of the street were dark in deep sleep. Now and then there came a slightly-cold wind which seemed to rise In swishing black clumps of trees and dried grey grass-mounds, along the fences beyond the walst-high pavement on the left. The earthen pavement sheered down steep into the street where there were gates. Pieces of paper rustled here and there. Maria walked silent­ ly beside Danny along the edge of the street, close to the pavement. At each step, her stiletto heel sank loosely into the sand, which rains had piled from the middle and from yards on the upper side of the street. Besides Maria and Danny, the rest were talking with drunken elation To Maria, Danny’s .silence was stabbing. Soft-,spoken as he was, he was known to be always there when it came to normal, human relationships. The group was now nearing Danny’s and Maria’s house. Maria looked at it as they approached. It was no longer a home. It was just a house like all the others along the street. It did not have the inviting attraction of a home any more. It stood out hard and sharp in the near-dark jabbing her with Its nonchalance. ■Night.’ ‘Night. Night. Night. Night, Danny.’ ‘Night.’ ‘Night. Night. Night. Night, Maria.’ Maria walked behind him up the steep path that led to the gate. As they went through the gate she held at its pole for a short time, out of a queer, faint desire to support herself against something. The thought that they would now be together alone pleased her and yet sent a shudder into her. As they neared the house, amid the piercing shrills of crickets in the hum of distance, she felt like shrinking from the house whilst Danny moved on and on ahead, holding himself so neutral. He stopped before the door in that near-dark and began to unlock it Maria looked at the dark, heavy figure before her. Then something in her snapped. A cold trembling seized her. She felt barren and irritable. ‘This man,’ she thought. ‘This man is no longer a person, but a living will, tormented by an Illusion. A dull imposing will that wounds my faith. A cruel disrupting will I have to rid myself of’. TTie door creaked open. They entered. She closed and began to lock the door. The key was cold hard f avage, and gave out a dry, loud metal-sound when she turned it. Then came the harsh, inside-tightening click of the tongue of the lock as it slipped into the groove. Her heart beat in her throat and flushed her bowels with cold water. Danny lit a candle and carried it to the bedroom without saying a word, letting the enemy in his love for her wrangle, find fault with her where there was none. Maria followed, feeling oppressed, angry and irreconciled. Danny put the candle on a chair near the bed and began to undress. He Was brutally silent. He behaved as if he was alone, as if Maria was no more than the air in the room. He was so absolute and final that Maria herself began to have doubts about not having wronged him in some way. She sat on the other chair and folded her arms, in torture. She was still in the agony that wishes to express itself more in Words, than in tears. Oh, that he would begin to speak and pave a way for the pent up words in her! 'Then came that despair-resistant, crazy ‘maybe’ into her mind. ‘Maybe, he too does not have the nerve to start. Maybe, maybe he too is waiting for me to break the ice.’ He slid into the blankets. ‘Danny!’ No reply. ‘Danny! Please. Danny, please. Please!’ she cried. He turned his back to her. Maria rose and stood stiff awhile, looking at the still bundle in the bed. Another fit of trembling caught her and filled her with nausea. She un­ dressed and slipped a night dress on She climbed into bed towards the wall and he turned round again. He did not Wish to sleep facing her. He did not wish to talk to her. Tonight, much against his habit, he did not even wish to blow out the candle. She lifted herself, leaned over without touching him, and biew the candie out. She immediately turned over to face the wall. The ordeal! The ordeal! A thick-wool darkness swallowed her. She lay In that dark hemmed between the wall and her anaesthetized husband writhing under his coolness In that short-lived smell of a candle put out just now. They were only physically together now^ She tried to reconstruct the events of the evening in the hope of finding a meaning and reason for her plight She Her'^bori’v rushing at once to her. b loosened, then tightened again. H ® overcome by a sudden spasmodic wrench of bpf^' unselfish devotion for him was now hurt. bbfpr^^°u happening, she was sobbing bitterly. Her curled body was hot and taut. Her clenched H tn b L T ? Her sobs hitched into that pitchy expanse of quiet. Her heart ex­ panded and contracted violently, expanded to near-bursting and contracted to solid hate. She lay awake for a long tlnie, languishing. Presently her acute tiredness of body and soul sent her into a gradual drugged sleep As usual, she was up already by half-past five. That morning she went over her chores with a heavy heart. She cooked breakfast in quiet, without any accustomed singing In the awakening day. She began to tidy the house drearily, without the usual full-throated teasing: ‘Time’s up! -nme’s up, Danny. Awake arise, and shine before the beauty of day! Danny, time’s up! ’Time’s up! You won’t get a cow for sleep in this world You know that better.’ This morning she did things without any desire for doing them. Even the thrill got out of laying for him the clean well-ironed clothes on the chair near the bed (after having removed the candle) was lost. So was the warm satisfaction of pouring hot water Into a basin for him in the kitchen then adding cold bit by bit to it. Adding, stirring with the fingers, pausing to feel. Adding, stirring, feeling, until the water Is luke-warm: and waiting for him to come without having told him his water is ready. He came so soon, always. Naked to the waist. Yawning, probably. Stretching him­ self. Scratching and rubbing himself. He came so soon always — without having been called — naked to waist! Smooth body. Shining. Loose-limbed. Muscular. And all this was now lost! So was the enjoyable feeling of seeing him have his breakfast of sugared soft-porridge, tea and the previous day’s brown bread. In between talking. En­ riching the brightness of a morning. Danny appeared, fully dressed, morose, and all set to avoid her like the plague. He left straight for work without a word. He had not even looked at the water she had prepa­ red for him. He had not even looked at the breakfast on the table. He had not even looked at her. Nor had he touched the clothes she had laid for him on a chair in the bedroom. Maria, still holding the rag he was to have washed himself with, stood still and closed her eyes against the quiet gloom that turned the air in the room into a thick, cold obstruction. She could barely breath. She was torn between complete breaking and ceasing to care. He returned home from work in the afternoon, still serious-eyed and hard. Still morose and set stern on the mad purpose of ruining her life with glum reticence. She was facing the door, sitting at table before a half quart-bottle of vodka. The room smelled of the dry vodka she had been taking neat. She raised her eyes at him as he entered — looked at him the way an aroused nervous and dangerous animal would. Her body was flung heavily over the table. Her eyes were deepened, slitted and reddened. She held a glass of vodka in her right hand. And as she was looking at him out of her artificial shell of drunken ness, a sick pallor appeared on her thinned, angry Ups. A female craftiness came over those drunken, nervous eyes. ‘So you’re back?’ She drawled, in a husky voice. He walked past her to the bedroom, already stripping his coat. Not a word. Not a look. Neither a rebuking word, nor an annoyed look! And there was now a hopelessness and helplessness in her. Her left hand was lying limp on the table. And now it rose slowly, heavily, drunkenly. It pointed at the door, as if Danny was still there, before she shouted: ‘I say, so you’re back? You deaf mute!’ He returned, his sleeves dangling, into the room she was in. He stood akimbo in the door and looked calmly outside whilst Maria fumed and boiled in silence behind him. She gulped the remaining vodka in the glass, winced sourly, and grimaced. ‘You expressionless mute!’ she said. Then she looked hard at his broad back. ‘You, Danny, you. Mfhh! You think you’ve got a neck yet you’re a damn loose-arse coward! You think you can get at me that way. You won’t. I’m a human being! You’ll never get at anybody that way, I’m telling you. Cchhh! You’ll never. You’ll never. I bet you, you’ll never!’ She was thumping the table and shaking her head at his back. ‘You proud-Punch! C’mon, look at me. Look at me, you weak-knees! Speak! C’mon, speak! Say something, you mute! Qqhh! You and your bloody flighty suspicions' Say something. Speak! I tell you, you’ll never get a hSfd big. sullen bullying swine. You won’t have a grip at me that way. Not me! Not me. I tell you.’ Her shouting was hoarse. Danny left the house As hi* descended into the street he could still hear her shout ■ ‘Not Xsky dra“wk ^ ~ ele^Lc^Sf*^ evening just before the meal there, and would be all right for that day. He opened nfffPd°^ ^ strange smell. He stopped and iX f X pungent, brazier-fumes! He looked near-darkness. There was an un- fiihshed bottle of vodka on the table. Fumes. Brazier- umes. He covered his nose and mouth from the poisoned air and entered. His foot kicked shattered pieces of glass kltehen kitchen. He went to the |B ut.. but there’s no brazier in the kitchen. No brazier!’ 'Then he walked to the bedroom through the room she had been drinking in. His nose and mouth were still covered His eyes were now itching. Fumes. Fumes. Brazier-fumes.' He tried to open the door. It was jammed by a piece of sacking that was wedged tight at the bottom. Fumes were belching through the crevices along the door-ledge. A panic caught him. A panic of action! He pushed with all his strength and the door gave in. He was shocked at what he saw. The curtains were drawn together. A live brazier stood close to the bed. Out of the glow of the brazier, Danny could see the dim figure slumped on the bed, her legs folded together untidily^ little pale vaporous blue jets of flames leaped above the bright-orange, smouldering coals. The room was hot. Danny could hear the wood-work in there crackle in pain. The air was dank, stinging and suffocating. It crawled stickily on his face like gossamer. In between coughing, he cried out; ‘Maria' . Oh no ■.. No!... Marla! ...Maria!...’ He began to choke from the soot that was collecting in his lungs. THE HOEING-TEAM ‘Long’

Far from the clock-time stir Of location and town life — In the quiet of a scattered village — The sun is about to set. The sweating hoeing-team sits itself flat on the ground as one Like an animal thing And rests against the square mud-wall thatch-rool hut. Women, men, children — The old and the young — The whole village. Crooked hoes Lie piled together tiredly At a distance. The blade of each shows An eyes-hurting smile. Soon is brought A sweating calabash of beer. Full big and heavy. Two strong young men Carry it on a strong sack With great care. The cracked lips Break into a hungry smile. The chipped hands swipe Greetings for this which is so cool and ripe. The calabash has now come. The silent calabash of thanks. The lovely calabash lull of pranks. Full with thick heavy reddish-brown desire. The joyful calabash of blessing. The calabash has come. One by one the women and children rise And walk to the calabash And lie on side beside it And curl hot bodies round it. One by one the women and children take A lost deep silent swallow of the warming sensation Long-puiied. Unending. Tight-ciutched. Cool. Slaking Pleasant-sensation. In the quiet of a scattered village, The sun going out of the afternoon, Heat flowing out of heat. Life going out of itself. The sweat of the calabash Mixing with the sweat of the embracer. The talk of the team coming to the embracer As in an enchantment _ Too far to understand, yet so near to be one With the up-taking sip. Ever cool. Ever slaking. Ever pleasant. Drink-steadying the tired soul. And now that the calabash is half-full And now that the women and children have opened the way, A man will rise And walk to the still-heavy load And lift it And totter with it To the waiting team. Feeling the strain and shake of its body In his tired body. And sit down there still carrying it. And a man will now support it On his raised knees And begin to drink belly-full Before the calabash is passed around like kindness. A man will wipe his mouth and hands And settle back And let the feelers of sweet beer Into his tiredness And talk about his life And listen to the talk of others Until he has exhausted his need to talk and listen.

Then can a man break into a hoarse brave song Clapping his hands Amid that cackle and jabber — Letting the beauty and meaning in his song Invoke those around him Into chorus. Urging for timely hand-clapping and Inspiration to his song. Then the beer will whisper things into him And will show him things he had thought unattainable The moment a response shows. Then will he stand up And feel the nice needle-pricks of sensation in his scalp And a cold funny creepiness in the back of neck, And place his palms over his temples And hunch himself against that ever strange feeling, Shaking his head the way an angry bull That has been dying to be Inspanned would When at last the yoke settles over his neck. A man will turn to face the alive men and women and children before him. Singing and clapping in tune, waiting for him To instill Into them the dance chill. A man will now give out a piercing Accelerando herd-boy’s whistle, looking far ahead of him Into the empty afternoon sky. A man will begin to gather Stealth into his feet, let them rise and fall as if the ground is hot mud-lather. Letting the insteps down-tend. The arms of a man of men extend. Someone hands him a stick. Old men nod and clap harder Their eyes shine over the past. Old women smile. Maidens look restively at the power before them. The singing rises higher. The clapping crackles louder. The stick is changed into a catherine-wheel by a concrete force. Then the stick stops erect grasped one-hand by the tip. Sudden unmoving. Sudden unliving. And the body snakes down and down and down Slowly, Coyly. And the left foot rises and rises and rises Majestically, Mechanically. And the loins roll lotion-like and loose and supple Hotly, Softly. And the full belly caves and waves and slaves Manfully, Irefully. And the body pouts and locks Into thongs And the left foot spits down And the right foot sniffs up And the right foot spits down to crop-ground And the left foot sniffs up from burial-ground And a sound Of the pound On corn Is born. SUNRISE ’Long’

A bleak twilight. The cold wind blows down from the mountain through a mist. A pale half-round splotch appears in the east beyond the mountain. It widens and widens and widens in the clear sky. The mountain wrinkles into ridges. Its body darkens into a stubborn hardness Under a thin blanket of greyness. It arches fiercely against the widening splotch. Its jags show out and menace the sky. Darkness clear itself from the overlying greening Bristle and burrows deeper into the mountain coat. Shrub and boulder stick out firm. The earth pulsates with life. The air vibrates with sound. The cold wind sweetens and begins to scent everything. The spreading splotch transforms into a kaleidoscope. The mountain top throbs with splendour. Then, a heave of hope, A powerful outburst of promise, A rebirth of faith in terrible sunshine As the flaming tottering disc is edged out — Stuck profound in the ethereal vault. Screwed stern and a-tilt. Struggling to dislodge Itself, Throwing out fiery blinding light That spreads at once over world and sky. CODA Wolfe Miller

truth of the matter Is that man is, inescapably, a gregarious animal, and in solitude he goes mad. There were times in my life when I longed to get away from people: when It seemed that they had so chafed at my soul as to rub it raw and that all that could cure me of that ulcer was the ointment of loneliness. And on such occasions I have gone away, to be alone and think my thoughts and recover my sense of identity. But only to find that, within a day or two I was not simply thinking my thoughts, but imagining myself telling them to someone else. By the third day I might be sitting on my own in my hotel lounge and pitying myself for my isolation, as though I had not brought it on myself, but it was an injustice done to me; I might have found myself envying those young men and girls chattering to each other and even the middle-aged couples, secure in their intimacy. As though it was not precisely middle-age and intimacy that I had fled away from; from the overwhelming nearness, the stupefying togetherness of those with whom I was joined. It used to come to me then that what I sought in such a state of mind was not aloneness but anonymity; togetherness with those I did not know, to whom I was new and fresh and through whom I might be new and fresh to myself. Fantasy always took me in the same direction when I was in that mood. I saw myself in a strange town, amongst strange people. And from the undifferentiated mass of those who walked the unfamiliar streets, who dined in unfamiliar restaurants, talked with strange voices, used new gestures — someone would become detached: would see me and recognise me — not as one long known, but known in the now, the instant, without a slow-grown Intimacy and the torture of piece-meal discovery with its taints of disillusion and cynicism. I pictured it as a falling in love, yet not a falling In love—a mutuality more deUcate, less destructive: a knowing as tranquil as the cool of even­ ing, that probed deep into the soul and yet was not abusive of the self; that would leave Indelibly upon the ego an Imprint, not a scar. Only once In my life was that fantasy crystallised In fact. Though I know It now, I did not even know her name then, or where she came from or where she was going; whether she was single or married, or rich or poor. But I knew her well on the very Instant I saw her, as she knew me. Perhaps she too had been fleeing Intimacy, I thought, and the claustrophobic skeins of lives too closely bound to hers. For surely such telepathy could flow only between Identical states of mind. I argued the miracle with myself many times; wondered whether our meeting was fortuitous or whether she had sought me out, or I her, as we, unknown to each other, followed complementary paths through life, like the equal but opposite flourishes of a scroll which meet at a point, part, and follow equal but opposite directions to .... ? Ah, where to? That was the question. To meet again one day at another point? Or to move further and further apart towards Identical but opposite ends, as the movements of one’s mirror Image mock one’s own more and more distantly as one moves away from the glass? All the elements of the situation were finely adjusted towards the climax. It did happen In a strange town, a coastal city, full of noise and bustle, tall buildings and 'mpatlent traffic, to which I had gone to recover from overwork and overstrain. I had been Involved In a series of disasters, each of which had seized my mind and shaken tt until It seemed to me the very convolutions of my brain must become distorted; until those who would help grew tired, and those who would pity found pity run dry. Until I could no longer help myself or help those who suffered with me. Until, Indeed, their suffering became as tedious as my own and the greatest burden that was upon me was the ceaseless presence of those with whom I was joined In disaster. To run away from such an Impasse was not cowardice, hut wisdom. When the train moved out of the station and I was alone In my compartment and the only noise I could hear was not the sound of voices, but the clangour of the Wheels upon the rails and the creak of the timbers of the coach, then Immediately the tumult in my mind became less strident and the tensions in my body began to ease. I resented even the Intrusions of the ticket examiner and l^he bedding attendant. I shunned the dining saloon and wished that my moving cell would move on forever, never to stop, never to deliver me again amongst my kind, who might have suffered, too, and whose unknown suffering might ricochet upon my awareness. But the train reached its destination, drew to a halt in that unfamiliar station, and when the door of my cell was opened and I stepped upon the platform, amongst the hot, chattering crowds of men, women and children, I hated them all for the tensions that irradiated from their presence, from the mere knowledge that each and every one of them, in their countless units, were binding skeins of love and hate and intimacy about each other and which brushed like cobwebs upon my consciousness as I threaded my way amongst them. Yes, It is a sad and lonely time when one is angry with one’s fellow men for the hurt — and even the good — they do each other. It took more days than usual on that occasion before 1 began to feel lonely and to envy those who had found fellowship. It was the season, and the hotels, the restau­ rants, the streets, the shops, the beaches were crowded. By day there were the promenades and the sands and the sea, and by night the dance-halls and night clubs, the lounges and the theatres. But for the first few days none of these attracted me. I kept to my room, ate my meals hurriedly, avoided conversation or any contact which might again embroil me in the affairs or diversions of people. On the first morning that I took a seat in the lounge and drank a beer, a strange man approached me and asked whether I would join him and others that night in a game of poker. I said, no, because I did not play poker with strangers. Later in the afternoon when I took a walk along the esplanade to develop an appetite before dinner, a youth matched his step with mine for a few paces and whispered to me — would I like a woman? Again I said, no, not because I was not ready for female companionship, but because I did not want companionship that way or for that reason. And later on still, when I was back In the lounge enjoying a sundowner, a man I knew vaguely from somewhere I have forgotten took the chair next to mine and we were soon swapping reminiscences; do you remember so-and-so and so-and-so, and poor old Hugh, of course, is dead. How people were dull and restless, with their false boiste­ rousness and their humourless laughter, as though God’s hand had shaken in the act of creation and all mankind was afflicted with a universal palsy. That same night I did the rounds of the side-shows strung along the beach; the shooting-galleries and the putting courses; the waxworks — why were all the effigies those of murderers? — and the hall of mirrors; the model railroad and the dolphin pool; the big wheel and the dodgems. At about ten-thirty I climbed some steps into a place called The Willows. It was an enormous hall strewn with tables and chairs, which formed concentric curves around a dais on which sat two clowns. The one was made up like a Pantomime dame, with false bosom and heavily rouged cheeks, a florid hat over a yellow wig and bright-red lip­ stick which formed an enormous cupld’s bow. He strummed upon a piano while contorting his face into grotesque ex­ pressions and kept up a constant patter. The other clown was dressed like a French workman, in striped T-shirt and tight-fitting white trousers, a red scarf around his neck. He was a big, muscular man, with huge biceps and tattooed forearms. In patent contrast to his colleague’s, his face was set and expressionless as though its muscles had petrified at a ghastly sight. And yet it was a funny face, and the crowds gathered there laughed and laughed and roared, simply at the look of it. I sat down at a small unoccupied table and looked about me. And I looked about me again, for immediately I was aware that someone somewhere amongst that mass of people had marked my arrival and was watching me and not the stage, had not merely glanced my way, but was staring at me so fixedly that I was held by that scrutiny as at the end of a tether. Somewhere there, at my left and to the rear of me — there, perhaps? — perhaps there? The dame played his piano and clowned and gagged; and the other played the fiddle and the banjo and the saxophone and the trombone, and played them all equally well, casually, with studied boredom, only standing up to a high note and lowering himself jerkily down as he descended the scale to the bass. (Or was it there, perhaps? That man sitting alone as I was? Or that woman with the child who had fallen asleep on her lap? — Or? — Or? . . .) I bought a ten cent cup of coffee and sipped it slowly while they went through their repertoire of coarse jokes and popular numbers. They were joined presently by a vocalist, a pure Irish tenor, who stood, hands in pockets, before a microphone and sang effortlessly all the old songs that people love and will applaud till doomsday. And all their audience loved to themselves. nr .to ttie vocalist In the singing s L G o 7 .n r * ’ 7 " ^hen you ar^ - everything saddens you. And In- 7 t ’t 7 7 there not tragedy in tSe cm command of a ten-cent cup of coffee? Who were they, that they gave of them­ selves so cheaply and never seemed to tire? (Who was he — or she — who started at me? No not you or you or you — o r? ...... ) ’ All those people listening to them, had they not been carr ed away, lifted out of their own drudgery, made to fee” everything was funny and God was, after all, on their side? Perhaps they had been bluffed for a while. But why around at them, was their self-dillusion so evident. That old man sitting there seemed tired enough to drop; despite that his mouth gaped open to show his tongue as he laughed and clapped his hands. That middle- aged woman with the two daughters half as old, laughed, ut her face was set in an expression of scolding and carping, while her daughters could not conceal the hard cunning behind their passing amusement. And all the mini- skirted young girls were so Insiped to my taste, and their boy friends so dreary. (No, none of them, not their eyes filmed over with cataracts of Immediacy.) Perhaps, on the other hand, it was merely that I saw in all their faces the reflection of my own bitterness and defeat and my own disgust of myself and everything I knew That is why I stood up in the middle of a number and the dame Interjected ‘Going already, mate — I hope you break your bloody neck falling down the stairs!’ And there was a great roar of laughter at his quip. All their eyes followed me to the door and then turned to the stage again and released me from the incident. All eyes, but one pair, which followed me to the door and did not release me. And as I descended the stairs I heard her footsteps behind me and when I gained the street there she was, too. She put her small hand in mine, her fingers gently across my palm. How shall I describe her? It is difficult for I remember her differently, at different times. Perhaps slender and gaminlsh and pale, or dark and long-haired and serious. It is true, though, that her hand was small, because I could feel its smallness and the slenderness of the fingers on my palm. We walked a mile or two along the beach; left the play­ houses and side-shows far behind us, till there were only the lights of the hotels in the distance and the beam of a light-house far away. And though we sat down on the sand and her hand remained in mine, let me not give the impression that there was any hint of sentimentality in our relationship. I have told you how she knew me on the instant and knew me as I really was, and there can be no sentimentality in a really deep knowledge of a man and a woman. We sat down, as I say, and she took off her shoes and pressed her toes into the sand. ‘So here you are,’ she said, ‘alone at last — as you have wanted to be — with one particular person.’ ‘And how do you know?’ I asked. ‘Because here I am,’ she answered, ‘alone at last — as I have wanted to be — with one particular person.’ We laughed at that, not because it was funny, but be­ cause it was true. ‘And you have been sitting in your hotel lounge,’ she teased me, ‘and drooling over shapely young girls and wishing you could undress them all?’ ‘And I have been sitting in my hotel lounge,’ I countered, ‘and reflecting that at last I must be getting old, for they have all looked ugly to me, and loud and vain and silly and I have not wanted to go to bed with any of them and I have asked myself over and over again, why and why and why?’ ‘No, no, please don’t misunderstand me — I have not been sighing over my waning virility or regretting the opportuni­ ties I might have missed.’ ‘But I grew up with large, boundless expectations; I loved people and trusted them, and I expected them to love and to trust me. And surely they have, and that is my very sorrow — that in their trusting me I am obliged to be trustworthy; that in their loving me, I am obliged to bite pieces from my soul and give it to them for their food, and drain the blood from my veins and offer them cupfuls and say, “here—drink!” Oh, surely, I eat and drink of their lives too, because in the past they have not only offered me their blood and souls, but have created in me the appetite to devour them, until now it is not my blood that flows m my veins and the soul in me is not my soul but theirs. And I am a foreigner to myself, and I do not know whose reflection it is I see in the mirror . . . I was silent for a while, because truth is always an em­ barrassment. I wasn’t sure of her yet, you see, and did not taow whether she might scoff at me and say I was being foolish. But it was she who broke the silence. ‘And you wonder ’ she said, ‘is this love? And if this is love, you have asked yourself, and It can hurt so and turn a being into a figment of another’s imagination, and be like death, but that death happens only once, while love murders many many times- then how is it different from hate, which is also said to destroy? ^ d yet in hate, you have asked yourself, do you not withdraw? Do you not take back your soul and say, “Give me back my blood and restore my own image to myself?” And you say, “Let me be sterile — how dare you demand growth from my body!” ’ ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘how you want to hate your fellow man. ‘But hate, too. Is an Involvement. It is love’s alter ego, because there must be a giving before a withdrawing and , in order to hate you must desire with passionate intensity.’ This time I was silent because I knew that she had read my mind correctly. I looked at the thin white lines of the small sea breaking ahead of us. ‘Yes, I hate to love my fellow man; I’d love to hate my fellow man. And yet he IS a tide. At first, like a thin, small sea, he gently laps his tongue at me. “Join us in a game of poker,” he says. “Would you like a woman?” he whispers in my ear. And “do you remember so-and-so, and Hugh, of course, is dead.” And I say, ‘no”, at first, for God help him who enters that thin, small sea, for the tide mounts quickly. The prostitute is in your bed; the poker-game is under way; and you remember so-and-so. For God pleases you to say “yes” the second time . . . I’ ‘And Hugh, of course, is dead,’ she laughed. ‘Lucky Hugh'’ We got up then, undressed and waded into the sea. which was warm and tacky with salt. It seemed to make a film over our bodies. She put her fingers again, delicately, on my palm and drew me on into the blacker blackness, which folded itself about me and soothed and caressed erased from my awareness all things but itself and myself and her­ self till we and it and the darkness were fused together. For she too was a sea, and the sea, too, was a woman in whose flesh I was gathered, and it was like a drowning, a ■sleep, a forgetting and yet a coming to life. At last we returned to the sand and dressed and sat together again with a curiously tranquil detachment only her fingers resting on my palm. ‘Was it God or the Devil, do you think, who touched you out there in the darkness?’ .she asked presently. ‘Who knows,’ I said, ‘they say the Devil comes in many forms.’ ‘Lucifer, the fallen angel,’ she reminded me. ‘He comes in many shapes, but he is a great, white bird. He left God’s side, because God is a cruel Master. Did he not try Job to the limit of endurance and pay him no reward for his fortitude? It is the Devil who is gentle and asks no currency of gratitude, but gives and takes and makes a fair bargain. ‘If you had one wish, what would it be?’ she asked. I considered a long time before answering her question. ‘It would not be for eternal youth,’ I said eventually. ‘I would not be a clown, like those we saw tonight, for when you make people laugh you enter their souls and they possess you. I would not wish to be a singer, for song is an affirmation, and an affirmation is binding, like a vow. I think I would ask for the power neither to love nor to hate; neither to give of myself, nor to receive of others; to have a magic oil upon my skin, so that disaster would slip from me and deceitful expectation could find no grip on my flesh; to be, in a way, like Hugh, who is dead, and yet to feel the sun on my face and to walk firmly on my legs until I follow him to the grave. ‘Because I am tired and I no longer want to be tired; I have been tested too long, and I yearn for an end to trials. ‘For that I would sell my soul to the Devil. She smiled. ‘That is an ample wish,’ was all she said. It was not until dawn was breaking that we at last got up and walked slowly back along the beach. Her fingers lay gently on my palm. In this early light her skin seemed to be translucent and her hair as white as snow. Prom the beach we climbed a long flight of steps to the street, and there she slipped her fingers from my hand and we parted wordlessly, she turning one way, I the other following equal but opposite directions, like the equal but opposite flourishes of a scroll. I returned to my hotel, shaved and had breakfast, paid my board and lodging and took the train back home. It is quiet where I live now. The skeins of my life are unravelled. All those who had bound themselves to me and to whom I, in turn, had been bound, have gone and this is a world of strangers and I am truly alone. I look at my face in the mirror and find no reflection, for, since I can neither love nor hate, I have no dimension; since I have no wl.shes to fulfil, no desires to satisfy, no demands to make, no thanks to give, I need have no words to say. Since I feel no pain, I have no need to cry, and no joy, so I have no need to laugh; since I have no expectations, I have no plans to make; and since I have no schemes to plot, I need have no thoughts to think. But I feel the sun on my face and walk firmly on my two strong legs. And when my nurses smile and say, ‘hullo,’ and the psychiatrists ask questions I merely hold out my right hand to them. Whether she left an impression on my ego or a scar, I do not know, but here on my palm you see the red marks of her gentle fingers. See how slender they are, and how they curve — like the talon of some large, white bird. SIDE-STEP M. Pascal Gwala

CHE was a tall and skinny thing with drooping shoulders, yet her face was beautiful. She was twelve, but for her height one would have guessed her age to be seventeen. Everybody called her Tiny. Word had it that Tiny had been born prematurely as a punishment against her parents who happened to be first cousins. That was the explanation old mothers gave for Tiny’s frail features. Nobody clearly knew how far the story went. Like in any other township, people spoke. People heard and people passed on the little they had grasped. It kept them going. And more than that, the Ndwandwes kept to themselves. It was a neighbourhood of strugglers who flung them­ selves at the mercy of Mr. Ndwandwe in spite of the high liquor tips they had to pay him. For Ndwandwe was a clerk for a legal firm in town. He made it a point that business with his clients ended at the office, though this principle did not stop him from touting for more clients after office hours. The people kept Ndwandwe out of their way as far as was possible, and any man could tell you that Ndwandwe was a fly-catcher, sticky and deadly. Ndwandwe’s wife, young and slender, and a woman of modern tastes, worked as a typist for a herbalist. Mrs. Ndwandwe was also that type of woman who, disregarding her liberal outlook, made sure she aired puritanical views whenever she was in young company and treated ‘young life’ like sour grapes. Tiny grew up in such an atmosphere. I lodged at the house next to the Ndwandes. Every time I walked past the Ndwandwes’ house Tiny would be standing and looking through the window, watching passers-by. Occasionally, she would show her tongue at young men and boys who walked past that way. ‘She’s a fast one that child’, a friend once remarked. These approaches did not exclude me from her many victims. And they went on until one day matters came to a pretty pass. I was taking out a girl friend, Busle was to onr WI, watering flowers along the fence close to our gate. When our eyes met she curled her Ups, but her looks were always full of mischief. Just as I was pullin^^ toIP list her nose ^in. niy eyes. I wanted swine, what’s wrong with you?’ I barked at ■nny h ^ dropped the hose and suppressed her laughter. Quickly she picked the hose up. Sorry, “boet” Dan. I did not mean it.’ Not the least remorse. I nstead there was sarcasm in her teasing eyes Let me get you a towel’. She ran into the house. Busie just stood as if glued to the ground. With drops of water sprinkled on her shoes, she just broke into indig­ nant laughter. We did not wait for that silly Tiny I had to change my wet skipper shirt. In the room Busie could not hide her anger any longer; ‘Why do you get used to drips like that? You are always ^ th kids, now you see what they do to you?’ But she was being snobbish in a pungent sense, and I told her so. ‘I just don’t care a brass farthing whether she is your sideline or not; but just warn her. I’ll squeeze her bloomin’ thing if it itches.’ ‘You are acting innocent eh? That bloody thing there is after you. But I just can’t Imagine her, a sick-looking thing like her, being my star.’ If the child was after me, well. It made things easier for me later. When a woman gets jealous she is hard to convince and Busie was no exception. Ndwandwe and his wife hardly spent their Saturday after­ noons at home. One could always find them at the swim­ ming pool or at the tennis court. On Sundays too they often visited relatives or went for a drive with the family, pny, who had grown too naughty, was excluded for her ‘wet blanket behaviour,’ as her mother put it. Tiny would then remain with the house servant, to stare at the street crowds and play pop records. The children from next door were not allowed into the house because Mrs. Ndwand­ we did not like to see them ‘dirty’ the house. One day Tiny came up to my room and started a long chat on how fed up she was with pop music. Everyone was digging jazz, her schoolfriends were, why couldn’t she? ‘Sure’, I said. ’There was no objection against listening to jazz. The problem was that her father would not want to buy her jazz records. Then she told me a long rigmarole of a story of how her parents seemed to love cla.sslcal music when they couldn’t make head or tail of It. ‘They Just sit like dumbs and ask us all to sit quietly after supper. I get constipated, really.’ But I’m not one to encourage a child to criticize her parents. Let her find the truth herself. As for ’Tiny, the truth was just round the corner. From that day Tiny borrowed jazz discs from me, which I generously gave to her. A friendship developed, not in the ‘you-know-what’ manner. Whenever she came into my room she would look around for something to rouse her curiosity. There seemed to be booby-traps she was setting against every move I took. ‘Lend me that magazine “boet” Dan’. She was pointing at the Esquire lying on my bed. ‘I want to go and read something’. There were magazines strewn all over on the bed and on the floor, with Tiny kneeling on the edge of the bed, reading one of them. ‘You know my father has taken his girl-friend? I’m so glad’. I pretended I wasn’t getting her. ‘Why, my mother, isn’t she his girl-friend? ’They behave like young lovers even in front of us. How I hate seeing them kiss in our presence, and rolling on the bed in broad daylight’. I tried to taunt her. ‘Right child, collect your dream- lovers. All those long-faced, long-haired figures on these pages. Which one of them is your man?’ Tiny just Ignored me. I told her I was expecting a woman any moment, so would she please leave. She got up, bumped herself on the bed — pressing the mattress down, every corner of it. ‘Does this bed make any noise at night?’ Then she continued rather detachedly, ‘I wonder how many pudding dishes have been cooked in this oven’. ‘You’ll come to know that when you’ve grown up.’ She now sat on the deck-chair beside the bed, the heap of magazines on her thighs. Her thighs were exposed Intentionally, her dress was not mini. ‘When I’ve grown up! Do you think I am a child?’ Furiously she grabbed the magazines and frou-froued out of the room. The next Saturday afternoon I had friends. A booze come-together. It was then that I decided to fetch my records from Tiny. Now Tiny and I had not been on speaking terms, though I hate to say it. She couldn’t come to a settlement with the idea that at thirteen she was still a child. To me at least. And I’m the last man to risk going n for rape. The law has not caught up with me yet, and I want things that way as long as I can keep on running. Apart from that, I knew Ndwandwe well, the bastard could try to wring every ounce of my flesh If he ever got the upper hand of me. At the door I was met by the house servant, MaZungu an elderly auntie who did all the household chores.’ MaZungu was cursing bitterly, ‘Such a lazy child, all she nows Is lift legs. This thing will never get a husband. Who 11 marry such a thing, tell me?’ i proceeded to the sitting room. That topic was not my bone to chew Tiny lay face-down on the divan. All in black. Black slacks and a black Banlon. Her arms held tightly to a cushion clutched to it as if it were the last thing on earth. My rubber soles did not screech (though they were getting worn out) until I stood close to her. Then I noticed, her teeth were thrust deep into the edge of the cushion. I gave a slight spank on her shoulders. ‘You disturbed me’. That’s all she was in the position to say, in her mellow voice.

It was three days later and I hadn’t seen Tiny since that Saturday. Tiny’s mother knocked at my door. , 5 ® here?’ she queried. Her voice was a little off-beat. Seems I was the first suspect because Mrs Ndwandwe made a search in my room. ‘She has been missing since we got up this morning. I just thought — that she must have overslept In your room’. But I’m not that kind of sucker. I don’t make them oversleep. They looked for Tiny all over the township. No sign of Tiny. Her escape was even publicized through the P.M. Radio. All to no avail. ‘Tiny was doing Form I at that time. Gradually I got to know the Ndwandwes better after this happening. Mrs. Ndwandwe often Invited me to have tea with her. Her husband was now working till late, she told me. Tea Is not in my line. Booze does a better Job. But I could not refuse an ‘invitation’, any. Call It soft nature If you like. ‘Look Dan, I’m thirty today, but I never suspected my daughter could leave me. Just like that’. The puritan In her had gone now, her voice was deeply sensual and I would listen with two minds as she poured out all her personal problems. Digging them from the well of her childhood dreams, I would say. She also bored me to death with her mamby-pambies on what she termed a ‘psychological analysis’ of a growing up child. She hardly understood it. She was inclined to smile all the time too. But all her smiles were gewgaw, beneath lay a diabolical love for self-justification. I ran into Tiny six months later in a busy Maritzburg street. There was an experienced look in her face now. She told me she was a domestic servant at Scottsville. ‘How I long to see home again, but I hate the sight of it’. ‘It’s your own doing, why did you leave home?’ I asked her. ‘What did you expect me to do? Tiny don’t do this, don’t do that. Tiny do this and do that,’ she replied. It was now her turn to put off my advances. Her bully­ ing man-friend always spent the night in her room, so we couldn’t make it. Then she tried to touch me for fifty cents. It was ten days before month-end, but there was a go-getter attitude In her manner of asking. She appeared to be a regular hustler. I didn’t have to rebuff her. My pockets were soak-empty. As we parted, I wondered how many men she had entertained with her freedom.

Collection Number: A2696 Collection Name: Nat Nakasa Papers, 1962-2014

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