CLASSICJohannesburg quarterly

The Judges of The Classic Short StoryCompetition

NONI JABAVU

JAMES BALDWINWil l i a m p l o m e r

theC L A S S I Cjohaniiesburg quarterly

CLASSIC’S SHORT STORY COMPETITIONThe Classic is proud to announce a short story com­

petition, entries for which will be judged by writers James Baldwin (America). Noni Jabavu (South Africa) and William Plomer (South Africa). Stories should be sent to The Classic, P.O. Box 6434, Johannesburg- should be within the style and subject matter of this magazine; and must be in The Classic's hands bv February 28, 1964.

First prize, £50 (RlOO); second prize, £30 (R60V third price, £15 (R30).

The Classic reserves all rights to publish material submitted. (See also Editor’s Comment, page 5.)

theC L A S S I CJohannesburg quarterly

EDITOR: Nathaniel Nakasa.

TRUSTEES AND EDITORIAL ADVISERS:Ian Bernhardt, Nimrod Mkele, Nathaniel Nakasa, Nadine Gordimer, Philip Stein, Julian Beinart, Dorothy Blair, Robert Hodgins.

theCLASSIC is published quarterly by THE CLASSIC MAGAZINE TRUST FUND, P.O. Box 6434, Johannesburg. The Trust is financed mainly by Farfield Foundation, Inc., New York. Price in South Africa: 35c. Subscriptions: South Africa (four issues), R1.50; United Kingdom and Europe, £1; United States, $3. Writers are invited to send their manuscripts to the Editor, The Classic, P.O. Box 6434, Johannesburg.

THE COVER: A house gate in a Township, Johannesburg. Photographed by JULIAN BEINART.

VOLUME ONE, NUMBER TWO, 1963

CONTENTS

Comment ............... .......................................Page

5The Birds (Barney S im o n ) ...................................... 6Poem (Enver Docratt) ....................................... ... 13Poem (Enver Docratt) ....................................... ... 14Outside The Ministry (Doris Lessing) .............. ... 15Jazz Drawing (Nils Burwitz) ... 24The Last Leg (Dugmore Boetie) ... ... 25Maqhubela (Charles Eglingtori) ... 32Art Supplement .................................................. ... 33Reviews .............................................................. ... 41

Ngoba-Sewuthi-Because (Benedict Wallet Vilakazi) ... 45Poems (Leopold Senghor) ... ... 47

People Are Living There (Athol Fugard)............... ... 49

Drawing (Nils Burwitz) ...................................... ... 68Riot (Casey Motsisi) ............... ... 69Letters .............................................................. ... 75C on tribu to rs ............... ............... ... 77Special Christmas Offer ...................................... ... 78

COMMENT

^ ^ I T H publishers all over the world becoming increasingly interested in material from Africa, there has begun a

vigorous, almost frantic, search for African writing.Welcome as this scramble may be, there are those of us who

will be suspicious of its overall effects on the emergent writers on this continent. There is evidence already that much of the material which finds its way to print in this “literary boom” really belongs in the waste-paper basket.

It is with these considerations in mind that the publishers of The Classic announce our first short story contest. {See Page Two.) The competition is open to anyone who lives or has lived or travelled anywhere in Africa.

Apart from awarding prizes to the winners, an effort will be made to place the best stories entered with publishers in various parts of the world, including Europe and the United States.

Three amply successful writers, James Baldwin, Noni Jabavu and William Plomer—the last two of whom are natives of South Africa now living in England—have consented to judge the contest.

In addition to the prospects of winning a prize, the entrants stand a chance of benefiting from the criticism of these writers, whatever it may be worth in terms of the individual’s needs! We of The Classic are convinced that the critical judgment of this panel can only help the developing writers of Africa.

THE EDITOR.

THE BIRDS

BARNEY SIMON

seems more like winter now than autumn. The cold came quickly, before a show of red, and the leaves in the park

are dead and brown. There is only the grass left now, and the birds that feed upon it.

I try to work at least six hours a day, but the paraffin heat in my bed-sittingroom is heavy and it is becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. I decided for the sake of discipline as much as anything else that I would sit at my desk that long, even if only to scribble noughts and crosses. Just a half-hour food break. But I find that in this weather I also need fresh air. I work like this, with a bail-point pen on paper — I hate to type — so there are no busy sounds from my room even if I am working. I can see by the way the landlady looks at me that she listens and worries. I must remember to explain. It might seem an easy alternative to noughts and crosses, putting it down like this, but 1 swear that it is not. Not for me, that is, so please don’t take it lightly.

Yesterday the paraffin made me dizzy, quite nauseous, and so I went out to the park. I told you how it is, how dead, how sad. There were very few people about. Some parents with heavily muffled children, some old men and women, some dogs. I wanted to go back inside, I felt so cheated about the autumn. I walked over the grass to the menagerie. It is only a simple one in a corner of the park with animals like deer and chickens and rabbits that the smallest child can identify. It consists of three small wire enclosures with the birds separate, the rabbits together with the guinea-pigs and the largest for three deer. No-one was there. The rabbits ^nd guinea-pigs were sheltering in their coops and the chickens were pecking at the ground. The deer were quite close to me.I leaned forward with some grass in my hand and whistled and called but they stayed out of reach. I moved on to the

birds and rested my face against the cold rusty mesh. They were rushing about pecking madly, compulsively, at the earth. I could see no worms or seed; they seemed just to be swal­lowing dirt. I stood watching them for a long time. The pigeons with their dark eyes and glossy ruffled necks. The chickens with their lewd scarlet combs, high-stepping and frozen-faced. The brown little sparrows. Pecking, pecking, up and down . . .

I do not know when the man arrived, but suddenly he was beside me. I was leaning against the wire, feeling its move­ment with my sway, when it jolted and pressed into my cheek. I turned and bumped against someone. He was standing ridiculously close to me. There were yards of mesh to lean against and no-one else about. He was a small pale man, unshaven and dressed in a soiled khaki raincoat. His face was sharply drawn, almost monochromatic, with lines like incisions across his forehead and down either side of his mouth. He coughed suddenly, showing his dim, stained teeth. I moved a few paces along the fence.

I had better tell you about myself. I am tall, not ugly and have a sense of humour. I like people, but something always seems to go wrong. I don’t know. I thought at University that it was the course and that I just didn’t fit in with intellectuals. But it wasn’t better at the advertising agency or the gent’s outfitters or the bookstall or even Lyons Cornerhouse. God knows. I mean I’m prepared to talk, to give things, and what I say seems easy and inoffensive, but there must & something about me that I can’t assess. Conversations go taut and last a very short time. People don’t sit beside me in buses. ItTs crazy. It was so difficult for me to say those things. I try not to put significance to them — I know I shouldn’t — but I have no choice. It’s always more difficult to admit to unhappy things about myself that I have no control of, than those that I can accept blame for. Underneath, I think, I feel that I’m an ill-fated, doomed being and I’m terrified of dropping any clue of this . . . There, in a feeble, crude kind of a way, I suppose I’ve done it. But I must try to put down what happened yes­terday, Saturday afternoon, because — well, to me it’s important . . .

The little man stood at his part of the fence, completely ignoring me. He stood staring trance-like at the birds, his arms crossed at his chest, his hands hidden in his coat. I noticed that his coat was without buttons. Suddenly he stepped forward to the fence and uncrossed his arms, his coat falling open. He was holding a bird in each hand. He reached over the fence and let them loose. They fluttered queerly to the ground on the other side. They were in such filthy condition that it was impossible to distinguish what type of birds they

were. It was surprising to see that they could fly. But there was something special about them. A certain grace in ther of Or perhaps in theset of their heads and their dark bright eyes. They settled and began immediately to peck at the earth. ^

ahwp amber-stained handsabove his head. I could not help turning to him.at imTime softly, afraid of frightening him, forof Wrds are they?” awareness of me, “but what kind

the^®drfnol®''®K-.®"'‘P T ^ - the enclosure. “Oh.off m^dme°^ mucked up, don’t they? But they’ll clean

it identify. He paused andIt seemed that he would ignore my question.“But — ” I began.

his ^ s tlirp j j “ot looking at me or changinghis ^ n d s in IV* <ioves. He turned suddenly and faced me,restinu ncn>- P°^*^?ts holding his coat closed, his shoulder resting against the wire.

m it'nf since they was babies.” He took his handstartan lin’ ^*td his coat fell open to reveal the dirtyballs of flnff’^ Hothers 1, ,'jltistrated their size with his hands. “TwofeeH ‘^®se was strong ’uns. We had toment eye-dropper. We kept them in the base-stop time. you^now.”^ b ig g e r-y o u can’t

terrified that anything I might sayWe’ve crot a c'"*’ '^P something awful,need ^ fP^‘‘®‘'’pom we could’ve used, but you know, theytodav whfle *tif** ~ wings. Anyway,today, while the boy was out, I thought I’d just let them go

rel!ofeH**pVi!i r f e n c l o s u r e , resting his head in a relaxed, child-like posture on the fence.u- * j?*°S him, I said nothing and was careful

hut tho *** direction. It was not as cold as it had been, Atialrnn people about than before.skelpLi d green lawn were the trees,spnia intricate, black against the white sky and a richahont the grass. Everything, the few people dottedclitsp hv small kiosk, the dogs, even the animalswac iinrpaYT *” ^ monochrome of sepia, white and black. It could hpar move. I watched the birds again. I

e distant sounds of trains being shunted on a

railway and for a moment they seemed to me the calls of young people laughing and teasing. I looked up startled, but the little man had not changed his posture. The doves were pathetic, pecking and moving in a tight, clumsy manner, their original colour lost in the mess of excrement, dust and loose feathers that covered them.

A white hen approached, pecking at the ground. Suddenly, as it reached the birds, it stopped, its head thrusting threaten­ingly back and forward. Then it turned on its springy yellow feet and moved away, eyes glazed, head high. The encounter was almost comic. 1 looked up, ready to laugh with the nian. “You didn’t think,” I was about to say, “that the smell might be too much for them too!”

But he had not changed his expression. His body was, in fact, slightly tenser, perhaps through the threat the hen had at first seemed to imply.

I watched his face and found myself visualising the base­ment. The dark stairs which marked the end of the papered ground-floor walls, bare and crudely plastered, lit by a single light-bulb. The table of damp-softened wood on which the coop lay, made from boxes by the man and his boy in their small concrete backyard and filled with straw. 1 thought of the eye-dropper carefully filled and refilled with water until it was clean, and the special foods which they bought or read about and prepared. I thought of the dimness of the base­ment, cold and concrete, of the electric light that was perhaps perpetually on, and the dusty fanlight showing whitely as a rectangle in the grey. I thought of their watch together, of the fragile translucent creatures held gently in his yellow horny hand. I thought of their growing, and I became terri­fied The sound of their wings in that dark enclosure beneath the earth. Floating feathers. A bird silhouetted against the fanlight. The man and his boy standing their ducking as they transferred from perch to perch. And all the time there would be the excrement, unnaturally ignorant of earth and air, slum- bound and sick, everywhere a diarrhoea. I thought of the birds, young and grey and alert, touching here and there into the stench until all was smothered and lost. I looked at the doves, feeble and unrecognizable, rocking as they moved. T h«e was no joke about it. I looked up quickly at the man. He had not moved. He turned to me, blinking slowly, and then looked at the birds again. Why did you do it? I wanted to ask him, but then I realised that I need not ask. How did you do it? was my only question, sick with envy and aloneness 'Howl He and the boy had had a relationship with the mrds. Lost, perhaps, doomed, but God’s creatures together. They had attempted it kindly, with gentlest Christian sim^icit}^ taken these lives unto themselves to have and to touch and

to give their home and living time to. Without comnrnmi<sp or affectation they had let thim join their lives

Where did you get them?” I asked.

answer me. He remained in profile. Two children ran past dressed identically in red knitted caps and

several white birdslike gulls had settled on the grass beyond.suddenly, “I never told you it all. You

! ~ ; up at him. “Then, you see,” he begana p in , looking directly at me, “it’s my boy He’s madron

.‘ ay he gets he goes on his motor-bike Pinng. Just shooting birds. He bought the gun himself

his first wages. Sometimes he just shoots them and leaves them and sometimes he brings them home to eat. Not me — dyou know what I mean? — I just don’t like it — not justthe meat I mean all of it — but he likes it — he goes__hejust wants to — well you know — I always had to leave him f ® —” He stopped and turned

enclosure. He looked “On^H ^ o'* abruptly he started again.One day he went out, a Saturday afternoon like today but

summer, and he stayed out till late, till dark. He came back long after supper Well, he comes in — he’s a big strapping boy, you see, with a mop of black hair on him and he comes in with his hair all over his face and leaves and twigs in it and on his pullover and he puts his gun down behind the

1, pantry and he sits down atthe table and stretches himself out like and he says something

^ Something like that.”Suddenly the little man squatted down and stared at the pound, bm he continued again immediately, “And then he tells me what happened. He shot a few sparrows and things f n Sa^e them to kiddies that was playing there and they followed him around. Well, anyway, it was getting late, and when he was on his way home he saw two wild doves flying above him and he shot at them and one fell. ‘Flying Dad'’ he said to me, ‘and I hardly aimed!’ The other one flew pound where the dead one was and then landed on a tree

ttp. He got it too, first shot. He heard the plop, he said and he heard it flapping about, but it never fell, so he walked pound like and saw it caught there in the branches. So, no trouble to him, he just climbed up after it. When he gets up iwar the top he sees that it was right next to its nest like and there were these four little things peeping away there with

j » *** Jyng around. He felt real sorry, he said — no he didn t — You would’ve felt real sad. Dad,’ he says to me’So he climbs down again with the dead bird, no trouble to him, and he picks up the other one from the ground and he

comes home. So 1 says to him, ‘Where are they?’ and he leans back in his chair like a bloody king and he says, ‘In the pantry,’ so I go there and there’s just these two dead birds with bloody heads, so I says, ‘Where’s the little ones?’ and he says, ‘Oh, I left them in the nest.’ So I shout at him, ‘You dirty bastard!’ I shouts, ‘You dirty bastard, leaving them out there to die — you go and find them or don’t come back no more — you dirty bastard,’ I said . . ” He smiled at me and climbed to his feet, “So then, maybe an hour or more and he’s back with this little nest in his hands and he puts it down on the kitchen table. Little balls of fluff they were, but two of them was dead. So we put the rest in a shoe-box and we get special instructions from the zoo and we feed them and keep them in the kitchen until they start moving around and then we moved them into the basement. You know what I mean? I mean, who can look after them when the boy and me’s at work? You know, there’s lots of cats in the neigh­bourhood and jealous types and that sort of thing and kiddies _

“And your son?” I interrupted.“Oh,” he laughed, “he loves ’em — treats them like gold.

He fixed up the basement really beautiful he did — mesh on the fanlight, bits of tree, you know — sawdust and gravel for the floor — he even painted beautiful palm-trees on the wall with some yellow doves on them and all . . . Oh,” he laughed again, “the birds, they became nearly his whole life, you could say — apart from his daily work, I mean . . . He’s not like other boys — no cinema, no Palais — we haven’t even got no telly — he just never wanted it. That’s his whole life now — down in the Ijasement, hours with the birds, or else he’s off with his gun to Epping. Still with the birds.” He paused. “He’s there now.”

He crossed his arms, his coat wrapped about him like a kimono. It seemed as decisive a departing gesture as a buttoning-up.

“But what’ll he say?” I asked desperately.He ignored my question. “Well, you see, there was this smell

— there wasn’t nothing you could do about it. That didn’t bother the boy none, but I mean you know — it wasn’t a right smell — and there was their wings — you watch them, they’re a bit mucked up, but you watch them when they flap— they’ve both got beautiful sets of wings — beautiful. Well, and they just kept opening them and opening and with that smell and all that wind from their flapping I couldn’t stand to go down no more — and I told the boy — ‘It’s not natural,’ I said, ‘It’s cruel,’ but he wouldn’t listen to me, he said they was happy and I shouted look how they was full of shit and

taJkSif w f days no'^ we haven’t been

I S F f 4 l- “t r s ’ 'r,rS , X " °' '“‘ “eleven f f ‘ f*'o™ the local, y’knoww S h irw f ^ decide what the hell with Sbloody birds, if he wants the bloody birds let hini keen them So I get upstairs and I knock on his door and I say to the boT ‘

Dad don’t mean? but he just says, ‘Good-night

h lt^ /t° ^ there s palm trees painted on the walls and a realtoe^Lh7^J>h^tiP ^”d these birds are flapping aboutthe light with those poor big wings of theirs ovi fi,’mornhig when I go.'^p he Sas S a d , goM io wo?k a S ‘1 ’ breakfast was waiting for me all out on the table. I knew e was going to stop off at Epping on his way back from his

works, so when I finished f h e S o L I brouTh^ fhe birfs h S l • • • The sky was dimming and the wind had mmo nr. again, icy. “I forgot about the cold . . . ” “ ° P

h v I n l ^ i ^ S 'S s i S ; ^ " “ ™ - • a

I ”• shivered, “it’s turned real cold hasn’t if?”1 nodded, closing my collar. “ •

W^ll, he said, “I’ve been at it quite some time ” He turned about with a quick gesture. “I must go and 'see the

U, watched him for a momentfn i e nn Still in the cold, I tumed and w S Sn the opposite direction, toward my room. I did not keen to

the path, but cut across the wide green field. As I walked th?^ d seemed to abate. Or to matter less. In the centre of the

^ facing a plane tree. It was bareas“ ^iiteiied^tL*Ieaf®“^ ' solitary, at the top. Suddenly, as 1 watched, the leaf was torn loose and lifted by the windLvnnH^ih * t twisting and lifeless far into the sky. Below beyond the trees, I noticed the white birds again, almost silvS

of !he " " 8 '“ " S’” *

THE SLEHDER CHILD

^ H E slender child is dying in the bush

And the mother beats the broken drum:

Boom! Boom! Spare the heart and take the sheep,

And the pot of grounded meal. Boom! Boom!

The slender child will sin no more.

ENVER DOCRATT

THE STORM

t h e r e is a treachery in the bush:

The road has withered in the storm.

And mighty men remain

To worship demons and obey.

There is a treachery in the bush:

The sky is washed in pain,

And children talk of sex

Where demons drink the blood and pray.

ENVER DOCRATT

OUTSIDE THE MIHISTRY

DORIS LESSING

A S Big Ben struck ten, a young man arrived outside the portals of the Ministry, and looked sternly up and down

the street. He brought his wrist up to eye-level and frowned at it, the very picture of a man kept waiting, a man who had expected no less. His arm dropped, elbow flexed stiff, hand at mid-tWgh level, palm downwards, fingers splayed. There the hand made a light movement, balanced from the wrist, as if sketching an arpeggio, or saying good-bye to the pavenient, or greeting it? An elegant little gesture, full of charm, given out of an abundant sense of style to the watching world — now he changed his stance, and became every inch a man kept waiting, but maintaining his dignity. He was well-dressed in a dark suit which, with a white shirt and a small grey silk bow tie that seemed positively to wish to fly away altogether, because of the energy imparted to it by his person, made a conventional enough pattern of colour — dark grey, light grey, white. But his black glossy skin, setting off this soberness, made him sparkle, a dandy — he might just as well have been wearing a rainbow.

Before he could frown up and down the street again, another young African crossed the road to join him. They greeted each other, laying their palms together, then shaking hands; but there was a conscious restraint in this which the first seemed to relish, out of his innate sense of drama, but made the second uneasy.

“Good morning, Mr. Chikwe.”“Mr. Mafente! Good morning!”Mr. Mafente was a large smooth young man, well-dressed

too, but his clothes on him were conventional European clothes, suit, striped shirt, tie; and his gestures had none of the in-built, delighting self-parody of the other man’s. He was suave, he was dignified, he was calm; and this in spite

of pose, and said, soft and threatening: ®“And where is your great leader, surely he is very late^’ Five minutes only.” said the other smiling.Surely when at last we have achieved this great honour

an interview with Her Majesty’s Minister the least we ran expect is punctuality from the great man?”

\/i-^ likely that Her Maiestv’s

T hey recovered themselves together and Mr. M ^ente said-a X t T o u ^ s “ ine• /masons for their being late are different‘s M in eK amshmg h,s b rakfast j « over Ihe^oad t o e and L “ “rakJ before last your Mr. Devuli wasJames'?’ hospitable Mrs.

“Possibly. I was not there.”I hear that the night before that he passed out in the hotel

S S s e d ? ”°“ ^ unsympathetic journalists and had to be

“It is possible. I was not there.”

force of his frowning stare on Mr. Mafentes bland face as he said softly: “Mr. Mafente!”

“Mr. Chikwe?”

and a disgrace that your movement which, though It IS not mine, nevertheless represents several’ ^ousand ^ o p le (not millions. I am afraid, as your pubhcity men claim) is it not a pity that this movement is led by a man who is never sober?” ^ ^

smiled, applauding this short speech which had been delivered with a grace and an attack wasted surelv n a pavement full of London office-workers and some fat

pigeons. He then observed, merely: “Yet it is Mr. Devuli who is recognised by Her Britannic Majesty’s Minister?”

Mr. Chikwe frowned.“And it is Mr. Devuli who is recognised by those honour­

able British philanthropic movements — The Anti-Imperalist Society, the Movement for Pan-African Freedom, and Free­dom for British Colonies?”

Here Mr. Chikwe bowed, slightly, acknowledging the truth of what he said, but suggesting at the same time, its irrelevance.

“I hear, for instance,” went on Mr. Mafente, “that the Honourable Member of Parliament for Sutton North-West refused to have your leader on his platform on the grounds that he was a dangerous agitator with left-wing persuasions?”

Here both men exchanged a delighted irrepressible smile — that smile due to political absurdity. (It is not too much to say that it is for the sake of this smile that a good many people stay in politics.) Mr. Chikwe even lifted a shining face to the grey sky, shut his eyes, and while offering his smile to the wet heavens lifted both shoulders in a shrug of scorn.

Then he lowered his eyes, his body sprang into a shape of accusation and he said: “Yet you have to agree with me, Mr. Mafente — it is unfortunate that such a man as Mr. Devuli should be so widely accepted as a National representative, while the virtues of Mr. Kwenzi go unacknowledged.”

“We all know the virtues of Mr. Kwenzi,” said Mr. Mafente, and his accent on the word we, accompanied by a deliberately cool glance into the eyes of his old friend, made Mr. Chikwe stand silent a moment, thinking. Then he said softly, testing it: “Yes, yes, yes. And — well, Mr. Mafente?”

Mr. Mafente looked into Mr. Chikwe’s face, with intent, while he continued the other conversation: “Nevertheless, Mr. Chikwe, the situation is as I ’ve said.”

Mr. Chikwe, responding to the look, not the words, came closer and said: “Yet situations do not have to remain un­changed?” They looked deeply into each other’s faces as Mr. Mafente enquired, almost mechanically: “Is that a threat, perhaps?”

“It is a political observation . . . Mr. Mafente?”“Mr. Chikwe?”“This particular situation could be changed very easily.”“Is that so?”“You know it is so.”The two men were standing with their faces a few inches

from each other, frowning with the concentration necessary

for the swift mental balancing of a dozen factors: so absorbed were they, that clerks and typists glanced uneasily at them and then, not wishing to be made uneasy, looked away again!

But here they felt approaching a third, and Mr. Mafente re la te d quickly: “Is that a threat perhaps?” in a loud voice and both young men turned to greet Devuli, a man ten or more years older than they, large, authoritative, impressive Yet even at this early hour he had a look of dissipation, for" wandering, and he stood upright onlywith difficulty. ^

Mr. Mafente now fell back a step to take his place half a pace behind his leader’s right elbow; and Mr. Chikwe faced them both, unsmiling.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Chikwe,” said Mr. Devuli.“Good morning to you. Mr. Devuli. Mr. Kwenzi is just

hmshing his breakfast, and will join us in good time Mr Kwenzi was working all through the night on the proposals for the new Constitution.”

As Mr. Devuli did not answer this challenge, but stood,X swaying, his red eyes blinking at the passers-by!Mr. Mafente said for him: “We all admire the conscientious­ness of Mr. Kwenzi.” The we was definitely emphasised the two men exchanged a look like a nod, while Mr. Mafente tact- ^ lly held out his right forearm to receive the hand of Mr Devuh. After a moment the leader steadied himself, and said m a threatening way that managed also to sound like a grumble. I, too, know all the implications of the proposed Constitution, Mr. Chikwe.”

“l a m surprised to hear it, Mr. Devuli. for Mr. Kwenzi. who has been locked up in his hotel room for the last week, study­ing it, says that seven men working for seventy-seven years couldn’t make sense of the Constitution proposed by Her Majesty’s Honourable Minister.”

Now they all three laughed together, relishing absurdity, until Mr. Chikwe reimposed a frown and said: “And since these proposals are so complicated, and since Mr. Kwenzi understands them as well as any man with mere human powers could, it is our contention that it is Mr. Kwenzi who should speak for our people before the Minister.”

Mr. Devuli held himself upright with five fingers splayed out on the forearm of his lieutenant. His red eyes moved sombrely over the ugly facade of the Ministry, over the faces of passing people, then, with an effort, came to rest on the face of Mr. Chikwe. “But I am the leader, I am the leader acknowledged by all. and therefore I shall speak for our country.”

“You are not feeling well, Mr. Devuli?”“No, I am not feeling well, Mr. Chikwe.”“It would perhaps be better to have a man in full possession

of himself speaking for our people to the Minister?” (Mr. Devuli remained silent, preserving a fixed smile of general benevolence.) “Unless, of course, you expect to feel more in command of yourself by the time of . . (He brought his wrist smartly up to his eyes, frowned, dropped his wrist) — “ . . . ten-thirty a.m., which hour is nearly upon us?”

“No, Mr. Chikwe, I do not expect to feel better by then. Did you not know, I have severe stomach trouble?”

“You have stomach trouble, Mr. Devuli?”“You did not hear of the attempt made upon my life when

I was lying helpless with malaria in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele?”

“Really, Mr. Devuli, is that so?”“Yes, it is so, Mr. Chikwe. Some person bribed by my

enemies introduced poison into my food while I was lying helpless in hospital. I nearly died that time, and my stomach is still unrecovered.”

“I am extremely sorry to hear it.”“I hope that you are. For it is a terrible thing that political

rivalry can lower men to such methods.”Mr. Chikwe stood slightly turned away, apparently delight­

ing in the flight of some pigeons. He smiled, and enquired: “Perhaps not so much political rivalry as the sincerest patriotism, Mr. Devuli? It is possible that some misguided people thought the country would be better off without you.”

“It must be a matter of opinion, Mr. Chikwe.”The three men stood silent: Mr. Devuli supported himself

unostensibly on Mr. Mafente’s arm; Mr. Mafente stood wait­ing; Mr. Chikwe smiled at pigeons.

“Mr. Devuli?”“Mr. Chikwe?”“You are, of course, aware that if you agree to the Minister’s

proposals for this Constitution, civil war may follow?”“My agreement to this Constitution is because I wish to

avert bloodshed.”“Yet when it was announced that you intended to agree,

serious rioting started in twelve different places in our unfor­tunate country.”

“Misguided people—misguided by your Party, Mr. Chikwe.”

“I reiMmber. not twelve months ago. that when you were accused by the newspapers of inciting to riot, your reply was that the people had minds of their own. But. of c o u r^ that was when you refused to consider the Constitution.” ’

“The situation has changed, perhaps?”The strain of this dialogue was telling on Mr. Devuli- there

were great beads of crystal sweat falling off his broad face.j mopped It with the hand not steadying him, while he

shifted his weight from foot to foot.“It is your attitude that has changed. Mr. Devuli. You stood

tor one man one vote. Then overnight you became a supporter of the weighted vote. That cannot be described as a situation changing but as a political leader changing — selling out." Mr. Chikwe whipped about like an adder and spat these last two words at the befogged man.

Mr Mafente, seeing that his leader stood silent, blinking rernarked quietly for him; “Mr. Devuli is not accustomed to replying to vulgar abuse, he prefers to remain silent.”

The two young men’s eyes consulted; and Mr. Chikwe said his face not four inches from Mr. Devuli’s; “It is not the first time a leader of our people has taken the pay of the whites and has been disowned by our people.”

Mr. Devuli looked to his lieutenant, who said: “Yet it is Mr. I^vuli who has been summoned by the Minister, and you should be careful, Mr. Chikwe — as a barrister you should know the law: a difference of political opinion is one thing slander is another.”

“As, for instance, an accusation of poisoning?”Here they all turned; a fourth figure had joined them. Mr.

Kwenzi, a tall, rather stooped, remote man, stood a few paces off smiling. Mr. Chikwe took his place a foot behind him. and there were two couples facing each other.

“Good morning, Mr. Devuli.”“Good morning, Mr. Kwenzi.”• ^ to go in to the Minister.”said Mr. Kwenzi.

I do not think that Mr. Devuli is in any condition to repre- Minister,” said Mr. Chikwe, hot and threatening.

Mr. Kwenzi nodded. He had rather small direct eyes, deeply inset under his brows, which gave him an earnest focused p z e which he was now directing at the sweat-beaded brow of his rival.

Mr. Devuli blurted, his voice rising: “And who is respon­sible, who? The whole world knows of the saintly Mr. Kwenzi.

the hard-working Mr. Kwenzi, but who is responsible for my state of health?”

Mr. Chikwe cut in: “No one is responsible for your state of health but yourself, Mr. Devuli. If you drink two bottles of hard liquor a day, then you can expect your health to suffer for it.”

“The present health of Mr. Devuli,” said Mr. Mafente, since his chief was silent, biting his lips, his eyes red with tears as well as with liquor, “is due to the poison which nearly killed him some weeks ago in the Lady Wilberforce Hospital in Nkalolele.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Kwenzi mildly. “I trust the worst is over?”

Mr. Devuli was beside himself, his face knitting with emotion, sweat-drops starting everywhere, his eyes roving, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“I hope,” said Mr. Kwenzi, “that you are not suggesting I or my Party had anything to do with it?”

“Suggest!” said Mr. Devuli. “Suggest! What shall I tell the Minister? That my political opponents are not ashamed to poison a helpless man in hospital? Shall I tell him that I have to have my food tested, like an Eastern potentate? No, I cannot tell him such things — I am helpless there, too, for he would say — black savages, stooping to poison, what else can you expect?”

“I doubt whether he would say that,” remarked Mr. Kwenzi. “His own ancestors considered poison an acceptable political weapon, and not so very long ago either.”

But Mr. Devuli was not listening. His chest was heaving, and he sobbed out loud. Mr. Mafente let his ignored forearm drop by his side, and stood away a couple of paces, gazing sombrely at his leader. After this sorrowful inspection, which Mr. Kwenzi and Mr. Chikwe did nothing to shorten, he looked long at Mr. Chikwe, and then at Mr. Kwenzi. During this three-sided silent conversation, Mr. Devuli, like a dethroned King in Shakespeare, stood to one side, his chest heaving, tears flowing, his head bent to receive the rods and lashes of betrayal.

Mr. Chikwe at last remarked; “Perhaps you should tell the Minister that you have ordered a bullet-proof vest like an American gangster? It would impress him no doubt with your standing among our people.” Mr. Devuli sobbed again, and Mr. Chikwe continued: “Not that I do not agree with you — the vest is advisable, yes. The food-tasters are not enough. I have heard our young hot-heads talking among themselves and you would be wise to take every possible precaution.”

Mr. Kwenzi, frowning, now raised his hand to check his lieutenant: I think you are going too far, Mr. Chikwe, there IS surely no need . . . ”

At which Mr. Devuli let out a great groan of bitter laughter uncrowned king reeling under the wet London sky, and said: Listen to the good man, he knows nothing, no — he remains

upright while his seconds do his dirty work, listen to the saint!”Swaying, he looked for Mr. Mafente’s forearm, but it was

not there. He stood by himself, facing three men.“It is a very simple matter, my friends.

Who IS going to speak for our people to the Minister? That is all we have to decide now. I must tell you that I have made a very detailed study of the proposed Constitution and 1 am quite sure that no honest leader of our people couldaccept It. Mr. Devuli, I am sure you must agree with m e_itIS a very complicated set of proposals, and it is more than possible there may be implications you have overlooked?”

Mr. Devuli laughed bitterly: “Yes, it is possible.”“Then we are agreed?”Mr. Devuli was silent.“I think we are all agreed,” said Mr. Chikwe, smiling, look-

ing at Mr. Mafente who, after a moment gave a small nod, and then turned to face his leader’s look of bitter accusation.

“It is nearly half-past ten,” said Mr. Chikwe. “In a few minutes we must present ourselves to Her Majesty’s Minister.”

The two lieutenants, one threatening, one sorrowful, looked at Mr. Devuli, who still hesitated, grieving, on the pavement’s edge. Mr. Kwenzi remained aloof, smiling gently.

Mr. Kwenzi at last said: “After all, Mr. Devuli, you will certainly be elected, certainly we can expect that, and with your long experience the country will need you as Minister A Minister’s salary, even for our poor country, will be enough to recompense you for your generous agreement to stand down now.”

Mr. Devuli laughed — bitter, resentful, scornful.He walked away.Mr. Mafente said: “But Mr. Devuli, Mr. Devuli, where arc

you going?”Mr. Devuli threw back over his shoulder: “Mr. Kwenzi will

speak to the Minister.”Mr. Mafente nodded at the other two, and ran after his

former leader, grabbed his arm, turned him around. “Mr. Devuli, you must come in with us; it is quite essential to preserve a united front before the Minister.”

“I bow to superior force, gentlemen,” said Mr. Devuli, with a short sarcastic bow which, however, he was forced to curtail: his stagger was checked by Mr. Mafente’s tactful arm.

“Shall we go in?” said Mr. Chikwe.Without looking again at Mr. Devuli, Mr. Kwenzi walked

aloofly into the Ministry, followed by Mr. Devuli, whose left hand lay on Mr. Mafente’s arm. Mr. Chikwe came last, smiling, springing off the balls of his feet, watching Mr. Devuli.

“And it is just half-past ten,” he observed, as a flunkey came forward to intercept them. “Half-past ten to the second. I think I can hear Big Ben itself — Punctuality, as we all know, gentlemen, is the cornerstone of that efficiency without which it is impossible to govern a modern State. Is it not so, Mr. Kwenzi? Is it not so, Mr. Mafente? Is it not so, Mr. Devuli?”

THE LAST LES

DUGMORE BOETIE

A DIRTY thought passed through my mind that I should mess up my pants. That could make the prison warders

leave me alone. I knew I had about reached the end of my endurance. The beating had been going on for days now.

Again the thought crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. How can there be anything in your bowels when you’ve been three days without food?

A baton hit me on the side of the jaw. Only half conscious, I wondered what the hell were two tasteless sweets doing in my mouth. Then it hit me! These were not tasteless sweets. My front teeth. They had knocked my teeth out.

“Are you going to use it now, kaffir?” The same question again. I wanted to scream, but you can’t scream through swollen lips. “No!” I answered. “It’s my property, not prison property.” Again the baton flew.

Barely conscious, I heard the Jail Chief say: “This is beyond me. I looked it up in all the prison rule books but I can’t find anything that says this convict is not right. After all, this artificial leg should be regarded as his property and not as part of himself. If he won’t use it in prison, well, we’ll just have to see where we can fit him.”

“But,” said the warder, exasperated, “I can’t have him hopping all over the place with one leg. Besides, this bloody kaffir had his artificial leg on when he was arrested. Why shouldn’t he use it in prison like he used it in that stolen car?”

“Don’t forget,” said the Chief, “he also had his clothes on, a wrist watch, a cigarette case, a wallet and small change that we are keeping as part of his property. Why shouldn’t we keep his leg?”

“How in hell is he going to work if he’s not prepared to use

!hnnW h ? hi® artificial legould be treked as property and stored away. “No' Chief”

kaff^rwear h? 'leg ™

Hotsc” '^^^ Glamorgan. Inmates tagged it the “Shit

segregated cells where the beating con- t C heat me up in the morning LforekL ?k ? ff evening when he was about to

felt like pacing the floor with my hands behind my back. But pacing the floor is one thing, and hopping the floor is sure to make you look ridicu­lous^ Besides I had to try and stay fit if I w i to absorb S e

zT.T,s',fr‘- "*morning the cell door was rudely flung open

Instead of getting my daily beatings, I received a guest AVOII under-nourished schoolLy untily u got to looking at his eyes. Then you realised that this was no boy. Not with those eyes. They were a dirty red and deep sunken. They told of a black past.

ill ^ T h i s man-boy was ill, terribly ac' hy llie wheezing sound in his breathingas if someone had punctured tiny holes in his lungs with a nitting needle. His breathing came strenuously, giving out a

musical sound, as if he had swallowed a police whistle.The warder was bawling at the cell door. At first I thought

he was referring to me, but what he was saying told mewhh'^thl' °"^y, satisfied with strewing your cellwith the waste from your bucket, you even went to the extent of plastering the walls with it, you dirty, black swine Sit on lou s h S I your bowels. The stomach wash I gave s S a l l S ^ w S r ^ p r^uce those eight half-crowns you tTcf 1 th»‘‘y minutes I want to seeof it '” The ^ ^ bucket, every penny

The convict didn’t even hear the guard. He was far too busy coughing his life away.

This shadow—-that’s what he seemed to be, just a shadow of his former self. You couldn’t think of him as a w a l S

J ’ocause when you’re dead, and you walk — well vou walk because you don’t want to stay dead. But when y o K alive, and at the same time behave like you’re dead then you’ve got no respect for the living. If you add S ?his up

you get only one answer: “Waste!” This man was nothing but bloody waste.

At first I didn’t understand what the prison guard was talk­ing about, then I got it. The shadow had swallowed eight half-crowns and they were trying to get them out of him.

I once heard the boys back home in Sophiatown talking about “Stomach Banks.” So this was it. To break the money box, the prison guards give you a stomach wash with a hose known as the syringe, then they follow it up by forcing horse Epsom salts down your throat. It’s known as horse Epsom salts because the salts are as big as hailstones. You are then placed on a toilet bucket and told to empty your bowels.

Christ! I never thought I ’d live to see the day they broke a Stomach Bank. Then something happened that nearly made me scream. Foul! The shadow was re-swallowing the half- crowns as fast as they came out of his bowels without even looking at them, let alone cleaning them first.

The raw attitude of defiance that this shadow of a man displayed gave me Zulu courage. If this puny little man could openly defy his tormentors for so long, and it had been going on for days, why should I give in to them? They could go to hell and back and I still wouldn’t use my leg.

And I did not! The morning after spending two days with my smelling guest, I was made to hop to the prison yard where all the prison inmates gather for their morning breakfast and daily orders.

In this big cemented yard, surrounded by four formidable- looking walls, lies the heart of Fort Glamorgan. Whoever chose this particular spot for a prison, must have had an intense dislike for criminals.

The prison at Fort Glamorgan is situated between Buffalo River and the Indian Ocean. It’s cold to freezing point throughout the year. There’s a permanent v^itor that frequents the prison every morning at 6.30 a.m. The visitor is so punctual you could set your watch with dead certainty and never be wrong. Inmates have a name for this unwelcome visitor. It’s known as the “Mad Dog.”

Actually it was a cold wind that blew from the sea. It had a mournful wailing sound like a dog that’s been ill-treated by a cruel master. When the mournful sound bounced off the walls, it left us clouded in echoes of frozen misery. Our shaven heads would be bleached with sea mist. Our teeth would be chattering while hands shook with uncontrollable spasms of hatred for this ill wind whose breath was responsible for the death of many a convict.

One of the minor rules at Fort Glamorgan is that when the convicts are gathered for their daily breakfast it s an offence

to sit flat on your buttocks. You are only allowed to rest on your haunches. Hell! Haunches, how can you sit o ry o u ?

me“ gi g7ed'!'' ^

forcing down the last lumps of porridge, we were told to get up and line up. t' e . **<=

hv^hp'^rh- f ' h a r b o u r were first to be checked by the Chief Warder, then marched out through the big gate escorted by eight rifles and six assegais; then followed the’ quarry span, and the plantation lot.

At last my name was called. I was assigned to a platoon ofold men. I thought with disgust. These

bastards have little respect for me. As I understood it we

d S picking weeds. God knows, 1

“March!” The others marched; I hopped. All went well a<! through the big gates. It was only when we reached

a newly-repaired gravel road that trouble began. My footFmm nh- Complaining it went to objecting.

f s t a r t e d suffering. From there it was outright rebellion. I sat causing a minor disformation. In spite of the disruption the platoon marched on. I thought I caught a gleamc L t T S S ^ convicts^ I couldn™

There I was, sitting flat on my buttocks, right in the middle of the road, massaging the sole of my foot. If they had issued me w th one old shoe, I might have made better progress. Butbe hCTe^ otf^erwise I wouldn’t

guards haven’t missed me yet. Hell I m not missing them either. But if those old convicts think they can out-walk me, they’ve got another

surroundings, toyingwith the idea of escape, but when I thought of my leg b m g

dismissed tL thoughtrun out of any part of myself, not again. I’ve

already left my real leg in the Sahara Desert during the war and I m damned if I’m going to leave this one at Fort Glamor-fh!^’ extravagant. Thethought made me hop with renewed vigour after my platoondLc^'ler^* appeared to me like they were the^twelve

Ever tried hopping a long distance oh one leg? Mavbe vou

don t look where you’re going. No. You watch the ground so as to see where to place your foot on the next hop. just

so you don’t sprain your last ankle. I was doing just that, charging after my squad.

When I looked up, it was too late. This was one collision that couldn’t be avoided. Not when I saw the prison guard’s shiny boots where 1 intended planting my next hop.

I looked up too quickly; I shouldn’t have. The back of my head got him on the point of the chin and the contact was sickening.

I lost my balance and sat heavily on my backside, blinking tears back into my eyes. As for the prison guard, he was sitting directly opposite nie. In fact, we were facing one another. But his rifle was missing.

Bashfully, I smiled at him, knowing quite well that what had happened was entirely his fault. Then I noticed his glazed eyes, my God! The guard was out, cold. I wanted to scream for a lawyer because I knew quite well what was going to happen to me now.

Without looking at me, the other prison guard went over to his unconscious companion and stood looking at him, then he shook his head once or twice. Then he sat on his haunches — it seemed to me for a closer look. He pulled the skin under the glazed eyes of the other guard lower, revealing the white of the eyeballs. After that he did a strange thing. He laugh^. Christ did he laugh! He laughed until he sat flat on his buttocks. I didn’t like that. He was going to make the guard more mad at me.

After what seemed an age, he got up, still laughing, and glared at me through tear-filled eyes. Then he looked about for his friend’s rifle. He found it lying four yards from where the incident took place.

With the help of two black policemen, they got the injured man back on his feet. He stood there swaying on rubbery legs like he drank a strong brew on an empty stomach.

Dazedly, he looked for his rifle. His friend gave it to him. Then he squinted at me like someone looking directly at the sun. Me, I just sat there waiting for them to help me up just like they helped him up.

“What do we do — do we go on or do we go back?” It was the laughing guard speaking. “We go back, we’fl never reach the Chief’s place with that thing along. I told the Warder before we left the prison that I don’t want that cripple convict in my squad. Cripples are bad luck, all cripples are bad luck, and this one is worse. You saw what he’s just done to me. Just for that I’m going to make it my personal duty to escort him to hell and leave him there.”

tiny a to m s,i w a n S '“to‘^ k u g h " S S

I t h o S . ^ “wLtVreT^^^^^ “Who doesn’t?”and £ h o . e . ’t booh o .

1 -g h .

slowly and X rted ^ h e p 3 u lT o p ® b lc k to th^n™ ^’ T wondering if there w af rooni S ^ S S l T f e " '^

was waiting for me —^the^CWef gates. Everybodyself. Someh^ow^^it'^ide m e ^ f S ^ m p o t ; r ^

GbmSgS 'stiS wSut^Sdi"glared at me with naked hatred ’ guards whose eyesthose days but I certainlv didn’t ^ weight duringimportant if you are t^ K '^bich is veryI had won the Battle of the Lee ^ cripple. Besides,.0 the task of c C io f ^ - ‘S”-

co„“ S l“w h ^ d r i 'j “r r ' ' ?'myself up from the^^round when M dfmthe'r'^ th^one standing over m l Looldnrnn t ’ ®ome-myself for whatever wa? c Z n T traced

• I ' S n T r , J “ S e ? a

to £ ^ “u'ipu“ T h f.„ \“rT'th‘S f';'’ T ,a ' “ '"S »”s a id . “ T h i s is I h ? c o n v i c t , M y n h ^ ' " " ’ “ 'a b l e s i x a n d

tra^'alwaf th'Xh a l S ' ’ “ “ “ “ ™ "t o ' t a y T n t S i / ;? „ '£ ? S ? i , ? r W “ “ ' fof three years. We find that von are bu^sbed your sentence y ais. we nna that you are an embarrassment to the

authorities and a bad example to the convicts of this prison. We feel that if we keep you here much longer you will give the prison a bad name. Dismissed!”

« ♦ *I got off the bus at the corner of Gold and Victoria Streets

in Sophiatown. It was raining heavily, as if God wanted to remove the evil of this town in one clean sweep.

Sophiatown. Rough and black. A live carcass of grief and happiness. A black heaven glowing with sparks of hell.

I was turning the corner of Bertha Street when a police van came tearing past me from the direction of the main road, half bathing me in mud and rain water. “Welcome,” I thought.

Just as I reached the end of Bertha Street, lightning struck. The heavens broke loose, vomiting sheet after sheet of fresh, healthy rain water.

Collection Number: A2696

Collection Name: Nat Nakasa Papers, 1962-2014

PUBLISHER: Publisher: Historical Papers Research Archive, University of the Witwatersrand Location: Johannesburg ©2017

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