Staffrider Vol.3 No.1 Feb 1980 - DISA

Volume Three Number One February 1980StoriesMtutuzeli MatshobaAhmed EssopNape 'a MotanaModikwe DikobeJayapraga ReddyE.M. MacphailMothobi MutloatseIII iiiiiOMMSA•GraphicsMzwakheWilliam KentridgeRichard Jackand othersPhotosAlf KumaloPaul WeinbergRalph NdawoJudas Ngwenyaand others ^~ ~iiiiiiPoetry*'#^'„ill!Maishe MaponyaNokugcina SigwiliJulius ChingonoIsrael MotlhabaneJaki SerokeBen Langaand many others

COMING SOON FROM RAVAN PRESS...§}fM(3© §®Qfl£[j08©°>Dn(^[]QO[p®owywtfMmliiiliiTWENTY-FIVE STORIES, COLUMNS AND MESSAGES BY CONTEMPORARYBLACK SOUTHERN AFRICAN WRITERS EDITED BY MOTHOBI MUTLOATSEAND FEATURING GRAPHICS BY NKOANA MOYAGA AND FIKILE. A MAJOREVENT IN SOUTH AFRICAN PUBLISHING HISTORY - DONT MISS IT!Staffrider Series Number threeStaffrider magazine is published by Ravan Press, P.O. Box 31134, Braamfontein 2017, South Africa. (Street address: 409 Dunwell, 35 JorissenStreet, Braamfontein.) Copyright is held by the individual contributors of all material, including all graphic material, published in the magazine.Anyone wishing to reproduce material from the magazine in any form should approach the individual contributors c/o the publishers.This issue was printed by ABC Press (Pty) Ltd., Cape Town.

Vol. 3 No.1 Contents February 1980StoriesTo Kill a Man's Pride by Mtutuzeli Matshoba 4The Poet in Love by Nape 'a Motana 14The Slumbering Spirit by Jayapraga Reddy 20Two Dimensional by Ahmed Essop 40Saturday Afternoon by E.M. Macphail 45GroupsZAMANI ARTS ASSOCIATION, Dobsonville 8ALLAHPOETS, Soweto 9CYA, Diepkloof 9eSKOM ARTS, Soweto 12PEYARTA, Port Elizabeth 23GUYO BOOK CLUB, Sibasa 26MADI GROUP, Katlehong 27MALOPOETS, Durban 28ABANGANI OPEN SCHOOL, Durban 29PoetryThemba Mabele, Nhlanhla Maake, Dipuo Moerane .... 8Maishe Maponya, M. Ledwaba, Mabuse A. Letlhage .... 8Makgale J. Mahopo, James Twala, Themba kaMiya ... 10Martin Taylor, Patrick Taylor 11Richie Levin, Peter Stewart, Kelwyn Sole 16Zanemvula Mda, Julius Chingono, S.M. Tlali 17Paul Benjamin 22Fezile Sikhumbuzo Tshume, Charles Xola Mbikwana,Mandi Williams, Nkos'omzi Ngcukana 23Nthambeleni Phalanndwa, Tshilidzi ShonisaniRamovha, Maano Dzeani Tuwani, Jaki Seroke 26Matime Papane, Mohale J. Mateta,Motlase Mogotsi, Maupa-Kadiaka 27Ben Langa 28S.Z. Kunene, Senzo Malinga, V.J. Mchunu 29Israel Motlabane 39Nokugcina Sigwili 44Gallery/ GraphicsColumns/ FeaturesVOICES FROM THE GHETTOKwa Mashu Speaking 2PROFILEStar Cafe: Modikwe Dikobe 7NGWANA WA AZANIAA film concept by Mothobi Mutloatse 12Mzwakhe 4, 28, 37, 39Richard Jack 15P.C.P. Malumise 17Mike van Niekerk 20, 21William Kentridge 24Mpikayipheli 30, 3 3, 35Renee Engelbrecht 40Hamilton Budaza 45Goodman Mabote 46GALLERY PROFILEBehind the Lens: Judas Ngwenya 18DRAMA SECTIONChief Memwe IVPart one by Albert G.T.K. Malikongwa 30REVIEWMafika Gwala reviews Just a LittleStretch of Road and The Rainmaker 43WOMEN WRITERSNokugcina Sigwili 44CHILDREN'S SECTIONChildren of Crossroads 46PEN NEWS 47EGOLI, Scenes from the play 48PhotographsGrace Roome 3Paul Weinberg 7,25,Judas Ngwenya 9, 18, 19Biddy Crewe 11, 44Ralph Ndawo, Brett Hilton Barber,David Scannel, Leonard Maseko 12, 13Chester Maharaj 48Cover Photographs:Front: Abe Cindi by Alf KumaloBack: Kliptown, 1979 by Paul Weinberg

VOICES FROMTHE GHETTO:Kwa Mashu SpeakingSpeaking: Mrs M. of Kwa Mashu, born in 1926 in the Districtof Umbumbulu, Natal South Coast, interviewed in July 1979by A. Manson and D. Collins of the Killie Campbell AfricanaLibrary Oral History Programme.FROM CATO MANOR TO KWA MASHUIn 1950 I married and went to stay in Cato Manor . . .In 1959 they started sending us to places like Kwa Mashuand Umlazi. Most people started to run away at that time,some to Inanda, others to a place somewhere at Isipingowhich was called, translated into English, "when you see apoliceman, you have to run, and then when the policeman isgone you come back and do what you like and build yourhome."iLIFE AT CATO MANORIn Cato Manor the laws were very flexible. My husbandand I were running a shack shop. Though we were workingin town, we would come home to do the shop. We wereforever being arrested, but I can see now that we were moreunited there than we have ever been here (Kwa Mashu.)I stayed in Cato Manor for many years, and I can assureyou — we always discuss these things — that if today theywere to say yes, we would go back, even though it was aslum.It must be remembered that, before, it was a slum*with nosite and service. You know that. Well, the life was very free,people were very co-operative with one another. Youcouldn't come and kill somebody for nothing. We used to seethat there was something happening that side. We'd all rushto go and help that somebody. We'd be beating the ... It wasjust like that, honestly. I used to hear people who had neverbeen to Cato Manor say, "Hau. Were you at Cato Manor?"Because today, believe me, I don't go about here at KwaMashu in the evening, because my life would be gone. Yousee. So myself, I don't see anything good here in these townships.There — I'm talking as if — because Cato Manor wasjust a homely place, you know. In those slums, squatters'camps as you call them now, we had that spirit of humourfrom one another. Here, I discover that people in these fourroomeds— I don't know whether they are polluted by them— they don't know their neighbours. Honestly, I don't knowmy neighbours but I'm here, you can just imagine, from1959! Nobody cares for anyone here, and even if a person iscrying — my dogs are doing a lot of work sometimes. Whensomebody cries (imitation of a scream) — tsotsis, you know,pickpocketing, slaughtering someone, I have to release mydogs. Otherwise the life here . . . myself, I say that in CatoManor we were much better, because of unity which I thinkis very important. Here, honestly, nobody cares for any otherperson.For me, I don't like it, that is not the spirit of we Africans.I don't know whether it is because I was born onthe farm where that spirit is existing, you know, to careabout the person on the other side, is he happy and if not,what happened there. We used even to hear the bell ringing.There are some signs that people use on the farm. If that bellrings and then stops, and then rings and then stops, oh, weknow that there was somebody who had passed away.Definitely: if I was ploughing or whatever I was doing, we'dleave that straight away. And then we'd have to go and ask"Who is dead? Somebody has passed away. Did you hear thatbell ringing from the church?" It was a sign telling the peoplethat somebody had passed away. Here, it is most appalling tome, seeing a coffin passing. They don't care what it is. So Idon't think life here in the townships is as good, ja.What kind of social activities did you have at Cato Manor?In Catq Manor people used to, we used to . . . There waspolitics, in the first place. There was too much of ANC inthose days, but those people were very much united, honestly.We used to hear a sound which told us that there wassomething wrong. We'd have to touch one another, that,now, something's happening, what's happening now? Andthen, there, we used to gather. That was politics, of course.Then, in the line of the welfare: people, as I say, werebrewing gavine, shimiyana, everything. They were very rich,compared to -the people here in the township. We used toorganize ourselves to help those children who came fromvery poor people, to serve them with some milk, you know,just to end this kwashiokor in the township. And we used toparticipate — there were schools there. We used to gather aswomen to discuss our problems. That was when the DurbanCorporation started to give us site and service. Becausebefore, as you know, there was nothing like latrines or wateror anything. You used to go there to the Umkumbane —washing, drinking, all those things. Our children were gettingdiarrhorea a lot. Through those meetings of ours, I think, theDurban City Councillors got the idea of this site and service,and gave us some plans. It was L, U, you know, then youbuild your own. But they were nicely built because there wasthis plan which we were given, free of charge, by the DurbanCity Councillors. This is why I always ask why don't theydo it to these people that are on next-door Richmond Farmand Inanda, in those squatters' camps, you know, becausepeople will build in a better way if they are given thatprivilege, and given site and service. They may not buildbeautiful houses, but a simple, nice good pattern with a siteand service, you know. These are important things becausethe population explosion is here.THE SHACK SHOPSWhich area did you live in? Did you live in any specificarea in Cato Manor like Shumville?We started in a place called Mangaroo. Then from MangarooI went up to Newlook. Newlook. That was the name ofthe shack shop I was running at Umkumbane. It was less thanthis (indicating the room). It was just an open four-walls withno ceiling.You must remember Cato Manor was owned by Indiansbefore. I think that an Indian merchant had been trying tobuild a shop. Then there were those riots and the peoplekilled those — they were killing everybody, burning everything.So those four walls were just left unfinished, with noroof inside. That was in Newlook. So my husband had tomove there. Nobody had to tell us, we just moved, youknow.And then Bourquin* was too clever. There were some bigIndian shops there. He said, 'Oh, no, you people, if you wantto enter these shops now, come and negotiate with me. Butfor myself, it was just an open four-wall room at Newlook.'But life there at Cato Manor, honestly, it was a very sweet2 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

*^:. M —leVitamin,1 v-f§|%' ^?K^^>LsSi: : *w ?i* ~life, I must be honest.RESISTANCEKwa Mashuphotos, GraceSo you didn 't want to move?No. Actually a lot of people resisted the removing. Andyou know — you must know — that we were removed bySaracens. I still have that in my mind and in my dreams.Some of the people were at work, and then here come thepolicemen, here come the soldiers with those Saracens, andthen they just take all your things in that manner, you know,and shove it on those big government lorries, those for war,and then they just bulldoze your house, just like that. Whenthese men came I remember one night a man knocked andwe were so much afraid, yes. And then he says, "I'm lookingfor my number." This man had been to Cato Manor. He haddiscovered that now his house was just flattened. You see.This was the very thing which touched me. In Cato Manor.The way we were removed. Because we were resisting, wewere saying, "We are happy here."A NEW LIFEWhen you arrived in Kwa Mashu, it must have been verydifferent?Ja, it's changed our lives. We had to live now another life.I don't know how I can put it. Whether it is Western civilizationor culture I don't know, because to me, I may becivilized but I don't want to become cut off from my customsand my culture. Some are very good and I admire them.I still relate to my children, you know, what life was like onthe farm. I want them to know all these things. And here,I'm not very happy, actually, because people seem to haveforgotten their customs and culture, such things. But well,things are changing, maybe I'm outdated, I don't know. Wehave to live with such things. But there are some people whoare just like me, who are interested in seeing to it that wedon't run away from our culture — though we can inherityour Western civilization. There are some parts of yourculture that are good, but I still say that there are some partsof our culture and customs which are very good.When you moved here, did the people from Cato ManorSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980Roome/Durbanall come to one area?Actually, many people came here to Kwa Mashu butmany of them were not very quick to adjust themselves tothis life. Others, they stayed here for a few months or sixmonths, then they jumped off to go build those 'squatters' atInanda. They were real Cato Manor people, Umkumbanepeople. Because there were so many laws to deal with now,in a somebody's four-roomed. Then, in Cato Manor, we werenot even paying for this water. And you see the life changedtotally, became too expensive a life, you know. And thenthey couldn't tolerate it, they said; "Oh no, I better go andstart another Umkumbane further out here," you know,rather than pay this water. If I don't pay the rent I'm beingtold that, "Well, we've got to kick you out." There weresome policemen harassing us in the township. Peoplecouldn't do what they were doing in Cato Manor andcouldn't brew all those things which I've mentioned. So lifechanged completely for some people. They said, "Ugh, lifehere! Because there is somebody who is on our shoulders. Itshows that this is not your land, this is not your house, younever paid a thing over it, you just pay rent." And so theyjumped off.Was there any friction between the people who came toKwa Mashu from the different areas? Was there squabblingbetween the people from the different places?Here at Kwa Mashu? No, no. There wasn't at all, becausethose who knew one another from Cato Manor, we used tomake friends with them, you know. There was no squabbling.But there was too much of poverty, I should call itnow because they were not doing what they knew how to doand felt like doing. There was a lot of house-breaking andtheft. It happened to those who wake up very early in themorning to go to town and work. They used to have theirhomes burgled. That was the thing that was happening here.Did a lot of people who had previously not worked haveto go out and work now?No, I think it was just people taking a chance, now thathere we were in a new township. Everything was new. Ja, itwas just one of those things.*A well-known 'Native 3 , then 'Bantu'Administrator in Natal3

To Kill a Man's Pride..An excerpt from a new story by Mtutuzeli Matshobaillustrated by MzwakheRegistration for work is such an interesting example of away of killing a man's pride that I cannot pass it by withoutmention. It was on Monday, after two weeks of unrewardedlabour and perseverence, that Pieters gave me a letter whichsaid I had been employed as a general labourer at his firm andwhich I was to take to the notorious 80 Albert Street.Monday is usually the busiest day there because everybodywakes up on this day determined to find a job. They end updejected, crowding the labour office for 'piece' jobs.That Monday I woke up elated, whistling all the way as Icleaned the coal stove, made fire to warm the house for thosewho were still asleep, and took my toothbrush and washingrags to the tap outside the toilet. The cold water was revivifyingas I splashed it over my upper body. I greeted 'Star', alsowashing at the tap diagonally opposite my home. Then Itook the washing basin, half-filled it with water and wentinto the lavatory to wash the rest of me. When I had finishedwashing and dressing I bade them goodbye at home and setout, swept into the torrent of workers rushing to the station.Somdale had reached the station first and we waited for ourtrains with the hundreds already on the platform. Theguys from the location prefer to wait for trains on the stationbridge. Many of them looked like children who did not wantto go to school."I did not sympathize with them. The littletime my brothers have to themselves, Saturday and Sunday,some of them spend worshipping Bacchus.The train schedule was geared to the morning rush hour.From four in the morning the trains had rumbled in withprecarious frequency. If you stay near the road to the hostelyou are woken up by the shuffle of a myriad footfalls longbefore the first train. I have seen these people on my wayhome when the nocturnal bug has bitten me. All I can say isthat an endless flow of resolute men hastening in the inky,misty morning down Mohale Street to the station is an awesomeapparition.I had arrived ten minutes early at the station. The 'ninety-The full text of "To Kill A Man's Pride", as well as .twenty-four other stones and prose pieces by contemporaryblack South African writers are to appear in a collection entitled FORCED LANDINGAfrica South: Contemporary Writings, edited by Mothobi Mutloatse, and published by Ravan Press, nextmonth. The stories are accompanied by drawings by Nkoana Moyaga and Fikile.FORCED LANDING will be number three in the Staffrider Series, (following AFRICA MY BEGINNINGand CALL ME NOT A MAN) and will be available from bookshops and Staffriders in your area soon.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

five' to George Goch passed Mzimhlopewhile I was there. This train brought thefree morning stuntman show. The daredevilsran along the roof of the train, afew centimetres from the naked cablecarrying thousands of electric volts, andducked under every pylon. One mistimedstep, a slip — and reflex action wouldsend his hand clasping for support. Nocomment from any of us at the station.The train shows have been going onsince time immemorial and have losttheir magic.My train to Faraday arrived, burstingalong the seams with its load. Thespaces between the adjacent coacheswere filled with people. So the onlyway I could get on the train was bywedging myself among those hanging onperilously by hooking their fingers intothe narrow tunnels along the tops of thecoaches, their feet on the door ledges. Aslight wandering of the mind, a suddenswaying of the train as it switched lines,bringing the weight of the others on topof us, a lost grip and another labour unitwould be abruptly terminated. We hungon for dear life until Faraday.In Pieters' office. Four automatictelephones, two scarlet and two orangecoloured, two fancy ashtrays, a gildedball-pen stand complete with gilded penand chain, two flat plastic ashtrays andbaskets, the one on the left marked INand the other one OUT, all displayed onthe poor bland face of a large highlypolished desk. Under my feet a thickcarpet that made me feel like a piece ofdirt. On the soft opal green wall on myleft a big framed 'Desiderata' and aboveme a ceiling of heavenly splendour.Behind the desk, wearing a short creamwhitesafari suit, leaning back in a regalflexible armchair, his hairy legs (the paleskin of which curiously made me thinkof a frog's ventral side) balanced on theedge of the desk in the manner of asheriff in an old-fashioned western, myblue-eyed, slightly bald, jackal-facedoverlord.'You've got your pass?''Yes, mister Pieters.' That one didnot want to be called baas.'Let me see it. I hope it's the rightone. You got a permit to work inJohannesburg?''I was born here, mister Pieters.' Myhands were respectfully behind me.'It doesn't follow.' He removed hislegs from the edge of the table andopened a drawer. Out of it he took asmall bundle of typed papers. Hesigned one of them and handed it to me.'Go to the pass office. Don't spend twodays there. Otherwise you come back andI've taken somebody else in your place.'He squinted his eyes at me andwagged his tongue, trying to amuse methe way he would try to make a babysmile. That really amused me, histrying to amuse me the way he would ababy. I thought he had a baby's mind.'Esibayeni'. Two storey red-brickbuilding occupying a whole block.Address: 80 Albert street, or simply'Pass Office'. Across the street, halfthe block (the remaining half a parkingspace and 'home' of the homelessmethylated spirit drinkers of the city)taken up by another red-brick structure.Not offices this time, but 'Esibayeni'(at the kraal) itself. No questionwhy it has been called that. Thewhole black population of Johannesburgabove pass age knows that place.Like I said, it was full on a Monday,full of wretched men with defeatedeyes, sitting along the gutters on bothsides of Albert street, the whole passoffice block, others grouped where thesun's rays leaked through the skyscrapersand the rest milling about.When a car driven by a white manwent up the street pandemonium brokeloose as men, I mean dirty slovenlymen, trotted behind it and fought togive their passes first. If the whiteperson had not come for that purposethey cursed him until he went outof sight. Occasionally a truck or vanwould come to pick up labourersfor a piece job. The clerk would shoutout the number of men that werewanted for such and such a job, sayforty, and double the number wouldbe all over the truck before you couldsay 'stop'. None of them would want tomiss the cut, which caused quite someproblems for the employer. A shrewdbusinessman would take all and simplydivide the money he had laid out amongthe whole group, as it was left to him todecide how much to pay for a piece job.Everybody was satisfied in the end —the temporary employer having hiswork done in half the time he had bargainedfor, and each of the labourerswith enough for a ticket back to thepass-office the following day, andmaybe ten cents worth of dishwaterand bread from the oily restaurants inthe neighbourhood, for three days.Those who were smart and familiar withthe ways of the pass-office handedtheir passes in with twenty and/orfifty-cent pieces between the pages.This gave them first preference of thebetter jobs.The queue to 'Esibayeni' was movingslowly. It snaked about thirty metresaround the corner of Polly street. It hadtaken me more than an hour to reachthe door. Inside the ten-feet high wallwas an asphalt rectangle, longitudinalbenches along the opposite wall in theshade of narrow tin ledges, filled withbored looking men, toilets on the lowerside of the rectangle, facing wide bustlingdoors. It would take me another threehours to reach the clerks. If I finishedthere just before lunch-time, it meantthat I would not be through with myregistration by four in the afternoonwhen the pass office closed. FortunatelyI had twenty cents and I knew that theblackjacks who worked there werenothing but starving leeches. One tookme up the queue to four people whostood before a snarling white boy. Thosewhose places ahead of me in the queuehad been usurped wasted their breathgrumbling.The man in front of me could notunderstand what was being bawledat him in Afrikaans. The clerk gave upexplaining, not prepared to use anyother language than his own. I felt thatat his age, about twenty, he should be atRAU learning to speak other languages.That way he wouldn't burst a vein tryingto explain everything in one tongue justbecause it was his. He was either boneheadedor downright lazy or else impatientto 'rule the Bantus'.He took a rubber stamp and bangedit furiously on one of the pages ofthe man's pass, and threw the book intothe man's face. 'Go to the other building,stupid!'The man said, 'Thanks,' and elbowedhis way to the door.'Next! Wat soek jy?' he asked in abellicose voice when my turn to besnarled at came. He had freckles all overhis face, and a weak jaw.I gave him the letter of employmentand explained in Afrikaans that Iwanted E and F cards. My talking in histongue eased some of the tensionout of him. He asked for my pass in aslightly calmer manner. I gave it tohim and he paged through. 'Good, youhave permission to work in Johannesburgright enough.' He took two cardsfrom a pile in front of him and laboriouslywrote my pass numbers on them.Again I thought that he should still beat school, learning to write properly. Hestamped the cards and told me to go toroom six in the other block. There wereabout twelve other clerks growling atpeople from behind a continuousU-shaped desk, and the space in front ofthe desk was overcrowded with peoplewho made it difficult to get to the door.Another blackjack barred the entranceto the building across the street.'Where do you think you're going?''Awu! What's wrong with you? I'mgoing to room six to be registered.You're wasting my time,' I answered inan equally unfriendly way. His eyeswere bloodshot, as big as a cow's and asstupid, his breath was fouled with( mai-mai\ and his attitude was a longway from helpful.He spat into his right hand, rubbedhis palms together and grabbed astick that was leaning against the wallnear him. 'Go in,' he challenged, indica-STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 5

ting with a tilt of his head, and dilatinghis gaping nostrils.His behaviour perplexed me, morethan angering or dismaying me. Itmight be that he was drunk; or was Isupposed to produce something first,and was he so uncouth as not to tell mewhy he would not allow me to go in?Whatever the reason, I regretted that Icould not kick some of the 'mai-mai'out of the sagging belly, and proceededon my way. I turned to see if there wasanyone else witnessing the unnecessaryaggression.'No, mfo. You've got to wait forothers who are also going to room six/explained a man with half his teethmissing, wearing a tattered overcoatand nothing to cover his large, parchedfeet. And, before I could say thanks:'Say, mnumzane, have you got a cigaretteon you? Y'know, I haven't hada single smoke since yesterday.'I gave him the one shrivelled LexingtonI had in my shirt-pocket. He indicatedthat he had no matches either. Isearched myself and gave the box tohim. His hands shook violently when helit and shielded the flame. 'Ei! Babalazhas me.''Ya, neh,' I said, for the sake ofsaying something. The man turnedand walked away as if his feet were sore.I leaned against the wall and waited.When there were a good many of uswaiting the gatekeeper grunted that weshould follow him inside to anotherbustling 'kraal'. That was where theblack clerks shouted out the jobs atfifty cents apiece or more, depending onwhether they were permanent ortemporary. The men in there werefighting like mad to reach the row ofwindows where they could hand in theirpasses. We followed the blackjack up asloping cement way rising to a greendouble door.There was nowhere it wasn't full at thepass-office. Here too it was full of thesame miserable figures that were buzzingall over the place, but this time theystood in a series of queues at a longcounter like the one across the street,only this one was L-shaped and the whiteclerks behind the brass grille wore ties. Idecided that they were of a better class'than the others, although there was nodoubt that they also had the samerotten manners and arrogance. Theblackjack left us with another one whotold us which queues to join. Our cardswere taken and handed to a lady filingclerk who went to look for our records.I was right! The clerks were, atbottom, all the same. When I reachedthe counter I pushed my pass under thegrille. The man who took it had closecroppedhair and a thin sharp face. Hewent through my pass checking it againsta photostat record with my namescrawled on top in a handwriting that Idid not know.'Where have you been from Januaryuntil now, September?' he said ina cold voice, looking at me from behindthe grille like a god about to admonish asinner.I have heard some funny tales, frommany tellers, when it come to answeringthat question. See if you can recognisethis one:CLERK:MAN:CLERK:Heer, man. Waar was jy aldie tyd, jong? (Lord, man.Where have you been all thetime,/o?2g?)I ... I was mad, baas.Mad!? You think I'm youruncle, kaffer?KAFFER: No baas, I was mad.CLERK: Jy . . . jy dink . . . (and thewhite man's mouth dropsopen with no words comingout.)KAFFER: (Coming to the rescue ofthe baas with an explanation)At home they tell methat I was mad all along,baas. 'Strue.CLERK: Where are the doctor'spapers? You must have beento hospital if you were mad!(With annoyance.)KAFFER: I was treated by a witchdoctor,baas. Now I ambetter and have found a job.Such answers serve them right. If it istheir aim to harass the poor people withimpossible questions, then they shouldexpect equivalent answers. I did not,however, say something out of the way.I told the truth, 'looking for work.''Looking for work, who?''Baas.''That's right. And what have youbeen living on all along?' he asked,like a god.'Scrounging, and looking for work.'Perhaps he did not know that among usblacks a man is never thrown to thedogs.'Stealing, huh? You should have beencaught before you found this job. Doyou know that you have contravenedsection two, nine, for nine months? Doyou know that you would have gone tojail for two years if you had beencaught, tsotsi? These policemen are notdoing their job anymore,' he said,turning his attention to the stamps andpapers in front of him.I had wanted to tell him that if I hadhad a chance to steal, I would not havehesitated to do so, but I stopped myself.It was the wise thing to act timid in thecircumstances. He gave me the pass afterstamping it. The blackjack told me whichcorridor to follow. I found men sittingon benches alongside one wall and stoodat the end of the queue. The man infront of me shifted and I sat on theedge. This time the queue was reasonablyfast. We moved forward on theseats of our pants. If you wanted to preventthem shining you had to stand upand sit, stand up and sit. You couldnot follow the line standing. Thepatrolling blackjack made you sit in anembarrassing way. Halfway to the doorwe were approaching, the man next tome removed his upper clothes. All theothers nearer to the door had theirclothes bundled under their armpits. Idid the same.We were all vaccinated in the firstroom and moved on to the next onewhere we were X-rayed by some impatientblack technicians. The snakingline of black bodies reminded me ofprisoners being searched. That waswhat 80 Albert Street was all about.The last part of the medical examinationwas the most disgraceful. I don'tknow whether it was designed to saveexpense or on some other ground ofexpediency, but on me it had the effectof dishonour. After being X-rayed wecould put on our shirts and cross thecorridor to the doctor's cubicle. Outsidewere people of both sexes waiting tosettle their own affairs. You passedthem before entering the cubicle, insidewhich sat a fat white man in a whitedust-coat with a face like an owl, behinda simple desk. The man who had gone inahead of me was zipping up his fly. Iunzipped mine and stood facing the owlbehind the desk, holding my trouserswith both hands. He tilted his fat faceto the right and left twice or thrice. 'J a.Your pass.'I hitched my trousers up while heharried me to give him the pass beforeI could zip my trousers. I straightenedmyself at leisure, in spite ofhis ( Gou, gou, gou!' My pride had beenhurt enough by exposing myself to him,with the man behind me preparing to doso and the one in front of me havingdone the same; a row of men of differentages parading themselves before a boredowl. When I finished dressing I gave himthe pass. He put a little maroon stampsomewhere in amongst the last pages. Itmust have meant that I was fit to work.The medical examination was overand the women on the benches outsidepretended they did not know. Theyoung white ladies clicking their heelsup and down the passages showedyou they knew. You held yourselftogether as best as you could until youvanished from their sight, and you nevertold anybody else about it.6 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Profile/Modikwe DikobeModikwe Dikobe was bom in 1913 at Seabe, in theMoretele district He attended St. Cyprian school and thenAlbert St, School between 1924 and 1932, selling newspaperspart-time. He was secretary of the 1942 Alexandrabus dispute and worked with Alexandra squatters in 1946. In1948 he contested the advisory board election in Orlando,and in that year was secretary of ASINAMALL In 1959 hewas involved in organising African shop workers, and throughthe trade union, he published and wrote in a monthlyjournal,< Shopworker\ His book, The Marabi Dance was% published in 1963, and he is now r~"~ J s 'Y ot uoornronteinwhich will cover the history of blacks in Johannesburg basedmainly on his own experiences and memories. The workreflects three processes: the movement of people off the landinto the towns; a discussion of early black life in Johannesburgincluding the beginnings of segregation; and the shiftingof people out of towns onto the land again. The piece wepublish here reflects the pre-apartheid period: the days whenblacks could still own restaurants etc., and is a fictional discussionof the kind that took place in a cafe that was frequentedby ANC sympathisers.Star CafeThe name Star sounds grand to me.It is because its owner Mr Moretsele,affectinately called Retsi, was a man ofthe people. He was like that when hearrived in Pretoria, and later in thegolden city, some sixty years ago.He was born in Sekhukhuneland inthe late eighties. Being a country boywithout education, he worked as adomestic servant where he learned toread and write. He was a follower ofMatseke and Makgatho, Transvaalleaders of Transvaal National Congress.He later joined a national organisation.At the marital age, he lived in theslums of the city. And by hard effortshe found a house in Western NativeTownship. Nkadimeng of MunicipalWorkers Union helped him to find ahouse in Newclare (Western NativeTownship as it's better known.)Low wages and unsuitability of jobstaught him to undo himself, in a wayfamiliar to others who find out to dofor themselves. He ran an unlicensedKoffie-Kar. 'I did not sleep/ he wouldsay, I baked fat cakes on returning fromwork.' He was then working in commercialdistributive trade.'I sold fat cakes, to Market Street,wholesale. The workers there called meRetse. Selling fat cakes earned me betterthan I was receiving from my employer.I ventured into the Koffie-Kar business.A hard task, moving from place toplace.Then I applied for a licence for acafe. I got this cafe . . . * He stopped. Aninspector was passing, then vanishedinto an alley of Indian fruit sellers.'Bastard, subsidises his earnings bybribery. I am sorry for these poorcreatures. They are poorly paid, but willnot budge from claiming baasskap.'Then someone arrived and took aquick table. He was reading a newspaper.'Well Afred, how is your unionworking?' 'Tough job,' he replied.Municipal workers will not tolerate delayin increasing wages. They wantrationing done away with.'- \\Modikwe Dikobe at his home at Seabe, photos, Paul WeinbergAt home with his family'What about negotiation?''Well, Retsi'. He sighed. 'You are abusinessman. A union of workers can beof use to you. Recognition is to youradvantage, if only you have a yellowunion.''I don't understand.''What I mean, Mr Moretsele, is thatthe City Council is contemplating recognition,on condition it has its ownchosen officials. It is in fact negotiatingon those conditions.''Are you selling the workers?''I intend walking out if my secretarysuccumbs to the council's demands.'The sellout took place, however,before MrMoretsile realised it. Nkadimengwas selling down the river therefuse-removers' rights. Mr Nkadimengwas, without much ado, placed in amunicipal house. And, effortlessly, hefound Mr Moretsele a house.Mr Moretsele was a staunch supporterof the left wing. He and Dr Dadoowere personal friends. His other ardentIndia friend was Nana Sitha, who livedin Pretoria. 'You go pass Marabastad,Retsi, me give you message. Pass toPietersburg,' Nana Sitha would say.'You India, no good. Friend here.Your house, me not come in frontdoor.'You're a friend, me no chase away,you sit by table with me.'Moretsele was a modest man, man ofthe people. Job seekers took rest in StarCafe.Then, when Moretsele was buried, asquare in Western Native Townshipwitnessed for the first time black andwhite bemoaning the death of Retsi.OBITUARYDead. I've left MoretseleStains undoneDispossession, land-hungerAnd the right to liveThat you too shall carry onFrom where he shall leave.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 7

Poetry/SowetoZamani ArtsCAPE TO CAIROThese ebony skin-deep peopleWith their marred but sacred soilShall not crumble asunderThey are what they areThey are AfricaListen to them talkListen to them laughListen to their volcanic stampedeThey tread on their restless ancestorsThey are what they areThey are AfricaDrag them to the TranskeiTie them down to BophutatswanaDrown them within VendalandBut never in the British IslesLet alone the American shoresThey remain what they areThey are AfricaThey overflow in prisonsThey die in multitudesThey are not crematedBut buried to enrich the soilThey are what they areThey are AfricaThese monstrous skyscrapersThose hefty white torsosBear the black palm printsThat raised and fed themThrough ages ungrudginglyThey are what they areThey are anchored in AfricaThey are AfricaThemba Mabele/Zamani Arts, DobsonvilleGRAVITY IN THE HOLEHoles and faded lettersin my Bibleand floods of tearson my handkerchiefGrave mud on my pickand shining shovelWeed and reptilesin my backyardSmoke in my chimneyand black potsfull of fliesand starving cockroachesas lean as my children.Stinging wires on my bedand bugs fatlike factory boss.Nhlanhla Maake/Zamani Arts Association, DobsonvilleOCTOBER 19THThunder rumbled and threatened to destroyour painful joy.We froze as if our boneswere carved of stones.Our hearts beat protest against our chestbut our lips knew silence to be best.We looked up to see our banners of peaceat half mast, torn to many a piece.Tongues without accent whispered in despairas thunder echoed in the air.Our hopes in gagged tone did crybut never to fade and die.A war born of mind and wordshall never cease by the sword.May such a trial be our lastand forever past,So that those who preach our goalsmay not populate gaols,To have their human thoughts subduedin a slough of solitude.Nhlanhla Maake/Zamani Arts Association, DobsonvilleJUSTICEWhen things are like thiswhat do they saythey took him from methey kept him in custodythey said justice would be doneAfter some daysthey took me toointo custodyand left our child aloneour son kept on askingwhere are my parentsthey told himthe justice people took them awayHow long will they keepmy parentsuntil justice is doneI wanted to knowwhat my papa didthey said he was a 'terrorist'I wanted to knowwhat my mama didthey saidshe's the wife of a 'terrorist'then let justice be donebutwhere is justice?Dipuo Moerane/Jabavu, Soweto8 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/SowetoAllahpoetsTwo Poemsby Maishe MaponyaTHE GHETTOLook deep into the ghettoAnd see modernised gravesWhere only the living dead existManacled with chainsSo as not to resist.Look deep into the ghettoAnd see the streets dividing the gravesStreets watered with tearsStreets with pavementsDyed with bloodBlood of the innocentStreets used by the chainedTo manufacture more chains dailyLook deep into the ghettoYou will see yourselfSilenced by a 99-year leaseThus creating a class struggleWithin a struggle for survival.Look the ghetto overYou will see smog hoverAnd dust chokingThe lifeless-living-deadLook the ghetto overYou will see pain and hungerTorture and oppressionCan you hear beasts of evilAnd creatures of deathBrawling and cryingTo devour youAnd suck the last dropOf blood from your emaciated corpse.Maishe Maponyalishe Maponya and the Allahpoets at a Dube poetry reading,oto, Judas NgwenyaNO ALTERNATIVEYou either stopOr be stoppedYou either serveOr be servedYou have no alternativeEither you say noOr you say yesEither you moveOr be movedYou have no alternativeEither you negotiateOr you don'tEither you fight for itOr you don'tYou have no alternativeYou either oppressOr be oppressedYou have no alternativeWe will all die later!Maishe MaponyaGAME RESERVEI cater for all I mother the wild On my breastThey rest and rust Some see the days passingI am packed: Lions, tigers, tigers, wolves.I bellow like a crazy cow In a slaughter-houseBellowing for my extinction. Elephants, antsBig, big elephants Trampling my little body.Soweto: Human Game Reserve.TONGUEIf I could speakIn the tongues of angels and prophetsPerhaps my wordsWould be takenTo be evidence of injusticeIn you Mother Azania!Mabuse A. Letlhage/CYA, DiepkloofM. Ledwaba/CYA, DiepkloofSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 19809

Poetry/SowetoFORESEEN YET UNPREVENTED ACCIDENThistorical anno domini yeartime eleventh hourit pulled out of the tranquil stationfour passenger province-carriagesfragmented into racial mini carriage-statesto fulfil goals of separatist ideologyover twenty-million passengersnumber of train: twentieth century arroganceinnocent soulsunsuspecting and relaxedbabies sucking their tasteless dummieslaboriouslysmall girls adorningtheir new dolls with tearssmall boys cherishing the momentof travelling on ever-parallel mini-state rail linesmamas and papas chatting awayabout their household chores] first, second, third . . . fifth stationalways outwards and inwardsbodies carrying spiritual soulsJIout of twentieth arrogance station,then it happenedit was incrediblerecklessly and sadly shocking| the deafening soundsof clattering steel and plankthe ghastly sight of babieswas far from that sight(that sight of sucked dummies)as they were flungflung in the skieslike the lassies' dolliesthe awry scene| not a shadowof the lads' thinking of neat parallel linesa concoction of legsheads arms and torsosstrewn all over the country! topsy turvy land was never meant to look theMakgale J. Mahopo/SowetoPRESSED| The urine burns and stings my small bladderI can feel it fall out in warm small drops.j The Whites-Only toilets are nearby, so are thecopsWho are ready to swoop down upon me as if I1 were an adder..1 My underpants are already wet,My bladder seems to swell and about to burstMy forehead glitters with sweat, and I thirstFor an icy drink. Still the urine drips; I standand fret.I can smell the strong disinfectant waftingfrom the Whites-Only toilets,It seems to be inviting me to come in andease nature,Dear Lord, how can I? I'd rather torture myselfon the pavement; still fall the large droplets.Suddenly I cannot suppress myself anymoreThe urine jets out. I feel its warmth on my skinAs it trickles down into my shoe; passers-bysneer and grinMy dignity as a.man lowered like never before.The sign stinks worse than a human stoolThe warm urine irritates my dry skin.I wonder which is worse, to commit a social sinOr publicly piss myself like a fool.James Twala/Meadowlands, SowetoTO A FRIEND (PIERO)those moments whenwe bled on our kneesweighing old j ohn 'sunprepared journeywe looked deeperinto each other's eyeswe stood togetherhelplessly watchingour friends draggingtheir talents intomincing passagesclaiming nothing in theworld of artwe were sad beyond pitypeople saw us then untila bullet cut throughthe flesh and messed up mindsthrowing our hopes and dreamsawaywe ran, seeking refugein nothingnessthe other dayyou asked me why peopleask you whyagain we bled in silenceand i asked you whyi realised the crossin our timeThemba kaMiya/Klipspruit, Sowetoj10 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/Johannesburg"HISTORY WILL ABSOLVE ME" FIDELCASTRO(An unfinished poem.)Fidel,History absolves no-one,History takes drugs, has hallucinations,stumbles among the corpses looking for a fix,wakes up in the morning with a dead head& vomits into the future.Africa,shaped like a skullunknown.Men in khaki & incongruous helmetswho stood in poses beneath the sun.No marble columns/ to frame the action.No clear record/ of the number dead.Despatches in the press.Africa — the outhouse,unspeakableacts.Where any civil servant, rough trader, roadmaker,could take his pants offfeel the shit slidesoftly down his legs.But they stayed, Fidel, they stayed.Not in the Cape, where dreams could rest— out beyond the ring of the mountains,annuli of distance, sunsets red as crucifixblood."To preserve our doctrines in purity"The clean holes of bullet wounds.Men with dark beards& the dust on their clothesthe land deepin a dream of itself.Beauty is annihilating, Fidel,the beasts remainedanimal eyes in the darknessthe dark rowsof sweating, serried bodies&"the rest of the worldwas nowhereas far as our ears& eyes were concerned"*Blood River,Kitchener's camps,Bikobeaten on the headto die of brain damagea blind brute of painbellowingbullet woundswide as flowersa child'steargassed eyesbleed for simple merciestruncheon handat the top of its trajectorystatisticsno-one believespolitician'sdull jawsmalicetheir unmoving eyesFidel,Calvin's dead Godgloats in the kwashiorkor glooman animalwith thick flankswaits by the river"die aapmenshy wat nie kan dink nie"**Martin Taylor/Johannesburg*Anna Steenkamp —Journals** N.P. van Wyk Louw — RakaHILLBROWI waited in the cityand all its eyes turned down on me,surprised.Only old women in old slacksdo thatand walk from single roomdown smelly cabbage stairsto supermarket shoppingas old as city chapel flowerbedsbetween the sunless flats.Who would live in Building Block Land?Yeoville, photo, Biddy CrewePatrick Taylor/JohannesburgSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 11

NGWANAWA AZ AMI AA film concept by Mothobi Mutloatse/eSkom Arts ,Sowetow^^mmmmMmmThis film has to be shot on location as much as possible, and the musicalscore shall be regarded as an integral rather than minor part of this herculeantask portraying the lot, or is it heap, of the Black child Azania, on celluloid. Itwill definitely not be an intellectual nor fancy exercise: in fact, some or most ofthe participants will have to volunteer to go through hell first before agreeing tomake their contributions, because basically, making a film documentary even ona small aspect of the black man, is sheer agony. One cannot feign pain, it has tobe felt again to put that stamp of authenticity on any documentary, seeing wehave no archives to refer to. Again, much of the documentary's success willdepend on imagination, improvisation and the artistry of all those involved inthis project. The director — at least the bum who decides to take up this seeminglyimpractical proposition — will have to be a strong, patient, open-minded,non-commercial, un-technical artist. He will be expected to do casting himselffrom the camera-man up to the last 'extra'. He will have to read the synopsis,which in many ways is also the shooting script, to everybody at a discussionmeeting where, naturally, he will have to be grilled by everybody. Suggestions,deletions, additions or even alterations to the synopsis, will have to be made.Concerning the musical score, all the musicians will be required to give their owninterpretations of how they view the project, and thereafter agree on the score.• The future of the black child, the recalcitrant Azanian child in South Africa,is as bright as night and this child, forever uprooted, shall grow into a big sittingduck for the uniformed gunslinger.• From ages two to four he shall ponder over whiteness and its intrigue. Fromages five to eight he shall prise open his jacket-like ears and eyes to the starkrealisation of his proud skin of ebony. From ages nine to fifteen he shall hardeninto an aggressive victim of brainbashing and yet prevail. From ages sixteen totwenty-one he shall eventually graduate from a wavering township candle into aflickering life-prisoner of hate and revenge and hate in endless fury. This motherchildshall be crippled mentally and physically for experimental purposesby concerned quack statesmen parading as philanthropists.• This motherchild shall be protected and educated free of state subsidy in anenterprising private business asylum by Mr. Nobody. This motherchild shallmother the fatherless thousands and father boldly the motherless millionpariahs. This nkgonochild shall recall seasons of greed and injustice to her wartriumphantand liberated Azachilds. This mkhuluchild shall pipesmoke in thepeace and tranquility of liberation, and this landchild of the earth shall never becarved up ravenously again and the free and the wild and the proud shall but livetogether in their original own unrestricted domain without fear of one another,and this waterchild shall gaily bear its load without a fuss like any other happymother after many suns and moons of fruitlessness in diabolical inhumanity.• This gamble-child of zwepe shall spin coins with his own delicate life to winthe spoils of struggle that is life itself. This child of despair shall shit in thekitchen; shit in the lounge; shit in the bedroom-cum-lounge-cum-kitchen; heshall shit himself dead; and shall shit everybody as well in solidarity and in hisold-age shall dump his shit legacy for the benefit of his granny-childs: this veryngwana of redemptive suffering; this umtwana shall but revel in revealing offbeat,creative, original graffiti sugar-coated with sweet nothings like:re tlaa ba etsa power/re-lease Mandela/azikhwelwa at all costs/we shall notkneel down to white power/release Sisulu/ jo' ma se moer/black power will beback tonight/release or charge all detainees/msunuwakho/down with booze/Mashinini is going to be back with a bang/to bloody hell with bantu education/don't shoot — we are not fighting/Azania eyethu/masende akho/majority iscoming soon/freedom does not walk it sprints/inkululeko ngokul• This child born in a never-ending war situation shall play marbles seasonablywith TNTs and knife nearly everyone in sight in the neighbourhood for touchand feel with reality, this child of an insane and degenerated society shall knowlove of hatred and the eager teeth of specially-trained biting dogs and he willspeak animatedly of love and rage under the influence of glue and resistance.• This marathon child shall trudge barefooted, thousands of kilometres throughicy and windy and stormy and rainy days and nights to and from rickety churchcum-stable-cum-classroomswith bloated tummy to strengthen him for urbanwork and toil in the goldmines, the diamond mines, the coal mines, the platinum12 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

a storyby Nape'aMotanaIllustratedby Richard Jackthe poetin loveLesetja, a lad of Mamelodi, is a poet. He loves parties,wine and women. Apart from a cluster of girls who are casualor free-lance lovers, he has a steady partner. She is Mathildaor Tilly. She is conspicuously pretty. Some cynics openly sayhe is showing her off like a piece of jewelry.Lesetja is popular among other Mamelodi poets. He readshis stuff at all kinds of parties and shebeens. The secret of hisinstant popularity is simple: he has as material what peoplewill have an opinion on, like or dislike; what is on thepeople's lips. He often argues: 'Why should I bother aboutbirds, bees and trees while my people are trapped in theghetto!'Poetry earns him fame, more company and, sometimes,free liquor. Recently one of the trendy shebeens, The YellowHouse, heard him reading to ecstatic patrons:wet sundayleaves blue m on dayin the lurch;babalaaz chews my brainlike bubble-gum;how can I bubblewhen fermented bottleshobble me?I am boss of the moment —Baas can go to hell!Some of his friends skin him alive for 'grooving throughpoetry*. He tells them that an artist does not live in a vacuum;that an artist reflects his society. His punches aresometimes wild: 'Those who see flowers when corpsesabound are eunuchs!'But his hectic life is not to last. It reaches a climax when,to the dismay of many socialites, he leaves Tilly to settle fora plain woman like Mokgadi. To be frank, Mokgadi is somewherenear ugliness. Lesetja has been stupidly in love withTilly. He admits he has been stupid, unable to see beyond hisarms as they embraced Tilly.His friend, Madumetja remarks once:'You are a true poet/'Why?''Because you see a bush for a bear, a beauty for an uglyduckling.''Do you say Mokgadi is ugly?''This confirms how true a poet you are. Tell me, why didyou "boot" Tilly, such a beauty of a model?''Look here Madumetja, I am responsible for everythingthat I do. Are you playing my godfather?'Lesetja is ruffled. Madumetja is amused. The argumentends in a cul-de-sac. Neither will throw in the towel.The naked truth is: Madumetja is right. Lesetja is a poet.He is romantic about Mokgadi. He imagines he is in love withMiss Afrika. His poetic eyes scoop nothing but beauty fromthis lass who does not deserve a second look.Mokgadi, whom Lesetja dubs 'black diamond', is a universitystudent. She is coal black while he is lighter in complexion.He often brushes her smooth cheek with the back ofhis palm and romanticises: 'Pure black womanhood from theheart of Afrika!' She giggles, displaying a set of snow-whiteteeth which contrast beautifully with her ebony face.One day as he marvels at her somewhat rare complexion,she confesses to him. She tells him her biological father is aZairean whom the government repatriated with scores of'foreign Bantus' in the early 1960s.Mokgadi has a broad, nearly flat nose, typically Zairean.Her mouth is small, presumably like her mother's. Pitchblack-and-whiteeyes seem to bulge. Her waist is thicker as ifshe wears indigenous beads. Her shoulders are wide andnearly round, and do not go well with her small breasts.But Lesetja loves her passionately. His sensitive eyes seenothing but a 'black diamond'. That the secret of art lies inorchestrating the commonplace and unrelated things into onesolid coherent piece of beauty, here applies to Lesetja, onehundred percent.Lesetja meets Mokgadi in the 1970s when black students,thinkers, politicians, writers, artists and theologians areexposed to the upsurge of Black Consciousness. Drama,poetry and art are vibrant. Lesetja is now wiser. He seesbeyond his love-making arms. He sees beyond parties andshebeens.He mixes with knowledgeable people. He reads booksuntil he comes across and loves Frantz Fanon's Black Skins,White Masks. The spiritual metamorphosis spurs him to be acommitted poet. He spits fire and venom. He dislikes artistswho, while they eat hunger, blood and sweat, vomit fruitsalads.Lesetja changes. He is no more a poet of parties. Hebaffles Tilly but she thinks he will come back. He is nolonger that bohemian poet who has been lionised by funlovers. Patrons at The Yellow House cannot understand whyhe is scarce, keeping to himself. Shebeen queens miss hisincisive humorous verse. What has gone wrong with the poetlaureate of Mamelodi? Nobody can furnish the answers.'One must not play with words while Afrika is ablaze,' heharangues those who confront him over his 'new life'. Hediscovers that indulgence in pleasure has been a multipleland-mine on the road towards ideal creativity or politicalfreedom. He hates over-indulgence. He sheds a handful oflovers. He finds them to be either superficial or immature.'Parasites and staffriders!' he thinks aloud. He even feels aOne must not play with words while Africa is ablaze *14 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Spiritual metamorphosis spurs him to be a committed poet.He spits fire and venom. He dislikes artists who, while theyeat hunger, blood and sweat,vomit fruit salads.strong compulsion to live like a hermit, but he still loves thecity hubbub which affords him some raw material.He looks at Tilly through a different pair of eyes. She isonly a beauty, a cabbage-headed non-white model whobattles against nature. Sympathy replaces love. 'No! it wasnot love but lust!' he corrects himself. Tilly has been fit onlyfor a mere 'release of manly venom', he reflects, with bitternessand built. He recalls what he read from Black Skins,White Masks, that womenof Tilly's ilk are adisgrace because theywant to bleach theblack race. They clamourto imprison blacksouls in white skins.Sis!He used to visit Tillythrice a week. Now hecuts the ration drasticallyto nil. She firstdisguises her worry andanger through thehackneyed 'Long timeno see.''Inspiration, darling.''Inspiration forwhat?''That's when I amwriting poems. I mustnot be disturbed.''Have I become adisturbance? That'snews.'Lesetja manages todefuse an otherwise explosivesituation. Heshuts his mouth andtalks about somethingelse.She later suspectsout of feminine instinctthat he keeps anotherwoman closer to hisheart. Jealousy drivesher beserk. Worked uplike a hen whose chickenhas been snatchedby a hawk, she marchesto Lesetja's room. Sheknocks and barks like ablack-jack. The door isnot locked. She stormsin at the speed of a Boeing when it takes off. She is ready fora fight, sweating and shivering.Her bloodshot eyes scrutinise the bed hurriedly. There isLesetja lying! No woman next to him! Maybe the devil of awoman has hidden under the bed or in the wardrobe whenTHEY heard her advancing footsteps. He is alone, surroundedby pencils, drafts of poems, scribblers, books andliterary magazines. A Concise Oxford Dictionary lies on hischest as he gazes at Tilly, as if saying: 'And now?' Anger ather intrusion is tempered by her pitiful state. His unexpectedcoolness frustrates her pent-up emotions. She is benumbedand she just sobs and sobs while he feigns pity. For thirtyminutes they never say a word to each other. He fumbleswith the writing material, packing books and unpackingthem. She holds him at ransom with her rivulets of tears. Shestands up abruptly and leaves dejectedly. Their roads part.Lesetja feels light, asif somebody has takena coal bag off his back.He reads voraciouslyand spends a lot of timedoing some soul-searching.His writingcraftmellows with intensivepractice. Madumetjahas been visiting him,perhaps more out ofcuriosity than friendship.He pokes fun athim: 'It seems youmake it your businessto caress books whileWE fondle dames anddrink the happy waters.'He asks Madumetjato shut his bigmouth or make use ofhis long legs.He knows and seeswhat he wants. Hemoves between blinkers.He attends artexhibitions, poetryreadings and more funerals.One evening he isthunderously applaudedwhen he reads to asmall audience at thelocal church:Black beautyThe soot that you wearis Afrika's proudepidermisMy tongue and craniumexhumefrom your rich bosom,a black diamond.The thrilled poetry lovers congratulate Lesetja and threeother poets after the reading. Mokgadi a student of AfricanLiterature, is stunned and stirred, especially by Lesetja'spoem. This epitome of an African woman has a chitchatwith Lesetja, not knowing that she is talking herself into thepoet's heart.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 15

Poetry/Swaziland, Lesotho, NamibiaMESSAGE TO JOBURG NORTHYouwithyour cream-white complexionabout to inventa wonderful machineto lift you from bedand stand you in your shoesLook under your feet:For you're standing on a peoplewho'll soon shatter your complacencyand turn offyour electric carving-knife.Richie Levin/SwazilandPART III NO. 1The dark angel took seven starsAnd flung them to the crimson hell-flaresThis quickened the anger of the crowd,Who surged, helpless humanity, against thegaudy podiumAnd virile cowboys start whippingThe air is whipped till it stinksThis happened some years agoAnd, surely not, blood in thick disastrous goutsFrom you yourselfQuick over your sweating body.There will be lines of men with machine-guns,bombed villages,A crate in the shopping centreInto which waste is flung.Behold, if there is no God, I am He.Give me my whip.Peter Stewart/LesothoPART III No. 2.I loved you like the diamondsThat glistened through wet mossesCointreau, the liqueur of oranges, sweet and high,On a tube trainAnd the cities grind onThe cities grind onAnd on my bed I toss, like a carcass of meatturned on the spitAnd in the mine compoundsAnd in the hearts and in the cornerIn the centre five thin uncles play dice for money,with abandonJoshua Mfolo was murdered with an axe onthe 26 of FebruaryAnd after the oldest tourist train in the world,Fleas on the seats, six minutes,This is the oceanI loved you in the ocean, for my love for youvanished, evaporated, I didn't love you anymoreAnd I drownedAnd divided into many human beingsEach with social class, in some part of theworld, with incomes, status, virtue, and thelack of theseWho are you now?I will love you becauseI do not love you yetBecause of the good news that came whenhunger had helped to reduce the remainingfamily to painfully subdued frustrations andpermanent tension.You are my neighbour.Peter Stewart/LesothoTHE SMALL TRADERHere the policemen go barechestedand the makakunyas, young boys, spiton their country: last nighta store was destroyed by 'persons unknown'the police blame the guerillas,the guerillas blame the police;and the small tradercaught in these sudden eruptionslike dog's vomit on the groundsat up in bed (knowing which side he was on)and wonderedwhich sidewas on himKelwyn Sole/Namibia16 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/Zimbabwe, LesothoBIRTH OF A PEOPLETell themThese are the joysOf warThe ecstacy of parturitionJoysOf our new lifeSpringingFrom marching in the heatDrinkingCool fountain waterDestroying lifeBent on destroying usThen dying in the sunTo free those who must liveBathing our battered soulsIn the sweet stenchesOf sexPurificationIn our gory gloryQuenching our thirstWith the warm bloodOf manPutrefactionOf the warm bodiesOf manOur gunsEjaculate deathOur guns spew loveOf a new peopleBirth in deathLove in deathA people born of deathA people MUST be bornIn deathZanemvula Mda/LesothoWHEN THEY COME BACKWhen they come backFrom call-upOur sons look strangeEmpty mouths without wordsDeep eyes, gashesDeepened by bayonets of fearPuffing nostrils puffing outImpacts of close shavesAnd when they smileThey smile the smileOf the armyWhen it is not armedThese children look strangeTrailed by an odourAn odour of the armyJulius Chingono/Salisbury, ZimbabweLino-cut, P.C.P. Malumise/RorkesDriftDEATH IS NOT ONLY DEATH FOR THEDEAD BUT IT IS DEATH FOR THE LIVINGClad in BlackShe knelt beside a coffin:Inside, plastered in wood, lay her husband.She mourned for a man goneShe wailed for an African son goneShe cried for a future escaped.She counted sons and daughters in schoolsShe counted daughters and sons in the cradleShe spelled the name of the child at the breastAnd wondered what next to do.The Priest's voice: 'Madam, God save yourwounded soul.'No hope of God could bandage the woundsecurely.The hazards of bleak winds in winter ravagedAnd the hunger of numberless children infectedThe prospect of years ahead, her breadwinnergone.S.M. Tlali/LesothoSOUNDS ARE NO MORESounds are no moreExplosions of seed podsIn regenerationBut explosions of bombsIn degenerationIn our khaki bushes.Julius Chingono/Salisbury, ZimbabweSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 17

Gallery ProfileBehind the Lens: JUDAS NGWENYAThe first in a series of interviews withStaffrider photographers and graphicartists about themselves and their work,and how they see it in relation tocultural struggle as a whole.I started taking pictures in 1968while I was still at school. Someone lentme a polaroid and when he took it backI was very sad. I bought an instamaticand started using it for black and whitepictures. I photographed children, parties,school-groups. I was still learning,so I didn't charge professional prices, Ijust said, "If you've got 25c it's O.K."In 1970 I bought a good camera. Istarted using colour, and taking photographsof adults: parties, weddings,funerals, competitions. I charged 75c aprint. At this time I was working atCheckers as a packer, so all the photographywas done in my spare time.I didn't think that commercialphotography would take my aims as aphotographer further, but I used themoney to buy photography books so Icould study.In 1973 I resigned from Checkersand started free-lance work. By now Iwas well-known as a wedding/partyphotographer. But I was tired of weddings.I wanted to learn printing andmore advanced techniques, so that Iwould be competent enough to takemore relevant pictures, and I started acorrespondence course in photography.One day, a few years later, I was takingmy granny to Baragwanath hospital.I had my camera with me. It was about10 a.m. I saw a lot of children shouting'Power'. I didn't know what was happening... I wanted to take photographsbut I was scared and confused.There were a lot of police but somethingkept telling me, if I'm a photographerI must take these pictures.I heard taxis hooting, and then I sawdead children on stretchers being carriedout of the taxis. I was helping to carrythe stretchers to the hospital but at thesame time I was seeing colours, colourseverywhere . . . Men in white coats,nurses in blue-striped uniforms, some ingreen and red stripes, men in white andblue overalls. And I kept thinking, Tvegot a colour film in my camera'. But Ialso felt I must help in the situation,and when the hippos came I just ran tothe car. I was very scared. By this time Ihad lost my grandmother: I only foundher the following day at Dube policestation. This was my experience ofKliptownbackyardJune 16th 1976. It was a Wednesday . . .I wanted pictures so that I couldlook back at events and see clearly whathad been happening. But I also knewthat when I took the film to be processedI probably wouldn't get itback. I now know that it's not easy totake photographs in those situations.But Magubane, Moffat Zungu, RalphNdawo . . . they did it. And I've learnedabout how important photographs arein documenting people's lives. Theyremind us of our history: what's happenedbefore and what's going tohappen in the future.In 1978 I got a diploma in photographyfrom a correspondence courseI'd been doing. The diploma's importantto me because it has proved to me that Iunderstand some of the theory of mywork.Then I joined the photography workshopat the Open School. That waswhere I finally learned how to developand print my own work. I won a pocketcamera in a competition: this encouragedme a lot. If you're takingpictures, you need people to see yourwork and react to it, otherwise youdon't make progress. To take pictures isto learn, and to see what the lives of thepeople are like: most are suffering,though some aren't. People have verydifferent existences, and photographs18 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

'I wanted pictures so that I could look back at events and see clearly what had been happening.'live? We have no place to sleep . . . can't get job'Where must we .../DoornfonteinReturningmigrantsshow that.Even now I need advice and criticism from other photographers.I need to talk with old-timers like Magubane,Robert Tshabalala, Ndawo. Although I want to avoid takingsimilar pictures to, say, Magubane. That's why I buy booksof other photographers' work: to see how they operate.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980Because I want to create things that are my own, not copiesof someone else's work.So it's a learn and teach process: now I'm working on ayouth project with YWCA, teaching kids (10-15 yearolds) to take pictures with instamatics. Which is where Istarted long ago.19

The Slumbering SpiritA short story by Jayapraga Reddyillustrated by Mike van NiekerkTerry set off for the shops as usual.It was only seven in the morning butalready the day was hot, the relentlessheat building up slowly. By noon itwould make work impossible and lieupon them all like something heavy andtangible. He kicked a stone on thepathway. From the kitchen, his mothersaw him and she thrust her head out ofthe window. 'Terry' she warned, 'thoseshoes must last for a year, remember!And hurry up! Or you'll be late forschool!'She disappeared and resumed herearly morning tasks of preparing breakfastand packing eight school lunches.Terry quickened his steps but outsidethe gate he slowed down. He hatedMondays. After the carefree freedomand fun of the weekends, Mondaysseemed a bad mistake. He and hisfriends played games of high adventurein the huge storm water pipes. Or theywould go exploring the whole of Durban.Sometimes on a Sunday theywould go to the other side of town tothe old Indian temple. There wouldusually be a wedding on and they wouldsit down to a mouth-watering meal ofrice and pungent vegetable curriesserved on banana leaves. Ah yes, weekendsmeant living the way you wantedto. Running with the wind, dreaming inthe grass and smelling the sun hot andsweet on one's skin. He sighed regretfully.But it was a Monday and therewas school. He would have to hurry.At the corner, he paused. Someonehad called,'Hey boy!'It was old Miss Anderson, the whitewoman, who lived at the end of thestreet.In those days the Group Areas Actwas slowly trying to sort out the differentraces in the interest of separatedevelopment. But in the meantime,whites, 'coloureds', Indians and even afew Chinese, lived cheek by jowl in thecity. In their neighbourhood there werea handful of whites. And Miss Andersonwas one of them. She lived all alonewith a nondescript mongrel and two oldcats. Her sole relative was a sister, muchyounger than herself, who lived somewherein Canada. Thrice a week anAfrican maid came in to do the cleaning.Nobody in the street knew muchabout Miss Anderson. She lived quietlyand kept very much to herself. It wasrumoured that she was very rich but noone could be sure of that.Now Terry glanced enquiringly towardsthe stoep where the old womanstood. She motioned to him to wait.She hobbled towards the gate on herstick. The dog followed tiredly.'Young man, could you get me a fewthings from the shop?' she asked in athin, quavering voice.He nodded. She held out the money.'Buy yourself some sweets from thechange,' she said. 'Just get me somebread, cheese and half a dozen eggs.'He took the money with murmuredthanks. She was so very old and frail, hethought. Her hair was snowy white andthis gave her an added air of fragility.When he returned, she was sitting onthe stoep in a rocking-chair. He took thethings to her which she accepted with aquivering smile. 'Thank you, my boy.You're very kind.'He went home but did not mentionthe errand he had done.The following afternoon on his wayto the shop, he paused to glance at thehouse. She sat there, waiting for him,rocking gently. She beckoned to him.The dog lay languidly at her feet, andwagged his tail half-heartedly. Terrywent up the few steps and stood besideher. The red stoep was clean and shining.It had been polished that day; heknew, fox he could still smell the polish.Roses grew in wild profusion over thewhite lattice which partly screened theverandah. He noticed the unusual quietIt was alien to him. Their house, withten children, resounded with laughterand noise. He wondered what it was likeinside.'I looked for you this morning,' shesaid.He explained that he went to theshop in the mornings only on Mondays.She nodded.'I see. Well, would you mind stoppingby on your way, just to get mea few things?''Alright. I don't mind,' he agreedcasually.'You are so kind, you are so differentfrom the other "coloured" boys fromthese parts,' she remarked.He shifted a little uncomfortably, forhe was unused to praise. Different? Inwhat way was he different? He watchedher fumbling in her purse with handsthat were knotted with arthritis.'There, keep the change,' she said.When he returned she was there,waiting. 'Sit down boy,' she said,motioning him to a chair.He shook his head, saying he preferredto stand. He glanced anxiouslyat the street, hoping none of his friendswould see him. He dreaded the curiousprying and merciless teasing which wasbound to follow. He stood there awkwardlyas she tried to draw him out.'What's your name, boy?' she asked.He told her.'How old are you and how many arethere in the family?'He told her that he was eleven yearsold and that there were ten children inthe family.'Ten!' she exclaimed, incredulous.'Now that's a big family! Are they all inschool?'No, he explained haltingly. Therewas the baby and his eldest sister, Pam,who worked. Pam would leave themsoon, he went on. She was going to get20 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

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ing him from doing anything dangerousor foolish. She, in turn, was rewardedby his patient attention while shereminisced about the old days, and thehappy times of her youth. Sometimesthough, the adult in her irked him, for itreminded him too acutely that he wasstill a child. Like when she gushedpatronisingly, 'You are such a goodboy!'There was the time when hehappened to mention that Pam waslooking for a place of her own. Sheconsidered him thoughtfully for amoment and then said, 'How manyrooms does she need? I could let herhave two.'And that was how Pam and herhusband came to live with the oldwoman, much against his mother'swishes.So the next few years rolled on. Heno longer did any errands for Miss Andersonas Pam took over. The womangrew frailer and less mobile. Her body,stiffened by arthritis, made it difficultfor her to move, even onto the stoep.The dog too grew old and enfeebled. Hewould lie on the floor near the oldwoman's bed where she could reach outand touch him. Often Terry wouldwatch her as she painfully penned herletters to her sister.Pam did a lot to help the old woman.She cooked her meals and tended to herwhen she was ill. Soon the old womangrew too ill to leave her bed. Terryknew it would not be long, and takingPam's advice, he stayed away.When at last it was all over, Paminformed the old woman's lawyer, asshe had been instructed to do. A telegramwas sent to the sister in Canada.At the funeral only the lawyer, Terryand his family were present. His motherjustified her presence by saying that noperson should be buried unmourned andno funeral should go unwitnessed.A few days later, the sister arrived.She was healthy and energetic and gotdown to the business of sorting thingsout. She was calm and displayed nogrief.'I must thank you and your brotherfor being good to her,' she said to Pam.'She used to write to me about howgood your brother was to her.'She stayed for two weeks, duringwhich time she packed everything andput the house up for sale. The lawyerwas to handle the sale. She allowed Pamto stay on till she found a place.And then on her last day, she said toTerry, 'I would like you to have thedog. Every boy loves a dog. I'm sureyou'll take good care of him.'Terry stared at her, speechless. Everyboy loves a dog. But an old dog whowas too tired to even wag his tail andwho moved so stiffly?That night everyone sat around thekitchen table, strangely silent. Hismother was doing the ironing and Pamwas washing up. Terry was doing hishomework with the dog lying mutely athis feet. Pam turned from the sink.'To think she did not even leave us apot plant!' she observed indignantly.She resumed her washing up withrenewed vigour, unable to conceal herdisgust.'I told you, didn't I? Never trust awhite. They worry about their ownskins, not the next man. Let this be alesson to you,' she warned.'But Ma', Pam began.'Weren't expecting anything, wereyou?' her mother demanded sharply.Pam didn't answer. She was tooangry, too disillusioned to answer.Besides, she didn't think she couldanswer that question honestly.Terry reached under the table andpatted the dog. He moved his tail limplyand raised his head to lick his hand.Somehow, he found it oddly comforting.Terry wished they wouldn't talkabout it. It was his first experience ofpain. He got up and left the kitchen.The dog followed. Already he was ashadow, inevitably tagging behind him.Outside, the night was quiet andcool. In his heart, he knew they werewrong. He could have told them that,had he been articulate enough. Miss Andersonhad given him something,something more precious than anythingmaterial. Years later, he was to recogniseit for what it really was. Butstanding there, in the cool night air,with a lift of the heart, he remembereda gentle old woman on a sun-warmedstoep. She had given him time andfriendship, and something else which hisfourteen-year-old mind was too youngto analyse. It was an awakening, anawakening of the slumbering spirit tomutual sharing and communication andsympathetic understanding. And thatwas something he would carry with himfor a lifetime.Yes, he would take good care of thedog. A dog knew about trust and friendship.Even if he was just an ordinary andnondescript mongrel.Poetry/Cape TownA SONG OF AFRICANIZATIONI'd like to trace my progress from mybackground: liberal, classic;I used to read Houghton, now I readLegassick.My journey from the truths weVe learntby rote;I used to be a Prog, now I don't vote.I've broadened my concerns beyond theshrinking rand;I used to dig the Stones, now I'm into Brand.I've adopted a new theory, a new set of beliefs:I used to root for Chelsea, now I back the Chiefs.I'm now of this continent, a native, an insider;I used to write for Contrast, now its forStaffrider.My theories have brought understanding ofour paralysis;I used to look at race, now I'm sold on classanalysis.But all I've learnt is that I really cannot fit;I used to think I'd stay, now I'm about to split.Paul Benjamin/Cape Town1976I cannot say I marched that dayWhen lives were lost to win a prideThey never stole from me.I have not mourned the fallen closeBut counted in the quiet of twilight suburbs.Paul Benjamin/Cape Town22 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/Port Elizabeth, GuguletuPort Elizabeth Young Artists AssociationTRIBUTE TO THE MARTYRSWhen you stood up,Castrating the chain that binds youTo your oppression and enslavement;When you stood up,Rejecting the educationThat enfeebles your mind;Like in Sharpeville you fellIn hundreds and thousandsAt the hands of the rulersOf this my beloved countrySuckers of this my sweat and bloodRapers of this my rich soil of Africa.We raised our clenched fistsAs big as our heartsWe showed solidarity to your familiesUnzima lomthwalo, ufuna simanyaneWe sang in the graveyardWhen we laid down your bodiesTo join our ancestors in their ancestral war.When we turned our backs to your gravesWe felt your spiritsCutting our heartsSearching for our sincerity to the causeThe pain of this experienceBrought tears to my eyesTears that would turn to bloodAnd water the tree,The tree you wateredWith your blood so selflessly.You showed your loveUnlimited for us children of AfricaYou laid your lives downWe will never restUntil the dayWhen what belongs to meIs returned to meAnd justice prevails once moreIn this beautiful country of our forefathers.And on that day I will say again:Rest in peace my brothers and sistersYour sacrifices have not been in vain.Fezile Sikhumbuzo Tshume/Peyarta,Port ElizabethTHE FREEDOM WAGONBrother,It has approached its destinationIt's the freedom wagon up thereIt's come to free me and youFrom the bondage that hindersYour growth and mine.Brother,I'm creatingUnder the yoke that suppresses my creativityBecause it needs me I'm its passengerThe freedom wagonCreativity is artArt is cultureBe one of the passengersLet's create.Charles Xola Mbikwana/Peyarta,Port ElizabethBANNEDHe is strong handsome and blackNever smiles unless he sees meAlways hating till he loves meAlmost as quiet as death can beTill my voice tells him I'm back.You think he is bitter don't you?But would you feel any better bannedfrom the worldAnd confined within the wallsOf a township house that you abhor?Mandi Williams/Peyarta,Port ElizabethWISHESI wanted to be a pastor in my youthA pastor who would quench the thirstand hunger of our youthI wanted to be a mentor in my youthto soothe the pain of the enraged kinto protect the squatter baby of thedemolished tinYes, illusionsare beautifulI wanted to be a true orator in my youthto tell the true storiesthat will ring in our earsI wanted to be an architect in my youthto build high monumentsthat will shelter us in our timeYes, dreamsare beautifulBut these our wishesare whitewashed by witches.Nkos'omzi Ngcukana/GuguletuSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 23

Staff rider GalleryWilliam Kentridge24William Kentridge's exhibition of etchings and monoprints, held at the Market Gallery recently, show him to be an emergingforce in South African visual arts. Conceptually and technically his works are striking, especially his series of twenty monoprintswhich work on a metaphorical level as images of white isolation in South Africa. His satirical neo-Renaissance figures,caught in a variety of contorted postures, symbolise the alienation of enclosed white society in South Africa.The brooding figures peering into the cell-like space give a powerful sense of the excluded masses, and the relationship set upbetween these dark figures and the inhabitants of the closed interior is a powerful metaphor for South African social relatt0m'Andy MasonSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

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Poetry/Sibasa, ThembisaGUYO BOOK CLUBDOGS CONTINUE TO BARKthey flock infaces like wallswith peeling paintfaces looking likehaunted gravesat phiphidi-waterfallsat thoho-ya-n^ou hotelboys and girls complainabout 'the look in your eyes'while pigs and people drink togethersome bubbling politicsan agent next to themsipping beer and lighting a cigarfor his drinking comradewaiting for the hotel to closeold-timers snore in cars outsidedreaming about a school-girl in botsotsowho never worries about a bedcoin and fuel papa hadbut down in papa's villagedogs continue to barkwhile a baby continues to crymama sobbing and weeping insidefor a habit is like a stubborn germNthambeleni Phalanndwa/Guyo, SibasaAN ASS-BEEHave you heard of it?It is an ass that works all dayFor a stomachful of green leavesIts ass-like ears are ideal for eavesdropping.As bees do,It flies from one flower to the otherCollecting nectar to feed the Boss.My brother, beware:For this bee like all bees stingsIts sting may mean 90 days or more in hospitalOr permanent hospitalisation.Remember, next time you go into the garden orparkTake 'DOOM' along with you.Sisters, don't wear perfume on out-door errands:You may be mistaken for a flower.The ass-bee, don't forget, is as wise as an assWith a sting like a bee.Tshilidzi Shonisani Ramovha/Guyo, SibasaTRAGEDYon second floor citadel/on existenceearned by partitions on the gravityof repression/we are given to bogamong stainless steel rape pork smellsection two nine mushrooms possession ofkoffiehuis whatnot/our fate tolls in thefabric of time/on second floorcitadel/benoni — then kempton park/thousands of men waxed in single tragedyModderbee PrisonJuly 1979Jaki Seroke/ThembisaSUPERMARKET BARGAINSwe sell the ecstasy of lekkerkrapin times of disturbances andcrucial challengeswe offer special prices forparalytics who seek adventurewe also have aspirins to killthe pain of 1976you can buy peace/we haveit silver-wrappedsale now on 'tillyour limboJaki Seroke/Thembisasinging of developmentsinging of developmentat ilmorogdrinking thengetaalong the trans-africa highwaysinging of developmentat sibasadrinking gumbuat thoho-ya-ndou hotelwith womenwho know their carsMaano Dzeani Tuwani/Guyo, Sibasa26 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/Sharpeville,Duiwelskloof,Rustenburg,KatlehongSOWETO IS BURNINGI was hereDown here in Rorke's DriftMy eyes fixed in the directionOf the smouldering mountainI stood, facing Soweto.Newspapers and magazinesI readThey saidSoweto is burningMother and grandmotherChild and fatherThey ran up the slopeThis slopeUp that precipiceThe word is spreadSoweto is BurningMy child, my sonMy people and my brotherPoor soulsThey are in danger!Extinguish the fire!Is it Soweto I seeIs that the smokeThat smoulders my SowetoOn top of that peakIs that a cloud of peaceThat the fire is outThat the gun's barrelIs no longer facingMy young onesThat the dogsAre no longer bitingMy young onesThat the pick-upIs no longerPicking up my piccaninnyBut picking them outOf Modder-beeFire FireSlow your angerOn people hungryMy poor peopleSoweto is my SowetoSoweto is my AfrikaSoweto die it won'tRise Soweto riseFrom the ashes riseRise my SowetoMatime Papane/SharpevilleDIVISIONKeep dividing the lemons from the orangesBy nature and appearance they are the sameOne day they will rot simultaneouslyAnd you will experience their stinking smellAs they will have Unity.Mohale J. Mateta/Ga-Kgapane, DuiwelskloofTHE EMPTY POTSI was asked to carry these thoughtsfrom my infancyThough my conscience sometimesfought a losing battleAgainst eyes that bulgedand silently in dismay,Rolled and staredemptily into the sky!Where are witchdoctors thatknow of evil spiritsAnd tell of a heal on a leopard skin?But when wealth shines in their pocketsYou don't know where you are with them!In the morn I thought of watertrickling slowly in the valleyWhere my cattle may drinkand give enough milkTo share with thosewhose pots lie empty.Motlase Mogotsi/RustenburgMADI GROUPPOWERPower! To the manwho made a way for themthere in the bushwhere snakes and thornsrule the silent junglePower! To the manas tough as the seasending his child to learnwhilst he had no workno moneyno food to eatPower! To the womanlooking after other childrenwhilst hers die of kwashiokor and malnutritionback home picking coal from dumpsvictim of meagre salaryPower! To the childgoing to school, wearing borrowed trousersseeking naked truth in old bookstold that slaves were treated well in the CapePower! To the black patriotsfighters of HITLERwho did no good, nor bad to thembut purchased their life for a bicycletheir life for a bottle of winefor God's sake more Power to the peopleMaupa-Kadiaka/MadiSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 27

Poetry/ DurbanFor My Brothers(Mandla and Bheki) In ExileYou have seen part of the worldMet some very nice peopleExperienced the hardships of fresh airLonged for the warm home-firesAround which we sat on winter nightsListening to pa tell us storiesOr reading passages from the Bible.Those were the days, my brother Mandla,Some days they were, my brother Bheki.Do you remember those days?When we were young and happy togetherPlaying cops and robbers, hide and seek,Pinching bottoms whilst in hiding —Young and happy together?One day it would rainAnd before the night was outWe'd be carrying brooms, sacks and buckets,Urging the water out of our house.You do remember those days?Maybe I do not know where you are.You left in the stealth of the nightMaybe hiked miles in fear but determinedTo finally reach new worlds unknown.Some days I happen to clean houseExploring every nook and cranny.I find here and there memories of our youthWritten on scraps of black and white photos.I shake my head in pain of loss,Say to myself, 'Gone are those days/The old woman is still around, brothers,Heavy creases run down her mahogany face;They are dry rivulets opened by heavy rains ofpain.At night, alone in the vaults of darkness,She prays. In her prayer she talks about you.Mama cries at night — by day she laughs,Tending sisters' small children.I know she longs to catch but one glimpseOf her flesh and blood. Of her own womb.Sometimes she talks about it,Swallowing lumps, hiding tears behind eyes.Mama is strong. Very tough. She was carved inteak.In the evenings when we're together, shesometimesSings the songs we used to sing together.Then she goes to sleep. I wonder if she'll sleep.On Xmas Day mama makes custard and jelly,Reminds us of how we all looked forward toXmasBecause that was about the only dayWe ever tasted custard and jelly.Lino-cut, Mzwakhe/Rorkes Drift, 1977Big bowls of jelly would be madeThen taken to the kindly butcher(Remember, we didn't have a fridge).Some time before our big mealShe'd send one of us to collect the bowls.I remember we would handle those bowlsgingerlyAs though our whole life depended on them.I do not know, maybe, what you're doing outthere.I know you're alive, yet longing for the homecountry.You loved this country deeply,So much that you could leave only to comebackWhen it has gained more sense.Our neighbours (the ones you knew so well) arestill there.We meet at the tap (it's still outside) and chat.They ask about you. They care about you.Those days you do remember.In all our pain and agony we rejoice,For the tensile steel strength of our soulsTranscends borders and boundaries.However far apart our bodies may beOur souls are locked together in a perpetualembrace.Ben J. Langa/Malopoets, Durban28 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/NatalABANGANIOPEN SCHOOLNGIZWELE MNGANIMngani ngizweleUsuhlezi kahle kweyetsheboyaKahle kuftye nezinsana zakhoNezibusana zesizwe sikantuUze ungakhohlwa ubuzwe bakho,Ungisize ungaphazamiNgisho usuliqed' izwe ngosukuNgemihr efudumel' imishiniUyishuntsha namhla nayizoloKuze kuhlabek' ulovaMngani wami uz' ungalokothi.Sewotha MnganiIzinhlobonhlobo zemishini yamazinga,Uwashintsh' amazing' okwelangaLon' elishisa, liphole, libandeKonke lokhu kungokwesithukuthukuUnguM'Afrika ungakhohlwaNgiyakuncenga MnganiYenza kodwa ubuyele nenoOkokuba uyalaz' elikhonaPhakathi kwakho nayeOshintsh onsundu ivamenz' esakho isikhaliM'Afrika ngiyakuncengaUngakhohlwa ubundabu oyiboAbanomule baph > omaguqa?Ziphi izibayakazi zawokhokhoLeyonhloniph' engingeze ngayichaza?OkoM'Afrika ukudla akumgaklaYonk' iminyaka akushintshangaKodwa kugijimis' igazi ngiyakuthandaKwa M'Afrika kuyayidl' inyamaKeph' okwana mtila kudid'umenzi.Izembath' zoM'AfrikaNgiyazincomaNgoba zingezo'kudabuka kimiLalela ngikudonse ngendlebeOmlandelayo kawashiyanga awakheNakokwakho kangenangaKukhona ukungqubuzanaKokwenza laphoOkunamhla kuyangixaka.Qaphela-ke MnganiLoku okulandelayo kabubunyaEzakh'izigaba ngingezibaleKonje ukuphike wena okulandelayo?Lokho wen' unguM'AfrikaUsukhohliwe nawubuzwe bakho na?Mngani masingakhohlwa.S.Z. Kunene/Abangani, DurbanAND THE BEGGARS LOOKED UP ATME ...And the beggars looked up at meand made me feel like a culpritI'd seen themDay inAnd day outSitting, begging, waiting(And I wonderedwhat would happenif none from the free-runningcared to pauseand drop a few pennies)God knows, reallyHow these people travelFrom their homes to their begging cornersOne w^s black as a chimney-sweepThe otner grey as an ash-swimmerThe free-running ran on either sideWithout pausing to pleaseAnd the sun was simmering slowlyAnd I came runningCursing life, cursing GodNot knowing where my nextMeal may come fromAnd the beggars looked up at meAnd their pleading stareMade me feel like a culpritSenzo Malinga/Abangani, DurbanHATEThe word itself is loathsome,And filled with emotional strainIt wears one down and keeps one thereHating itself is tiresome,Right through it's filled with painBut love and only love will always care.V.J. Mchunu/Kwa-DlangezweMISUNDERSTANDINGA mistake and a bad one too,To say you said thatWhich you never said.This is what you wished to say,Or what you wanted to say.For this I am very sorry.V.J. Mchunu/Kwa-DlangezweSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Staff rider Drama/BotswanaChief Memwe IV Part OneBy Albert G.T K. MalikongwaIllustrated by MpikayipheliCHIEF MEMWE IVSUB-CHIEFS:NDZONGATAZWALATHINICHANGATEMOKGOSIJOMO: Chief Memwe's Sonand Heir-apparentIMI: Jomo's Senior WifeTOSE: Jomo's Second WifeMAMANJI: Jomo's Mother and ChiefMemwe's WifeNGAKA NJISINGAKA SABATANGAKA MOSIKARITEFO: Chief's MessengerMAKENOSI: The Leading WitchWITCHES:FIRST WOMANSECOND WOMANTHIRD WOMANand Ten OthersFIRST TRIBESMANSECOND TRIBESMANTHIRD TRIBESMANFOURTH TRIBESMANKONO: Ruler of KazungulaThe place is Chief Memwe s kraal. Seated by the fire placeare Chief Memwe and two of his Senior Chiefs.NDZONGA:MEMWE:NDZONGA:THINI:MEMWE:NDZONGA:My Lord, I greet you,Son of Memwe,The great ruler of this country.Please sit down.Greetings to you too,My beloved cousin. (To Thini).I greet you too,I wear a smile.Yet our hearts shake inside the ribs. It doesnot help to complain. Men's tears die in theirhearts. Men never wear tears on their faces.Never.Yes, this is true. Tears are women's stuff.They always punctuate their eyes at the pinchof anything sour.What pains your hearts that you speak somournfully yet your faces look so clear? I seeno sorrow walking on your faces. Please bebrief and to the point.THINI:NDZONGA:THINI:NDZONGA:THINI:MEMWE:When the cocks crow no one cares, except anearly riser, but when the lion groans all thebeasts and creatures in the land lift up theireyes and ears. They know that the King of thewilderness is in trouble. They either run awayin fear as cowards always do, or they come tothe King's aid.I hope nothing is so serious with My Lordship.The pain that is in the fingertip affects everypart of the body. The sore that is on the eyeaffects the brain and disturbs the mind, thewhole body indeed.Please talk straight.The chief's son is seriously ill, I mean Jomo.{In silence Chief Memwe shakes his head andmumbles something to himself, fixing his gazestraight on the fire, and begins to speak).The anguish of a father,The sadness in his heartAre like a disease in the bloodFor they flow and flowAnd keep on flowing.30 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

mMEMWE:NDZONGA:THINI:NDZONGA:THINI:NOKGOSI:TAZWALA:NDZONGA:THINI:CHANGATENDZONGA:Your highnesses, this world is a great deceiver.When I was young, I was far happier; whenone grows older, this world seems to hold onehostage.Your Lordship, do you think that the worldwould be complete without troubles? Look atat the great and beautiful things which ourGod Mwali made.I was just going to say that.Anyway, speak on, your highness.If Your Lordship would care to look around, Iwould show him those places. (Pointing).(They all stand up).The beautiful Mount Wedu, with those treesthat adorn the surroundings. They too havehollow caves and stones jutting out only tospoil their beauty. The river Nkange below isperennial, guarded by immense walls of riversand, yet you can be sure to tumble down thesteep rocks, and perhaps lose a toe.Yes, even the beauty of a woman is ofteninfected, sour, brutal, seesaw, and gilded.Indeed, beauty is a funny thing. It never staysalone.Even troubles too. They breed and breed.To the extent of following a man, like ashadow.Chief Memwe, your highnesses speak inparables and paradoxes, yet your messagesconvey the same meaning.I have been listening very carefully to whateach one of you had to say. Your Lordshiphas lived on this land for a long time to tellmany tales, good or bad, tales of brave menand women.Yes, he was with me during that terrible year,THINI:TAZWALA:MEMWE:the year of rinderpest. Oh, that was a terribleyear, cattle-hooves remaining in the mud. Theyear of foot and mouth disease too.I have heard of that. I was at the mines then.The year of Red-Locusts was no better. I amtold that even the sun at one stage stoppedmoving. There was a great cloud around it.These things show how the world is made.Your highnesses, the agonies of this transientworldNever mellow with the seasons and yearsBut live and lie in slumber,Like a poisonous snake in the wintry seasonOnly to dash backLike an arrow at the first opportunity,And with impunityMingle with man's dreams and happiness,Disturbing and bullying him as they wish.I have seen many summers and winters pass,I have seen many suns and moons passing andfollowing one another, like husband andwifeAcross those skies over there.Man lives with adversityWhich chains his life and his dreamsLike trees tied down by great rootsUnderneath the ground.I speak not in derision of what you have said.Much do I thank all of you.The tree that is without rootsFalls with the slightest push of windAnd I must say to you allThat if ever I die before any one of you,I shall commend your good servicesAnd loyalty to me and to my peopleTo your fathers and fathers' fathers.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 33

CHANGATEALL SUB-CHIEFS:MEMWE:MAMANJI:MEMWE:MAMANJI:The same place.I believe my Jomo shall live.And if the Gods wishFor me to exchange my life for his,This do I leave at their disposal.Long live Your Lordship.Long live Your Lordship.Long live Chief Memwe.Long live his Royal Highness Jomo. (ChiefMemwe stands up and calls for Mamanji).(To Mamanji), These people are hungry. Isthere anything you have arranged for them toeat?My Lord, food is ready.I was about to send in a messenger to you tofind out if their highnesses would prefer tohave food first and then drinks afterwards.Give them food first.I will do so, My Lord.(Exit Mamanji).Scene IIMEMWE: Thini, please give me snuff.My nostrils are dry.I have not smoked anything since yesterday.NDZONGA: Me neither, My Lord.MEMWE: Nonsense, you like things.NDZONGA: (Laughing). No, My Lord, I just want a bit.MEMWE: But your nostrils are too big:you will empty the whole horn in there.NDZONGA: I have a very handsome nose, My Lord, andwomen say so too.MEMWE: (Passes a small curved horn containing traditionaltobacco, finely ground, to Ndzonga).NDZONGA: Yes, this is good stuff.MEMWE: By the way, Mokgosi, who is that man whosebeard is so bushy?MOKGOSI: Ngaka Njisi, My Lord.MEMWE: And what does he do?MOKGOSI: He is a great healer.He knows very bush and herb that is in thisland.He is also a great bone thrower.His bones speak with great precision.He also sends pestilence to those who killothers.Last year a child got lost, abducted by acertain headman for medicine.He told exactly where the child was to befound.CHANGATE: Was the child found?MOKGOSI: Yes.MEMWE: Alive?MOKGOSI: Yes, My Lord, in the bush among the rocks.He was just about to be killed, to strengthenthe headman's kgotla.MEMWE: Where does he come from?MOKGOSI: He comes from Nata.MEMWE: Call him in.He may just be a pretender, a simpleton.(Mokgosi goes out and in a few momentscomes back with Ngaka Njisi).MOKGOSI: I have brought this man.Your Lordship may wish to speak with him.NJISI: My Lord, and your highnesses,I greet you. (He kneels down).MEMWE: Greetings to you, my son.SUB-CHIEFS:MEMWE:NJISI:MEMWE:NJISI:NDZONGA:NJISI:NDZONGA:NJISI:MEMWE:MOKGOSI:NJISI:MEMWE:NJISI:NDZONGA:MEMWE:MOKGOSI:MEMWE:NJISI:Greetings to you too, young man.What is your name and where do you comefrom?My name is Losika Njisi. I come from Nata.I understand you are a doctor.Yes,Your Lordship.Can you tell us more about yourself?What exactly is it that Your Lordship wantsme to tell him about myself?Your work as such.People usually despise men who speak loudlyabout themselves and eulogize their works,you know.Speak on, brother, and forget what peoplealways say. We are old and can easily see ifyou are telling us lies.We have no reason to doubt your sincerityand credibility.You tax our anxiety. Please speak up.Your Lordship, I deal in herbsAnd charms.I was trained by a traditionalMedicine man who was also the secretDoctor of Chief Lewanika.Those people are great.No wizard or witch dares play with them.They see any mischief before it is hatched.My Lord, while I do not object to yourrequest that I should tell you something aboutmyself, I would instead ask you to give meany task to prove whether I am a real doctoror just a cheat.I am prepared to do that for no reward.I think this is a mighty good idea.And you, Mokgosi, you are the youngest.Speak first.Your Lordship, I agree.I can see you are a very clever young man.We shall allow you to do as you haverequested.We shall be here Monday next.Arrive here before the sun is very high abovethe trees.(Exit All).(Njisi speaking alone as he walks to his home,pulling heavy sandals made from an ox headskin).To me, witchcraft is likeThe bow and arrow to a bushman.These men know not that I am more thanI appear to be.In the darkness of ignorance,No man appears wiser.I shall strike hard, if I am required to strike.(Exit Njisi).Scene IIIA hut in Imi's sweet-potato garden. It is dark. Enter Imi,First and Second Women plus Ten others, and Mosikari.IMI:MOSIKARI:Mosikari, I wish to bring home facts as theyareMine is a question of life and death.Tose, the second wife to Jomi, must bedestroyed; she must be eliminated.She has taken everything from me.Jomo cares no more for me.Do you know who I am?34 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 198C

FIRST W.: Yes.IMI: The great buffaloWho attacks and leavesEnemies fleeing in horror and terror,The black buffalo from the north,Welcomer of danger,Whose fury is stronger than fire,The tall, the pitiless.MOSIKARI: What do you want me to do for you then?IMI: Kill Tose. Eliminate her from Maitengwe.SECOND W.: Send her to rot in the graveyard over there.FIRST W.: Cowardly men will flee their homes then theyhear you are in the village,For your name never escapes the lips of anyone of us.IMI: Speak, I beg you. Will you help me?SECOND W.: Scorch her like the scorching sun thatscorches the grass till it is dry and colourless.FIRST W.: Turn her into a moving skeleton, so that shemay eat her own excreta.SECOND W.: That is not cruel enough.FIRST W.: Let her scratch the ground like an angrybulldog. Let her roll in the ash-dumps like adonkey.OTHER W.: (Laughs aloud).IMI: Oh, Mosikari, let your charms destroy her.Let your herbs work on her. Be as stealthyAs a thief. Shame her, shame her.MOSIKARI: But you say I must kill her. Which is whichnow?IMI: Yes, kill her or give me something so that Imay bewitch her.MOSIKARI: The nation will blame me for havingdestroyed the wife of the heir-apparent,Jomo's wife.She has a newly born baby who is lookedupon to be the next chief when Jomo goes.IMI: Oh, you coward. A buffalo turns into a duck.MOSIKARI: I grieve for your plight but, Madam, I cannothelp it. Chief Memwe is a great man. I haveheard that he has been visited by Ngaka Njisi.I fear this man.IMI: You mean Njisi?MOSIKARI: Yes. Oh yes.IMI: But why? Is he greater than you?| MOSIKARI: I tremble before his feet.His rumblings are the warnings of thunder.When he strikes he leaves orphans all over.Villages he closes in a week.Husbands become wifeless.IMI:FIRST W.:SECOND W.FIRST W.:SECOND.:FIRST W.:IMI:FIRST W.:SECOND W.FIRST W.:THIRD W.:FIRST W.:SECOND W.IMI:FIRST W.:IMI:Women weep till their eyelids can close nomore.Worms inside the graves eatUntil they can eat no more.He is a great sorcerer, a great enigmaAs illusive as the rainbow.He reads the hidden mind.He speaks with the ancestral spirits.He is a savage when it comes to killing.I know much that I may not reveal.Regard me as your true friend,But if you remain unmoved when you shouldbe moved,When you hear and may not perceive,When you see the signsAnd cannot read,When, like a leopard in the forestWaiting for prey to destroy,A timely bird warns of the lion behind,And you see the prey and not the danger,You doubt where doubt should not be,Then blame me not for your futurediscomfort.I am a doctor, full of knowledgeOf our traditional expertiseIn witchcraft and the art of healingAnd can prove the power of my craftAnd can plant fear and despairAnd destroy mercilessly if I should so wish,Yet even the elders of my VillageCannot condone it if I treadWhere Kings fear to tread.With these words,I leave this to you.This is a tragic decision for you.The sun is clearing the sky in the East.And the morning is still as beautiful as ever.I shall seal my lips,And like a dog, shut my mouthNever to speak out any secrets, as dogs neverdo.(Exit Mosikari).(Holding her cheeks). Oh this man, this man.He speaks like a church-bishop in the pulpit.Did you hear how he put melody to his voice?He has the temerity to tell you to abandonthis venture.He is like a dog that barks loud and then runsaway at the first sound or echo of anything.(They all laugh). Even a branch.You know baboons are extremely cowardly.Yes, if they see blood on any one of theircolleagues, they run for their lives. (Laughter).Have courage.And determination.And steadfastness.So you think you can trust that man?There are more traitors in the world thantraitresses.You may be right.Never mind. He is stupid.Doctors don't betray. They use bones to smellwitches. Some see them through watercontained in small, round, charmedcalabashes.And so!Those who smell witches and wizards have touse traditional methods ancl the witchdoctor'sexpertise.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 35

FIRST W.:IMI:MAKENOSI:FIRST W.:SECOND W.:IMI:SECOND W.:IMI:FIRST W.:SECOND W.:This job needs a woman, well trained, and Ihave thought of a certain woman. She lives faraway.No place is far away for our purpose. Theanimals we ride at night are very fast, youknow.(Chief Memwe's Cattle Kraal. It is midnight.Enter Makenosi, the leading witch, Imi, FirstWoman, Second Woman and Ten Others).Shii. Stay here. First, we shall leave ourarticles outside the cattle kraal. The first twowomen and I shall go in first. The rest willremain behind. But what is this?It is Memwe's bull. It seems to hear us.My feet are heavy and cold. I am gripped byfear.Are you a cousin to Mosikari, that coward?Oh no. But this place is well charmed. Thisbull seems to have been well doctored,fortified and strengthened to the extent ofsmelling wizards and witches.I will open the gate for you.The bull is restless.It is bellowing angrily and scratching theground with its front legs.(Makenosi touches the gate and her arms stickMAKENOSI:to the poles and she cannot move).Oh please, help, help! I am caught, stuck tothese poles.Oh what shall I say to my husband?I shall be hanged alive. I cannot move.The bull is coming to destroy me. Why did Ido it? I cannot move, help, help.(She cries).FIRST W.: Imi, what must we do?(Before she can reply, Chief Memwe, who hasbeen awakened by his bull, comes to see whatis happening at the kraal).SECOND W.. Someone is coming; let us hide ourselves.(They run away and hide a short distanceaway, extremely frightened).(Enter Chief Memwe).MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:Who are you?(No reply).I say, who are you and what do you wanthere? Speak before I destroy you.MAKENOSI:MEMWE:My name is Ma-ke-no-si.And what do you want at this time of thenight? You are almost naked with a piece ofskin around your loins. Speak or else . . .(He lifts his sjambok and strikes her threetimes).MAKENOSI: (Crying and pleading). I am stuck to thesepoles. I cannot move. My lord, I missed mydirection and found myself here.MEMWE:MAKENOSI:You lie.Forgive me, my lord, forgive me. I shall neverdo it again.MEMWE: If you don't tell me the truth I shall leave youstuck here until sunrise and I will calleverybody to come and see you.MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:My lord, forgive me. I am not alone.You say you are not alone?Yes, my lord.Who are the others?I cannot tell. I am not supposed to tell. It isagainst our practice and tradition.MEMWE: Don't waste my time. I will kill you.MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAKENOSI:MEMWE:MAMANJI:MEMWE:MAMANJI:MEMWE:MAMANJI:MEMWE:MAMANJI:MEMWE:MAMANJI:MEMWE:My lord, please forgive me.I will not, till you tell it all.The bull, the bull is coming.(Calls it by name. It recognizes him and movesaway, but it is still very wild). I will hit youwith this sjambok till you speak the truth, orelse you will remain here till sunrise.My Lord, I am with Jomo's ...You are with Jomo's what?Jomo's wife.(Angrily). Which Jomo's wife? Speak quickly.Imi.Imi and who else?And more than ten other women. I don'tknow their names. Please, my lord.Have it, you rogue.(He strikes her once).You will regret that you were ever born.I will cut your ears and leave you to bleed.Oh my lord, spare me and I will tell you all.Speak then, before I lose my temper and cutoff your nose and ears.We came to bewitch Jomo's second wife,Tose. Madam Imi does not like her. She saysshe bears children; Imi does not. Jomo lovesher more than he does Imi.Where are the others now?They ran away and hid themselves when theysaw you coming.(Chief Memwe goes away and in a short timereturns with a short stick smeared with acreamy liquid at the tip. He strikes her gentlyon each hand and she is released. She runsaway looking back in fear.)(Moves slowly back to his hut).Chiefs cannot grow fat when they see suchthings. For years I have seen many of thesepeople, but now things take place inside myhouse. I am baffled.(Exit Chief Memwe). ,(In the morning. Enter Mamanji into theChief's hut),jGood morning, my lord. I bring you sad news.My child has just come in to say that'Makenosi is not well. She says strange things.She speaks of wizards and witches and hasbegun to tear off her clothes. They say she ismad and has been bewitched.jWhere is she now?She has been taken in an ox-wagon to acertain witchdoctor across the Nkange River. Iforget his name.I hope she will recover.My lord, what could have happened to such akind and seemingly innocent person like her?Rare is a perfect personality,Seductive and beautiful thingsAre in the end superficial.My lord, this is strange. I don't think she willlive.But why, and so soon?I am told she is sick, sick in the headAll of us in this worldMust submit ourselves to some decreeFor death dictates its own terms.Men must live with this in mind.Continued on page 38.36 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Lino-cuts, Mzwakhe/Rorkes Drift, 1977STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 37

I am not heartless at all.MAMANJI: But your words, my lord, seem to be ratherharsh and hard.MEMWE: Is that so? Please excuse me.MAMANJI: (Sneezing with her two fingers). My lord, mythoughts are disturbed by what might happento this woman. Perhaps I am over-reaching tothis situation. I don't know.MEMWE: Such things usually happen either whensomeone is a witch or is in league with witchesand wizards. I don't believe she is bewitched.MAMANJI: Your lordship may be right. This may be apunishment for what she has done. It mayalso be a prelude to something more serious.MEMWE: Please call me the messenger.MAMANJI I will, my lord. (She goes out, and in a shorttime Tefo comes in.) The messenger, my lord.TEFO: (Kneeling down). Good morning, my lord.MEMWE: Good morning, Tefo. Go and call me Sub-Chief Ndzonga. Tell him I wish to see him ifpossible today.TEFO: I will, my lord.(Exit Chief Memwe and Tefo).Scene IVAt a point where the Maitengwe River meets its biggest tributary.It is night. Enter Imi, First and Second Women, plus tenothers).FIRST W.: I was scared to hell. Hey woman, I nearlyurinated on myself.IMI: But why? You have chosen this as your wayof life.SECOND W.: Where is Makenosi?FIRST W.: I went to see her before she was taken off byox-wagon to Ngaka Mosikari.IMI: To Mosikari, oh no. They should not havesent her to that bastard. Anyway, it is not ourbusiness.SECOND W.: How is she?FIRST W.: She could not recognise me. She says strangethings. She talks of people she has killed,women, children, men, and of how they weredisposed of.SECOND W.: How does she say she disposed of them?FIRST W.: She speaks of how she used to point at thegrave of a newly buried corpse with the thighbone of a human being and the corpse wouldcome out.IMI: And then do what?FIRST W.: They would chop it to pieces and cook theflesh for consumption.IMI: Enough, enough, please.SECOND W.: Please wait. Did she say these things beforemany people?FIRST W.: Yes.SECOND W.: Did she say anything about us?FIRST W.: No, nothing.IMI: You are curious, neh!SECOND W.: It is necessary to know what is happeningbefore we can plan ahead.IMI: I agree. What else can you tell us?FIRST W.: She bites her fingernails. She lifts up her headand eyes as if she were praying and theninaudibly mumbles strange words. She finishesby saying 'Amen,' several times. Then shecalls, without repeating herself, the names ofthose she claims to have bewitched and killed.SECOND W And are they names of people who haveactually died?FIRST W.: Yes, I knew some of the names.IMI: Is she mad? Are they hallucinations or merefigments of the mind?FIRST W.: I don't know, really.IMI: We shall wait and see. In the meantime, youknow Tose has caused us to fail.FIRST W.: She is strong.IMI: I believe so.SECOND W Oh, that night. The bull, oh, that bull. It puthell in me.FIRST W.: Shut up, I don't want to hear anything aboutthat.IMI: Tose seems to be as illusive as the rainbow. Ihave decided to shelve her for the time being.SECOND W And do what?IMI: My husband is the cause of all these things. Ihave tried to administer all the love-potions Iknow, but nothing happened. Anyway, I didsomething.FIRST W. You mean to Jomo?IMI: Yes, I managed to put poison into the beerthat was kept by his second wife, Tose, forhim.SECOND W. How did you do that?IMI: I saw Tose carrying an earthen pot on herhead. She told me she was going to fetchwater from the river. So I joined her and toldher I was going to fetch wood. As soon as weparted near the Bush of Bafi, I ran back homeand slipped in the poison. I then went backand waited for her by the roadside. Wereturned together. It was a hurried business.FIRST W.: (Excited). Alleluya, Amen.ALL W.: Alleluya, Amen. You have done it.IMI: Please don't whisper this to anyone.FIRST W.: I shall be as silent as the moon.SECOND W.: I shall seal my lips like a rock.OTHER W.: We swear, we swear, by thunder and lightning,We shall not say a word.FIRST W.: And how is Jomo?IMI: He is in hell. The Chief and everybody is up.People think Tose has bewitched him.(Exit All).The Drama of Chief Memwe will be concludedin the next edition of Staff rider.38 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Poetry/ WitsieshoekBlack SabbathWhite Christmas. . . And so the children of AzaniaGathered in multitudesTo bury their slainTo comfort their widowsLike a swarm of locusts in search of new fieldsThey filled the grave-yards to lay the heroes to restUnlike locusts they were not in search of food^But of solutions to escape the hunter's snare.'Amandla , became a military salutationedal and honour ••••••••••ITo those who had paid the ultimate priceLaid side by side on a monumental structureTheir names could have stretched from the Limpopo |Right down to the tip of the CapeThis was the Black Sabbath.Written in the calendars by the blood of the MartyrGround into history booksBy those who sought no personal gloryBut a place under the sun for the black manChristmas carols filled the airThe smell of fillet and steak permeated white kitchens |Wine and beer overflowed from casketsLike a river after torrential rain.Symphony orchestras rendered heavenly musicBeautiful sounds that could have brought smiles to ;And man nearer to God _____________But this did not bring Azania's dead from the gravesNOR SAINTS TO COME MARCHING IN!It was a White Christmas alrightWith its traditional abundance of veneer 1Excessive merry-making, socialising and visitation.'A Christmas not to celebrate the birth of ChrisBut the annihilation of the oppressed.Whilst laughter — like sonatas shattered the nigAnd fire-crackers blazed multi-coloured sparksMarking the birth of a prosperous new year]The ghettoes licked their wounds and counted their deadThey had no reason to be happy, or for that matterTo be sorry for themselves.This was the price uhuru demanded!They could not miss the festivitiesNor the shebeens their profits.Neither could they sing Christmas Carols]Nor welcome the new yearWhat was there to be happy about?What was there to be celebrated? ~~So in silent dignity ______Azania mourned the heroes ,„,_,_ „,_, , „And echoed a young girl's prayer from the ghetto.The deer was not forgotten , i-^-*---But there were those who did not ^"__M_E , jThere were those who had a White Christmas in Azania^They had no reason to cry.'Israel Motlhabane/Witsieshoek#\f^/^ffl~BOSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 39

TWO-DIMENSIONALA story by Ahmed Essop, illustrated by Renee EngelbrechtAnil, a former pupil, came to live inmy street in Lenasia. I would see himsome mornings from my lounge window,going to the bus stop. He wasstill a good-looking youth, though hisface had lost its schoolboyish softness.His complexion was a burnt bronze; hishair carbon black. His lean body seemedto have remained a physical constant.At school, in Newtown, Anil had been aquiet and reserved boy, performing hisacademic work dutifully rather thanwith any relish. He sat at the back ofthe class-room, withdrawing himselfinto the limbo of virtual non-identity.As a consequence, he had never receivedthe attention that other pupils, morealert and extrovertly vocal, had received.Yet in the fluid glitter of hisdark eyes one saw a sensitive youth,an impression amplified when heresponded to oral questions by themellifluous cadence of his voice. Oncehe played a strange trick that earnedhim a brief period of notoriety. He lefta note on his desk which said that bythe time it was read he would be 'deadamong the reeds in the Zoo Lake'.Everyone searched frantically for himfor two days — his family distraughtwith anxiety and worry — but he wasnowhere to be found. He reappeared onthe third morning and refused to answerany questions. However, the relief feltat his reappearance quickly erased thememory of the incident. At the end ofthe year he matriculated with a secondclass pass and left school.One day I met Anil in the street. Iasked him what work he was doing. Hetold me that he was a clerk for a stockbrokerand that much of his time wasspent at the Johannesburg Stock Exchange.'The work must be interesting.''Like hell!' he snarled.'Why?''I feel I am a robot, a nobody.''Sure'You don't understand. I am just amachine doing all the dirty work for thewhite capitalists.'I was astonished, hardly prepared forthe sharp indictment from someonewho had been so reticent.'Well, I am sure you are learningsomething.''Learning? If you can call workingwith bandits learning.''I suppose you have a living to make.''You know, after I left school I wentto Wits University to do a B.A. I lefthalfway.''You left?''How I hated the place! You shouldsee those white liberal morons. They riga few protest placards and go on toparade like zombies. Afterwards theycrawl back into their pleasure domes.'Later, after we had parted, I thoughtabout what Anil had said. I felt unconvincedthat he had left the universityfor the reason he had given. Therewas restlessness within him, confusion,morbid hate for others as well as forhimself. I recalled the suicide incident atschool and realized that though at thattime it had been dismissed as some sortof schoolboy prank, it had been adesperate egotistical act to focus attentionon himself. But more seriously it40 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

suggested a tendency to irrationalbehaviour rooted in psychological imbalance.Now, I wondered whether thebreak in his studies was not the result ofhis insecure psyche, or whether it hadbeen the result of some traumaticexperience.Anil was seated in the universitylibrary when he first saw her. She wasabout three tables away, head bowedover her book, her blond hair falling oneither side. He looked at her for a fewminutes, taking delight in his surreptitioussurvey. His eyes shifted from herhead to her breasts gently thrustingagainst a white blouse, then focusedbelow the table where her hands layclasped in her lap. Suddenly his entireconsciousness was sensually ignited: herclasped hands symbolic of the eroticparadise she could offer him. Shelooked up at him as though she hadcaught him in some act of guilt. He rosequickly from his chair, turned towards ashelf without looking at the title. Whenhe sat down and glanced at her table shehad vanished. Impulsively he hurriedout of the library in search of her.He stopped in the colonnaded porchoutside. She was standing beside acolumn, looking for something in herhandbag, the sunlight playing on herbeauty that exceeded Anil's first impression.From the waist down, herlithe body asserted itself through aclose-fitting marine-blue skirt. His veinsyeasty, surcharged, he could not move.She looked up at him.'Tired of studying?' she asked.'Yes,' he answered, feebly.'You are doing Arts, aren't you?''Yes,' he said, staring like a visionary.'Goodbye. See you again.'Her words failed to strike his auralsense immediately as he gazed at her goingdown the steps, walk away hurriedlyover the shrub-fringed tarmac and climba quartet of stone steps that led to thestreet, but came to him like an echoafterwards.He sat down on the steps for a whileto still the ebullition within him. Suddenly,in the claustrophobic atmosphereof the library, his being's pith seemed tohave undergone a mutation: he had becomestrongly conscious of himself as asensual being. There were so many girlsat the university — they flowered soprofusely in its environment — yet neverbefore had he found himself overwhelmedby the impulse and appetite ofyouthful passion.From then on he kept a searchingeye for her. Between lectures he soughther in corridors, in foyers, in porticos,on campus and in the library. He mether, but the encounters were invariablybrief, disjointed spells of academic chitchatabout lectures and courses. On oneof these occasions he saw a note-book inher hand. On the cover was her name:Caroline Seymour.One day she met him as he was rushingto a Milton lecture.'I was looking for you,' she said. 'Weare having a protest demonstration tomorrow. . . 'She stood close to him as she elaborated.He felt himself drawn into privilegedintimacy.Elated, he hurried to the lectureroom. He would meet her the next dayand stand alongside her in the protestdemonstration. His imagination glowedwith the promise of amorous possibilitiesin the future. The lecture was a failure:Lucifer's agony in hell failed totouch the happy centre of his being.The next day, punctually, he was atthe appointed place. He saw her amidsta crowd of students and went up to her.'I am so glad you came,' she said,handing him a placard attached to abroomstick. The placard screamed invermilion: 'We hate dictators!'The students paraded on campus andthen moved in procession to a busystreet on the university's boundary. Anillooked for Caroline, but she had movedahead of him. The students lined thepavement and displayed their placardsto pedestrians and motorists: somelooked indifferently at them, otherssmiled, some glared and a few made obscenegestures. One spat and shouted:'Red!' The police arrived with alsatiandogs and stood on the opposite pavement.Anil saw Caroline on his right, holdinga placard. For two happy hours hestood there, conscious of her and of hisidentification with her in the protest.Then the demonstration broke up. Helooked for her to give her the placard,but she had disappeared. He was leftalone, the placard in his hand.One evening Anil came to visit me.After some amiable talk, I said to him,'I have been thinking about what yousaid when we last met. Don't you thinkit's unreasonable to condemn all thestudents at Wits university?'Unreasonable? What do you mean?''Surely, some students are sincere intheir political commitment.''Sincere? To you, yes, because youhave been brainwashed.''Brainwashed?''Yes, by white thought and whiteculture.'Shocked by the allegation I did notreply.'What did you and the others teachus at school,' he went on, 'but everythingabout whites — their language,their history, their science. The whitesare your gods. But not for long, I amwarning you. We are going to destroythem.'I intended to protest that I did notprescribe the curriculum, but askedinstead:'Who is "we"?''We the oppressed. We shall destroythe white morons.'Anil was sitting in an arm-chair, hisface changed into a scowling mask.'Why are you working at the whiteStock Exchange?' I asked.'Because you are not working theredoes not mean you are with us,' heanswered evasively.He placed his elbows on his kneesand looked broodingly at the patternedcarpet, his mind captive to somethingimplacably calcified in his memory.'Anil, I think you should go on withyour studies privately,' I said.'I don't want a worthless Arts degree... In any case I am going away.''Going away? To Europe?''Europe! Whites!''Where then?'He did not answer, but looked at mein bitter contempt and resentment.'The whites at the Stock Exchangewill miss you,' I said in reflex.His body quivered, his arms tensedvengefully. But he only looked at me,then rose from the chair and left thehouse.Anil was sitting on a bench beside acamelia tree, several terraces separatinghim from the swimming pool thatspread a fluorescent blue haze on everythingaround. Behind him was theuniversity's small Fine Arts Library andGallery. He saw a figure in a blackswimming costume appear from theladies' change room and he recognizedCaroline at once. He watched her walkingup the steps to the diving platform— her bodily grace and definition ofform strongly presented in the sunlight— stand poised on the edge for a momentwith uplifted arms as thoughsupplicating some swimming pool deity,then plunge. He seemed to plunge withher into the pool and experienced,within the cyclone heart of eroticpassion, a self-annihilating orgasmicdeluge.When her head emerged above water,he rose from the bench, afraid that shewould see him gazing at her. He hurriedtowards the Fine Arts Library, hopingto find within its walls something to stillthe tumult within.Caroline's body dominated his consciousnessas the days passed. Herbeauty seemed to enrich his aestheticvision. The world of trees, shrubs andflowers that edged the campus lawnsbecame a newly discovered reality. HeSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 41

allowed his spirit to be drenched by thecolours of flowers as though theirbeauty flashed out of her body. And heturned with avid greed to the nudesdisplayed in the art books in the FineArts Library: fat palaeolithic goddesses,serene Aphrodites, mellow Venuses.One morning Anil was standing bebesidea fountain, looking at the yellowheart of a water-lily, when Carolinecame up to him.Anil looked at her. Suddenly he wasseized by an amalgam of weakness,coyness and trepidation. She had comeupon him when his attention had beenprofoundly captured by the miracle ofan aquatic bloom emerging from itsfluid matrix. Confronted by her presencein a way that was differentfrom the previous meetings, he did notknow what to say to her. He knew solittle of her, of her interests beyond theuniversity.'No lectures today,' she asked.'One only, and its over,' he said.| 'That's why you're idling here,' shesaid, with laughter glittering in hersuperb blue eyes. She sat down on theencircling wall of the fountain.Beginning to feel at ease, joy pulsatedthrough Anil.| 'I was on my way home when Istopped for a moment,' he said.'Where do you live?' she asked.'In Fordsburg.''Do you know Mr Mia? My fatherhad business dealings with him.''He is a well-known merchant,' Anilsaid, visually caressing her body tautlyexpressed through dark green slacks.'Would you like to come to Fordsburg?''If I get an invitation.''Come tomorrow for lunch,' he said,taking pen and paper from his bag andwriting his address. 'I must go now,' hesaid, giving her the paper.I With a wave of his hand he was off,his whole being caught in a lyricalturmoil in which flower, fountain andCaroline's body seemed to melt andfuse.The next day was Saturday andCaroline went in her small car to Fordsburg.Anil was waiting anxiously forher. He lived with an elder brother andhis family.After lunch Anil took Caroline for awalk through the suburb's streets.Caroline, coming from an affluentsuburb of mansions and gardens, wasfascinated by the narrow streets, quaint42old homes embracing each other, littleshops crammed with goods, and themotley crowds. Anil on two occasions,as he escorted her, slipped his handaround her waist, and later when theyentered an arcade-like street where fruit,vegetable and flower stalls blazed withcolour, daringly attempted to entwinehis fingers with Caroline's. Although shegently disentwined hers, he did not feelrepulsed. His elation remained high. Shehad come to visit him and would comeagain. In fact his belief was soon provedcorrect when they returned and Carolineaccepted an invitation from Anil'sbrother that she join them on a familyouting and picnic on the followingSunday.On Sunday Caroline arrived and theywent by car into the country. Theystopped beneath some trees along a riverbank. They had lunch. Afterwards, thechildren, with Caroline joining them,played with a ball in a shallow pool ofwater hemmed by rocks. She wasdressed in denim jeans and a loose lilacblouse. Anil watched her every movement.Later, when she came to sit nearhim he proposed that he would like toshow her an artificial waterfall whichwas a short distance away. Carolinewent with him.The river bank was thickly wooded,with an undergrowth of ferns andshrubs. They walked along a path, andwherever there was a slope or a juttingstone or a fallen branch in the way, Anilplaced his arm protectively around herwaist. When they reached the waterfallthey watched the water as it glided overa brick wall like fluid glass and shatteredon the rocks below. Anil's entire sensualconsciousness was now concentrated ina centrifugal tension-seeking release. Hishand flew out and drew Carolinetowards him. But Caroline, by turningswiftly eluded his grasp, and laughinglysaying, 'Come, let's run a race,' ran backalong the path they had come.He stood there in a trance, his earsthundering with the crash of water, hisvision darkened by the verdigris oflooming trees. Then the reality of whathad happened rushed upon him. Thecumulative disaster of rejection, defeat,humiliation sunk into him like somebitter sediment. A cry escaped from hislips and he felt himself swept down thewaterfall . . . When he awoke he foundhimself lying in the grass.He returned and found everyoneplaying footfall on a level stretch oflawn.For the next three days Anil did notattend university. He stayed in hisroom, nursing his slashed ego; walkedabout the streets; visited museums —those huge mausoleums of heavy silence— and looked vacantly at artefacts andrelics. When he returned to university,he attended lectures listlessly, racked 1 ythe continual presence of Caroline in r sconsciousness and his desperate wit anever to see her again. What would 1 esay to her if he met her? And ho /would she react to him?He did not see her for two week .Then one day he went to the studei tcafeteria, bought a glass of milk and wa swalking towards a table, when he sa' rCaroline sitting alone in a corner. Sh •waved at him to come over. An agonisingstruggle of decision, lasting a mater -flare, gripped him. Should he go to herOr should he pretend not to havnoticed her, drink his milk quickland leave? He went towards her.'I am glad to see you,' she said as hsat down opposite her. 'We are havinanother demonstration on Friday . . . 'A rowdy group of students enterecthe cafeteria and came over to them.'Hi Caroline! Hi Caroline!' they 'shouted, bringing chairs to sit neaithem. Anil recognized several of themthey had been part of the demonstration. One of them sat next to Carolineand put his arm around her shoulders.'I have just told Anil about thedemonstration on Friday,' Caroline said,'You must be there,' one of thestudents said.'Last Friday Caroline and I eloped toDurban in my new sports car,' thestudent sitting next to Caroline said,drawing her closer. 'The weather wasperfect. We stayed at the Blue WatersHotel and dined at an Indian restaurant.What was it called . . . ?'Some of the students looked at Anil.'Khyber,' Caroline answered, almosttouching her partner's ear with her lips.'The food was super,' the studentwent on. 'And guess who we met thereAnil felt himself pushed out, negated.He looked at Caroline to rescuehim, to say a word, to smile, giving himthe assurance that he was still part ofher. But she seemed to be receding fromhim, drawn away by a clasping arm. Inan instant he saw her as part of thewhite liberal caste that indulged in ritualprotest because it was expected ofthem, only to leave the university laterto take their place in a privileged societyfor which they had been prepared.'I have a lecture to attend,' hestammered, more to himself than to thegroup and left hurriedly.Outside he ran along a pathwaytowards the street and home. A cry,'She is a white! She is a white!' flew outof his mouth, stabbing his own ears. Thecry, weighted by bitter accusation andthe authority of a final revelation,seemed to crack some inner stronghold.He ran on, his thoughts and feelingsSTAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 198C

webbed, humid and hot. She hadbetrayed him when he most needed her,when the students had looked upon himas some sort of exotic culinary specimen.She was like the rest of them,nothing authentic about her. She hadused him in that pitiful protest masqueradeand wanted to use him again.Running under the shadow of a planetree he saw her naked body in a mirage,against a background of crushed urbandwellings, rising and receding intothe sky, drawn away by an encirclingarm. His imagination exploded withwater as her body — sunlit, ravishinglyCircean — plunged into the swimmingpool and vanished. He could never reachher. To reach her he had to break asystem, shatter a world.'Caroline! Caroline!' he cried, as aswell of desire rose and surged withinhim. He stumbled against a juttingpavement slab and fell. He did not gethurt. The physical jolt seemed to shakehim out of a nightmare. He walkedhomewards.One evening I was having a party atmy place when I was told that someonewanted to see me. I went to the doorand saw Anil.'Can I come in?' he asked in anapologetic voice.'Of course,' I said, hoping the partyatmosphere would do him good.Dancing was going on and Anil satand watched. After dancing we hadrefreshments, followed by party talk:local gossip, art, politics and whateverelse took our fancy. We came to discussingthe ordeal of some twenty menand women who had been arrested andheld incommunicado for one year.'And what have you done aboutReview/ MafikaGwalaWith the publication of Just a LittleStretch of Road by Ravan Press, onecan boldly assert — adding theappearance of Makwedini Mtsaka, FatsDike and Ingoapele Madingoane — thatthe vacuum created by the bannings andexile of black writers in the early sixtieshas definitely been filled.The novella Just a Little Stretch ofRoad by Neil Williams (born 1955), andthe collection of poems titled TheRainmaker by Fhazel Johennesse (born1956) clearly confirm my assertion:Proof sealed.In the work of Neil one goes throughthe crimpling realities of ghetto life andthe human-challenge conflicts whichhave been characterised by benzine/glueinhaling and fah-fee as escapistmeasures, (let alone dagga, alcohol andhorse betting); degrading paperbacksthat?' Anil asked loudly.Everyone looked at him. There wassomething so embarrassingly intrusiveand discordant about the remark thatno one dared to ask him what hehimself had done.'The whites have not only conditionedyour way of life but your resistancereflexes as well/'We are powerless,' said Zinat. Shewas sitting cross-legged on the carpet,with a plait of hair falling over her leftshoulder into her lap.'And what merit is there in resistanceby the strong? In any case, you havebeen dancing here as though there isnothing rotten in this country. Whiteculture has sapped your will to resist.''That's nonsense,' she said.'Revolt is too much for you — for allof you — because the whites have twistedyour minds. Get out, get out intothe streets and fight . . . ! Kill them all. . . ! Fight . . . ! Anil was screaminghysterically. He rushed to the door andran out.Anil lost interest in his studies at theuniversity. He spent most of his time inthe small African Studies library whichwas used by few students.One day he entered the room andsaw Caroline as he turned into an aislebetween two rows of book shelves. Shewas standing at the end which wasalmost a secluded niche. A studentstood beside her. He was looking overher shoulder at an open book in herhand. Then the student placed his armaround her waist. A sliver of pain shotthrough Anil. He stood rigid, tumultrising within him. He let out a stridentscream, took a book from the shelf andflung it at the two lovers who fragmenthatpass as literature; B-movies; thetragic 'distant' witnessing of thalidomide('Distaval') which exposed thenegative power of drug companies,(many of our blacks have died fromlaxative tablets, and others have burnedtheir faces with complexion lotions);the stark violence of ghetto living; thebody/rotation perceptions; and thequestion and answer contradictions.One is lucky to have escaped childbashing in Neil's uninhibited exposureto the seamier-side of daily life amongstghetto blacks. Neil has not onlymastered the language he uses. Heexpresses virtuosity itself. Withoutgetting prolix.Some of the language virtuosity:'The unspoken had been uttered in themeeting of eyes'; 'A keen wail lifteditself, disturbing the dew settling to theted in his vision into surrealist unrealityat the impact. He rushed towards thedoor and ran out of the building.I didn't see Anil again for some time.Then one evening he came.'I have come to say goodbye,' hesaid. 'I am leaving the country soon.'I asked him to come in, for severaltimes since the party I had thought ofhim. It troubled me that a boy I hadonce taught was deeply unhappy.Calcification had set in within him —due to failure in his studies? a bitterexperience? personality disorder? whocould say — that neither reason norcompassion could dissolve.He sat down in a chair and said, 'Isuppose you will be glad.''Why should I? He looked at me in asardonic glancing way, then stared atthe carpet with his elbows on his knees.'Where are you going?' I asked.'That's not important. I want to befree of the whites.''Will that bring you happiness?'He looked at me in bewildermentand with muted rage, as though he hadexpected me to say something else.'That's all,' he said, rising from thechair and going towards the door. Iwent to the door and watched him walkaway, a solitary silhouette as he passedunder a street lamp.Several months later I received aletter from Dar-es-Salaam. I was puzzledas I knew no one in that city. Onopening the letter I saw a series ofwords boldly and crudely printed inblack ink and for some inscrutablereason in mirror script. The letter was aferociously denunciatory, obscenelyabusive attack against 'Herrenvolk dogsand their syphilitic women'.ground'; 'The questions hit her likeshrapnel fragmenting into her skinas she struggled to answer'.Neil's is a very touching (nottouchy!) story that deserves to be readfor the common experience that we allshare in our society — knowing we are apart of that part to which Neil AlwinWilliams has added a new tone.The poems of Fhazel Johennesse, ofwhich the title poem 'The Rainmaker' isthe longest, are part of this suddenphenomenal upsurge of poetry byblacks. The hard-hitting lines of Fhazel— lines that don't easily lyricize — provethat one cannot deny the fact thatblacks are doing much to save theEnglish language in Southern Africa.The two co-authors have made yetanother landmark in the local literaryscene.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 43

Women writersNOKUGCINA SIGWILI WRITES:In response to what Boitumelo saidin the last issue of Staffrider, I feel Imust say something too.It's very important for women towrite what they feel. Really, we needmore writing from women. I thinkwomen understand each other betterwhen they are alone together than whenthere's a man around because then thereis always the possibility of pretending,and that's not communication. I'ma very talkative somebody so I find iteasy to make friends. That gives me theprivilege of talking to other people andgetting to know more about their feelingsso I can compare them with mine. Ifind that when I'm with another girl I'mvery free and relaxed. But when I'mwith a man, I have to be very carefulabout what I'm doing or saying and Ilearn that other women feel the same.So we should come together as womenand try to do some creative writing — Imean writing that will help or encourageother people who might become ourfellow-writers in the future.We are very important to men (maybethey know this — although I'm notsure.) The point is that we need eachother, for we depend on each other'sstrength. Men can be physically strong,but our strength as women is ourmotherhood: men are always women'schildren. And their manhood doesn'tshow if women aren't there.PERSECUTIONYou are so sure of yourselfIf you were not an evil-doerI'd marvel at your determinationEven the hardest diamondIs not harder than you areYou are the stickiest gluethat I know ofYou stick to me like a second skinActually I think you are wickedHow can you be so rudeCan't you see I wantto use my talentsYou're pulling me downI can't even moveYou are the devil's angelYou must be ashamed of yourselfYou'll pay for this, I mean itNow you are persecuting meBut your turn will comeSooner than you'd expectedI'm telling you,You'll regret having done this to meInferiority complexYou merciless stooge!How I hate you!'Men are always women's children'THE BUILDING FELL'Gcina, photo, Biddy CreweIt stood very firm.As if rooted with iron,This darkest brown building.The rains and strong winds cameBut they never shook its strength,This darkest brown building.Stones were hurled time and againEarthquakes came and went,But this darkest brown building stoodfirm.Its tiny windows provided enough light,The basement storage kept enough foodFor this darkest brown building.Even during drought periodsIt was never too dry to crumble,This darkest brown building.Its four sides stood boldlyEach side was differently beautified,This darkest brown building lookedlovely.The front was decorated with mibhacoThe right side with indlamu,One could have loved this building.Where there is gold there is happinessThe hives in this building had goldhoney,Imagine how proudly firm it stood.Even Qamata marvelled at it,And promised never to forsakeThis very precious building.Then one day, somebody dripping withwatercame, looking for somethinginside this darkest brown building.His children were Settler, Burger andHuguenot,They came with paint, to renewThis darkest brown building.The mighty building struggledagainst the white paintuntil it became black with sweatThe battle was so exhaustingthat a red something oozed somewhereAnd so the building fell.Its falling had no screamsbut moans,It did not dieThe left side was adorned with dikobo down but heaped likeThe back with meropa,a mountainThis building looked really lovely. So it did fall but did not die.44 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

S&tlirCiciy B»ltGrHOOIlat the Diepkloof Dutch Reformed Church Hall,Zone 4, with poets, Peter Elstob, Drums, The Special Branch, babies, paintings, Blue Ocean Music, Free ArtFestac, sculpture E. M. Macphail/ JohannesburgWe arrive as they are hauling in theamplifying equipment, a small boyclutches a microphone. It looks like aflower on a tall stem and his companionsrun beside him stretchingout hands eager to help or be allowed aturn to carry it. Out of the hatch of astation wagon jump young men incowboy tight denims, here and there anethnic blouse and the youngsters crowdaround begging to be allowed to carrytheir drums. The hall squats in themiddle of rank kikuyu grass. Insidethere is standing room only. The chairsin the forward part are taken and thechildren sit on the floor in front of thestage their heads bent back as theywatch a small group of drummers. Thereare pictures on the walls. I look at thepictures. If I look at the pictures I won'tlook like a white madam waiting forsomeone to give me a chair in the front.I wonder why this young woman sticksto me. I would rather be on my own. Ican see an empty chair. If I hurryperhaps I'll get there first. But she'sclose behind and there are two chairs.Together. A young man wearing glasseshurries on to the stage and makes anannouncement. A small group at theback of the stage are beating drums withbusy fingers and a tall boy runs up thesteps to the stage. He has a big blackfoolscap book and he will read hispoems. I shall have to concentratebecause the drums are louder now. Ithink the middle drummer is the best.His hands flutter above the drum likebirds, his eyes stare out at the crowd.It's difficult to tell whether he is a boyor a girl. The black grape skin, close hairand the cloth tied on one shoulder. Ihave a table cloth like that. Anotheryoung man locks a chain around thepoet's neck and the first poem is called'Chains'. We used to have a chain likethat. For the . . . I'm glad I didn't wearmy gold chain bracelet. The children infront hiss for silence. The young manreads in a low voice, the drums chatterand when he is finished there is a crashof applause, the middle drummer tapsout a long roll and the baby next to mebounces on her father's knee. The nextpoem is in the vernacular. I can see ayoung chap I recognise. I remember hishair. It's pulled into little points all overhis head . . . like ... the sun symbol andhe doesn't look so cross here. He taps atattoo on the head of the boy who issitting between his knees and bendsdown to tell him something. Theylaugh. The acclamation is even louderthis time and I hear the beginning of asingle ululation. The poet runs off thestage and his friends gather round him.The groupss pack up and hurry off anda tall thin man comes on to play thepenny whistle. Is it a penny whistle? Imean I wonder if one is supposed to callit a penny whistle. Well then it's a flute.Long ago when we were children andlived in the country . . . not beautifulbut rather sad . . . like bagpipes in thedistance . . . Glencoe, the Campbells. . . Scottish history excited UncleNorman. When I tried to hum the tuneit always turned into 'Teddy Bears'Picnic'. I wonder why dark red velvethas always been used for stage curtains.These are pulled half way back andthere's a rent in one and I can see an eyelooking through it. It's exciting to peepat an audience through a hole in a stagecurtain. The man who plays the flutesways, his eyes closed, the drummerwaits with his hands poised. When Ismile at the baby next to me she lowersher shy face, her eyelashes are like wiresprings on her round cheek. I shallpretend I don't know she is staringat me so that she can have a really goodlook. Look at this strange skin and lighthair close to for the first time. I wonderif she isn't feeling tired, standing on herfather's knee for so long. She's wearinga striped shirt. The smallest rugby shirtin the world. I would like to squeeze hersmooth chocolate plump arm. But shemight cry and I would have to explain Ihadn't meant to frighten her. Anotherpoem being read together with the flutemusic. This one is about the police.There are big windows which open atthe top so there must be some air but Isuppose with so many people ... Iknow how to stop hiccoughs but notyawns. There are two fair haired youngmen walking amongst the people standingat the back and sides of the hall.Perhaps they feel sleepy too. The dressof this woman in front of me suits herbut I would be nervous of those coloursand in such a large pattern. Now there'sgoing to be a play. Oh shame, the nextone to read his poems has been toldthere isn't time. How disappointing forhim. Well perhaps he'll get a chancelater on. A group of young fellows ofabout his age laugh at him. Perhaps it'sbecause he looks as though he hasjumped too far into his pants whichmakes him seem shorter than he is andhis shiny brown brogues so enormous.One of the actors is trying to thread aneedle. He uses big gestures. Squints.Now he is sewing. He is sewing not likea woman but like a man trying to sewlike a woman. He is so funny. Oh, oh.Everyone is laughing. Including thebaby. A crocodile of school children isled towards the front. They sit down onthe floor and crane their necks backwardto stare at the actor who is threadingthe needle but they haven't realisedhow funny he is yet. Then the twoactors put chains around each other'snecks and the drums start softly. Nowthere is a tense moment in the play andeveryone hisses for quiet as the oneactor calls to the other to emasculate hischain. I think he said emasculate. Andhe does so with a heavy stone. I'm glad Ididn't wear my gold chain bracelet. Ifonly I could stand up and walk about,but the hall is packed and more groupskeep arriving with their drums. Twicenow my head has snapped up andwoken me. If I could have forty winksI'd be all right. It's not only the lack ofair. It's because so much is happening.All that energy. I'm exhausted. Perhapsthe next poetry reading I attend someonewill have written a poem abouta rich white patronising bitch. Alliterationand rhyme. Transpose rich andwhite. Better on the ear? I don't know.The announcer asks the artists whosepictures hang on the walls to comeforward as soon as the play is over sothat he can present them to the audience.Somebody comes to tell methe others are ready to leave. It takesme some time to thread my waythrough the crowd at the back and as Isay cheerio Mr M. says 'We have ourfriends the S.B. with us' and he laughs.As I go I see a new group on the stage.They are all chained together and aresinging a poem about persecution. I'mglad I didn't . . .STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 198045

Children's Sectionmm

News from PEN (Johannesburg)We Salute LebenyaLebenya Mokheseng is twenty, a poet well known to those who have seen, heard and shared in the work of Mihloti on somany occasions.We remember that on 4 April 1979 a heavy blow struck Mihloti, and all writers and artists. The police detained Lebenya,and over the next eight months PEN and other groups did what they could to express their solidarity with this foundermemberof the Johannesburg PEN Centre.Did it help? What Mokheseng went through in that period of solitary confinement, and what he underwent under themethods of police interrogation now customary in South Africa, he had to face alone.Now he is back among the writers. Acting through PEN the writers are determined not to let the matter rest. A fullaccount of the legal action PEN is to take will be published in the next Staffrider. Meanwhile, we salute Lebenya Mokheseng.And not Lebenya alone, but through him all the writers who have been and are being subjected to the harassment anddetention procedures which give the lie to the State's 'new deal\Only recently we heard of the case of a young writer from the Mbakasima Group in Sebokeng, whom we now believe tohave been in detention since February 1979.All cases of harassment and detention should be reported immediately to the Chairman, telephone: 391178.The month of February 1980 is dedicated to the banned Soweto poet, VUYISILE MDLELENI, a founder member of thebanned MEDUPE Writers' Association. Vuyisile, also an official of the banned Black Community Project, was silenced lastyear after being detained for more than a year.Miriam to edit new magazineMIRIAM TLALI has been appointed Associate Editor: Southern Africa, for Straight Ahead International, a new literarymagazine for women to be published in New Jersey, U.S.A. early this year.She is one of nine Associate Editors, the others being from Western Europe, the Socialist countries, the Middle East, theSub-Continent, Asia, Oceana, South America and the Caribbean.Straight Ahead International will be a quarterly magazine. Each Associate Editor will be responsible for securing a writerfor each issue.Miriam would welcome short stories, poems, profiles, book reviews, information on early childhood education or otherarticles from women writers in South Africa. The publishers are particularly interested in our region and would welcome anycontributions. Please send in your writing to Miriam soon.Publications Directorate Reviews...PUBLICATIONS ACT, 1974: PUBLICATION: "CALL ME NOT A MAN"In reply to your letter of 14 November 1979, I have to inform you that the committee's reasons for declaring that theabove-mentioned publication is undesirable within the meaning of section 47 (2) (e) of the above-mentioned Act, were asfollows:"The committee is not unaware of the not inconsiderable merit in much of the writing in this collection of short stories bythe African writer Mtutuzeli Matshoba. With regard both to the quality of the writing and to the author's insight in thehuman situations which he interprets, the stories are generally of a high quality.The exception, however, is the story 'A Glimpse of Slavery'. The style of writing in this story is on the whole, on the flatside, with the exception of one or two cameo's of creative presentation this writing comes near to the reporting type and theappeal lies not in the literary creation and composition, but rather in the objectionable nature of the events which arepresented.Now even if all these situations had occurred, which is improbable, and had occurred in this accumulated context in whichthey are set in the story, the presentation of these scenes in a popular medium would be undesirable. The presentation iscalculated to exacerbate race feelings between the black and white races reciprocally; it is calculated to promote a sense ofgrievance without sufficient particular grounds to justify the grievance feelings in the minds of African readers; and it offersmaterial for emotional propagandistic action of a violent kind (a type of material used only too often in anti-state undergrounddocuments).The committee could not but place this document under section 47 (2) (e).""MURIEL AT METROPOLITAN", printed by Ravan: Undesirable within the meaning of section 47 (2) (c) and (d):"This book is published by Ravan Press and is a revised version of the book with the same title published by Longman.The latter book was found to be objectionable in terms of the Act.While this publication does not contain all the parts that were found to be objectionable in the Longman version it is consideredto be undesirable within the meaning of section 47 (2) (c) and (d) of the Publications Act in that the author refers toMrs Stein who is Afrikaans speaking as a 'lousy Boer' (page 12, bottom); also on pages 14 and 29 derogatory remarks aboutAfrikaners are made."In the last issue of Staffrider we invited writers to advise us on the kind of workshops they would like. So far we've had noresponse. A PEN Sub-Committee will soon be discussing this question and its members would welcome suggestions frommembers. Please write in soon.STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980 47

IMAGESGeorge Hallet's Images and James Matthews' textare combined in a publication that is simple, powerfuland unpretentious. The poems are never captions,nor are the pictures illustrations, but the twomedia form a dialogue: sometimes contradicting,sometimes complementing each other. The picturescover a wide range of black experience, mostly locatedin the Cape. Images is a striking and unsentimentaljourney. Buy it.IMAGES: R6-00Now available from Ravan Press, P.O. Box 31134,Braamfontein, 2017 Johannesburg, or from BLACPublishing House, P.O. Box 17, Athlone, Cape.Ill gjf"ajffjl jikwwr Inl ^Work In Progressis a journal which explores and presents ideas and materialabout Contemporary South African society. WIP appears fivetimes per year.REGULAR FEATURESinclude summaries of political trials, and items on resistanceby the working class.SOME ARTICLESin previous editions have dealt with the Glenmore resettlementissue, Winterveld, the Wiehahn and Riekert Commissions,Africanwomen and labour, the Solomon Mahlangucase, the Eveready strike, literature and its relationship tosociety, bus boycotts and the Pietermaritzburg Treason Trial.SUBSCRIPTIONSare available to organisations, individuals, and groups whoAFRICA w,bsor,b6toAFRICA PERSPECTIVE, a quarterly journal,started in 1974, attempts to raise thelevel of discussion ©n African, particularlySouthern African events, through articlesthat are both theoretical and factual, bothhistorical and current. Some of these havebeen about resettlement,women,state andlabour,underdevelopment,industrial conflict,the role of the reserves in S.A. ,localj tpolitical bodies,and the growth ofcapitalist agriculture. 1African countries which have been looked at areMozambique,Uganda,Tanzania,Angola,Namibia,andZaire.Issues planned will focus on the socialconsequences of the use of machinery in S.A.Industry,and on the Southern African states.LOCAL SUBSCRIPTI0NS-R3,80 FOR 4 ISSUES.POSTAGE INCLjPERSPECTIVEWRITE T0:P0 BOX 32267, BRAAMFONTEIN, JOHANNESBURG, 2017.PRAXISP.O. Box 1280, Santa Monica, California 90406A Journal of Radical Perspectives on the ArtsRobert Sayre, 'Goldmann and ModernRealism: Introduction to the BalconyArticle'Lucien Goldmann, 'Genet's The Balcony: ARealist Play'Stefan Morawski, 'Histoncism and thePhilosophy of Art'Alan W. Barnett, 'Jose Hernandez Delgadillo:The New Art of the Mexican Revolution'Marc Zimmerman, 'Exchange and Production: Structuralist and Marxist Approachesto Literary Theory'Louis Aragon, 'John Heartfield and Revolutionary.Beauty'Kenneth Coutts-Smith, 'The Political Art ofKlaus Staeck' (with over 60 reproductions)'The Image as Weapon: Interview with,and Photomontages by, Christer Themptander'Gregory Renault, 'Over the Rainbow: Dialectand Ideology in The Wizard oj Oz'Alberto Asor Rosa, 'Gramsci and ItalianCultural History'Stefan Heym, 'The Indifferent Man' (shortstory)^ ,o^.x -^ -^wish to distribute WIP.Rates in Southern Africa:Individuals: R5-00 per annum.Organisations: R10-00 per annum.Group distributions: 80c per copy. Reduced rates and/or acertain number of complimentary copies can be arranged onrequest.Rates elsewhere:Western Europe and the United Kingdom: Individuals:R12-50 per annum. Organisations: R18-00 per annum.North America and Canada: Individuals: Rl5-00 per annum.Organisations: R2 5-00 per annum. (Rates include secondclass airmail postage).For further details and subscriptions contact:The Editors, P.O. Box 93174, Yeoville 2143, South Africa.1Critical ArtsA journal for media studiesThis new journal will be characterized by a radicalperspective on the arts (e.g. film, radio, television,theatre, music, art, press etc.). It will be concernedwith media and communication in a Third Worldcontext and will be polemical in nature. Its immediateaim will be to generate discussion and dialoguebetween academics and the world at large, and tochallenge the existing social structures and social relationswhich govern the status quo orientation ofSouth Africa's media institutions.The Editors are now in a position to receive articleswhich may be considered for publication. Furtherinformation may be obtained from the Editors, c/oSchool of Dramatic Art, University of the Witwatersrand,Johannesburg.Ariel Dorfman, 'The Invisible Chile: ThreeYears of Cultural Resistance'Marc Ferro, 'Lagrande illusion: Its DivergentReceptions in Europe'Andrew Turner, 'Ballads Moribundus' (2.8drawings)William Hartley, 'Lambras: A Vision ofHell in the Third World'fames Goodwin, 'The Object(ive)s of Cinema: Vertov (Factography) and Eisenstein(Ideography)'G. L. Ulmen, 'Aesthetics in a "DisenchantedWorld'"Heinz Bruggemann, 'Bertolt Brecht andKarl Korsch: Questions of Living andDead Elements Within Marxism'Richard Albrecht and Matthias Mitzschke,'Bert Brecht: "Bolshevik Without a PartyBook" or Petit-Bourgeois Intellectual?'Thomas McGrath, 'Some Notes on WalterLowenfels''The Spanish Civil War: A Portrait inVerse, with Photographs by Hans Namuthand Georg Reisner'David Craven, 'Towards a Newer Virgil:Mondrian De-mythologized'Plus notes and discussion by Leonard Henny, Marc Zimmerman, Edward Baker and BramDijkstra; short reviews by Lee Baxandall, fonah Raskin, Frank Galassi and David Peck;poetry by Yannis Ritsos, Ernesto Cardenal, Denise Levertov, Thomas McGrath, Tanure Ojaide,Peter Klappert, Ricardo Alonso, Margaret Randall, Teresa deJesus, Vicente Gomez Kemp, DonGordon, Walter Lowenfels, Harryette Mullen, fames Scully, Ricardo Morales, Mary Lou Reker,E. Ethelbert Miller and Susan Anderson; drawings by Rene Castro.Single copies: $ 3-75- Individual subscriptions (including outside the United States): $ 7.oofor two issues. Sustaining subscriptions: '25.00. For checks in Canadian dollars pleaseadd 10%.48 STAFFRIDER, FEBRUARY 1980

Scenes from the play'WArcity of goldThrough our eyes we have seen the sufferings of ourpeople. We have seen them being moved from fertilelands to barren areas, we have seen them starve insquatter camps. Through our eyes we have seen the lifeof our people assume various shapes of humiliation andsuffering. Thus the continual struggle to create *Egoli'was for us unavoidable. Together with Soyikwa BlackTheatre, the drama wing of Creative Youth Association,we felt commited to focus our creative thoughts on theplight of the workers, more especially the mine migrants.Soyikwa Black Theatre was named after the well-knownplaywright, Wole Soyinka. The group believes in positiveart, theatre of purpose, communal theatre, theatre ofsurvival and liberation, original and relevant indigenousAfrican theatre and, of course, creative theatre. We hopeour theatre will not be mistaken for mere public entertainment.Matsemela Manaka

ALSO RIDING: Abangani, Ailahpoets, CYA, eSkom Arts, Guyo, Madi, !Malopoets, Peyarta/ Zamani Arts