From: hornpete@uctvax.uct.ac.za (Peter Horn)
Newsgroups: alt.prose
Subject: Waiting for Mandela
Date: 13 Oct 92 04:49:50 GMT
Organization: University of Cape Town

Waiting for Mandela
-------------------

     One of the things which you don't do if you live off your wits
is move in a straight line, ever. Much too easy to be caught and
much too conspicuous. I mean, I was told over and over again by
my mother to think straight. But thinking straight gets you
nowhere. Thinking straight makes it easy for the other guy to
catch up with you, because he can guess what you are thinking.
All those straight guys, you just need to watch them twice,
listen to them carefully, and you will know what they are going
to say or do the third time, and the fourth time, and so it is
easy to second-guess them. Now, if you want to survive in this
game, you have to think like a swarm of sparrows. You get too
near where they are taking the pickings and they explode in a
maze of zigzags. Try and catch one, even with a gun and
birdshot. No way! I know all that. So I really have no excuse at
all. Just plain, fokken stupidity. That's all.

     Thinking straight to the loot, that was my mistake! After all, I
should have known that such a big meeting meant lots of police.
When we came at three there already were thousands and thousands
of people. One large group was toyi-toying around that funny
king statue with its shiny bald head and its funny nightgown in
the middle of the parade, they had given him a big cloth over
his mouth and nose so he looked like a mqabane fighting the
police, and they had a black, green and yellow flag up there,
and there were about a dozen of them clinging to the statue. And
there were dozens of these flags all over the place. Johnny who
reads second-hand newspapers out of dustbins told me that these
were the flags of the African National Congress, and then he
pointed to the red flags of the Communists. I thought the
Communists were banned like in South Africa, and that t{ey were
really bad guys, such as not even a criminal would like to shake
their hands, but Johnny says they have been unbanned last week.
So maybe there is hope for us petty criminals. The Parade was
crammed full of people by three, so you hardly could move. There
were even people on the walls of the fort and on the parking
garage near Strand Street. At first the police were
inconspicuous in the side streets. And Johnny said they would
not want to interfere with such a big crowd. Imagine a hundred
thousand, two hundred thousand or more starting to stampede.
What a riot.

     When Johnny came around on Saturday evening with a soiled
newspaper he had picked up in a waste paper basket next to the
station, he was all excited like: "Look here, they are going to
let Mandela out of prison. It says here." Now, I can't read, so
I take his word for it. Anyway, what's it got to do with me?
"There's going to be a big meeting at the Parade, and he is
going to speak there at three."

     "So," I said, "what's that to get all excited like? Since when
are you interested in fokken politics."

     "Ag, man," he says, "it's just real cool blue like that they let
him go after all these years. I mean, he is a great guy. I mean
he is for us blacks getting equality."

     "I still don't get it, man. And what is this equality mean,
anyway"

     "Man, you're stupid. It means we are going to be like these
whites, have houses and swimming pools and TVs and we going to
have a say in things. This guy has been fighting for us blacks
for years, and they put him in jail for 28 years, so he is
really one of us. We ought to make him an honorary member of the
Mongrels."

     If you ask me, my view is that a guy who gets caught by the
police and put into prison for 28 years wouldn't even make a
good honorary member of the Mongrels, whatever that honorary may
mean. But nobody asks me so I don't tell Johnny.

     "Now," I say, "Johnny, you're really naive. That guy is a
politician. Politicians land up in jail, when they fight each
other. But they are never fighting for us. I mean, if this guy
ever makes it to prime minister or president, do you really
believe he will be on our side? Shit, he will. If he catches
you, he is going to put you in jail just like the present guy or
the past guy. In fact he won't even know you are in jail, he is
too busy counting the big money and riding in his shiny Mercedes
and chaffing the ladies."

     "I'm still for him, because he is against them. After all he was
in jail like me. And man, was he a legend. Everyone told these
stories, how he was sort of uppity against these warders, until
they stopped being bloody. Anyway, I'm going to go tomorrow. I
want to see this."

     I wasn't convinced, but then I thought, well, maybe, when there
is a big crowd and they are all squeezed in so that nobody can
move that is a good place to put your hands into the pockets of
other people. And maybe there is some rioting at the edges, as
there often is, with youngsters getting impatient with this
there freedom taking so long to come, and taking a stone in
their hand to hasten the advent of the freedom by a few minutes.
In a situation like this there is a great likelihood of windows
getting broken and of sort of valuable things getting lost which
look so appealing behind washed shop window panes. So I said,
what the hell, I mean a guy has to live and a big political
rally is as good as a railway concourse, if not better.

     The newspapers had said that people should be at the Parade at
two, so reckoning that people usually come late to meetings like
this we took the train at half past two and arrived at three at
the station. The town was very quiet sort of, hardly anybody in
sight except these groups of people in green gold and black
tee-shirts or with the face of this Mandela-guy printed on them
or with a shield and a spear like. They all look sort of excited
and happy, and I thinks that that is the right kind of mood for
me, they will hardly notice my fingers in their pockets with all
that happiness in their faces.

     It was bloody hot by the time we walked across Strand Street and
saw the huge crowd. I mean it was so hot your shoes melted
through the tarmac. Their faces were all turned towards the city
hall, that clumsy building of reddish grey sandstone with its
black columns at the balcony and its funny windows with round
tops. There was another of those big green yellow and black
flags hanging from a balcony, and a guy who was standing behind
a microphone and talking to the people, but obviously they did
not want to listen to him. He told them to move back and listen
to the marshalls, but it did not seem that they were much
impressed by this kind of talk.

     At the back of the crowd it was fairly easy to move, although
even here people stood densely packed. As we moved across the
Parade, the squeeze was becoming more noticeable, and often we
were not able to move at all. It was at this point that I stood
behind an Indian-like guy and his lady in a sari, and I
immediately smelled the pocket money which was waiting for me.
And, just as there was some pushing starting around us with
people shouting Amandla and Ngawethu, my fingers made it into
his jacket from behind and found it. It was a delicate
operation, and of course I did not make the mistake of looking
at my loot, but let it quietly disappear into my right trouser
pocket and started to drift towards the right with no apparent
haste but yet steadily and with success.

     It was at that moment that I must have lost Johnny. I was in a
group of young people, blacks and coloureds, and a few whites,
students, if you ask me. They were getting impatient like. Now
that is always the best time. They're always so impatient to get
where they want to get, so they try to move in a straight line,
because they are in a hurry, and of course they fuck it all up.
They haven't learned that in order to get anywhere and to get
away with it, you must move in crooked lines. They think they
are intelligent because they've gone to school and learned to
read and all that, but they are fokken stupid, nevertheless. You
must flow with the crowd, to be inconspicuous, and use their
energy to get where you want to get. And I got there sooner or
later, sooner than all of them.

     The squeeze was getting worse and worse. Everybody was pushing
forward towards the green, black and gold balcony, although
there was nothing to see at all at this moment, the microphone
deserted, the black and white dignitaries in urgent conversation
in the dark shadows behind some curtains. But I got to the very
heart of the thing. In front of me was a line of people who
desperately shouted to the crowd to keep behind the barriers,
and who had formed a human chain to push back the impatient
followers of the man who was supposed to be here already, but
who was nowhere to be seen. To my right there was what appeared
to be a car trying to force its way through the crowd, to my
left a huge lorry with a crane was completely covered by human
bodies clinging to their vantage point. Two guys were even
parking on top of a no-stopping sign waving that black, green
and yellow flag of theirs.

     This very big white guy, who towered above the others like Mount
Kilimandjaro was taking a picture, just as I took the money out
of the guy's pocket right in the first line behind the
marshalls. I don't think my hand will be on the photo, although
my face will be there, as my hand was all covered up by the many
bodies. But I thought, I better move sideways and out of the
immediate vicinity before the guy noticed that the leaves had
fallen. While I drifted through the crowd, women were fainting
because it was so hot and because of the pressure of the crowd.
Some had to be lifted over the head of the crowd to get them
out, because the crowd could not even open up a way for the
first aid guys to get through. That is how impenetrable that
crowd was. It took me half an hour of thinking sideways before I
came near the edge of the crowd, and I can tell you I wasn't
lazy all that time. My pockets were bulging. If I had been
sensible, I would have gone home then and there, but I was nosey
and I moved round the back of the City Hall to the other side of
the crowd. A lot of people walked to and from the crowd by now,
the ones who came back had cooldrinks and hamburgers or hot dogs
in their hand. It was bloody hot, the tar of the streets was
beginning to boil, and I felt thirsty, so I asked one of the
guys where they get this refreshment, and they showed me the way
to the only shop in the surroundings which was open, and sure
enough there was a huge queue in front of the shop and it took
me nearly half an hour to get even near to the door. I should
have taken the train home and got a real drink there. So when I
came to the door, the people in front were shouting and
complaining, and it seemed that there was no more cooldrinks or
stuff. I was quite pissed off, you know, having stood there for
half an hour and now nothing.

     So I took a detour round the Parade trying to get to the
station. As I went along I saw a few guys were standing in front
of a broken shop window and stuffing shirts and trousers under
their teeshirts. That kind of thing is not for me, as I reckon
that this bulky kind of stuff is much more easily seen than gold
chains and twenty Rand notes in my pocket. So I moved on quickly
and sure enough, as I turn the corner there is this troupe of
solders in helmets and plastic visors before their faces and
guns at the ready marching down the street in single file. So I
have a feeling that the scene is getting too hot for the likes
of me and move towards the station a bit faster. There is a bit
of a quiet stretch ahead of me, and just as a precaution I take
out the three wallets I had nabbed, and open them. I just take
the money because all these cards are just a nuisance, you just
get into trouble with them, and it seems there are about
twohundred fifty Rand alltogether, apart from the few ten and
twenty Rand notes which I fished out of pockets. Then I throw
the wallets into the next wastepaper basket. With all the fuzz
about perhaps it would be a good idea to get rid of the gold
chains as well. I mean I can explain the notes, they are my
hard-earned weekly salary, but it is a bit awkward to explain
ladies' gold chains in your pocket. So I put them round my neck
under my shirt. I mean a man is entitled to wear a gold chain,
isn't he? These days the guys are even wearing ear-rings and
diamonds in their noses.

     When I turned round the corner that was when the real action
started. There was a large unruly mob running around and
shouting. A big black guy with his face covered under a black
green and gold shawl threw a bottle into the shopfront window,
other bottles followed, the window shattered, glass splinters
flew all over the place. Out of the crowd came two guys with
black green and gold bandages round their arm and shouted:
"Comrades, please, stop this." But they were shoved aside by the
young people. The next moment some of them were in the display
window and threw out trousers, shirts, jackets, the lot. I
snatched a trouser and raced off to the left, where between two
parked cars I got rid of my old torn trouser and put on the
brand new one, not forgetting to shift the money from the old
trouser to the new, of course.

     By the time I was back, they had smashed the window of a shoe
store, and the marshalls were still trying to stop the looters.
One big guy stood in the middle of the display window, awkwardly
balancing on the little pedestals, and threw out shoes by the
handful. People laughed, screamed, shouted, and jostled to catch
the loot, but mostly a guy would catch one shoe and then look
for the other of the pair and not find it, because somebody else
had already caught it. It was then that the police arrived and
started shooting immediately. Many people dived for cover behind
the low walls and curbs next to the road or just flopped down on
the street. As we run away, a young guy next to me fell to the
road and remained lying there. But in such a situation it is
everyone for himself and the devil take the hindmost. When I
reached the entrance of the station, I felt a sharp pain on my
leg, and stumbled. To my horror I saw blood streaming down from
my calf. Looking around I saw this huge policeman storm down on
me and before I could get up again, he hit me over the head with
this truncheon.

     When I regained consciousness, my hands were handcuffed. At that
very moment an indescribable roar went up: there was shouting of
Amandla, chants of Viva! Viva! and near hysterical screaming
from the crowds on the Parade. The policeman who had hit me,
picked me up and made me walk towards the police van.

     He is here now, they all shouting like mad, one of the policemen
said.

     Then there came his voice over the loudspeakers. I knew it was
him immediately, although I had never heard his voice before.
With quiet authority which immediately stopped the wild shouting
of vivas and amandlas he began: I extend special greetings to
the people of Cape Town, the city which has has been my home for
three decades. Your mass marches and other forms of struggle
have served as a constant source of strength to all political
prisoners.

     The policeman who stood next to the van said to the one who
pushed me:

     Do you understand this? I mean this Mandela guy. We go to all
the trouble to catch them, and then the politicians let them
loose again.

     That's politics for you, said 'my' policeman.

     Friends, comrades and fellow South Africans, Mandela's voice
filled the space.

     I greet you all in the name of peace, democracy and freedom for
all. I stand here before you not as prophet, but as a humble
servant of you, the people.

     Hey, kaffir, get into the van, shouted 'my' policeman.

     But even inside the van I could hear him: Your tireless and
heroic sacrifices have made it possible for me to be here today.
I therefore place the remaining years of my life in your hands.

    Then two others brought a guy whose face was all cut up, the
blood streaming down into his shirt. They threw him into the
back, where he lay as if dead. I was scared, I can tell you. I
was shit scared. They brought another six guys, who all looked a
little dazed.They probably had had the sjambok treatment like me.

    Mandela's voice continued: Today the majority of South Africans,
black and white, recognise that apartheid has no future. It has
to be ended by our own decisive mass action in order to build
peace and security.

    Bloody fokken communist, mumbled one of the policemen. Fokken
kaffir agitator! Stupid baboon! Bloody insane terrorist!

    I fokken well don't know what has come over fokken de Klerk,
said another. I mean this is fokken trouble, and it is us who
will fokken well have to handle it. My fokken god!

    When we drove off, over the noise of the car engine, I still
heard him and his voice followed us: The apartheid destruction
on our subcontinent is incalculable. The fabric of family life
of millions of our people has been shattered. Millions are
homeless and unemployed, our economy lies in ruins and our
people are embroiled in political strife.

     He's got a point there, I thought, as we rounded the corner into
Adderley street. I've been unemployed since I was six, and
homeless too, and hungry most of the time.

     As we were driving, I threw the money and the two gold chains
out through the bars onto the road and they floated off in the
wind. I thought it would not be a good idea to arrive at the
police station with all that cash in my pocket and two gold
chains around my neck. Especially since I had no known means of
support as they call it in court, which means I have not done a
stroke of work since I was six.

    So what did you do that for, asked one of the guys.

    I just looked at him: What?

    Throwing good money out of the window?

    Did you see me do anything, I asked him threateningly.

    No, brother, I seen nothing, he laughed

    O.K., that's my boy.

    At the policestation they had the TV running. Mandela's voice
reached me, while we were pushed into the cells: We have waited
too long for our freedom. We can no longer wait. Now is the time
to intensify the struggle on all fronts. To relax our efforts
now would be a mistake which generations to come will not
forgive. The sight of freedom looming on the horizon should
encourage us to redouble our efforts. It is only through
disciplined mass action that our victory can be assured.

     I couldn't hear the end of his speech, because then the door to
the cells was slammed and his voice faded. After that I had a
lot of time to think about my stupidity. All this loot I had to
throw out of the van's window, it really grieves me, man, my
heart aches. And they will probably get me for the trousers
anyway. So six months in the cooler. I mean I know one of the
things which you don't do if you live off your wits is move in a
straight line, ever. I know it, and yet, I let myself be caught
making straight for the loot and then straight for the escape
route instead of scattering when I got the first smell of the
fuzz. I know that if you want to survive in this game, you have
to think like a swarm of Cape Town city sparrows. You have to
explode in a maze of zigzags. Try and catch one, even with a
gun. No way! I know all that. So I really have no excuse at all.
Just plain, fokken stupidity. That's all.

 q-- 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Peter Horn 
German Department, UCT 
43 Trevor Road, Lansdowne 7764, Cape, Republic of  South Africa . 
Phone Home ZA-(021)696-1983		e-Mail: HORNPETE@UCTVAX.UCT.AC.ZA 
      Work ZA-(021)650-2936		Fax ZA-(021) 650-3726 
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Peter Horn, Walking through our sleep (Poems), Ravan Press 1974
Peter Horn, Poems 1964-1989, Ravan Press 1991
Peter Horn, An Axe in the Ice (Poems), COSAW Publishing House 
forthcoming September/October 1992
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Ravan Press, P.O.Box 31134, Braamfontein 2017, Republic of South Africa
COSAW Publishing House, P.O.Box 421007, Fordsburg 2033, Republic of 
South Africa.
USA: Ohio University Press Fax (614) 593-4536
Britain: Central Books, Fax (71) 378-1811
Australia: New Era Books, Fax (02) 596-0045
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