CONFERENCE OF AFRICAN WRITERS

OF ENGLISH EXPRESSION

JUNE 11-17, 1962

CRITIC'S TIME FOR THE SHORT STORY

Critic : Donatus Nwoga.

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS.

We shall see that the distinction that exists in the novel and poetry in African writing also characterises the subject matter of the short stories. West-African short story writing which is rather meagre at the moment, runs along the lines of surveying the conflict between the traditional and the modern in society. Examples of this, which unfortunately we wont be considering, are C. Ekwensi's "Ritual Murder", Adelaide Casely Hayford's "Mista Courifer", and Efua Sutherland's "New life at KyREFASO". South-African short-story writing, on the other hand, is stopped in the problems of living in a Society split along the lines of colour.

We will be discussing the work of six short-story writers. We might consider their work generally under the following points :

1. Has there been a sufficient realisation of the difference between the anecdote and the short-story proper, i.e., the difference between a merely short narration of events and a well-composed and centrally visualised story?

2. The short-story, by its very form, lends itself to the making of a point. Has the point to be made not tended to have an adverse effect on the imaginative aspect of the literature produced?

3. Is there sufficient variety in the stories already produced?

4. The short story does not give sufficient scope for the development of character. All the same, has there been enough advantage taken of the opportunities offered for realising people instead of stereo-typed figures?

5. Have the writers distanced themselves sufficiently from the problems so as to see them objectively? Is the despair apparent in so many stories justifiable both factually and artistically? Is it possible to arouse interest in a conflict between a non-resisting object and a bull-dozer?

- 4 -

the boys' reactions when they were left alone:

Q.C.

Sorie turned to Basu and asked mildly:

"You are sure you did not break it?"

"No, I didn't."

"He did it," someone shouted.

"But what about the Bible and key?" Basu protested. "It did not finish. Look at him." He pointed to Bandele.

"I was quite willing for it to go on," said Bandele. "You were the only one left."

Someone threw a book at Basu and said, "Confess!"

Basu backed on to a wall. "To God, I shall call the police if anyone strikes me," he cried fiercely.

"He thinks he can buy the police," a voice called.

"That proves it," someone shouted from the back.

"Yes, he must have done it," the others said, and they started throwing books at Basu. Sorie waved his arm for them to stop, but they did not. Books, corks, boxes of matches rained on Basu. He bent his head and shielded his face with his bent arm.

"I did not do it, I swear I did not do it. Stop it, you fellows," he moaned over and over again. A small cut had appeared on his temple and he was bleeding. Kojo sat quietly for a while. Then a curious hum started to pass through him, and his hands began to tremble, his armpits to feel curiously wetter. He turned round and picked up a book and flung it with desperate force at Basu, and then another. He felt somehow that there was an awful swelling of guilt which he could only shed by punishing himself through hurting someone. Anger and rage against everything different seized him, because if everything and everyone had been the same, somehow he felt nothing would have been wrong and they would all have been happy. He was carried away now by a torrent which swirled and pounded. He felt that somehow Basu was in the wrong, must be in the wrong, and if he hurt him hard enough he would convince the others and therefore himself that he had not broken the thermometer and that he had never done anything wrong. He groped for something bulky enough to throw, and picked up the Bible.

At the end of the story Basu is made to "confess" that he had broken the thermometer and the attendant smugly says "You cannot hope for too much from a Syrian boy."

Is this really a short story proper?

- 5 -

J. ARTHUR MAIMANE.

The injustice of the black South African's position appears to
be the inspiration for the stories.

"The Note".

Mr. Mankowictz, a lawyer defending six Africans in a case has
a note which says "See you on the fourteenth." But he has forgotten who
he has to see on the fourteenth. The following extract shows the
conclusion on the fifteenth:

Q.D.

As he (Mankowictz) covered the few feet to the dock, a
picture flashed in his mind:

It was last Friday after the adjournment asked for by
the stupid prosecutor. Hezekiel had come up to him. "Baas",
he had said - "Don't call me baas; I'm working for you,
remember?" Mankowictz had replied. "Yes, Baas," the man had
answered back.

"Please, Baas, maybe I forget day to come for case again.
But" he had dazzled him with that smile again, "if you keep this
ten shilling, I never will forget! Alright Baas?"

"Okay," he had replied, accepting the ten shilling note.
He had long given up wondering at these people's queer habits.
"See you on the fourteenth..."

He walked up to Hezekiel now with a half-apologetic smile.
"Here's your money. Why didn't you ask me for it yesterday? Or
you didn't need it?"

Hezekiel's remained fixed as he accepted the note and
looked down, trying to trace a pattern on the polished floor
with his tyre-soled sandals.

"I did need it, Baas," he replied, "But the Baas was so
angry yesterday at the other Baas, I think maybe if I ask him,
I make him angry at me too."

"Oi! you are a strange one! Mankowictz smiled indulgently,
"Surely I was not that angry - and I wasn't angry at you: re-
member, you are my baas here! What did you need the money for -
to buy some of that poison you boys drink in the location?"

"Ah, no, Baas. You see, Baas, my Nontando - my little
girl - she very sick last night. She drink some poison, maybe.
But the Baas had my ten bob, so I cannot call doctor. Nontando

- 6 -

very sick, Baas. And the doctor, he always want lot of money."

"Oh." there was an embarrassed silence.

"Anyway, how's Nont-- your daughter now?"

"She dead, Baas."

In the two following stories, consider, in addition, whether it
is satisfactory artistically to turn one member of a relationship into
a lamb being led to the slaughter.

"The Madness"

A long and engaging story in which a white ageing woman, dis-
satisfied with her husband's love-making, commands the servant Joseph to
make love to her. They are discovered and Joseph is hanged on the charge
of rape. Here are three extracts for consideration.

Q.E.

"D'you have a wife, Joseph?" she asked quickly.

"Yes, Madam," he answered, more slowly. "She is at home:
on the Reserve."

"Ah, but don't tell me you don't have other women here,
hey?" she said. She looked funny, giggling; funnier still
to Joseph: she had never before been personal towards him.
He did not answer. His big, brown eyes came down express-
ionless from her pudgy, ageing face, over her flabby breasts,
round her broad, buttockless hips; and slid down the
impersonal folds of her untidy bathrobe, which he knew hid
legs that were the best assets of her figure. When his eyes
reached the parquet floor they crawled along it to his huge,
black hand where it rested on a yellow duster. The hand
started a methodical, circular rhythm, polishing the beautiful
floor.

She looked down at him for another minute as he worked. For
the first time she realised the silliness of such an
obviously strong body wasting its energy on such childish
work. Muscles rippled under the black skin of the massive
forearms. Powerful, pear-shaped calves, tapering to hair-
less ankles and splayed feet, contracted and expanded as
he moved forward and sideways on his knees. I wonder what
he looks like naked. Her eyes passed over his big body
encased in the universal, blue "kitchen boy" uniform: short-
sleeved tunic and shorts with red piping. Underwear... I
bet not. She walked away.

- 7 -

Here are their reactions to the love-making.

Without getting out of bed she slipped off her nightdress.
She lay naked on the bed, the sheet and blankets thrown
back. Then she called Joseph; loud and angrily. When
his head peeped round the door and disappeared jerkily,
she cursed and shouted:

"What the hell's the matter with you? I called you!
Come in!"

After a long moment he walked into the room and stared
down openly at her nakedness. He did not try to hide
the rising pyramid.

"Well?" she grated. "What're you waiting for? Take
them off, dammit! Take them off, you bloody monkey!"

A superior smile that did not touch his lips slid onto
his face. He undressed slowly, staring at her all the
while.

When he climbed onto the bed she turned her head away
with revulsion. Then, in a weak voice, she asked him:

"You want me, don't you Joseph?"

"Yes, Madam. Yes."

As her excitement increased she urged him on with curses;
reviling him, his race, all the women he had ever slept
with, and his loud-breathing, body-crushing, breath-
stopping virility. She dug her nails into his back, bit
her lips between curses. And tears streamed down her
flushed cheeks, into the corners of her open, gasping
mouth.

And Joseph, excited by the perfumed whiteness that
flooded his eyes and nostrils, and tickled by the unused-
to hair, was more forceful than he had ever been. When
her curses penetrated through his jumbled emotions, and
into his mind, the excitement had been replaced by cold
spite, contempt and an overwhelming feeling of conquest.
A white woman under me! A white woman - offering herself
in a manner even a whole would not use! All right, white
woman, curse and scratch. But I shall give you something

- 8 -

better than any white man ever has or ever can. Ah, you
proud, rude, superior beings! You're not so superior now,
are you? I am your master now, white woman. You hate
and despise us - but look at you, now. You call us
dirty, you will not eat with us, seat with us, laugh
with us - but look at you now!

For him her offering meant more than a sudden vengeance
for all the killings and humiliations. It was a chance
to look at White from a new perspective. She cursed him
with words, and he cursed her back with hard, deliberate
movements of his body. And to his curses, his contempt,
she dug ecstatic nails into his back.

Here is a conversation between Joseph and his defending lawyer:

Q. G.
"Now, my friend!" the young white man said, smiling encouragingly. "Your friend Butelezi tells me you did not rape the Missus. You slept with her a lot of times. Is that true?"

Joseph remained silent.

"Come on, man! Is it true?"

"Yes, <u>Daas</u>. But what is the use."

The lawyer tapped his teeth thoughtfully, examining the
black, ugly, impassive face before him. "Of course you
are right, my friend. The word of a white man means more
to the law than tose of ten black men. But that does
not mean we must not fight, eh? We'll put that woman
in the box and make her sweat blood, eh?"

Joseph remained silent.

"You understand?" the lawyer said, impatiently...
"You know what will happen to you if you are going to be
so stupid, Joseph? Eh? The ... will ... hang...you!"

Joseph's eyes dilated in fear. He had been told this
already by some of the prisoners. One of them had quoted
a statement by the Minister of Justice, saying no black
man guilty of raping a white woman had ever escaped the
gallows. He had not really believed them. He did not
want to believe. Six months under the Immorality Act he
had insisted to himself. But now a lawyer was telling

- 9 -

him he would hang. A white lawyer. It must be true!

"Oh, <u>Baas</u>. That not good - to hang me. But you say
they not believe me in court ... And policeman here.
If I tell truth in court - they beat me again. They
kill me here before I hang. What the use then, <u>Baas</u>?

The lawyer's ears reddened and his lips thinned
down to an angry line. He waited until he had calmed
down before he spoke again. The logic of the doomed,
he told himself. My people - what wonderful civilisers
we have been! Brought them the light - yes we did:
a civilisation whose laws only offers them alternative
ways of dying.

"Perhaps you're right, Joseph" he said. "But we
must fight that woman, man! Fight them all! ... When
I cross-examine her I'll put some doubts in the minds
of the judge and assessors. Oh, she'll hide behind the
usual tears. But, man, at least the judge will doubt
her! Then he can't hang you. You see? Now! What d'you
say, eh? We fight them, - yes?"

Joseph shook his head slowly. "<u>Baas</u>, you never get
hiding from policeman. They hit me. They kick me.
They -" tears of anger, frustration and self-pity
rolled down the black, ugly face.

"A Kaffer Woman."

In this case it is a white farmer who cannot stand the physical
contact of his short fat wife. He takes to a black woman. When they
are discovered he shoots himself. The following extract describes the
moment of discovery:

Q.H.

And because Fourie (the farmer) was even more
demanding the following evening, they remained in the
hollow their bodies had made in the tall grass even
longer. Long enough to be suddently petrified in the
sensous abandon by the yellow, blinding light of a
powerful torch.

There was a gasp from the dazzling darkness behind
the torch. Fourie sprang to his feet. The torch wavered

- 10 -

and fell, flickering wildly over Lisa's (Fourie's wife's)
pudgy, tortured face before hitting the ground: now
illuminating Lisa and big Swart Jerry beside her.

Lisa turned on the black man in her fury and beat
a futile tattoo with her tiny, flabby fingers on his broad,
nuscular chest; cursing him for the malicious cheek of
luring her to such a place - such a den of sin and
iniquity! Luring her to the scene of her greatest humili-
ation.

Maggie (Swart Jerry's woman) fled. Swart Jerry
stepped back from the reviling fingers and floundered
after his woman. Lisa stood gasping and sobbing. Fourie
fell to his knees before her, mumbling an agonised,
incoherent penance. Lisa calmed down.

In a low, dead voice she spoke to him: "I could kill
you, Gert Fourie. Unfaithful to me - that I could
forgive, perhaps. But with a - with a... with a
stinking kaffer woman! a black bitch!... But I will
not touch you, I would defile my hands if I did."

She stumbled off into the darkness. He remained on
his knees, still mumbling.

- 11 -

ALEX LA GUMA.

His stories to be considered present in various ways the problems involved in love between white or semi-white and black in South Africa. Does he give enough individual responsibility to his characters to make them interesting? Is a tragedy artistically valid if it does not present any element of hope?

"A Glass of Wine".

Two friends are drinking in Ma Schrikker's bar when a white boy comes in for one of the girls - Charlette. Arthur is drunk and insists on drinking a toast to the future bride and groon, and succeeds in embarrassing everybody concerned.

The story ends with:

Q.I. "You awright?" I asked Arthur.

"Sure, man. Why not?"

"Let's go then."

"What the hell," he complained. "What they get so funny about?"

"You and your wedding," I told him as we went up the street. You know that white boy can't marry the girl, even though he may love her. It isn't allowed."

"Jesus," Arthur said in the dark. "Jesus. What the hell."

"Slipper Satin"

Myra, a coloured girl, had had a love affair with a white boy. When they were discovered he had shot himself and Myra was imprisoned for four months. The story describes the reactions of the people of her street, and of her family, to her when she came out. And there is a hint at the end of the story that she is going to turn herself into a prostitute to earn money to give her sister a slipper satin gold dress for her wedding. The following extract is taken from Myra's meeting with her mother on the day of her release.

Q.J. Myra leaned against the jamb of the kitchen door, a small panic struggling suddenly inside her. But she fought it off and said, casually, "Hullo, Ma."

- 12 -

Her mother looked around with a jerk, a big stirring-
spoon poised over a saucepan in the thick, scrubbed hand
that shook a little. Myra looked into the decaying,
middle-aged eyes and saw the surprise replaced slowly
by hardness, the twist of the elderly mouth, the deep
lines in the throat and neck and the network of wrinkles.

"Oh. So you back. You back with your shame and dis-
grace, hey?"

"I'm back, Ma," Myra said.

"You brought disgrace on us," her mother said harshly,
the spoon waving in the girl's face. "We all good and
decent people, but you brought us shame." The face
crumbled suddenly and tears seeped out of the eyes.
"You brought us shame. You couldn't go and pick a boy
of your own kind, but you had to go sleep with some
white loafer. You brought us shame, after how I worked
and slaved to bring you up. Nobody ever been to jail in
our family, and you a girl, too. It's enough to give an
old woman a stroke, that's what it is."

Myra gazed at her mother and pity edged its way forward
at the sight of the work-heavy body, the ruined face, the
tears, but something else thrust pity aside and she said
steadily, "It wasn't any disgrace, Ma. It's no disgrace
to love a man, no matter what colour he is or where he
comes from. He was nice and he wasn't what you call a
white loafer. He would have married me if he could. He
always said so."

"What's the matter with your own kind of people? What's
the matter with a nice coloured boy?" The quavering voice
sobbed and hiccoughed and she felt a pang of revulsion.

"There's nothing wrong with coloured boys," she said
more in irritation than anger. "Nobody said there was
anything wrong with coloured boys. I happened to fall
for a white boy, that's all."

"It's no better than being a whore," the old woman
sobbed. "No better than that."

- 14 -

I decided to probe a little more. "By the way, who is Cora?"

Silence. Then he said, "Hullo, Joey. I'm glad you've come. I'll tell you a story. Would you like to listen to a story?"

"Okay. That would be fine."

"Alright, then. It was a long time ago. A very long time ago, I think. I was in love with her. You don't think this is going to be a silly story, do you?"

"Certainly not."

"I was a teacher at a junior school and was doing a varsity course in my spare time. And I was in love with Cora. She was beautiful... Really beautiful... Her skin was soft and smooth and the colour of rich cream. She was almost white, you see. I was in love with her. We had grown up together in Dublin Street in Woodstock, and I think I must have been in love with her as long as I can remember."

"I became a schoolmaster. We were going to be married, and I worked hard because I wanted her to have everything that would make her happy once we were married."

He was silent again while the sounds of sleep went on around us. When he went on his voice had taken on a dullness. "Then she began to find that she could pass as white. She could pass als white, and I was black. She began to go out to white places, bioscopes, cafés. Places where I couldn't take her. She met white people who thought she was really white, and they invited her out to their homes. She went to parties and dances. She drifted away from me, but I kept on loving her."

"I talked to her, pleaded with her. But she wouldn't take any notice of what I said. I became angry. I wept. I raved. Can you imagine how much I loved her? I grovelled. I was prepared to lose my entire self-respect just to keep her. But it wasn't of any use. She said I was selfish and trying to deny her the good things of life. The good things of life. I would have

- 15 -

given anything I could. And she said I was denying her
the good things of life.

"In the end she turned on me. She told me to go to hell.
She slapped my face and called me a black nigger. A black
nigger."

"Then you lost your head and killed her," I said quietly.
"That's why you're here now."

"Oh, no," Old Cockroach answered. "I could never have
done that to Cora. I did lose my head, but it was Joey
whom I killed. He said I was a damn fool for going off
over a damn, play-white bitch. So I hit him, and he
cracked his skull on something. Ah, here's Joey now.
Hullo, Joey. I hope you've brought my book..."

- 16 -

BLOKE MODISANE.

The problem most prominent in Bloke's writing is the loneliness
of the individual. In addition to the other considerations, we may look
at his artistic presentation of this individualism. Also his use of humour,
interesting twists of language, of instant dramatic dialogue.

"The Professional Beggar"

A story of endeavour - in the begging line. It presents a vivid
picture of the life of beggars and introduces a trickster, Blushing Groom.
It present's a beggar's eye view of the magistrate's court and the social
worker and the Bantu Refuge. The beggar, Nathaniel defends himself with
cynicism.

Extract:

Q.L.

If the magistrate had seen the big grin on my face as
leave the court, he would have thrown my deformed carcass
in jail and deliberately lost the key.

My brilliant idea seems to have boomeranged. Basketry.
What the hell does he think I am? Blind or something?
Why must I take a job or be taught some useful trade? I
can earn twice a normal wage by begging. After all,
what will horses do if I take a job. Professional ethics
forbid me from working. I must uphold the dignity of
begging.

"It's unethical," I say.

"What is?"

"We are beggars, not labourers."

"One day I - I'm going to kill myself. I'm tired of
living off other people. Why did this have to happen to
me? The accident? Tell me, Nathan why?"

What the hell! Why ask me? For one unguarded moment
I almost tell him to send his Maker a telegramme and ask
him all about it, but my gentler nature sees the harm
such an answer might do.

"You ask me why - I mean, why should I know, Hey, wait
a minute. I think we're far enough."

- 17 -

I ease Richard aside, takes off his hat and puts on a
pathetic face and voice.

"I not eat all day, Baas. Plenty hungry, no money.
This other cripple Native also hungry. God bless you,
Baas." And as the coin crops into my hat.

"God make you rich, Baas. Give you many children."

I take the coin from the hat and hobbles over to
Richard.

"Six-pence, six lousy, stinking coppers. There's not much
one can buy with a six-pence these days. Miser! To think
I used my best line on him. God bless you... Why?"

"For Christ's sake, Nathan, stop it. There's a police-
man across the road."

"Did he see us? Oh, my God. Look pathetic. Struggle
with your crutches. Make your deformity unbearable. No,
hobble slowly. Let your heavy load show on your face.
Okay, he's not coming. He's probably reproaching him-
self for having thought of arresting us. That's the way,
Richie, my boy. If you want to get on, you've got to
make them feel responsible for your deformity - it's the
only way."

"All Langa Was Quiet."

This story deals with the predicament of the individual caught
up in a general situation.

Q.M.

They were shapes, the men of Langa. Shapes without
colour, with definition. Shapes which flowed into each
other, into the darkness, and into a wholeness which was
as much a part of the night as the darkness. The whole-
ness was in motion, a motion which seemed to snake through
the winding streets, stretching arms to the doors of the
houses. From each door came a shadow which was swallowed
by the mass. It seemed like an illusion, a moving piece
of a motionless whole.

- 18 -

One of these shadows was Sandile, a 35-year-old man caught up in this machinery generated by anger. Sandile did not understand the issues involved, did not even pretend to; nor understood the words the politicians used at the meetings. But he was black. Because he was black he lived in Langa, and because he lived in Langa he had to be a part of the decisions and the actions of the men of Langa.

They were angry, the men of Langa. Silent and angry. Sandile too was angry, but not for the same reasons as those of the politicians. Against his impulse to suppress the incident, it slithered up to tease and anger him. It all came back to him... the fear on Noliwe's face, the hysteria which bubbled with her galloping words. His face hardened.

The people of Langa are on strike, Tandi, the child of Sandile and Noliwe, is dying of hunger. The next extract presents the clash between the individual and the group interest. How satisfactory is it? How universal is it?

Q.N.
"I have talk that is heavy," Sandile said, "It burdens me."

"You look burdened," Joseph said, falling into the vernacular, "Let us hear this talk."

"My child is very bad sick."

"It is a sad thing to hear."

"It is a sad thing to live with."

"It is the white man who is responsible, Sandile. All the children of Africa are sick. Our children go without whilst the white children grow fat with plenty. Yes, Sandile, I know, The child of Sithole died this morning. It was a very sad thing to hear."

"Mine too is dying," Sandile said, helplessly. "My child will die if I do not bring her food... If I do not work."

"We will not return to work until all our demands have been met; until our leaders have been released from jail."

- 19 -

"When will the time come? My child is dy..."

"The children of Africa are dying!" His voice softened.

"All the children in our land are dying... the children here and in Nyanga, in Sharpeville, Alexandra Township. They are dying everywhere. And all the time the white man gets more arrogant and tyrannical?"

"I don't care about the white man," Sandile cried. "Tandi is dying."

"I do! You do not understand these things. I care for your child, for the child of Sithole, for all the children of Africa. Look Sandile, it is a hard thing to say, a painful thing. Your child will die. Be a man, damn you! The police at the gate know this; the white men in their parliament know this; but they do not care. Be realistic, man. Every day that we do not go to work we deliver a blow against them, against their sense of well-being. Their economy will be affected ... It must be. Then they will talk to our leaders."

"Tell our leaders to speak with them."

"It is they who must want to speak with our leaders."

"We must do something quickly."

"We will wait."

"My child is dying!"

"Africa is dying," Joseph snapped.

"But..."

"Sandile, you want life for your daughter. I want life for Africa. For all there will be suffering... you and many others. Don't you see? Personalities and individuals do not count." He stormed in anger. "Don't be such an individualist! All right, so your child dies. Your child's death..?"

"She shall not die!"

"The Situation."

This time the loneliness and tragedy is that of the Educated South African not accepted into the society which his situation entitles him and lifted by his situation above the normal run of his people. Below

- 20 -

are the two contrasting positions:

After he had humiliated himself in the face of threats from
brutal whites, Caiphas Sedumo

Q.O.

walked west on Jeppe Street paralysed with embarass-
ment; pulled the brim of his had into his face, his body
disappearing into the hunch of the broken.

"What does it matter?" a voice said. He stopped to look at the face of an elderly African; the burden of age - endless toil - had burrowed furrows into it. There was gentleness about it - even only by contrast with that of the farmers. The old man communed with his grief.
"It matters nothing, teacher - it's nothing; they're not like people. It means nothing."

No, old man; it matters, it matters more than your subtlety has craft to disguise it. Wretched old man, it means more than you dare to admit; it means everything, it means I will live with the emasculating truth that I am a coward. I lost my manhood back there in that crowd; even the white women looked at me with sympathetic contempt. It was a castration ceremony. It is not easy to be brave when death is baiting you, and it is a heavy load to be a coward in your mind. No, sir, it means everything; accept this and then teach me how to live with this thing. I would the earthquake of my anger could part the earth from under me.

"You are alive," the old man said. "You are educated - it's your assegai to stab forward to a better life. You are alive; that's all that matters."

"Is it?" Caiphas said, turning away from the old man.

What right has he to look into my soul? Being naked
is a private and personal world of the frightened
individual searching for purification, seeking through
ritual to recover the innocence of the Garden of Eden.
In nakedness was exposed the colour of that nakedness;
and even the expensive suit, the white job, could not
cover the blackness of his skin. The simple old man,
does he know education alienated the black man from his
skin?

- 21 -

Later, Caiphas tries to forget himself by joining in the fun at a night spot, trying to lose himself in the "frenzy of the nice time."

Q.Q.

Caiphas was overpowered by the animation of their joy; the masochistic enjoyment of being black; wallowing in their blackness, working themselves into a frenzy; hand-clapping the down tempo of the blues beat. The hint of pain in the shrill noise of their joy united them in the love-hate relationship with the colour black. In his conscious rejection of the black in him, Caiphas felt the outsider - the intruder - situated some distance from all that enjoyment. The stanzas were being repeated over and over, the emotions rising, working themselves into a state of dizziness. He sneaked out, he was alone, walking back alone to his little room.

- 22 -

EZEKIEL MPHAHLELE.

For consideration: the possibility of various types of stories emerging from the same society.

"Down the Quiet Street" aims at the presentation of a way of life instead of the exploration of the impact of another civilisation. Nadia Street is given a reality that is often lacking in most of the problem stories. Then there is the incident of the funeral procession:

Q.R.

A small funeral party turned into Nadia Street on a horse-drawn trolley cart. There were three women and four men on the cart, excluding the driver. A man who looked like their religious leader sang lustily, his voice quivering above the others.

The leader had on a frayed, fading, purple surplice and an off-white cassock. He looked rather too young for such a mighty responsibility as trying to direct departed souls to heaven, Tefo thought. The constable also thought how many young men were being fired with religious feeling these days ...

The trolley stopped in front of a house almost opposite Sung Li's. Tefo locked on. The group alighted and the four men lifted the coffin down.

Tefo noticed that the leader was trembling. By some miracle his hymn book stayed in the trembling hand. He wiped his forehead so many times that the constable thought the leader had a fever and could not lift the coffin further. They obviously wanted to enter the yard just behind them. He went to the spot and offered to help.

The leader's eyes were wide and they reflected a crowd of emotions. Tefo could not understand. And then he made a surprising gesture to stop Tefo from touching the coffin. In a second he nodded his head several times muttering something that made Tefo understand that his help would be appreciated. Whereupon the constable picked up the handle on his side, and the quartette took the corpse into the house. Soon Tefo was back on the Chinaman's stoep.

- 23 -

It must have been about 15 minutes later when he heard
voices bursting out in song as the party came out of the
house with the coffin. Again Tefo noticed, the leader
was sweating and trembling. The coffin was put on the
ground outside the gate. The others of the party con-
tinued to sing lustily, the men's voices beating down the
courageous sopranos.

Tefo sensed that they wanted to hoist it on to the lorry.
Something told him he should not go and help. 'One of
these religious sects with queer rules' he thought.

At the gate the leader of the funeral party bent forward
and, with a jerky movement, he caught hold of the handle
and tilted the coffin, shouting to the other men at the
same time to hold their handles. Tefo turned sharply to
look.

A strange sound came from the box. To break the down-
ward tilt the other men had jerked the coffin up. But a
cracking sound came from the bottom; a sound of cracking
wood. They were going to hoist the coffin higher, when
it happened.

A miniature avalanche of bottles came down to the
ground...

"The Woman Walks Out".

This is a story with its emphasis on a character. Madira is a
proud possessive woman who thinks that she is all-wise.

Extract:

Q.S.

The woman fell ill, seriously ill. Doctors from the
clinic came and went; prayer women came and went. Still
her chest seemed to rebel against its owner. Her cough
rent the air as if the breastplate would soon blow up
like a lid off a pot when boiling porridge or steam rises.

Later Madira would not have any prayer-women come to
her house except as mere visitors. "Fools!" she cried
out to Joel, her son, who was at her sick-bed every time
he was not at work in town. "Fools!" she repeated, "they
come here and pray to God to take my life if He so wills;

- 24 -

or to let me live if He so wills - anything to free me from
pain. Why give God a choice, why make Him think it would
please them either way? Now, Joel, you see the evil hearts
of these women! They want me to die! Oh, God!"

"Yes, Mamma," said Joel.

She sat up, as one would do normally when going out of
bed in the morning. The exertion plunged her into a long
fit of coughing.

"I will not die! I do not want to die, because others
want me to die. By God, I must not die!" She was exhausted.

"Yes Mamma," said Joel. He had never been heard to say
"No, Mamma" to contradict her. Joel also knew that whenever
his mother sensed the slightest breeze of human feeling going
against her will or wish, she bristled her hairs in order to
assert herself; and he knew better than to try to curb her
resistance, real or imaginary.

"Joel, if God should remember me, the shroud, the gown,
are in my box. Make sure - make sure - the moth killer is
still - is still in there. When the angel blows his trumpet
on the Last Day - I shall - I shall be ready." Her face
was ghastly as she panted heavily. "Put a tombstone over
my grave, Joel," the woman continued hastily, "and I shall
rest in peace when these things have been done."

There was something horribly mysterious on her face which
the simple mind of Joel could not fathom.

"Joel, last night - last night - I saw the face - the face
of Death. The ugliness - the ugliness on that face - now
makes me feel all the more - the more that I - I do not
want to die. Keep those prayer women out, do - do you hear?"

"Yes, Mamma."

She died away from home, and was buried in an unknown
grave without any of her prepared shrouds.

"We'll Have Dinner At Eight."

·Miss Pringle made a conscious effort to win non-white friends, which
she underlined with an eternal smile on her lips. Mzondi disliked her in
silence." This is a socially conscious story. How far is the author

- 25 -

involved and how does it influence the following extract? Miss Pringle,
the social worker, has invited the crippled Mzondi to her place for
supper:

Q.T.

About two minutes later, two people who must wanted to
see each other in a place where they wouldn't be interfered
with, sat facing each other in Miss Pringle's flat on the
fourth floor. How beautiful and helpless he looks, she
thought. "What'll you have for a drink?" After listening
to repertoire he said: "Sherry."

He put his hand into the inside coat pocket to feel a
hard steel object. After the sherry he thought: Soon,
Quick.

She went up to the window and peeped out. No, there was
nobody this night. None of the boys from Hospital Hill
police station, who she knew haunted the corridors or the
pavement opposite. They knew she entertained non-whites,
and they thought they were giving her a gracious lenght of
rope, sure that one day they'd clamp down on her and her
black partner in the middle of an "immoral act". Lately
they'd been peering through bedroom windows and hiding
behind wardrobes, to catch their victims in the act.

"Poor boys," she heard herself saying, "they can't think
of friendship between male and female without pillows and
blankets. No'one across there anyhow."

"Who are those?"

"Ugh, just thinking aloud. No-one of importance. Tell me
about yourself. Where you were born, your parents, all that."

She's lying. She was giving the policeman a signal,
dirty dog! He took a firmer grip of his crutch. He made as
if to stand, and slumped back again.

"Please, Miss Pringle. Would you, would you rub this
useless knee first, then I'll tell you something. This leg's
going to be the death of me, if it keeps aching like this."

"Of course!" She crouched hurriedly over to him. She
was on her knees, bending over his leg. Suddenly he raised

- 26 -

the crutch and, with his strong arm, he struck her at the
back of the head. When her limbs sagged he brought down
the broader end on to her neck and pinned her down,
levering down on the short crossbar of the crutch. Presently
he released his arm. He went down on his knee and began
to batter her head with the broad end of the crutch. He
looked about. He stood up and lifted a big typewriter from
a small table and brought it down on her head. He heard
the skull crack. He then made for the door, switched off
the light, pulled out the key and locked. After pulling
it out again he stepped out on the landing. He hobbled to
the lift, breathing heavily after those quick movements.

Mzondi died later that night of exhaustion.

- 27 -

RICHARD RIVE

"Rain"

An impressionistic short story. Rain. Solly's "Grand Fish and Chips Palace. Siena looking for her husband who has been seen in various places with Marian, Holly, Miena, Sophia ... She is waiting outside a bioscope."

**Q.U.** Then they came. Pouring, laughing, pushing, jostling. She stared with fierce intensity but faces passed too fast. Laughing, roaring, gay. Wide-eyed, yellow-skinned, high cheekboned. Black, brown, ivory, yellow. Black-eyed, laughing eyed, gay, bouncing. No Joseph. Palpitating heart that felt like bursting into a thousand pieces. If she should miss him. She found herself searching for the wrong face. Solly's face. Ridiculously searching for hard blue eyes and a sharp white chin in a sea of ebony and brown. Solly's face. Missing half a hundred faces and then again searching for the familiar high cheek-bones. Solly. Joseph. Miena, Charmaine ...

The drizzle restarting. Studying overcoats instead of faces. Longing for the pale blue shirt she had seen in the shop at Solitaire. A bargain at 1.5s. She had scraped and scrounged to buy it for him. A week's wages. Collecting her thoughts and continuing the search for Joseph. And then the thinning out of the crowd and the last few stragglers. The ushers shutting the iron gates. They might be shutting Joseph in. Herself out. Only the ushers left. And the uncompromising iron gates:

"Please is Joseph inside ?"

"Who's Joseph ?"

"Is Joseph still inside ?"

"Joseph who ?" They were teasing her. Laughing behind her back. Preventing her from finding him.

"Joseph is inside !" she shouted frenziedly.

"Look, merri, it's raining cats and dogs. Go home."

Go home. To whom ? To what ? An empty room ? An empty bed ? A tract that shrieked its lie, "Bless this House ?"

And she was aware of the crowd on the corner. Maybe he was there. Running and peering into every face. Joseph. The crowd in the drizzle. Two battling figures. Joseph. Figures locked in struggles slithering in the west gutter. Buck streaking down clothes through which wet bodies were silhouetted. Joseph. A blue shirt. And then she wiped the rain out of her eyes and saw him. Fighting for his life. Desperately kicking in the gutter. Joseph. The blast of a police-whistle. A pick-up screeching to a stop.

"Please, Sir, it wasn't him. They all ran away. Please, he's Joseph. He done nothing. He done nothing, my baas. Please, Sir, he's my Joseph. Please baas !"

"Laak dat jy weg kom. Get away. Voetsak !"

"Please, Sir, it wasn't him. They ran away !"

"Toe loop, meid !"

"Asseblief, baas. Please, my baas."

ALONE. An empty bed. An empty room.

- 28 -

"Dagga-Smoker's Dream"

Karel has kicked Honey till she bled. He did not know why. He smoked some dagga. He tries to kiss a girl on the train so as to keep his friends laughing. He fails. A white man was sitting opposite them.

Extract:

Q.V.

He felt the white man's eyes on him. Now swells of humiliation and self-pity. He must do something to redeem his ego. Show that white man that he is Karel. Keep those at the back laughing with him.

"To hell with ev'ryone on the train!"

No response other than the peals of laughter.

"I'm born in District Six, in 'e Kokkies Buildings, and I'm prepared to knock hell outta ev'ryone here."

(A pathetically thin figure with pupils hanging low in the eyes. Karel, drunk, drunk with power because his oaths go unchallenged.)

"These blerry whites who can't afford to sit First Class. I'm a Coloured man and I can't sit 'slegs blankes'. But dey can sit anywhere 'ey blooming - well like. These white bastards must clear out !"

Spume fluttering.

"I'm not afraid of anyone! Black or white! I'm born in District Six !"

Plumstead ... Retreat. The white man shuts his book and opened the door.

"To hell with you all !" Karel almost wept. "To hell with you all. Open the bloody window! Why do kaffers ride Second Class? The bloody place stinks!" He clambered over a passenger, and amid raucous laughter proceeded to open all the windows.

"African Song"

It is not easy to take an extract from this apocalyptic story because it is so compact and impressive. Kuti has come from the country to Cape Town. He has no pass. The police are taking away people without passes. Meanwhile, the song of Africa is being sung and the story ends on a triumphant note of hope and pride. This extract comes from the middle of the story :

Q.W.

And still the people sang.

Yiza Noya, Yiza Noya, Cyindewele ...

And still Kuti sang these words which means forward spirit, forward spirit which art holy. And as he sang he felt as if he could burst with pride and love. For he felt proud of this Africa, but his pride was tinged with a shame, and his love was not a true love. And as he sang he had a wonderful vision of the Africa of years hence, maybe ten years, maybe a hundred, though his vision were of two kinds, and this was the first vision.

He saw the face of a Black man and the face was grinning so that he could count the teeth. And the Black man was laughing in the face of another and this other man was a white man. But there was no malice in the laughter and the white one nodded and grinned back. And there was much Merriment and slapping of backs. And then the vision changed to the Great

- 29 -

Cities. And there were houses of plenty and shops laden with the produce of the earth, and there were many people passing up and down without any fear in their faces. And Iuti almost laughed for the wonder of it when he saw how they did the work that men and women always do, only this time black men and women were also doing such work, and white men and women also, and brown men and women. And they ate and drank and cooked the foods and made merry, and everyone was full of laughter, and Iuti himself laughed with the sheer wonder of it that the black and the white and the brown could so laugh together.

And then Iuti saw the fields, and the maize was thick and the grapes hung in clusters on the vine, and there stood a black man with a hoe in his hand straightening his back, and he spoke to a white man, who lifted his work-soiled hands to scan the horizon. And there was much more than laughter, an understanding of the soul, of the land. And this was the first vision.

But there was a second vision. And now Iuti saw a black face that was filled with smouldering anger, and there were tiny wrinkles around the eyes and mouth which were not good. And this time the mouth was clenched tightly and one could not count the teeth. For this time it looked into a white face that turned away. And then Iuti had a vision of the Great Cities. But this cannot be, for everywhere there were black faces, and the policemen were black, and the people were black, and the one who takes your money was black, and the women who were hurrying, and the men. But where were the others? The white ones and the brown ones? And Iuti was filled with a great disbelief. And a great sorrow overcame him when he saw that they were hardly there, but the few who remained were doing the things that black men used to do. And on the land there no white ones, and in the Great Cities there were no white ones, and Iuti was still filled with the dis belief. And this was the second vision of Iuti.

Nkosi Sikelele Thina Lusapho Lwakho ...

And still the people sang these words which means ...