Cry, The Beloved Country Part 3

We have much to talk about, he said.

They went to the room, and when Msimangu had shut the door and they had sat themselves down, k.u.malo said to him, you will pardon me if I am hasty, but I am anxious to hear about my sister.

Yes, yes, said Msimangu. I am sure you are anxious. You must think I am thoughtless. But you will pardon me if I ask you first, why did she come to Johannesburg?

k.u.malo, though disturbed by this question, answered obediently. She came to look for her husband who was recruited for the mines. But when his time was up, he did not return, nor did he write at all. She did not know if he were dead perhaps. So she took her small child and went to look for him.

Then because Msimangu did not speak, he asked anxiously, is she very sick?

Msimangu said gravely, yes, she is very sick. But it is not that kind of sickness. It is another, a worse kind of sickness. I sent for you firstly because she is a woman that is alone, and secondly because her brother is a priest. I do not know if she ever found her husband, but she has no husband now.

He looked at k.u.malo. It would be truer to say, he said, that she has many husbands.

k.u.malo said,Tixo! Tixo!

She lives in Claremont, not far from here. It is one of the worst places in Johannesburg. After the police have been there, you can see the liquor running in the streets. You can smell it, you can smell nothing else, wherever you go in that place.

He leant over to k.u.malo. I used to drink liquor, he said, but it was good liquor, such as our fathers made. But now I have vowed to touch no liquor any more. This is bad liquor here, made strong with all manner of things that our people have never used. And that is her work, she makes and sells it. I shall hide nothing from you, though it is painful for me. These women sleep with any man for their price. A man has been killed at her place. They gamble and drink and stab. She has been in prison, more than once.

He leant back in his chair and moved a book forward and backward on the table. This is terrible news for you, he said. k.u.malo nodded dumbly, and Msimangu brought out his cigarettes. Will you smoke? he said.

k.u.malo shook his head. I do not really smoke, he said.

Sometimes it quietens one to smoke. But there should be another kind of quiet in a man, and then let him smoke to enjoy it. But in Johannesburg it is hard sometimes to find that kind of quiet.

In Johannesburg? Everywhere it is so. The peace of G.o.d escapes us.

And they were both silent, as though a word had been spoken that made it hard to speak another. At last k.u.malo said, where is the child?

The child is there. But it is no place for a child. And that too is why I sent for you. Perhaps if you cannot save the mother, you can save the child.

Where is this place?

It is not far from here. I shall take you tomorrow.

I have another great sorrow.

You may tell me.

I should be glad to tell you.

But then he was silent, and tried to speak and could not, so Msimangu said to him, Take your time, my brother.

It is not easy. It is our greatest sorrow.

A son, maybe. Or a daughter?

It is a son.

I am listening.

Absalom was his name. He too went away, to look for my sister, but he never returned, nor after a while did he write any more. Our letters, his mother's and mine, all came back to us. And now after what you tell me, I am still more afraid.

We shall try to find him, my brother. Perhaps your sister will know. You are tired, and I should take you to the room I have got for you.

Yes, that would be better.

They rose, and k.u.malo said, it is my habit to pray in the church. Maybe you will show me.

It is on the way.

k.u.malo said humbly, maybe you will pray for me.

I shall do it gladly. My brother, I have of course my work to do, but so long as you are here, my hands are yours.

You are kind.

Something in the humble voice must have touched Msimangu, for he said, I am not kind. I am a selfish and sinful man, but G.o.d put his hands on me, that is all.

He picked up k.u.malo's bag, but before they reached the door k.u.malo stopped him.

I have one more thing to tell you.

Yes.

I have a brother also, here in Johannesburg. He too does not write any more. John k.u.malo, a carpenter.

Msimangu smiled. I know him, he said. He is too busy to write. He is one of our great politicians.

A politician? My brother?

Yes, he is a great man in politics.

Msimangu paused. I hope I shall not hurt you further. Your brother has no use for the Church any more. He says that what G.o.d has not done for South Africa, man must do. That is what he says.

This is a bitter journey.

I can believe it.

Sometimes I fear - what will the Bishop say when he hears? One of his priests?

What can a Bishop say? Something is happening that no Bishop can stop. Who can stop these things from happening? They must go on.

How can you say so? How can you say they must go on?

They must go on, said Msimangu gravely. You cannot stop the world from going on. My friend, I am a Christian. It is not in my heart to hate a white man. It was a white man who brought my father out of darkness. But you will pardon me if I talk frankly to you. The tragedy is not that things are broken. The tragedy is that they are not mended again. The white man has broken the tribe. And it is my belief - and again I ask your pardon - that it cannot be mended again. But the house that is broken, and the man that falls apart when the house is broken, these are the tragic things. That is why children break the law, and old white people are robbed and beaten.

He pa.s.sed his hand across his brow.

It suited the white man to break the tribe, he continued gravely. But it has not suited him to build something in the place of what is broken. I have pondered this for many hours, and I must speak it, for it is the truth for me. They are not all so. There are some white men who give their lives to build up what is broken.

But they are not enough, he said. They are afraid, that is the truth. It is fear that rules this land.

He laughed apologetically. These things are too many to talk about now. They are things to talk over quietly and patiently. You must get Father Vincent to talk about them. He is a white man and can say what must be said. He is the one with the boy's cheeks, the one who wants to hear more about your country.

I remember him.

They give us too little, said Msimangu somberly. They give us almost nothing. Come, let us go to the church.

Mrs. Lithebe, I bring my friend to you. The Reverend Stephen k.u.malo.

Umfundisi, you are welcome. The room is small, but clean.

I am sure of it.

Goodnight, my brother. Shall I see you in the church tomorrow at seven?

a.s.suredly.

And after that I shall take you to eat. Stay well, my friend. Stay well, Mrs. Lithebe.

Go well, my friend.

Go well, umfundisi.

She took him to the small clean room and lit a candle for him.

If there is anything, you will ask, umfundisi.

I thank you.

Sleep well, umfundisi.

Sleep well, mother.

He stood a moment in the room. Forty-eight hours ago he and his wife had been packing his bag in far away Ndotsheni. Twenty-four hours ago the train, with the cage on its head, had been thundering through an unseen country. And now outside, the stir and movement of people, but behind them, through them, one could hear the roar of a great city. Johannesburg. Johannesburg.

Who could believe it?

6.

IT IS NOT far to Claremont. They lie together; Sophiatown, where any may own property, Western Native Towns.h.i.+p which belongs to the Munic.i.p.ality of Johannesburg, and Claremont, the garbage-heap of the proud city. These three are bounded on the West by the European district of Newlands, and on the East by the European district of Westdene.

That is a pity, says Msimangu. I am not a man for segregation, but it is a pity that we are not apart. They run trams from the centre of the city, and part is for Europeans and part for us. But we are often thrown off the trams by young hooligans. And our hooligans are ready for trouble too.

But the authorities, do they allow that?

They do not. But they cannot watch every tram. And if a trouble develops, who can find how it began and who will tell the truth? It is a pity we are not apart. Look, do you see that big building?

I see it.

That is the building of theBantu Press , our newspaper. Of course there are Europeans in it too, and it is moderate and does not say all that could be said. Your brother John thinks little of the Bantu Press. He and his friends call it the Bantu Repress.

So they walked till they came to Claremont and k.u.malo was shocked by its shabbiness and dirtiness, and the closeness of the houses, and the filth in the streets.

Do you see that woman, my friend?

I see her.

She is one of the queens, the liquor sellers. They say she is one of the richest of our people in Johannesburg.

And these children? Why are they not at school?

Some because they do not care, and some because their parents do not care, but many because the schools are full.

They walked down Lily Street, and turned off into Hyacinth Street, for the names there are very beautiful.

It is here, brother. Number eleven. Do you go in alone?

It would be better.

When you are ready, you will find me next door at Number thirteen. There is a woman of our church there, and a good woman who tries with her husband to bring up good children. But it is hard. Their eldest daughter whom I prepared for confirmation has run away, and lives in Pimville, with a young loafer of the streets. Knock there, my friend. You know where to find me.

There is laughter in the house, the kind of laughter of which one is afraid. Perhaps because one is afraid already, perhaps because it is in truth bad laughter. A woman's voice, and men's voices. But he knocks, and she opens.

It is I, my sister.

Have no doubt it is fear in her eyes. She draws back a step, and makes no move towards him. She turns and says something that he cannot hear. Chairs are moved, and other things are taken. She turns to him.

I am making ready, my brother.

They stand and look at each other, he anxious, she afraid. She turns and looks back into the room. A door closes, and she says, Come in, my brother.

Only then does she reach her hand to him. It is cold and wet, there is no life in it.

They sit down, she is silent upon her chair.

I have come, he said.

It is good.

You did not write.

No, I did not write.