From the place under the ground come the three that are to be judged, and all the people look at them. Some people think that they look like murderers, they even whisper it, though it is dangerous to whisper. Some people think they do not look like murderers, and some think this one looks like a murderer, but that one does not.
A white man stands up and says that these three are accused of the murder of Arthur Trevelyan Jarvis, in his house at Plantation Road, Parkwold, Johannesburg, on Tuesday the eighth day of October, 1946, in the early afternoon. The first is Absalom Kumalo, the second is Matthew Kumalo, the third is Johannes Pafuri. They are called upon to plead guilty or not guilty, and the first says, I plead guilty to killing, but I did not mean to kill. The second says I am not guilty, and the third likewise. Everything is said in English and in Zulu, so that these three may understand. For though Pafuri is not a Zulu, he understands it well, he says.
The lawyer, the white man who is taking the case for God, says that Absalom Kumalo will plead guilty to culpable homicide, but not to murder, for he had no intention to kill. But the prosecutor says there is no charge of culpable homicide; for it is murder, and nothing less than murder, with which he is charged. So Absalom Kumalo pleads, like the two others, not guilty. Then the prosecutor speaks for a long time, and tells the Court the whole story of the crime. And Absalom Kumalo is still and silent, but the other two look grieved and shocked to think such things are said. Then after this plan was made you decided on this day, the eighth day of October? That is so. Why did you choose this day? Because Johannes said that no one would be in the house. This same Johannes Pafuri? This same Johannes Pafuri who is charged with me now. And you chose this time of half-past-one? That is so. Was it not a bad time to choose? White people come home to eat at this time. But the accused makes no answer. Why did you choose this time? It was Johannes who chose this time. He said it was told to him by a voice. What voice? No, that I do not know. An evil voice?
And again there is no answer. Then you three went to the back door of the house? That is so. You and these two who are charged with you? I and these very two. And then? Then we tied the handkerchiefs over our mouths. And then? Then we went into the kitchen. Who was there? The servant of the house was there. Richard Mpiring? No, I do not know his name. Is this the man here? Yes, that is the man. And then? Tell the Court what happened. This man was afraid. He saw my revolver. He stood back against the sink where he was working. He said, what do you want? Johannes said, we want money and clothes. This man said, you cannot do such a thing. Johannes said, do you want to die? This man was afraid and did not speak. Johannes said, when I speak, people must tremble. Then he said again, do you want to die? The man said nothing, but he suddenly called out, master, master. Then Johannes struck him over the head with the iron bar that he had behind his back. How many times did he strike him? Once. Did he call out again? He made no sound. What did you do? No, we were silent. Johannes said we must be silent. What did you do? Did you listen? We listened. Did you hear anything? We heard nothing. Where was your revolver? In my hand. And then? Then a white man came into the passage. And then? I was frightened. I fired the revolver. And then?
The accused looked down at the floor. The white man fell, he said. And then? Johannes said quickly, we must go. So we all went quickly. To the back gate? Yes. And then over the road into the plantation? Yes. Did you stay together? No, I went alone. And when did you see these two again? At the house of Baby Mkize.
But the Judge interrupts. You may proceed shortly with your examination, Mr. Prosecutor. But I have one or two questions to ask the first accused. As your lordship pleases. Why did you carry this revolver? It was to frighten the servant of the house. But why do you carry any revolver?
The boy is silent. You must answer my question. They told me to carry it. Who told you? No, they told me Johannesburg was dangerous. Who told you?
The boy is silent. You mean you were told by the kind of man who is engaged in this business of breaking in and stealing? No, I do not mean that. Well, who told you? I do not remember. It was said in some place where I was. You mean you were all sitting there, and some man said, one needs a revolver in Johannesburg, it is dangerous? Yes, I mean that. And you knew this revolver was loaded? Yes, I knew it. If this revolver is to frighten people, why must it be loaded? But the boy does not answer. You were therefore ready to shoot with it? No, I would not have shot a decent person. I would have shot only if someone had shot at me. Would you have shot at a policeman if he had shot at you in the execution of his duty? No, not at a policeman.
The Judge pauses and everything is silent. Then he says gravely, and this white man you shot, was he not a decent person?
The accused looks down again at the floor. Then he answers in a low voice, I was afraid, I was afraid. I never meant to shoot him. Where did you get this revolver? I bought it from a man. Where? In Alexandra. Who is this man? What is his name? I do not know his name. Where does he live? I do not know where he lives. Could you find him? I could try to find him. Was this revolver loaded when you bought it? It had two bullets in it. How many bullets were in it when you went to this house? There was one bullet in it. What happened to the other? I took the revolver into one of the plantations in the hills beyond Alexandra, and I fired it there. What did you fire at? I fired at a tree. Did you hit this tree? Yes, I hit it. Then you thought, now I can fire this revolver? Yes, that is so. Who carried the iron bar? Johannes carried it. Did you know he carried it? I knew it. You knew it was a dangerous weapon? That it could kill a man? The boy’s voice rises. It was not meant for killing or striking, he said. It was meant only for frightening. But you had a revolver for frightening? Yes, but Johannes said he would take the bar. It had been blessed, he said. It had been blessed? That is what he said. What did Johannes mean when he said the bar had been blessed? I do not know. Did he mean by a priest? I do not know. You did not ask? No, I did not ask. Your father is a priest?
The boy looks down again at the floor and in a low voice he answers, yes. Would he bless such a bar? No. You did not say to Johannes, you must not take this bar? No. You did not say to him, how can such a thing be blessed? No. Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor. And if these two say there was no murder discussed at the house of Baby Mkize, they are lying? They are lying. And if they say that you made up this story after meeting them at the house of Mkize, they are lying? They are lying. And if Baby Mkize says that no murder was discussed in her presence, she is lying? She is lying. She was afraid, and said we must leave her house and never return to it. Did you leave together? No, I left first. And where did you go? I went into a plantation. And what did you do there? I buried the revolver. Is this the revolver before the Court?
The revolver is handed up to the accused and he examines it. This is the revolver, he says. How was it found? No, I told the Police where to find it. And what did you do next? I prayed there.
The Prosecutor seems taken aback for a moment, but the Judge says, and what did you pray there? I prayed for forgiveness. And what else did you pray? No, there was nothing else that I wished to pray. And on the second day you walked again to Johannesburg? Yes. And you again walked amongst the people who were boycotting the buses? Yes. Were they still talking about the murder? They were still talking. Some said they heard it would soon be discovered. And then? I was afraid. So what did you do? That night I went to Germiston. But what did you do that day? Did you hide again? No, I bought a shirt, and then I walked about with the parcel. Why did you do that? No, I thought they would think I was a messenger. Was there anything else that you did? There was nothing else. Then you went to Germiston? To what place? To the house of Joseph Bhengu, at 12 Maseru Street, in the Location. And then? While I was there the Police came. What happened? They asked me if I was Absalom Kumalo. And I agreed, and I was afraid, and I had meant to go that day to confess to the Police, and now I could see I had delayed foolishly. Did they arrest you? No, they asked if I could tell them where to find Johannes. I said no, I did not know,
but it was not Johannes who had killed the white man, it was I myself. But it was Johannes who had struck down the servant of the house. And I told them that Matthew was there also. And I told them I would show them where I had hidden the revolver. And I told them that I had meant that day to confess, but had delayed foolishly, because I was afraid. You then made a statement before Andries Coetzee, Esquire, Additional Magistrate at Johannesburg? I do not know his name. Is this the statement?
The statement is handed up to the boy. He looks at it and says, Yes, that is the statement. And every word is true? Every word is true. There is no lie in it? There is no lie in it, for I said to myself, I shall not lie any more, all the rest of my days, nor do anything more that is evil. In fact you repented? Yes, I repented. Because you were in trouble? Yes, because I was in trouble. Did you have any other reason for repenting? No, I had no other reason.
The people stand when the Court is adjourned, and while the Judge and his assessors leave the Court. Then they pass out through the doors at the back of the tiers of seats, the Europeans through their door, and the non-Europeans through their door, according to the custom.
Kumalo and Msimangu, Gertrude and Mrs. Lithebe, come out together, and they hear people saying, there is the father of the white man who was killed. And Kumalo looks and sees that it is true, there is the father of the man who was murdered, the man who has the farm on the tops above Ndotsheni, the man he has seen riding past the church. And Kumalo trembles, and does not look at him any more. For how does one look at such a man?
23
THERE IS LITTLE attention being paid to the trial of those accused of the murder of Arthur Jarvis of Parkwold. For gold has been discovered, more gold, rich gold. There is a little place called Odendaalsrust in the province of the Orange Free State. Yesterday it was quite unknown, today it is one of the famous places of the world.
This gold is as rich as any gold that has ever been discovered in South Africa, as rich as anything in Johannesburg. Men are prophesying that a new Johannesburg will rise there, a great city of tall buildings and busy streets. Men that were gloomy because the gold in Johannesburg could not last forever, are jubilant and excited. A new lease of life, they say, South Africa is to have a new lease of life.
There is excitement in Johannesburg. At the Stock Exchange men go mad, they shout and scream and throw their hats in the air, for the shares that they had bought in hope, the shares that they had bought in mines that did not exist, these shares are climbing in price to heights that are beyond expectation. There was nothing there but the flat rolling veld of the Orange Free State, nothing but sheep and cattle and native herd-boys. There was nothing but grass and bushes, and here and there a field of maize. There was nothing there that looked like a mine, except the drilling machines, and the patient engineers probing the mysteries of the earth; nobody to watch them but a passing native, a herd-boy, an old Afrikaans-speaking farmer that would ride by on his horse, looking at them with contempt or fear or hope, according to his nature.
Look at the wonder-share of Tweede Vlei. For it was twenty shillings, and then forty shillings, and then sixty shillings, and then believe it or not eighty shillings. And many a man wept because he sold at twelve o’clock instead of two o’clock, or because he bought at two o’clock instead of twelve o’clock. And the man that sold will feel worse tomorrow morning, when the shares go to a hundred shillings.
Oh, but it is wonderful, South Africa is wonderful. We shall hold up our heads the higher when we go abroad, and people say, ah, but you are rich in South Africa.
Odendaalsrust, what a name of magic. Yet some of them are already saying at the Stock Exchange, for their Afrikaans is nothing to wonder at, that there must be a simpler name. What could be easier than Smuts or Smutsville? What could be easier than Hofmeyr no but there is a place called Hofmeyr already and apart from that well perhaps it is not quite the name after all. That is the worst of these mines, their names are unpronounceable. What a pity that a great industry, controlled by such brains, advanced by such enterprise, should be hampered by such unpronounceable names; Blyvooruitzicht, and Welgedacht, and Langlaagte, and now this Odendaalsrust. But let us say these things into our beards, let us say them in our clubs, let us say them in private, for most of us are members of the United Party, that stands for co-operation and fellowship and brotherly love and mutual understanding. But it would save a devil of a lot of money, if Afrikaners could only see that bilingualism was a devil of a waste of it.
Gold, gold, gold. The country is going to be rich again. Shares are up from twenty shillings to a hundred shillings, think of it, thank God for it. There are people, it is true, who are not very thankful. But it must be admitted that they do not hold many shares, indeed it must be admitted that some hold no shares at all. Some of these people are speaking in public, and indeed it is interesting and exasperating to some, to note at this point that very often people without shares have quite a trick of words, as though Destiny or Nature or the Life Force or whoever controls these things, gives some sort of compensation. Not in any kindly way, you understand, but not ironically either, just impersonally. But this is a fanciful idea, and in fact it might have been better not to have mentioned it. Now these people, with this trick of words but no financial standing to talk of, speak mostly to small organizations like Left Clubs and Church Guilds and societies that promote love and brotherhood. And they write too, but mostly for small publications like New Society and Mankind is Marching ; and for that extraordinary Cross at the Crossroads, an obscure eight-page pamphlet brought out weekly by that extraordinary Father Beresford, who looks as though he hasn’t eaten for weeks. But he speaks beautiful English, the kind they speak at Oxford, I mean, not the kind they speak at Rhodes or Stellenbosch, and that makes him acceptable, for he never brushes his hair or has his trousers pressed. He looks for all the world like a converted tiger, and has burning eyes; and in fact he burns bright in the forests of the night, writing his extraordinary paper. He is a missionary and believes in God, intensely I mean, but it takes all kinds to make a world. Well, some of these people are saying it would be nice if these shares could have stayed at twenty shillings, and the other eighty shillings had been used, for example, to erect great anti-erosion works to save the soil of the country. It would have been nice to have subsidized boys clubs and girls clubs, and social centres, and to have had more hospitals. It would have been nice to have paid more to the miners.
Well anyone can see that this thinking is muddled, because the price of shares has really nothing to do with the question of wages at all, for this is a matter determined solely by mining costs and the price of gold. And by the way, it is said too that there are actually some big men in the mines who hold no shares at all, and this is fine to think of, because it must really be a temptation. In any case, we musn’t be too gloomy, as we might be disposed to be when we think that this eighty shillings has gone into something that isn’t any different from what it was before the eighty shillings went into it. Let us look at it in another way. When shares rise from twenty shillings to a hundred shillings, someone makes eighty shillings. Not necessarily one man, because that would be too good to be true, and entitle such a man to be known as a financial wizard, and as a figure behind the Government. It’s more likely that several men will share this eighty shillings, because they get nervous and sell out while the share has a lot of kick in it. It’s true of course that these men don’t actually work for this money, I mean, actually sweat and callous their hands. But a man must get something for his courage and foresight, and there’s mental strain too, to be taken into consideration. Now these men will spend the eighty shillings, and make more work for other people, so that the country will be richer for the eighty shillings. And many of them give generously to the boys clubs and girls clubs, and the social centres, and the hospitals. It is wrong to say, as they do in remote places like Bloemfontein and Grahamstown and Beaufort West, that Johannesburg thinks only of money. We have as many good husb
ands and fathers, I think, as any town or city, and some of our big men make great collections of works of art, which means work for artists, and saves art from dying out; and some have great ranches in the North, where they shoot game and feel at one with Nature.
Now when there is more work for other people, these people will start spending part of this eighty shillings. Not all of it, of course, for the men who sell at a hundred shillings must keep some to buy back the shares when they haven’t got quite so much kick in them. But the farmers will be able to produce more food, and the manufacturers will be able to make more articles, and the Civil Service will be able to offer more posts, though why we should want more Civil Servants is another question that we can hardly deal with here. And the natives need not starve in these reserves. The men can come to the mines and bigger and better compounds can be built for them, and still more vitamins be put in their food. But we shall have to be careful about that, because some fellow has discovered that labour can be over-vitaminized. This is an example of the Law of Diminishing Returns.
And perhaps a great city will grow up, a second Johannesburg, with a second Parktown and a second Houghton, a second Parkwold and a second Kensington, a second Jeppe and a second Vrededorp, a second Pimville and a second ShantyTown, a great city that will be the pride of any Odendaalsrust. But isn’t that name impossible?
But there are some who say that it must not be so. All the welfare workers and this Father Beresford and the other Kafferboeties say it must not be so, though it must be admitted that most of them haven’t one share-certificate to rub against another. And they take heart too, for Sir Ernest Oppenheimer, one of the great men of the mines, has also said that it need not be so. For here is a chance, he says, to try out the experiment of settled mine labour, in villages, not compounds, where a man can live with his wife and children. And there is talk too that the Government will set up something like the Tennessee Valley Authority, to control the development of the Free State mining areas. They want to hear your voice again, Sir Ernest Oppenheimer. Some of them applaud you, and some of them say thank God for you, in their hearts, even at their bedsides. For mines are for men, not for money. And money is not something to go mad about, and throw your hat into the air for. Money is for food and clothes and comfort, and a visit to the pictures. Money is to make happy the lives of children. Money is for security, and for dreams, and for hopes, and for purposes. Money is for buying the fruits of the earth, of the land where you were born.