And here the great voice growls in the bull throat. A wave of excitement passes through the crowd. The policemen stand more alert, except those who have heard this before. For they know that this Kumalo goes so far and no further. What if this voice should say words that it speaks already in private, should rise and not fall again, should rise and rise and rise, and the people rise with it, should madden them with thoughts of rebellion and dominion, with thoughts of power and possession? Should paint for them pictures of Africa awakening from sleep, of Africa resurgent, of Africa dark and savage? It would not be hard to do, it does not need a brain to think such words. But the man is afraid, and the deep thundering growl dies down, and the people shiver and come to themselves. Is it wrong to ask more money? John Kumalo asks. We get little enough. It is only our share that we ask, enough to keep our wives and our families from starvation. For we do not get enough. The Lansdown Commission said that we do not get enough. The Smit Commission said that we do not get enough. And here the voice growls again, and the people stir.
We know that we do not get enough, Kumalo says. We ask only for those things that laboring men fight for in every country in the world, the right to sell our labour for what it is worth, the right to bring up our families as decent men should.
They say that higher wages will cause the mines to close down. Then what is it worth, this mining industry? And why should it be kept alive, if it is only our poverty that keeps it alive? They say it makes the country rich, but what do we see of these riches? Is it we that must be kept poor so that others may stay rich?
The crowd stirs as though a great wind were blowing through it. Here is the moment, John Kumalo, for the great voice to reach even to the gates of Heaven. Here is the moment for words of passion, for wild indiscriminate words that can waken and madden and unleash. But he knows. He knows the great power that he has, the power of which he is afraid. And the voice dies away, as thunder dies away over mountains, and echoes and re-echoes more and more faintly. I tell you, the man is dangerous, said the one policeman. I believe you now that I have heard him, said the other. Why don’t they put the bastard inside? Why don’t they shoot him? asked the first. Or shoot him, agreed the other. The Government is playing with fire, said the first. I believe you, said the second.
All we ask is justice, says Kumalo. We are not asking here for equality and the franchise and the removal of the colour-bar. We are asking only for more money from the richest industry in the world. This industry is powerless without our labour. Let us cease to work and this industry will die. And I say, it is better to cease to work than to work for such wages.
The native policemen are smart and alert. They stand at their posts like soldiers. Who knows what they think of this talk, who knows if they think at all? The meeting is quiet and orderly. So long as it stays quiet and orderly, there is nothing to be done. But at the first sign of disorder, John Kumalo will be brought down and put in the van, and taken to some other place. And what will happen to the carpenter’s shop, that brings in eight, ten, twelve pounds a week? What will happen to the talks in the carpenter’s shop, where men come from every part of the country to listen to him?
There are some men who long for martyrdom, there are those who know that to go to prison would bring greatness to them, these are those who would go to prison not caring if it brought greatness or not. But John Kumalo is not one of them. There is no applause in prison.
I shall not keep you any longer, says John Kumalo. It is getting late, and there is another speaker, and many of you will be in trouble with the police if you do not get home. It does not matter to me, but it matters to those of you who must carry a pass. And we do not wish to trouble the police. I tell you we have labour to sell, and it is a man’s freedom to sell his labour for what it is worth. It is for that freedom that this war has just been fought. It is for that freedom that many of our own African soldiers have been fighting. The voice growls again, something is coming.
Not only here, he says, but in all Africa, in all the great continent where we Africans live.
The people growl also. The one meaning of this is safe, but the other meaning is dangerous. And John Kumalo speaks the one meaning, and means the other meaning. Therefore let us sell our labour for what it is worth, he says. And if an industry cannot buy our labour, let that industry die. But let us not sell our labour cheap to keep any industry alive.
John Kumalo sits down, and the people applaud him, a great wave of shouting and clapping. They are simple people, and they do not know that this is one of the country’s greatest orators, with one thing lacking. They have heard only the great bull voice, they have been lifted up, and let fall again, but by a man who can lift up again after he has let fall. Now you have heard him, said Msimangu.
Stephen Kumalo nodded his head. I have never heard its like, he said. Even I his brother he played with me as though I were a child. Power, said Msimangu, power. Why God should give such power is not for us to understand. If this man were a preacher, why, the whole world would follow him. I have never heard its like, said Kumalo. Perhaps we should thank God he is corrupt, said Msimangu solemnly. For if he were not corrupt, he could plunge this country into bloodshed. He is corrupted by his possessions, and he fears their loss, and the loss of the power he already has. We shall never understand it. Shall we go, or shall we listen to this man Tomlinson? I could listen to him. Then let us go nearer. He is difficult to hear. Shall we go, Mr. Jarvis? Yes, John, let’s go. What did you think of it, Mr. Jarvis? I don’t care for that sort of thing, said Jarvis briefly. I don’t quite mean that. I mean, it’s happening, isn’t it? Jarvis grunted. I don’t care for it, John. Let’s go on to your Club. He’s too old to face it, thought John Harrison to himself, just like my father. He climbed into the car and started up the engine. But we have to face it, he reflected soberly.
The captain saluted the high officer. The report, sir. How did it go, captain? No trouble, sir. But this man Kumalo is dangerous. He works the crowd up to a point, and then he pulls back. But I could imagine what he would be like if we weren’t there. Well, we shall have to be there, that’s all. It’s strange, the reports always say that; he goes so far and no further. What do you mean, he’s dangerous? It’s the voice, sir. I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like the grand stop of an organ. You can see the whole crowd swaying. I felt it myself. It’s almost as though he sees what’s happening, and pulls himself in. Yellow, said the high officer briefly. I’ve heard that about the voice too. I must go to hear it myself one day. Will there be a strike, sir? Wish to God I knew. It may be a nasty business. As though we hadn’t enough to do. It’s time you went home. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Harry. Harry! Sir. I hear there may be a promotion for you. Thank you, sir. That puts you in line for my job one day. Good salary, high rank, prestige. And all the worry in the world. Like sitting on the top of a volcano. God knows if it’s worth it. Goodnight, Harry. Goodnight, sir.
The high officer sighed, and pulled the papers toward him. Lines of worry puckered his brow. Good pay, high rank, prestige, he said. Then he settled down to work. It will be a serious matter if there is a strike. For there are three hundred thousand black miners here on the Witwatersrand. They come from the Transkei, from Basutoland and Zululand and Bechuanaland and Sekukuniland, and from countries outside South Africa. They are simple people, illiterate, tribal people, an easy tool in the hand. And when they strike they go mad; they imprison mine officials in their offices, and throw bottles and stones, and set places on fire. It is true they are in compounds in a hundred mines, and that makes control of them easier. But they can do great damage, and endanger human life, and bring the great industry of South Africa to a standstill, the industry on which South Africa was built up, and on which it depends. There are worrying rumours about, that the strike will not be limited to the mines, but will spread to every kind of industry, to the railways and the ships. There are even rumours that every black man, every black woman, will stop working; that eve
ry school, every church, will close. They will stand idle and sullen about the streets, in every city and town and village, on every road and every farm, eight millions of them. But such a thing is fantastic. They are not organized for it, they would suffer untold hardships, they would die of starvation. Yet the thought of so fantastic a thing is terrifying, and white people realize how dependent they are on the labour of the black people. The times are anxious, there can be no doubt about that. Strange things are happening in the world, and the world has never let South Africa alone. The strike has come and gone. It never went beyond the mines. The worst trouble was at the Driefontein, where the police were called in to drive the black miners into the mine. There was fighting, and three of the black miners were killed. But all is quiet, they report, all is quiet.
The annual Synod of the Diocese of Johannesburg cannot be supposed to know too much about the mines. The days seem over when Synods confined themselves to religion, and one of the clergymen made a speech about the matter. He urged that it was time to recognise the African Mine Workers Union, and prophesied a blood-bath if it were not. It is supposed that he meant that the Union should be treated as a responsible body, competent to negotiate with its employers about conditions of work and pay. But a man called a spokesman has pointed out that the African Miners are simple souls, hardly qualified in the art of negotiation, and an easy tool for unscrupulous agitators. And in any event, everyone knows that rising costs would threaten the very existence of the mines, and the very existence of South Africa.
There are many sides to this difficult problem. And people persist in discussing soil-erosion, and tribal decay, and lack of schools, and crime, as though they were all parts of the matter. If you think long enough about it, you will be brought to consider republics, and bilingualism, and immigration, and Palestine, and God knows what. So in a way it is best not to think about it at all. In the meantime the strike is over, with a remarkably low loss of life. All is quiet, they report, all is quiet.
In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.
27
MRS. LITHEBE AND Gertrude entered the house, and Mrs. Lithebe shut the door behind them. I have done my best to understand you, my daughter. But I do not succeed in it. I did no wrong. I did not say you did wrong. But you do not understand this house, you do not understand the people that live in it.
Gertrude stood sullenly. I do not understand it, she said. Then why do you speak with such people, my daughter? I did not know they were not decent people. Do you not hear the way they speak, the way they laugh? Do you not hear them laugh idly and carelessly? I did not know it was wrong. I did not say it was wrong. It is idle and careless, the way they speak and laugh. Are you not trying to be a good woman? I am trying. Then such people will not help you. I hear you. I do not like to reproach you. But your brother the umfundisi has surely suffered enough. He has suffered. Then do not make him suffer further, my daughter. I shall be glad to leave this place, Gertrude said. The tears came into her eyes. I do not know what to do in this place. It is not this place only, said Mrs. Lithebe. Even in Ndotsheni you will find those who are ready to laugh and speak carelessly. It is the place, said Gertrude. I have known nothing but trouble in this Johannesburg. I shall be glad to be gone. It will not be long before you go, for the case will finish tomorrow. But I am afraid for you, and for the umfundisi also. There is no need to be afraid. I am glad to hear it, my daughter. I am not afraid for the child, she is willing and obedient. She desires to please the umfundisi. And indeed it should be so, for she receives from him what her own father denied her. She can also talk carelessly. I am not blind, my child. But she learns otherwise, and she learns quickly. Let us finish with the matter. Someone is coming.
There was a knock at the door, and a great stout woman stood there, breathing heavily from her walk to the house. There is a bad thing in the paper, she said, I have brought it to show you. She put the paper down on the table, and showed the other women the headlines. ANOTHER MURDER TRAGEDY IN CITY. EUROPEAN HOUSEHOLDER SHOT DEAD BY NATIVE HOUSEBREAKER.
They were shocked. These were the headlines that men feared in these days. Householders feared them, and their wives feared them. All those who worked for South Africa feared them. All law-abiding black men feared them. Some people were urging the newspapers to drop the word native from their headlines, others found it hard to know what the hiding of the painful truth would do. It is hard thing that this should happen at this moment, said the stout woman, just when the case is to finish.
For she knew all about the case, and had gone each time with Mrs. Lithebe to the trial. That is a true thing that you say, said Mrs. Lithebe. She heard the click of the gate, and threw the paper under a chair. It was Kumalo and the girl. The girl was holding his arm, for he was frail in these days. She guided him to his room, and they were hardly gone before the gate clicked again, and Msimangu entered. His eyes fell on the paper at once, and he picked it up from under the chair. Has he seen it? he asked. No, umfundisi, said the stout woman. Is it not a hard thing that this should happen at this moment? This judge is a great judge, said Msimangu. But it is a hard thing, as you say. He likes to read the paper. What shall we do? There is no paper here but the one that she has brought, said Mrs. Lithebe. But when he goes to eat at the Mission House he will see it. That is why I came, said Msimangu. Mother, could we not eat here tonight? That is a small thing to ask. There is food enough, though it is simple. Indeed, mother, you are always our helper. For what else are we born? she said. And after the meal we can go straight to the meeting, said Msimangu. Tomorrow will be easy, he does not read the paper on the days we go to the case. And after that it will not matter.
So they hid the newspaper. They all ate at Mrs. Lithebe s, and after the meal they went to the meeting at the church, where a black woman spoke to them about her call to become a nun and to renounce the world, and how God had taken from her that desire which is in the nature of women.
After the meeting, when Msimangu had left, and Kumalo had gone to his room, and while the girl was making up the bed in the place where they ate and lived, Gertrude followed Mrs. Lithebe to her room. May I speak to you, mother? That is nothing to ask, my child.
She shut the door, and waited for Gertrude to speak. I was listening to the black sister, mother, and it came to me that perhaps I should become a nun.
Mrs. Lithebe clapped her hands, she was happy, and then solemn. I clap my hands not because you should do it, she said, but because you should think of it. But there is the boy.
Gertrude’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps the wife of my brother would care better for him, she said. I am a weak woman, you know it. I laugh and speak carelessly. Perhaps it would help me to become a nun. You mean, the desire?
Gertrude hung her head. It is that I mean, she said.
Mrs. Lithebe took Gertrude’s hands in hers. It would be a great thing, she said. But they say it is not to be done lightly or quickly. Did she not say so? She said so, mother. Let us keep it unspoken except between us. I shall pray for you, and you shall pray also. And after a time we shall speak again. Do you think that is wise? That is very wise, mother. Then sleep well, my daughter. I do not know if this will happen. But if it happens, it will comfort the old man. Sleep well, mother.
Gertrude closed the door of Mrs. Lithebe’s room, and on the way to her own, moved by sudden impulse, she dropped on the floor by the bed of the girl. I have a feeling to become a nun, she said.
The girl sat up in her blankets. Au! she said, that is a hard thing. It is a hard thing, said Gertrude, I am not yet decided. But if it should be so, would you care for the boy? Indeed, the girl answered, and her face was eager. Indeed I should care for him. As though he were your own?
Indeed so. As though he were my own. And you will not talk carelessly before him?
/> The girl was solemn. I do not talk carelessly any more, she said. I too shall not talk carelessly any more, said Gertrude. Remember, it is not yet decided. I shall remember. And you must not speak of it yet. My brother would be grieved if we talked of it and decided otherwise. I understand you. Sleep well, small one. Sleep well.
28
THE PEOPLE STAND when the great Judge comes into the Court, they stand more solemnly today, for this is the day of the judgement. The Judge sits, and then his two assessors, and then the people; and the three accused are brought from the place under the Court.
I have given long thought and consideration to this case, says the Judge, and so have my assessors. We have listened carefully to all the evidence that has been brought forward, and have discussed it and tested it piece by piece.
And the interpreter interprets into Zulu what the Judge has said:
The accused Absalom Kumalo has not sought to deny his guilt. The defence has chosen to put the accused in the witness-box, where he has told straightforwardly and simply the story of how he shot the late Arthur Jarvis in his house at Parkwold. He has maintained further that it was not his intention to kill or even to shoot, that the weapon was brought to intimidate the servant Richard Mpiring, that he supposed the murdered man to have been elsewhere. With this evidence we must later deal, but part of it is of the gravest importance in determining the guilt of the second and third accused. The first accused states that the plan was put forward by the third accused Johannes Pafuri, and that Pafuri struck the blow that rendered unconscious the servant Mpiring. In this he is supported by Mpiring himself, who says that he recognized Pafuri by the twitching of the eyes above the mask. It is further true that he picked out Pafuri from among ten men similarly disguised, more than one of whom suffered from a tic similar to that suffered by Pafuri. But the defence has pointed out that these tics were similar and not identical, that it was difficult to find even a few men of similar build with any tic at all, and that Pafuri was well-known to Mpiring. The defence has argued that the identification would have been valid only if all ten men had been of similar build and had suffered from identical tics. We cannot accept this argument in its entirety, because it would seem to lead to the conclusion that identification is only valid when all the subjects are identical. But the partial validity of the argument is clear; a marked characteristic like a tic can lead as easily to wrong identification as to correct identification, especially when the lower half of the face is concealed. It must be accepted that identification depends on the recognition of a pattern, of a whole, and that it becomes uncertain when the pattern is partially concealed. In fact it becomes dangerous, because it would obviously be possible to conceal the unlike features, and to reveal only the like. Two people with similar scars, shall we say, are more easily confused one with the other when the area surrounding the scar is revealed, and the rest concealed. It would appear therefore that Mpiring’s identification of his assailant is not of itself sufficient proof that Pafuri was that man.