They rose, and Kumalo said, it is my habit to pray in the church. Maybe you will show me. It is on the way.
Kumalo 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 God put his hands on me, that is all. He picked up Kumalo’s bag, but before they reached the door Kumalo 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 Kumalo, 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 God 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 passed 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 Kumalo. 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? Assuredly. 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, WesternNativeTownship which belongs to the Municipality 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 the Bantu 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 Kumalo 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. Where is your husband? I have not found him, my brother. But you did not write. That is true, indeed. Did you not know we were anxious? I had no money to write. Not two pennies for a stamp?
She does not answer him. She does not look at him. But I hear you are rich. I am not rich. I hear you have been in prison. That is true indeed. Was it for liquor?
A spark of life comes into her. She must do something, she cannot keep so silent. She tells him she was not guilty. There was some other woman. You stayed with this woman? Yes. Why did you stay with such a woman? I had no other place. And you helped her with her trade? I had to have money for the child. Where is the child?
She looks round vaguely. She gets up and goes to the yard. She calls, but the voice that was once so sweet has a new quality in it, the quality of the laughter that he heard in the house. She is revealing herself to him. I have sent for the child, she says. Where is it? It shall be fetched, she says.
There is discomfort in her eyes, and she stands fingering the wall. The anger wells up in him. Where shall I sleep? he asks.
The fear in her eyes is unmistakable. Now she will reveal herself, but his anger masters him, and he does not wait for it. You have shamed us, he says in a low voice, not wishing to make it known to the world. A liquor seller, a prostitute, with a child and you do not know where it is? Your brother a priest. How could you do this to us? She looks at him sullenly, like an animal that is tormented. I have come to take you back. She falls on to the floor and cries; her cries become louder and louder, she has no shame. They will hear us, he says urgently.
She cries to control her sobs. Do you wish to come back?
She nods her head. I do not
like Johannesburg, she says. I am sick here. The child is sick also. Do you wish with your heart to come back?
She nods her head again. She sobs too. I do not like Johannesburg, she says. She looks at him with eyes of distress, and his heart quickens with hope. I am a bad woman, my brother. I am no woman to go back.
His eyes fill with tears, his deep gentleness returns to him. He goes to her and lifts her from the floor to the chair. Inarticulately he strokes her face, his heart filled with pity. God forgives us, he says. Who am I not to forgive? Let us pray. They knelt down, and he prayed, quietly so that the neighbors might not hear, and she punctuated his petitions with Amens. And when he had finished, she burst into a torrent of prayer, of self-denunciation, and urgent petition. And thus reconciled, they sat hand in hand. And now I ask you for help, he said. What is it, my brother? Our child, have you not heard of him? I did hear of him, brother. He was working at some big place in Johannesburg, and he lived in Sophiatown, but where I am not sure. But I know who will know. The son of our brother John and your son were often together. He will know. I shall go there. And now, my sister, I must see if Mrs. Lithebe has a room for you. Have you many things? Not many. This table and those chairs, and a bed. And some few dishes and pots. That is all. I shall find someone to fetch them. You will be ready? My brother, here is the child.
Into the room, shepherded by an older girl, came his little nephew. His clothes were dirty and his nose running, and he put his finger in his mouth, and gazed at his uncle out of wide saucer-like eyes.
Kumalo lifted him up, and wiped his nose clean, and kissed and fondled him. It will be better for the child, he said. He will go to a place where the wind blows, and where there is a school for him. It will be better, she agreed. I must go, he said. There is much to do.
He went out into the street, and curious neighbours stared at him. It was an umfundisi that was here. He found his friend, and poured out his news, and asked him where they could find a man to fetch his sister, her child and possessions. We shall go now, said Msimangu. I am glad for your sake, my friend. There is a great load off my mind, my friend. Please God the other will be as successful.
He fetched her with a lorry that afternoon, amidst a crowd of interested neighbours, who discussed the affair loudly and frankly, some with approval, and some with the strange laughter of the towns. He was glad when the lorry was loaded, and they left.
Mrs. Lithebe showed them their room, and gave the mother and child their food while Kumalo went down to the mission. And that night they held prayers in the dining-room, and Mrs. Lithebe and Gertrude punctuated his petitions with Amens. Kumalo himself was light-hearted and gay like a boy, more so than he had been for years. One day in Johannesburg, and already the tribe was being rebuilt, the house and the soul restored.
7
GERTRUDE’S DRESS, FOR all that she might once have been rich, was dirty, and the black greasy knitted cap that she wore on her head made him ashamed. Although his money was little, he bought her a red dress and a white thing that they called a turban for her head. Also a shirt, a pair of short trousers, and a jersey for the boy; and a couple of stout handkerchiefs for his mother to use on his nose. In his pocket was his Post Office Book, and there was ten pounds there that he and wife were saving to buy the stove, for that, like any woman, she had long been wanting to have. To save ten pounds from a stipend of eight pounds a month takes much patience and time, especially for a parson, who must dress in good black clothes. His clerical collars were brown and frayed, but they must wait now a while. It was a pity about the ten pounds, that it would sooner or later have to be broken into, but the trains did not carry for nothing, and they would no doubt get a pound or two for her things. Strange that she had saved nothing from her sad employment, which brought in much money, it was said. Gertrude was helping Mrs. Lithebe in the house, and he could hear her singing a little. The small boy was playing in the yard, with small pieces of brick and wood that a builder had left. The sun was shining, and even in this great city there were birds, small sparrows that chirped and flew about in the yard. But there was Msimangu coming up the street. He put aside the letter that he was writing to his wife, of the journey in the train, and the great city Johannesburg, and the young man who had stolen his pound, of his quick finding of Gertrude, and his pleasure in the small boy. And above all, that this day would begin the search for their son. Are you ready, my friend? Yes, I am ready. I am writing to my wife. Though I do not know her, send her my greetings. They walked up the street, and down another, and up yet another. It was true what they said, that you could go up one street and down another till the end of your days, and never walk the same one twice. Here is your brother’s shop. You see his name. Yes, I see it. Shall I come with you? Yes, I think it would be right.
His brother John was sitting there on a chair, talking to two other men. He had grown fat, and sat with his hands on his knees like a chief. His brother he did not recognize, for the light from the street was on the backs of his visitors. Good morning, my brother. Good morning, sir. Good morning, my own brother, son of our mother. John Kumalo looked closely at him, and stood up with a great hearty smile.
My own brother. Well, well, who can believe? What are you doing in Johannesburg? Kumalo looked at the visitors. I come on business, he said. I am sure my friends will excuse us. My own brother, the son of our mother, has come.
The two men rose, and they all said stay well and go well. Do you know the Reverend Msimangu, my brother? Well, well, he is known to everybody. Everybody knows the Reverend Msimangu. Sit down, gentlemen. I think we must have some tea.
He went to the door and called into the place behind. Is your wife Esther well, my brother?
John Kumalo smiled his jolly and knowing smile. My wife Esther has left me these ten years, my brother. And have you married again? Well, well, not what the Church calls married, you know. But she is a good woman. You wrote nothing of this, brother. No, how could I write? You people in Ndotsheni do not understand the way life is in Johannesburg. I thought it better not to write. That is why you stopped writing. Well, well, that could be why I stopped. Trouble, brother, unnecessary trouble. But I do not understand. How is life different in Johannesburg? Well, that is difficult. Do you mind if I speak in English? I can explain these things better in English. Speak in English, then, brother. You see I have had an experience here in Johannesburg. It is not like Ndotsheni. One must live here to understand it.
He looked at his brother. Something new is happening here, he said. He did not sit down, but began to speak in a strange voice. He walked about, and looked through the window into the street, and up at the ceiling, and into the corners of the room as though something were there, and must be brought out. Down in Ndotsheni I am nobody, even as you are nobody, my brother. I am subject to the chief, who is an ignorant man. I must salute him and bow to him, but he is an uneducated man. Here in Johannesburg I am a man of some importance, of some influence. I have my own business, and when it is good, I can make ten, twelve, pounds a week.
He began to sway to and fro, he was not speaking to them, he was speaking to people who were not there. I do not say we are free here. I do not say we are free as men should be. But at least I am free of the chief. At least I am free of an old and ignorant man, who is nothing but a white man’s dog. He is a trick, a trick to hold together something that the white man desires to hold together. He smiled his cunning and knowing smile, and for a moment addressed himself to his visitors. But it is not being held together, he said. It is breaking apart, your tribal society. It is here in Johannesburg that the new society is being built. Something is happening here, my brother.
He paused for a moment, then he said, I do not wish to offend you gentlemen, but the Church too is like the chief. You must do so and so and so. You are not free to have an experience. A man must be faithful and meek and obedient, and he must obey the laws, whatever the laws may be. It is true that the Church speaks with a fine voice, and that the Bishops
speak against the laws. But this they have been doing for fifty years, and things get worse, not better. His voice grew louder, and he was again addressing people who were not there. Here in Johannesburg it is the mines, he said, everything is the mines. These high buildings, this wonderful City Hall, this beautiful Parktown with its beautiful houses, all this is built with the gold from the mines. This wonderful hospital for Europeans, the biggest hospital south of the Equator, it is built with the gold from the mines.
There was a change in his voice, it became louder like the voice of a bull or a lion. Go to our hospital, he said, and see our people lying on the floors. They lie so close you cannot step over them. But it is they who dig the gold. For three shillings a day. We come from the Transkei, and from Basutoland, and from Bechuanaland, and from Swaziland, and from Zululand. And from Ndotsheni also. We live in the compounds, we must leave our wives and families behind. And when the new gold is found, it is not we who will get more for our labour. It is the white man’s shares that will rise, you will read it in all the papers. They go mad when new gold is found. They bring more of us to live in the compounds, to dig under the ground for three shillings a day. They do not think, here is a chance to pay more for our labour. They think only, here is a chance to build a bigger house and buy a bigger car. It is important to find gold, they say, for all South Africa is built on the mines.