He growled, and his voice grew deep, it was like thunder that was rolling. But it is not built on the mines, he said, it is built on our backs, on our sweat, on our labour. Every factory, every theatre, every beautiful house, they are all built by us. And what does a chief know about that? But here in Johannesburg they know.
He stopped, and was silent. And his visitors were silent also, for there was something in this voice that compelled one to be silent. And Stephen Kumalo sat silent, for this was a new brother that he saw.
John Kumalo looked at him. The Bishop says it is wrong, he said, but he lives in a big house, and his white priests get four, five, six times what you get, my brother.
He sat down, and took out a large red handkerchief to wipe his face. That is my experience, he said. That is why I no longer go to the Church. And that is why you did not write any more. Well, well, it could be the reason. That, and your wife Esther? Yes, yes, both perhaps. It is hard to explain in a letter. Our customs are different here.
And Msimangu said, are there any customs here?
John Kumalo looked at him. There is a new thing growing here, he said. Stronger than any church or chief. You will see it one day. And your wife? Why did she leave? Well, well, said John Kumalo with his knowing smile. She did not understand my experience. You mean, said Msimangu coldly, that she believed in fidelity? John looked at him suspiciously. Fidelity, he said. But Msimangu was quick to see that he did not understand. Perhaps we should speak Zulu again, he said.
The angry veins stood out on the great bull neck, and who knows what angry words might have been spoken, but Stephen Kumalo was quick to intervene. Here is the tea, my brother. That is kind of you.
The woman was not introduced, but took round the tea humbly. When she had gone, Kumalo spoke to his brother. I have listened attentively to you, my brother. Much of what you say saddens me, partly because of the way you say it, and partly because much of it is true. And now I have something to ask of you. But I must tell you first that Gertrude is with me here. She is coming back to Ndotsheni. Well, well, I shall not say it is a bad thing. Johannesburg is not a place for a woman alone. I myself tried to persuade her, but she did not agree, so we did not meet any more. And now I must ask you. Where is my son?
There is something like discomfort in John’s eyes. He takes out his handkerchief again. Well, you have heard no doubt he was friendly with my son. I have heard that. Well, you know how these young men are. I do not blame them altogether. You see, my son did not agree well with his second mother. What it was about I could never discover. Nor did he agree with his mother’s children. Many times I tried to arrange matters, but I did not succeed. So he said he would leave. He had good work so I did not stop him. And your son went with him. Where, my brother? I do not rightly know. But I heard that they had a room in Alexandra. Now wait a minute. They were both working for a factory. I remember. Wait till I look in the telephone book.
He went to a table and there Kumalo saw the telephone. He felt a little pride to be the brother of a man who had such a thing. There it is. Doornfontein Textiles Company,
14 Krause St
. I shall write it down for you, my brother. Can we not telephone them? asked Kumalo hesitantly. His brother laughed. What for? he asked. To ask if Absalom Kumalo is working there? Or to ask if they will call him to the telephone? Or to ask if they will give his address? They do not do such things for a black man, my brother. It does not matter, said Msimangu. My hands are yours, my friend. They said their farewells and went out into the street.
Huh, there you have it. Yes, we have it there. He is a big man, in this place, your brother. His shop is always full of men, talking as you have heard. But they say you must hear him at a meeting, he and Dubula and a brown man named Tomlinson. They say he speaks like a bull, and growls in his throat like a lion, and could make men mad if he would. But for that they say he has not enough courage, for he would surely be sent to prison. I shall tell you one thing, Msimangu continued. Many of the things that he said are true.
He stopped in the street and spoke quietly and earnestly to his companion. Because the white man has power, we too want power, he said. But when a black man gets power, when he gets money, he is a great man if he is not corrupted. I have seen it often. He seeks power and money to put right what is wrong, and when he gets them, why, he enjoys the power and the money. Now he can gratify his lusts, now he can arrange ways to get white man’s liquor, he can speak to thousands and hear them clap their hands. Some of us think when we have power, we shall revenge ourselves on the white man who has had power, and because our desire is corrupt, we are corrupted, and the power has no heart in it. But most white men do not know this truth about power, and they are afraid lest we get it.
He stood as though he was testing his exposition. Yes, that is right about power, he said. But there is only one thing that has power completely, and that is love. Because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power. I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the good of their country, come together to work for it.
He was grave and silent, and then he said somberly, I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find we are turned to hating. This is not the way to get to Doornfontein, he said. Come, let us hurry. And Kumalo followed him silently, oppressed by the grave and somber words. But they were not successful at Doornfontein, although the white men treated them with consideration. Msimangu knew how to arrange things with white men, and they went to a great deal of trouble, and found that Absalom Kumalo had left them some twelve months before. One of them remembered that Absalom had been friendly with one of their workmen, Dhlamini, and this man was sent for from his work. He told them that when he had last heard, Absalom was staying with a Mrs. Ndlela, of End St., Sophiatown, the street that separates Sophiatown from the European suburb of Westdene. He was not sure, but he thought that the number of the house was 105.
So they returned to Sophiatown, and indeed found Mrs. Ndlela at 105 End Street. She received them with a quiet kindness, and her children hid behind her skirts, and peeped out at the visitors. But Absalom was not there, she said. But wait, she had had a letter from him, asking about the things he had left behind. So while Kumalo played with her children, and Msimangu talked to her husband, she brought out a big box full of papers and other belongings, and looked for the letter. And while she was searching, and Msimangu was watching her kind and tired face, he saw her stop in her search for a moment, and look at Kumalo for a moment, half curiously, and half with pity. At last she found the letter, and she showed them the address, c/o Mrs. Mkize, 79 Twenty-third Avenue, Alexandra. Then they must drink a cup of tea, and it was dark before they rose to leave, and the husband stepped out with Kumalo into the street. Why did you look at my friend with pity? asked Msimangu of the woman. She dropped her eyes, then raised them again. He is an umfundisi, she said. Yes. I did not like his son’s friends. Nor did my husband. That is why he left us. I understand you. Was there anything worse than that? No. I saw nothing. But I did not like his friends.
Her face was honest and open, and she did not drop her eyes again. Goodnight, mother. Goodnight, umfundisi.
Out in the street they said farewell to the husband, and set off back to the Mission House. Tomorrow, said Msimangu, we go to Alexandra. Kumalo put his hand on his friend’s arm. The things are not happy that brought me to Johannesburg, he said, but I have found much pleasure in your company. Huh, said Msimangu, huh, we must hurry or we shall be late for our food.
8
THE NEXT MORNING, after they had eaten at the Mission House, Msimangu and Kumalo set off for the great wide road where the buses run. Every bus is here the right bus, said Msimangu.
Kumalo smiled at that, for it was a joke against him and his fear of catching the wrong bus. All these buses go to Johannesburg, said Msimangu. You need not fear to take a wr
ong bus here.
So they took the first bus that came, and it set them down at the place where Kumalo had lost his pound. And then they walked, through many streets full of cars and buses and people, till they reached the bus rank for Alexandra. But here they met an unexpected obstacle, for a man came up to them and said to Msimangu, are you going to Alexandra, umfundisi? Yes, my friend.
We are here to stop you, umfundisi. Not by force, you see he pointed the police are there to prevent that. But by persuasion. If you use this bus you are weakening the cause of the black people. We have determined not to use these buses until the fare is brought back again to fourpence. Yes, indeed, I have heard of it.
He turned to Kumalo. I was very foolish, my friend. I had forgotten that there were no buses; at least I had forgotten the boycott of the buses. Our business is very urgent, said Kumalo humbly. This boycott is also urgent, said the man politely. They want us to pay sixpence, that is one shilling a day. Six shillings a week, and some of us only get thirty-five or forty shillings. Is it far to walk? asked Kumalo. It is a long way, umfundisi. Eleven miles. That is a long way, for an old man. Men as old as you are doing it every day, umfundisi. And women, and some that are sick, and some crippled, and children. They start walking at four in the morning, and they do not get back till eight at night. They have a bite of food, and their eyes are hardly closed on the pillow before they must stand up again, sometimes to start off with nothing but hot water in their stomachs. I cannot stop you taking a bus, umfundisi, but this is a cause to fight for. If we lose it, then they will have to pay more in Sophiatown and Claremont and Kliptown and Pimville. I understand you well. We shall not use the bus.
The man thanked them and went to another would-be traveller. That man has a silver tongue, said Kumalo. That is the famous Dubula, said Msimangu quietly. A friend of your brother John. But they say excuse me, my friend that Tomlinson has the brains, and your brother the voice, but that this man has the heart. He is the one the Government is afraid of, because he himself is not afraid. He seeks nothing for himself. They say he has given up his own work to do this picketing of the buses, and his wife pickets the other bus rank at Alexandra. That is something to be proud of. Johannesburg is a place of wonders. They were church people, said Msimangu regretfully, but are so no longer. Like your brother, they say the church has a fine voice, but no deeds. Well, my friend, what do we do now? I am willing to walk. Eleven miles, and eleven miles back. It is a long journey. I am willing. You understand I am anxious, my friend. This Johannesburg it is no place for a boy to be alone. Good. Let us begin then.
So they walked many miles through the European city, up Twist Street to the Clarendon Circle, and down Louis Botha towards Orange Grove. And the cars and the lorries never ceased, going one way or the other. After a long time a car stopped and a white man spoke to them. Where are you two going? he asked. To Alexandra, sir, said Msimangu, taking off his hat. I thought you might be. Climb in.
That was a great help to them, and at the turn-off to Alexandra they expressed their thanks. It is a long journey, said the white man. And I know that you have no buses. They stood to watch him go on, but he did not go on. He swung round, and was soon on the road back to Johannesburg. Huh, said Msimangu, that is something to marvel at. It was still a long way to Twenty-third Avenue, and as they passed one avenue after the other, Msimangu explained that Alexandra was outside the boundaries of Johannesburg, and was a place where a black man could buy land and own a house. But the streets were not cared for, and there were no lights, and so great was the demand for accommodation that every man if he could, built rooms in his yard and sublet them to others. Many of these rooms were the hide-outs for thieves and robbers, and there was much prostitution and brewing of illicit liquor. These things are so bad, said Msimangu, that the white people of Orange Grove and Norwood and Highlands North got up a great petition to do away with the place altogether. One of our young boys snatched a bag there from an old white woman, and she fell to the ground, and died there of shock and fear. And there was a terrible case of a white woman who lived by herself in a house not far from here, and because she resisted some of our young men who broke in, they killed her. Sometimes too white men and women sit in their cars in the dark under the trees on the Pretoria Road; and some of our young men sometimes rob and assault them, sometimes even the women. It is true that they are often bad women, but that is the one crime we dare not speak of. It reminds me, he said, of a different case on the other side of Johannesburg. One of my friends lives there in a house that stands by itself on the Potchefstroom road. It was a cold winter’s night, and it was still far from morning when there was a knock on the door. It was a woman knocking, a white woman, with scarcely a rag to cover her body. Those she had were torn, and she held them with her hands to hide her nakedness, and she was blue with the cold. A white man had done this to her, taken her in his car, and when he had satisfied himself or not, I cannot say, I was not there he threw her out into the cold, with these few rags, and drove back to Johannesburg. Well my friend and his wife found an old dress for her, and an old coat, and boiled water for tea, and wrapped her in blankets. The children were awake, and asking questions, but my friends told them to sleep, and would not let them come in to see. Then my friend went off in the dark to the house of a white farmer not very far away.
The dogs were fierce and he was afraid, but he persisted, and when the white man came he told him of the trouble, and that it was the kind of thing to be settled quietly. The white man said, Huh, I will come. He brought out his car, and they went back to my friend’s house. The white woman would have shown her thanks with money, but she had no money. My friend and his wife both told her it was not a matter for money. The white man said to my friend, he said it twice,Fy is ‘n goeie Kaffer, you are a good Kaffir. Something touched him, and he said it in the words that he had.
I am touched also.
Well, I was telling you about this petition. Our white friends fought against this petition, for they said that the good things of Alexandra were more than the bad. That it was something to have a place of one’s own, and a house to bring up children in, and a place to have a voice in, so that a man is something in the land where he was born. Professor Hoernle he is dead, God rest his soul he was the great fighter for us. Huh, I am sorry you cannot hear him. For he had Tomlinson’s brains, and your brother’s voice, and Dubula’s heart, all in one man. When he spoke, there was no white man that could speak against him. Huh, I remember it even now. He would say that this is here, and that is there, and that yonder is over there yonder, and there was no man that could move these things by so much as an inch from the places where he put them. Englishman or Afrikaner, they could move nothing from the places where he put them. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. I have talked a great deal, he said, right up to the very house we are seeking.
A woman opened the door to them. She gave them no greeting, and when they stated their business, it was with reluctance that she let them in. You say the boy has gone, Mrs. Mkize? Yes, I do not know where he is gone. When did he go? These many months. A year it must be. And had he a friend? Yes, another Kumalo. The son of his father’s brother. But they left together. And you do not know where they went? They talked of many places. But you know how these young men talk. How did he behave himself, this young man Absalom? Kumalo asked her. Have no doubt it is fear in her eyes. Have no doubt it is fear now in his eyes also. It is fear, here in this house. I saw nothing wrong, she said. But you guessed there was something wrong. There was nothing wrong, she said. Then why are you afraid? I am not afraid, she said. Then why do you tremble? asked Msimangu. I am cold, she said.
She looked at them sullenly, watchfully. We thank you, said Msimangu. Stay well. Go well, she said.
Out in the street Kumalo spoke. There is something wrong, he said. I do not deny it. My friend, two of us are too many together. Turn left at the big street and go up the hill, and you will find a place for refreshment. Wait
for me there.
Heavy-hearted the old man went, and Msimangu followed him slowly till he turned at the corner. Then he turned back himself, and returned to the house. She opened again to him, as sullen as before; now that she had recovered, there was more sullenness than fear. I am not from the police, he said. I have nothing to do with the police. I wish to have nothing to do with them. But there is an old man suffering because he cannot find his son. That is a bad thing, she said, but she spoke as one speaks who must speak so. It is a bad thing, he said, and I cannot leave you until you have told what you would not tell. I have nothing to tell, she said. You have nothing to tell because you are afraid. And you do not tremble because it is cold. And why do I tremble? she asked. That I do not know. But I shall not leave you till I discover it. And if it is necessary, I shall go to the police after all, because there will be no other place to go. It is hard for a woman who is alone, she said resentfully. It is hard for an old man seeking his son. I am afraid, she said. He is afraid also. Could you not see he is afraid? I could see it, umfundisi. Then tell me, what sort of life did they lead here, these two young men? But she kept silent, with the fear in her eyes, and tears near to them. He could see she would be hard to move. I am a priest. Would you not take my word? But she kept silent. Have you a Bible? I have a Bible. Then I will swear to you on the Bible.
But she kept silent till he said again, I will swear to you on the Bible. So getting no peace, she rose irresolute, and went to a room behind, and after some time she returned with the Bible. I am a priest, he said. My yea has always been yea, and my nay, nay. But because you desire it, and because an old man is afraid, I swear to you on this Book that no trouble will come to you of this, for we seek only a boy. So help me Tixo . What sort of life did they lead? he asked. They brought many things here, umfundisi, in the late hours of the night. They were clothes, and watches, and money, and food in bottles, and many other things. Was there ever blood on them? I never saw blood on them, umfundisi. That is something. Only a little, but something. And why did they leave? he asked. I do not know, umfundisi. But I think they were near to being discovered. And they left when? About a year since, umfundisi. Indeed as I told you. And here on this Book you will swear you do not know where they are gone? She reached for the Book, but, it does not matter, he said. He said farewell to her, and hurried out after his friend. But she called after him: They were friendly with the taxi-driver Hlabeni. Near the bus rank he lives. Everyone knows him. For that I give you thanks. Stay well, Mrs. Mkize. At the refreshment stall he found his friend. Did you find anything further? asked the old man eagerly. I heard of a friend of theirs, the taxi-driver Hlabeni. Let me first eat, and we shall find him out.