When Msimangu had eaten, he went to ask a man where he could find Hlabeni, the taxi-driver. There he is on the corner sitting in his taxi, said the man. Msimangu walked over to the taxi, and said to the man sitting in it, Good afternoon, my friend. Good afternoon, umfundisi. I want a taxi, my friend. What do you charge to Johannesburg? For myself and a friend? For you, umfundisi, I should charge eleven shillings. It is a lot of money. Another taxi would charge fifteen or twenty shillings. My companion is old and tired. I shall pay you eleven shillings. The man made to start his engine, but Msimangu stopped him. I am told, he said, that you can help me to find a young man Absalom Kumalo. Have no doubt too that this man is afraid. But Msimangu was quick to reassure him. I am not here for trouble, he said. I give you my word that I am seeking trouble neither for you nor for myself. But my companion, the old man who is tired, is the father of this young man, and has come from Natal to find him. Everywhere we go, we are told to go somewhere else, and the old man is anxious. Yes, I knew this young man. And where is he now, my friend? I heard he was gone to Orlando, and lives there amongst the squatters in ShantyTown. But further than that I do not know. Orlando is a big place, said Msimangu. Where the squatters live is not so big, umfundisi. It should not be hard to find him. There are people from the Municipality working amongst the squatters, and they know them all. Could you not ask one of those people? There you have helped me, my friend. I know some of those people. Come, we shall take your taxi.
He called Kumalo, and told him they were returning by taxi. They climbed in, and the taxi rattled out of Alexandra on to the broad high road that runs from Pretoria to Johannesburg. The afternoon was late now, and the road was crowded with traffic, for at this time it pours both into and out of Johannesburg on this road. You see the bicycles, my friend. These are the thousands of Alexandra people returning home after their work, and just now we shall see the thousands of them walking, because of the boycott of the buses.
And true, they had not gone far before the pavements were full of the walking people. There were so many that they overflowed into the streets, and the cars had to move carefully. And some were old, and some tired, and some even crippled as they had been told, but most of them walked resolutely, as indeed they had been doing now these past few weeks. Many of the white people stopped their cars, and took in the black people, to help them on their journey to Alexandra. Indeed, at one robot where they stopped, a traffic officer was talking to one of these white men, and they heard the officer asking whether the white man had a license to carry the black people. I am asking no money, said the white man. But you are carrying passengers on a bus route, said the officer. Then take me to court, said the white man. But they heard no more than that, for they had to move on because the light was green. I have heard of that, said Msimangu. I have heard that they are trying to prevent the white people from helping with their cars, and that they are even ready to take them to the courts.
It was getting dark now, but the road was still thick with the Alexandra people going home. And there were still cars stopping to give them lifts, especially to the old people, and the women, and the cripples. Kumalo’s face wore the smile, the strange smile not known in other countries, of a black man when he sees one of his people helped in public by a white man, for such a thing is not lightly done. And so immersed was he in the watching that he was astonished when Msimangu suddenly burst out:
It beats me, my friend, it beats me.
What beats you, this kindness?
No, no. To tell the truth I was not thinking of it.
He sat up in the taxi, and hit himself a great blow across the chest. Take me to court, he said. He glared fiercely at Kumalo and hit himself again across the chest. Take me to court, he said.
Kumalo looked at him bewildered. That is what beats me, Msimangu said.
9
ALL ROADS LEAD to Johannesburg. If you are white or if you are black they lead to Johannesburg. If the crops fail, there is work in Johannesburg. If there are taxes to be paid, there is work in Johannesburg. If the farm is too small to be divided further, some must go to Johannesburg. If there is a child to be born that must be delivered in secret, it can be delivered in Johannesburg. The black people go to Alexandra or Sophiatown or Orlando, and try to hire rooms or to buy a share of a house. Have you a room that you could let? No, I have no room. Have you a room that you could let? It is let already. Have you a room that you could let?
Yes, I have a room that I could let, but I do not want to let it. I have only two rooms, and there are six of us already, and the boys and girls are growing up. But school books cost money, and my husband is ailing, and when he is well it is only thirty-five shillings a week. And six shillings of that is for the rent, and three shillings for travelling, and a shilling that we may all be buried decently, and a shilling for the books, and three shillings is for clothes and that is little enough, and a shilling for my husband’s beer, and a shilling for his tobacco, and these I do not grudge for he is a decent man and does not gamble or spend his money on other women, and a shilling for the Church, and a shilling for sickness. And that leaves seventeen shillings for food for six, and we are always hungry. Yes I have a room but I do not want to let it. How much would you pay? I could pay three shillings a week for the room. And I would not take it. Three shillings and sixpence. Three shillings and sixpence. You can’t fill your stomach on privacy. You need privacy when your children are growing up, but you can’t fill your stomach on it. Yes, I shall take three shillings and sixpence.
The house is not broken, but it is overflowing. Ten people in two rooms, and only one door for the entrance, and people to walk over you when you go to sleep. But there is a little more food for the children, and maybe once a month a trip to the pictures.
I do not like this woman, nor the way she looks at my husband. I do not like this boy, nor the way he looks at my daughter. I do not like this man, I do not like the way he looks at me, I do not like the way he looks at my daughter. I am sorry, but you must go now. We have no place to go to. I am sorry, but the house is too full. It cannot hold so many. We have put our name down for a house. Can you not wait till we get a house? There are people in Orlando who have been waiting five years for a house. I have a friend who waited only one month for a house. I have heard of such. They say you can pay a bribe. We have no money for a bribe. I am sorry, but the house is full.
Yes, this house is full, and that house is full. For everyone is coming to Johannesburg. From the Transkei and the Free State, from Zululand and Sekukuniland. Zulus and Swazis, Shangaans and Bavenda, Bapedi and Basuto, Xosas and Tembus, Pondos and Fingos, they are all coming to Johannesburg. I do not like this woman. I do not like this boy. I do not like this man. I am sorry, but you must go now. Another week, that is all I ask. You may have one more week. Have you a room to let? No, I have no room to let. Have you a room to let? It is let already. Have you a room to let?
Yes, I have a room to let, but I do not want to let it. For I have seen husbands taken away by women, and wives taken away by men. I have seen daughters corrupted by boys, and sons corrupted by girls. But my husband gets only thirty-four shillings a week. What shall we do, those who have no houses?
You can wait five years for a house, and be no nearer getting it than at the beginning. They say there are ten thousand of us in Orlando alone, living in other people’s houses. Do you hear what Dubula says? That we must put up our own houses here in Orlando? And where do we put up the houses? On the open ground by the railway line, Dubula says. And of what do we build the houses? Anything you can find. Sacks and planks and grass from the veld and poles from the plantations. And when it rains? Siyafa. Then we die. No, when it rains, they will have to build us houses. It is foolishness. What shall we do in the winter? Six years waiting for a house. And full as the houses are, they grow yet fuller, for the people still come to Johannesburg. There has been a great war raging in Europe and North Africa, and no houses are being built. Have you a house for me
yet? There is no house yet. Are you sure my name is on the list? Yes, your name is on the list. What number am I on the list? I cannot say, but you must be about number six thousand on the list. Number six thousand on the list. That means I shall never get a house, and I cannot stay where I am much longer. We have quarrelled about the stove, we have quarrelled about the children, and I do not like the way the man looks at me. There is the open ground by the railway line, but what of the rain and the winter? They say we must go there, all go together, fourteen days from today. They say we must get together the planks and the sacks and the tins and the poles, and all move together. They say we must all pay a shilling a week to the Committee, and they will move all our rubbish and put up lavatories for us, so that there is no sickness. But what of the rain and the winter? Have you a house for me yet? There is no house yet. But I have been two years on the list. You are only a child on the list. Is it true that if you pay money ?
But the man does not hear me, he is already busy with another. But a second man comes to me from what place I do not see, and what he says bewilders me. I am sorry they have no house, Mrs. Seme. By the way, my wife would like to discuss with you the work of the Committee. Tonight at seven o’clock, she said. You know our house, No. 17852, near the Dutch Reformed Church. Look, I shall write down the number for you. Good morning, Mrs. Seme. But when I make to answer him, he is already gone. Ho, but this man bewilders me. Who is his wife, I do not know her. And what is this committee, I know of no committee. Ho, but you are a simple woman. He wants to discuss with you the money you are willing to pay for a house.
Well, I shall go there then. I hope he does not ask too much, one cannot pay too much on thirty-seven shillings a week. But a house we must have. I am afraid of the place where we are. There is too much coming and going, when all decent people are asleep. Too many young men coming and going, that seem never to sleep, and never to work. Too much clothing, good clothing, white people’s clothing. There will be trouble one day, and my husband and I have never been in trouble. A house we must have. Five pounds is too much. I have not the money. Five pounds is not too much for a house, Mrs. Seme. What, just to put my name higher on the list? But it is dangerous. The European manager has said that he will deal severely with any who tamper with the list. Well I am sorry. But I cannot pay the money.
But before I can go, his wife comes into the room with another woman. There must be a mistake, my husband. I do not know this woman. She is not on the Committee. Ho, I am sorry, my wife. I am sorry, Mrs. Seme. I thought you were on the committee. Go well, Mrs. Seme.
But I do not say stay well. I do not care if they stay well or ill. And nothing goes well with me. I am tired and lonely. Oh my husband, why did we leave the land of our people? There is not much there, but it is better than here. There is not much food there, but it is shared by all together. If all are poor, it is not so bad to be poor. And it is pleasant by the river, and while you wash your clothes the water runs over the stones, and the wind cools you. Two weeks from today, that is the day of the moving. Come my husband, let us get the planks and the tins and the sacks and the poles. I do not like the place where we are. There are planks at the Baragwanath Hospital, left there by the builders. Let us go tonight and carry them away. There is corrugated iron at the Reformatory, they use it to cover the bricks. Let us go tonight and carry it away. There are sacks at the Nancefield Station, lying neatly packed in bundles. Let us go tonight and carry them away. There are trees at the Crown Mines. Let us go tonight and cut a few poles quietly.
This night they are busy in Orlando. At one house after another the lights are burning. I shall carry the iron, and you my wife the child, and you my son two poles, and you small one, bring as many sacks as you are able, down to the land by the railway lines. Many people are moving there, you can hear the sound of digging and hammering already. It is good that the night is warm, and there is no rain. Thank you, Mr. Dubula, we are satisfied with this piece of ground. Thank you, Mr. Dubula, here is our shilling for the Committee. ShantyTown is up overnight. What a surprise for the people when they wake in the morning. Smoke comes up through the sacks, and one or two have a chimney already. There was a nice chimney-pipe lying there at the Kliptown Police Station, but I was not such a fool as to take it.
ShantyTown is up overnight. And the newspapers are full of us. Great big words and pictures. See, that is my husband, standing by the house. Alas, I was too late for the picture. Squatters, they call us. We are the squatters. This great village of sack and plank and iron, with no rent to pay, only a shilling to the Committee.
ShantyTown is up overnight. The child coughs badly, and her brow is as hot as fire. I was afraid to move her, but it was the night for the moving. The cold wind comes through the sacks. What shall we do in the rain, in the winter? Quietly my child, your mother is by you. Quietly my child, do not cough any more, your mother is by you.
The child coughs badly, her brow is hotter than fire. Quietly my child, your mother is by you. Outside there is laughter and jesting, digging and hammering, and calling in languages that I do not know. Quietly my child, there is a lovely valley where you were born. The water sings over the stones, and the wind cools you. The cattle come down to the river, they stand there under the trees. Quietly my child, oh God make her quiet. God have mercy upon us. Christ have mercy upon us. White man, have mercy upon us. Mr. Dubula, where is the doctor? We shall get the doctor in the morning. You need not fear, the Committee will pay for him. But the child is like to die. Look at the blood. It is not long till morning. It is long when the child is dying, when the heart is afraid. Can we not get him now, Mr. Dubula? I shall try, mother. I shall go now and try. I am grateful, Mr. Dubula.
Outside there is singing, singing round a fire. It is Nkosi sikelel iAfrika that they sing, God Save Africa. God save this piece of Africa that is my own, delivered in travail from my body, fed from my breast, loved by my heart, because that is the nature of women. Oh lie quietly, little one. Doctor, can you not come? I have sent for the doctor, mother. The Committee has sent a car for the doctor. A black doctor, one of our own. I am grateful, Mr. Dubula. Shall I ask them to be quiet, mother? It does not matter, she does not know.
Perhaps a white doctor would have been better, but any doctor if only he come. Does it matter if they are quiet, these sounds of an alien land? I am afraid, my husband. She burns my hand like fire.
We do not need the doctor any more. No white doctor, no black doctor, can help her any more. Oh child of my womb and fruit of my desire, it was pleasure to hold the small cheeks in the hands, it was pleasure to feel the tiny clutching of the fingers, it was pleasure to feel the little mouth tugging at the breast. Such is the nature of woman. Such is the lot of women, to carry, to bear, to watch, and to lose.
The white men come to ShantyTown. They take photographs of us, and moving photographs for the pictures. They come and wonder what they can do, there are so many of us. What will the poor devils do in the rain? What will the poor devils do in the winter? Men come, and machines come, and they start building rough houses for us. That Dubula is a clever man, this is what he said they would do. And no sooner do they begin to build for us, than there come in the night other black people, from Pimville and Alexandra and Sophiatown, and they too put up their houses of sack and grass and iron and poles. And the white men come again, but this time it is anger, not pity. The police come and drive the people away. And some that they drive away are from Orlando itself. They go back to the houses that they left, but of some the rooms are already taken, and some will not have them any more.
You need not be ashamed that you live in ShantyTown. It is in the papers, and that is my husband standing by the house. A man here has a paper from Durban, and my husband is there too, standing by the house. You can give your address as ShantyTown, ShantyTown alone, everyone knows where it is, and give the number that the committee has given you.
What shall we do in the rain? in the winter? Already some of them are saying,
look at those houses over the hill. They are not finished, but the roofs are on. One night we shall move there and be safe from the rain and the winter.
10
WHILE KUMALO WAS waiting for Msimangu to take him to ShantyTown, he spent the time with Gertrude and her child. But it was rather to the child, the small serious boy, that he turned for his enjoyment; for he had been a young man in his twenties when his sister was born, and there had never been great intimacy between them. After all he was a parson, sober and rather dull no doubt, and his hair was turning white, and she was a young woman still. Nor could he expect her to talk with him about the deep things that were here in Johannesburg; for it was amongst these very things that saddened and perplexed him, that she had found her life and occupation.