When Rain Clouds Gather

by Bessie Head

  “Look here, my child,” she said, firmly. “The man is a newcomer and you can’t go jumping to conclusions. Besides, I suspect that Maria has long been in love with Gilbert, only you are not to spread this about.”

  These words prevented Paulina from giving way completely to despair. She even gossiped quite gaily with Mma-Millipede about trifling matters, then a short while later arose and left for her own home. But Paulina’s revelations of her interest in Makhaya caused Mma-Millipede a few hours of anxious thought. Mma-Millipede was of the old school, among whom, to a certain extent, foreigners were still taboo. Also, her experience of men had been a very limited and disastrous one. Most of all she feared that another tragedy would be too much for her impetuous young friend.

  “I hope Makhaya is a good man,” she said over and over to herself.

  Just at this time, Makhaya was trying to avoid a situation at the farm that both exasperated and amused him. To Gilbert, agriculture was a vast, rambling, intricate subject. The slope of the land and even the stones that lay on that land would spark off a thousand speculations in his mind, and there were so few good listeners in the world that Makhaya found himself trapped and almost forced to listen to long discussions on the marvels and wonders of the earth. Not that Makhaya minded. It was a welcome change to be hearing about these things. There was much more than South Africa that he was running away from, and it included everything that he felt was keeping the continent of Africa at a standstill. On the one hand, you felt yourself the persecuted man, and on the other, you so easily fell prey to all the hate-making political ideologies, which seemed to him to be the order of the day. Yet these hate-making ideologies in turn gave rise to a whole new set of retrogressive ideas and retrogressive pride, and it was almost a mania to think that the whole world was against you. And how many pompous, bombastic fools had not jumped on this bandwagon? Yet the very real misery was still there. No matter what kind of fool you made of yourself, people in southern Africa were still oppressed.

  At some stage, and in an effort to solve his own dilemma, he decided to strike out on his own. He saw this mass of suffering mankind of which he was a part, but he also saw himself as a separate particle, too, and as time went on he began to stress his own separateness, taking this as a guide that would lead him to clarity of thought in all the confusion. It was rare. It was an uphill task in a part of the world where everyone tended to cling to his or her precious prejudice and tradition, and the act of letting go of it all greatly increased a man’s foes. You find yourself throwing blows but weeping at the same time, because of all the people who sit and wail in the darkness, and because of all the fat smug persecutors to whom this wailing is like sweet music, and some inner voice keeps on telling you that your way is right for you, that the process of rising up from the darkness is an intensely personal and private one, and that if you can find a society that leaves the individual to develop freely you ought to choose that society as your home. Makhaya had made the first move along this road but at the same time he was often stricken with guilt. If Joas Tsepe had called him to his face, ‘a traitor to the African cause’, he would have agreed in his heart because he threw most of his blows at Africa and had done so for a long time. Thus when Makhaya met Gilbert, he was almost a drowning man, and this world of facts and scientific speculation seemed so much easier to handle. Therefore Makhaya turned to agriculture for his salvation, and also to Gilbert. And he did this in guilt and fear of his intuitions because they seemed to him to lack any practical solutions as to why so many people could be persecuted by so few and why so many starved while a few had more than they could eat.

  Gilbert was a complete contrast to this wavering, ambiguous world in which Makhaya lived. He was first and foremost a practical, down-to-earth kind of man, intent only on being of useful service to his fellow men. There was nothing fanciful in him, yet the workings of his mind often confused and fascinated Makhaya. It was like one gigantic storage house of facts and figures and plans and intuitive judgments and impressions. The wheels kept on turning at such a fast pace that Makhaya never ceased to be amazed at the way Gilbert always spoke in a calm, almost soft tone, while the loud humming of these wheels was almost audible. Gilbert’s mind was also like a stop watch. He could abruptly break off a conversation and, ten hours later, pick it up at the exact same point where he had left off. Gilbert prided himself on being an unusually well-informed man. No doubt the sun did too. No doubt the sun knew why the clouds formed and why the wind blew and why the lizards basked in its warmth, and all this immense knowledge made the sun gay and bright, full of trust and affection for mankind. But there were shut-away worlds where the sunlight never penetrated, haunted worlds, full of mistrust and hate, and it was about this side of life that Makhaya was particularly well informed. This sharp contrast in outlook called for a compromise, and Makhaya debated awhile and then gave way. Although manly and independent-minded enough, he found it necessary to say ‘yes’ or merely listen on far too many occasions, and he consoled himself with the thought that he had a lot to learn. In any case, Gilbert’s company and friendship disturbed him far less than most people’s did, although Gilbert’s views on African and world politics were extremely naive and childlike.

  Since poverty was so much a part of his work, Gilbert was fond of expounding on what the British Socialists and the trade union movement had done to alleviate the atrocious living and working conditions of the poor. He several times mentioned his uneasy suspicions of the new Botswana government with its debates on democracy and a tax system that too eagerly encouraged private enterprise.

  “Where is all this talk of democracy going to get us, Mack?” he said one day, glumly. “Only a reasonably developed country can afford the time to debate these pros and cons. What we need here is a dictatorship that will feed, clothe and educate a people. I could work well with a dictatorship, which says, Look here, Gilbert, fill in this poverty programme.”

  He looked at Makhaya, half laughing, half in deep earnest. Makhaya returned an almost hostile look. Not any politics in the world meant anything to him as a stateless person, and every political discussion was a mockery, he felt, of his own helplessness. Since he kept so silent, it forced Gilbert to add, apologetically:

  “I’m not saying that the dictator should stay there, forever, Mack. He must eventually give way to the democracy. But in my opinion a dictatorship is the best method for governing a country like this. What do you think?”

  Makhaya nearly loughed out loud. Gilbert’s statements were an explanation of his own personality. He was a man only impressed by results, and he had been unable to produce these in Botswana the way agricultural experts had produced them in Russia and China. Makhaya wanted to put forward the idea that certain types of socialism might not be suited to African development. Africa had a small population, and it might well be that socialism of every kind was an expedient to solve unwieldly population problems. But his mind swerved away from even this. If a man talked about governments and political systems, he’d soon want to be a part of the whole rotten crew. He preferred to live in the bush.

  “Why not leave this country, even Africa, to trial and error?” he said slowly, uncomfortably. “This is only my opinion. I don’t think I approve of dictatorships in any form, whether for the good of mankind or not. Even if it is painstakingly slow, I prefer a democracy for Africa, come what may.”

  Whether this was a satisfactory remark or not, Gilbert never referred to politics again. Makhaya did not care because, more than anything, he hated politics. Perhaps people could be fed after all, and once it came to the time when a man had to die, he might be more proud to count up the number of his fellow men he had helped to live, rather than the number he had bombed into oblivion.

  It was this private anxiety to put his life to a useful purpose that made Makhaya an amenable listener to the long agricultural discussions, and since Gilbert had at last found a potential convert to his faith, he often pressed Makhaya into having supper with h
im. The food was quite often cooked by Maria, who had always been Gilbert’s companion at this hour because of the Tswana and English lessons. On the two occasions Makhaya had been present, he had not failed to notice, with his sensitivity to atmosphere, that his presence was deeply resented by Maria, worse still since Gilbert absent-mindedly talked agriculture, overlooking her, whereas at this time the hour was usually spent in loud chatter, arguments and laughter. Makhaya could quite clearly hear these friendly exchanges as his hut was very near that of Gilbert’s. They pleased and surprised him, and he came to the conclusion that the aloof Maria had put a great deal of effort into the friendship. To no one else did she condescend to laugh and talk in such a gay, free manner. He understood her temperament, it being very much like his own, and he immediately interpreted the hostility as an inability to admit a stranger into a close relationship. It was this that made Makhaya take walks out into the sunset. But there was also a wide streak of unselfishness in Maria, and she in turn made an elaborate gesture of staying away. It only confused matters and exasperated Makhaya because, for almost three nights after that, Gilbert kept breaking off in the middle of a conversation to say:

  “I wonder why Maria isn’t coming around any more?”

  And then he’d stare at Makhaya as though Makhaya had something to do with it.

  On the evening that Makhaya brought back the thornbush seeds, everything came to a head. Makhaya found Gilbert and Pelotona, the permit man, seated around a log fire near Gilbert’s hut. He joined them, and for a time the discussion was about salt licks, bonemeal, and fodder which were needed at the cattle ranch. Pelotona lived in a hut on the ranch, and for a year had managed both the ranch and cattle co-operative, being assisted by Gilbert only on cattle trucking days. After a while, Pelotona stood up and left for his home on the ranch.

  Noting that Gilbert’s mood was silent, reserved and aloof, Makhaya referred to the seeds which he still held in his hand. Gilbert took them and immediately brightened.

  “You know,” he said. “I noticed the very same thing. I looked it up and found out that the thornbush is an acacia, a branch of the legumes, which includes peas and beans…”

  And he had that expression on his face when he was about to launch out into the miracles and wonders of nature, but suddenly he broke off and slipped back into a mood of intense, reserved silence. He stared at Makhaya for a while and then said:

  “I hope you don’t love Maria, too.”

  So that’s what it all came to, Makhaya thought, and smiled. And he just sat there in the shadowy light of the fire and maintained a deliberate silence. It was all none of his business, and he was experienced enough to know that people who reach a deadlock in their emotional relationships often blame this on others. Gilbert simply misinterpreted this silence and stood up abruptly and walked into his hut. Makhaya did the same, with the only exception that Makhaya was at peace in his mind and hugely enjoying himself. He lit a lamp and picked up a book and then lay full length down on the bed to read. Gilbert paced about in his hut for a bit. He was disturbed and unaccountably angry with someone, but his mind refused to acknowledge who it was. After a time he put on a thick blue jersey and walked down to the home of Dinorego.

  He found the old man and Maria seated near an outdoor fire. They both looked up at his approach and then maintained an alarmed silence, as they could both see that something was wrong. It wasn’t the same Gilbert with that rushing expression of joy on his face, and he walked slowly with his arms folded across his chest. He deliberately ignored Maria and greeted the old man in a quiet voice.

  Maria stood up and said in a slightly trembling voice, “Would you like some tea, Gilbert?”

  He did not reply but she rushed away into one of the huts merely to get away from this nervous atmosphere and then stood there, trembling from head to foot, unable to reach out for a cup and saucer.

  The old man looked at Gilbert solicitously. Whatever was wrong, he was not prepared to go into a panic until he had heard the worst. Dinorego had great faith in his own reasoning ability. It was always there, at the forefront, like a cool waterfall on his thoughts. Gilbert sat down and continued his intense staring into the fire. Eventually the old man said, “What’s the trouble, son?”

  Gilbert raised his head and looked at the old man. “I’m going to marry your daughter,” he said, quietly.

  For once, Dinorego was completely deprived of his speech. Not only that, his ready wit and sound moralizing on every event also deserted him.

  “Do you have any objections?” Gilbert persisted, since the old man just stared at him.

  “I am trying to put my thoughts together, son,” Dinorego said at last. He had expected to hear a forecast about the drought, or that all the farm machinery had broken down, and just right now all that familiar side of Gilbert had been replaced by a man he hardly knew. He looked for a crutch and called out to his daughter. She appeared like a swift shadow and stood just outside the circle of light.

  “Do you hear what Gilbert says,” he said. “Gilbert says he is going to marry you. Are you agreeable?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said.

  The world righted itself a bit.

  “And when do you intend this marriage to take place, my son?” the old man asked, kindly.

  “Tomorrow,” Gilbert said.

  Dinorego raised his hands in the air, as though saying that the whole business was a bit too much for him.

  “As you can see, I am very pleased, my son,” he said. “Only…” and he turned to Maria. “My child, you must go to Mma-Millipede at once. She will know what to do about the marriage which is to take place tomorrow.”

  Gilbert stood up and accompanied Maria for a short while along the dark footpath. From where he sat, the old man heard shouts of laughter and arguments, and he sat there smiling to himself, contemplating the mystery of youth. He had never seen any other man survive so much frustration, difficulties and trouble as Gilbert had, and here he was preparing to rush into more. And Gilbert, once Maria had left him, stood at the crossroads near the farm and looked up at the stars and laughed. If the old man really knew, Gilbert’s life was simple and uncomplicated. Life to him meant love and work. It meant getting out of the rut and the habitual way of doing things. It was like all the rivers and sunsets and the fish in the rivers and the trees and pathways and sun and wind. But most of all it was work. Because, lack of work meant death. And while he thought of all these things, Gilbert’s mind was once more recalled to the workaday world. Those trees – he had forgotten to enlighten Makhaya on the full meaning of the life of the thorn scrub. He turned and swung his way back to the farm.

  The lamp still burned in Makhaya’s hut and Gilbert knocked and, without waiting for a reply, pushed the door open and walked in. Makhaya balanced the book on his chest, glanced up briefly and noticed the excitement that shone in his friend’s eyes. This friend grabbed a chair, sat down and took up the conversation at the point where it had been abruptly broken off.

  “The thornbush is most definitely an acacia, Mack,” he said. “Now, the twining around of the seed-pod is a device for ejecting the seeds when they are ripe, so that they will be flung away from the parent plant. This also explains why the thornbush is able to encroach so rapidly on cultivated land. It’s the toughest little plant I know, but the goats are browsing it to death. Did you know that goats are natural browsers?”

  “No,” said Makhaya, smiling inwardly.

  “Goats prefer shrubs to grass, however lush and sweet,” he said. “But they will eat grass when it is in seed. Much of northern Africa is desert today because the goats destroyed the thornbush. I’ve nothing against the goats, you know. Without their meat and milk we’d all starve in Golema Mmidi, but we’ll have to do something about controlling their eating habits, one of these days.”

  Gilbert sat for a moment in deep thought, no doubt trying to invent new eating habits for the goats, but there was too much he had to keep a tab on tonight. His own emotional life k
ept intruding into his scientific speculations, and he suspected himself of having committed some grievous crime. It was unthinkable that he had precipitated himself into marriage through jealousy of Makhaya, and he was trying to work around this thought before springing the surprise.

  “You know,” he said, in a burst of generosity. “I’d meant to tell you this some time ago, Mack. You’re Kipling’s ‘Thousandth Man’. Do you know the poem?”

  “No,” Makhaya said again, and it was an effort for him to control his laughter. He felt he knew what was coming next.

  “Somehow I knew this the day you stepped into Golema Mmidi,” Gilbert said. “And it’s just today that everything’s clear to me…” He quoted a few lines from the poem:

  “One man in a thousand,” Solomon said,

  “Will stick more close than a brother:

  And it’s worth while seeking him half your days,

  If you find him before the other…”

  But Makhaya had a few reservations about Mr Kipling’s sweeping statements. It was just chance that had brought him to Golema Mmidi, and it was only chance and luck that operated in his destiny.

  “I suppose you mean by that that you’re no longer mad at me,” he observed, dryly. “You nearly bit my head off not so long ago.”

  “It’s not you I was mad at, Mack,” Gilbert said. “It was Maria. You’ve no idea how she’s made me run in circles for three years. Now it’s all ended so easily, I can’t believe it myself. I don’t know why I never thought of going to Dinorego in the first place. You know what he said: ‘Do you hear, Maria? Gilbert says he’s going to marry you. Do you agree?’ And all she said was, ‘Yes, Papa.’ Just that, after saying a thousand different things to me. So, I thought she’d change her mind and I said we’d get married tomorrow.”