At last Jabavu reaches the doctor, who listens to his chest, taps him, looks in his throat and eyes and armpits and groin, and peers at the secret parts of Jabavu’s body in a way that makes anger mutter in him like thunder. He wishes to kill the white doctor for touching him and looking at him so. But there is also a growing patience in him, which is the first gift of the white man’s city to the black man. It is patience against anger. And when the doctor has said that Jabavu is strong as an ox and fit for work, he may go. The doctor has said, too, that Jabavu has an enlarged spleen, which means he has had malaria and will have it again, that he probably has bilharzia, and there is a suspicion of hookworm. But these are too common for comment, and what the doctor is looking for are diseases which may infect the white people if he works in their houses.
Then the doctor, as Jabavu is turning away, asks him why the blackness came into him so that he fell down, and Jabavu says simply that he is hungry. At this a policeman comes forward and asks why he is hungry. Jabavu says because he has had nothing to eat. At this the policeman says impatiently: “Yes, yes, but have you no money?”—for if not, Jabavu will be sent to a camp where he will get a meal and shelter for that night. But Jabavu says Yes, he has a shilling. “Then why do you not buy food?” “Because I must keep the shilling to buy what I need.” “And do you not need food?”
People are laughing because a man who has a shilling in his pocket allows himself to fall down to the ground with hunger, but Jabavu remains silent.
“And now you must leave here and buy yourself some food and eat it. Have you a place to sleep tonight?”
“Yes,” says Jabavu, who is afraid of this question.
The policeman then gives Jabavu a pass that allows him to seek work for a fortnight. Jabavu has put back his clothes, and now he takes from the pocket the roll of papers that includes his situpa, in order to put the new pass with them. And as he fumbles with them a piece of paper flutters to the floor. The policeman quickly bends down, picks it up and looks at it. On it is written: Mr. Mizi, No. 33 Tree Road, Native Township. The policeman looks with suspicion at Jabavu. “So Mr. Mizi is a friend of yours?”
“No,” says Jabavu.
“Then why have you a piece of paper with his name on it?”
Jabavu’s tongue is locked. After another question he mutters: “I do not know.”
“So you do not know why you have that piece of paper? You know nothing of Mr. Mizi?” The policeman continues to make such sarcastic questions, and Jabavu lowers his eyes and waits patiently for him to stop. The policeman takes out a little book, makes a long note about Jabavu, tells him that it would be wise for him to go to the camp for people newly come to town. Jabavu again refuses, repeating that he has friends with whom to sleep. The policeman says Yes, he can see what his friends are—a remark which Jabavu does not understand—and so at last he is free to leave.
Jabavu walks away from the Pass Office, very happy because of this new pass which allows him to stay in the city. He does not suspect that the first policeman who took his name will hand it in to the office whose business it is, saying that Jabavu is probably a thief, and that the policeman in the Pass Office will give his name and number as a man who is a friend of the dangerous agitator Mr. Mizi. Yes, Jabavu is already well-known in this city after half a day, and yet as he walks out into the street he feels as lost and lonely as an ox that has strayed from the herd. He stands at a corner watching the crowds of Africans streaming along the roads to the Native Township, on foot and on bicycle, talking, laughing, singing. Jabavu thinks he will go and find Mr. Mizi. And so he joins the crowds, walking very slowly because of the many new things there are to see. He stares at everything, particularly at the girls, who seem to him unbelievably beautiful in their smart dresses, and after a time he feels as if one of them is looking at him. But there are so many of them that he cannot keep any particular one in his mind. And in fact many are gazing at him, because he is very handsome in his fine yellow shirt and new trousers. Some even call out to him, but he cannot believe it is meant for him, and looks away.
After some time, he becomes certain that there is one girl who has walked past him, then come back, and is now walking past him again. He is certain because of her dress. It is bright yellow with big red flowers on it. He stares around him and can see no other dress like it, so it must be the same girl. For the third time she saunters by, close on the pavement, and he sees she has smart green shoes on her feet and wears a crocheted cap of pink wool, and she carries a handbag like a white woman. He is shy, looking at this smart girl, yet she is giving him glances he cannot mistake. He asks himself, distrustfully: Should I talk to her? Yet everyone says how immodest are these women of the towns, I should wait until I understand how to behave with her. Shall I smile, so that she will come to me? But the smile will not come to his face. Does she like me? The hunger rises in Jabavu and his eyes go dark. But she will want money and I have only one shilling.
The girl is now walking beside him at the distance of a stretched arm. She asks softly: “Do you like me, handsome, yes?” It is in English, and he replies: “Yes, very much I like.”
“Then why do you frown and look so cross?”
“I do not,” says Jabavu.
“Where do you live?”—and now she is so close he can feel her dress touching him.
“I do not know,” he says, abashed.
At this she laughs and laughs, rolling her eyes about: “You are a funny, clever man, yes that’s true!” And she laughs some more, in a loud, hard way that surprises him, for it does not sound like laughter.
“Where can I find a place to sleep, for I do not wish to go to the camp run by the Native Commissioner,” he asks politely, breaking into the laughter, and she stops and looks at him in real surprise.
“You are from the country?” she asks, after a long time, looking at his clothes.
“I came today from my village, I have got a pass for looking for work, I am very hungry and I know nothing,” he says, his voice falling into a humble tone, which annoys him, for he wishes to act the big man with this girl, and now he is speaking like a child. Anger at himself makes a small, feeble movement and then lies quiet: he is too hungry and lost. As for her, she has moved away to the edge of the pavement, and there walks in silence, frowning. Then she says: “Did you learn to speak English at a mission?”
“No,” says Jabavu, “in my kraal.”
Again she is silent. She does not believe him. “And where did you get that fine smart shirt and the white-man trousers just like new?”
Jabavu hesitates, then with a swagger says: “I took them this morning from a garden as I went past.”
And now again the girl laughs, rolls her eyes, and says: “Heh, heh, what a clever boy, he comes straight from the kraal and steals so clever!” At once she stops laughing, for she has said this to gain time; she has not believed him. She walks on, thinking. She is a member of a gang who look out for such raw country boys, steal from them, make use of them as is necessary for their work. But she spoke to him because she liked him—it was a holiday from her work. But now what should she do? For it seems that Jabavu is a member of another gang, or perhaps works by himself, and if so, her own gang should know about it.
Another glance at him shows her that he walks along with a serious face, apparently indifferent to her—she goes up to him swiftly, eyes flashing, teeth showing: “You lie! You tell me big lie, that’s the truth!”
Jabavu shrinks away—haul but what women these are! “I do not lie,” he says, angrily. “It is as I have said.” And he begins to walk away from her, thinking: I was a fool to speak to her, I do not understand the ways of these girls.
And she, watching him, notices his feet, which are bare, and they have certainly never worn shoes—he is telling the truth. And in this case—she makes up her mind in a flash. A raw boy who can come to town, steal so cleverly without being caught, this is talent that can be turned to good use. She goes after him, says politely: “Tel
l me how you did the stealing, it was very cunning.”
And Jabavu’s vanity spurs him to tell the story exactly as it happened, while she listens thoughtfully. “You should not be wearing those clothes now,” she says at last. “For the white missus will have told the police, and they will be watching the boys new to town in case they have the clothes.”
Jabavu asks in surprise: “How can they find one pair of trousers and one shirt in a city full of shirts and trousers?”
She laughs and says: “You know nothing, there are as many police watching us as flies around porridge; you come with me, I will take those clothes and give you others, as good as those, but different.” Jabavu thanks her politely but edges away. He has understood she is a thief. And he does not think of himself as a thief—he has stolen today, but he hardly gives it that name. Rather he feels as if he has helped himself to crumbs from the rich man’s table. After a pause he enquires: “Do you know Mr. Mizi of 33 Tree Road?”
For the second time she is surprised into silence; then distrust fills her, and she thinks: This man either knows nothing at all or he is very cunning. She says, sarcastically, in the same tone that the policeman in the Pass Office used: “You have fine friends. And how should I know a great man like Mr. Mizi?”
But Jabavu tells her of the encounter at night in the bush, of Mr. and Mrs. Samu and the other, of what they said, and how they admired him for learning to read and write by himself, and gave him Mr. Mizi’s name.
At last this girl believes him, and understands, and she thinks: “Certainly I must not let him slip away. He will be of great help in our work.” And there is another thought, even more powerful: Heh! but he is handsome . . .
Jabavu asks, politely: “And do you like these people, Mr. Samu and Mrs. Samu and Mr. Mizi?”
She laughs scornfully and with disappointment, for she wishes him only to think of her. “You mad? You think I am mad too? Those people stupid. They call themselves leaders of the African people, they talk and talk, they write letters to the Government: Please Sir, Please. Give us food, give us houses, let us not carry passes all the time. And the Government throws them a shilling after years of asking and they say, Thank you, sir. They are fools.” And then she sidles up to him, lays her hand inside his elbow, and says: “Besides, they are skellums—did you not see that? You come with me, I help you.”
Jabavu feels the warm hand inside his bare arm, and she swings her hips and makes her eyes soft. “You like me, handsome?” And Jabavu says: “Yes, very much,” and so they walk down the road to the Native Township and she talks of the fine things there are to do, of the films and the dances and the drinking. She is careful not to talk of the stealing or of the gang, in case he should be frightened. And there is another reason: there is a man who leads the gang who frightens her. She thinks: If this new clever man likes me, I will make him marry me, I will leave the gang and work with him alone.
Because her words are one thing and what she is thinking another, there is something in her manner that confuses Jabavu, and he does not trust her; besides, that dizziness is coming back in waves, and there are moments when he does not hear what she says.
“What is the matter?” she asks at last, when he stops and closes his eyes.
“I have told you that I am hungry,” he says out of the darkness around him.
“But you must be patient,” she says lightly, for it is such a long time since she has been hungry she has forgotten how it feels. She becomes irritated when he walks slowly, and even thinks: This man is no good, he’s not strong for a girl like me—and then she notices that Jabavu is staring at a bicycle with a basket on the back, and as he is reaching out his arm for the bread in the basket, she strikes down his arm.
“You crazy?” she asks in a high, scared voice, glancing around. For there are people all around them. “I am hungry,” he says again, staring at the loaves of bread. She quickly takes some money from a place in front of her dress, gives it to the vendor, and hands a loaf of bread to Jabavu. He begins to eat as he stands, so hungrily that people turn to stare and laugh, and she gazes at him with shocked, big eyes and says: “You are a pig, not a smart boy for me.” And she walks away ahead of him thinking: This is nothing but a raw kraal boy. I am crazy to like him. But Jabavu does not care at all. He eats the bread and feels the strength coming back to him, and the thoughts begin to move properly through his mind. When he has finished the bread he looks for the girl, but all he can see is a yellow dress far down the road, and the skirt of the dress is swinging in a way that reminds him of the mockery of her words: You are a pig . . . Jabavu walks fast to catch her; he comes up beside her and says: “Thank you, my friend, for the bread. I was very hungry.” She says, without looking around, “Pig, dog without manners.” He says: “No, that is not true. When a man is so hungry, one cannot talk of manners.” “Kraal boy,” she says, swinging her hips, but thinking: “It does no harm to show him I know more than he does.” And then says Jabavu, full of bread and new strength: “You are nothing but a bitch woman. There are many smart girls in this city, and as pretty as you.” And with this he marches off ahead of her and is looking around for another pretty girl when she runs up to him.
“Where are you going?” she asks, smiling. “Did I not say I would help you?”
“You shall not call me kraal boy,” says Jabavu magnificently, and with real strength, since he truly does not care for her more than the others he sees about him, and so she gives him a quick, astonished look and is silent.
Now that Jabavu’s stomach is filled he is looking around him with interest again, and so he asks questions continually and she answers him pleasantly. “What are these big houses with smoke coming out?” “They are factories.” “What is this place full of little bits of garden with crosses and stone shaped like children with wings?” “It is the cemetery for the white people.” So, having walked a long way, they turn off the main road into the Native Township, and the first thing Jabavu notices is that while in the city of the white people the soil lies hidden under grass and gardens or asphalt, here it billows up in thick red clouds, gives the sun a dulled and sullen face, and makes the trees look as if a swarm of locusts had passed, so still and heavy with dust are they. Also, there are now such swarms of Africans all around him that he has to make himself strong, like a rock in the middle of a swift river. And still he asks questions, and is told that this big, empty place is for playing football, and this for wrestling, and then they come to the buildings. Now these are like the house of the Greek, small, ugly, bare. But there are very many, and close together. The girl strolls along calling out greetings in her high, shrill voice, and Jabavu notices that sometimes she is called Betty, sometimes Nada, sometimes Eliza. He asks: “Why do you have so many names?” And she laughs and says: “How do you know I am not many girls?” And now, and for the first time, he laughs as she does, high and hard, doubling up his body, for it seems to him a very good joke. Then he straightens and says: “I shall call you Nada,” and she says quickly: “My village name for a village boy!” At once he says: “No, I like Betty,” and she presses her thigh against his and says: “My good friends call me Betty.”
He says he wishes to see all this town now, before it grows dark, and she says it will not take long. “The white man’s town is very big and it takes many days to see it. But our town is small, though we are ten, twenty, a hundred times as many.” Then she adds: “That is what they call justice,” and looks to see the effect of the word. But Jabavu remembers that when Mr. Samu used it it sounded different, and he frowns, and seeing his frown she leads him forward, talking of something else. For if he does not understand her, she understands that what the men of light—for this is how they are called—have said to Jabavu marked his mind deeply, and she thinks: If I am not careful he will go to Mr. Mizi and I will lose him and the gang will be very angry.
When they pass Mr. Mizi’s house, number 33 Tree Road, she makes some rude jokes about him, but Jabavu is silent, and Betty thinks:
Perhaps I should let him go to Mr. Mizi? For if he goes later, it may be dangerous. Yet she cannot bear to let him go, already her heart is soft and heavy for Jabavu. She leads him through the streets very kindly and politely, answering all his questions, though their foolishness often makes her impatient. She explains that the better houses, which have two rooms and a kitchen, are for the rich Africans, and the big, strangely-shaped houses are called Nissen huts, where twenty single men sleep, and these old shacks are called the Old Bricks, and they are for those who earn only a little, and this building here is the Hall, for meetings and dances. Then they reach a big open space which is filled with people. It is the market, and policemen are everywhere, walking with whips in their hands. Jabavu is thinking that one small loaf of bread, although it was white and fine to eat, was not much for a stomach as long empty as his, and he is looking at the various foodstuffs when Betty says: “Wait, we shall eat better than this later.” And Jabavu looks at the people who buy some groundnuts or a few cooked maize-cobs for their supper, and already feels superior to them because of what Betty says.
Soon she pulls him away, for she has lived so long here that she cannot find interest, as he does, in watching the people; and now they walk away from the centre and she says: “Now we are going to Poland.” Her face is ready for laughter, Jabavu sees it is a joke and asks: “And what is the joke in Poland?”
She says, quickly, before her laughter gets too strong: “In the war of the white people that has just finished, there was a country called Poland, and there was a terrible fight, with many bombs, and so now we call where we are going Poland because of the fights and the trouble there.” She lets her laughter loose, but stops when she sees Jabavu stern and silent. He is thinking: I do not want fighting and trouble. Then she says in a little, foolish voice, like a child: “And so now we are going to Johannesburg,” and he, not wanting to appear afraid, asks: “What is the joke in this?” She says: “This place is also called Johannesburg because there are fights and trouble in the townships of Johannesburg.” And now she bends double with laughing, and Jabavu laughs from politeness. Then, seeing it is only politeness, she says, wishing to impress him, and with a big, important sigh: “Ah, yes, these white people, they tell us: See how we have saved you from the wicked fighting of the tribes; we have brought you peace—and yet see how they make wars and kill so many people one cannot understand the numbers when they are written in the newspaper.” This she has heard Mr. Mizi say at a meeting; and when she notices that Jabavu is impressed, she goes on proudly: “Yes, and that is what they call civilisation!” At this Jabavu asks: “I do not understand, what is civilisation?” And she says, like a teacher: “It is how the white men live, with houses and bioscope and cowboys and food and bicycles.” “Then I like civilisation,” says Jabavu, from the pulse of his deepest hunger, and Betty laughs amiably and says: “Heh, but you are one big fool my friend, I like you.”
African Stories Page 57
