Jabavu struggles his way towards the door, for it is as if his ears were full of mocking laughter, and Big Mouth, Big Mouth, repeated often. Yet the people are standing packed in the door and he cannot go out, though he tries so that he disturbs them, and they ask him to be quiet. And while Jabavu stands there, angry and unhappy, a man says to him: “My friend, what you said spoke to my heart. It is very true.” And Jabavu forgets his bitterness and at once is calm and full of pride; for he cannot know that this man spoke only so as to see his face clearly, for he comes to all such meetings pretending to be like the others in order to return later to the Government office which wishes to know who of the Africans are trouble-makers and seditious. Before the meeting is over, Jabavu has told this friendly man his name and his village, and how much he admires the men of light, information which is very welcome.
When Mr. Samu declares the meeting closed, Jabavu slips out as quickly as he can and goes out to the other door where the speakers will come. Mr. Samu smiles and nods when he sees him, and shakes his hand, and introduces him to Mr. Mizi. None congratulate him on what he has said, but rather look at him like village elders who think: That child may grow up to be useful and clever if his parents are strict with him. Mr. Samu says: “Well, well, my young friend, you haven’t had good luck since you came to the city, but you made a mistake if you think yours is an exceptional case.” Then, seeing Jabavu’s dismayed face, he says, kindly: “But why did you run away so early, and why did you not go to Mr. Mizi who is glad to help people who need help?” Jabavu hangs his head and says that he ran away so early because he wished to reach the city soon and did not want to disturb their sleep for nothing, and that he could not find Mr. Mizi’s house.
Mr. Mizi says: “Then come with us now, and you will find it.” Mr. Mizi is a big man, strong, heavy-shouldered. If Jabavu is like a young bull, clumsy with his own strength, then Mr. Mizi is like an old bull who is used to his power. His face is not one a young man may easily love, for there is no laughter in it, no easy warmth. He is stern and thoughtful and his eyes see everything. But if Jabavu does not love Mr. Mizi, he admires him, and at every moment he feels more like a small boy, and as this feeling of dependence, which is one he hates and makes him angry, grows in him, he does not know whether to run away or stay where he is. He stays, however, and walks with a group of others to Mr. Mizi’s house.
It is a house similar to that of the Greek. Jabavu knows now that compared with the houses of the white men it is nothing, but the front room seems very fine to him. There is a big mirror on the wall, and a big table covered with soft green stuff that has thick, silky tassels dangling, and around this table, many chairs. Jabavu sits on the floor as a mark of respect, but Mrs. Mizi, who is welcoming her guests, says kindly: “My friend, sit on this chair,” and pushes it forward for him. Mrs. Mizi is a tiny woman, with a merry face and eyes that dart everywhere looking for something to laugh at. It seems that there is so much laughter in Mrs. Mizi that there is no room for it in Mr. Mizi, while Mr. Mizi thinks so much he has taken all thought from Mrs. Mizi. Seeing Mrs. Mizi alone it is hard to believe she should have a big, stern, clever husband; while seeing Mr. Mizi, one would not think of his wife as small and laughing. Yet together they fit each other, as if they make one person.
Jabavu is so full of awe at being here that he knocks over the chair and feels he would like to die of shame, but Mrs. Mizi laughs at him with such good nature that he begins to laugh too, and only stops when he sees that this gathering of friends is not only for friendship, but also for serious talking.
Seated around the table are Mr. Samu and Mrs. Samu and the brother, and Mr. Mizi and Mrs. Mizi and a young boy who is the Mizis’ son. Mrs. Mizi sets tea on the table, in nice white cups, and plenty of little cakes with pink sugar. The young boy drinks one cup of tea quickly, and then says he wishes to study and goes next door with a cake in his hand, while Mrs. Mizi rolls up her eyes and complains that he will study himself to death. Mr. Mizi, however, tells her not to be a foolish woman, and so she sits down, smiling, to listen.
Mr. Mizi and Mr. Samu talk. It appears that they talk to each other, yet sometimes they glance at Jabavu, for what they are saying is not just what comes into their heads, but is chosen to teach Jabavu what it is good for him to know.
Jabavu does not at once understand this, and when he does that familiar storm of resentment clouds his hearing; one voice says: I, Jabavu, treated like a small child; while the other says: These are good people, listen. So it is only in fragments that their words enter his mind, and there they form a strange and twisted idea that would surprise these wise and clever men if they could see it. But perhaps it is a weakness of such men, who spend their lives studying and thinking and saying things such as: The movement of history, or the development of society, that they forget the childhood of their own minds, when such phrases have a strange and even terrible sound.
So there sits Jabavu at the table, eating the cakes which Mrs. Mizi presses on him, and his face is first sullen and unwilling, then bright and eager, and sometimes his eyes are lowered to hide what he thinks, and then they flash up, saying: Yes, yes, that is true!
Mr. Mizi is saying how hard it is for the African when he first comes to the town knowing nothing save that he must leave everything he has learned in the kraal behind him. He says that such a young man must be forgiven if out of confusion he drifts into the wrong company.
And here Jabavu instinctively lifts his arms to cross them over his bright new shirt, and Mrs. Mizi smiles at him and refills his cup.
Then Mr. Samu says that such a young man has the choice of a short life, with money and a good time, before prison or drink or sickness overtake him, or he may work for the good of his people and . . . but here Mrs. Mizi lets out a yell of laughter and says: “Yes, yes, but that may be a short life too, and prison, just as much.”
Mr. Mizi smiles patiently and says that his wife likes a good joke, and there is a difference between prison for silly things like stealing, and prison for a good cause. Then he goes on to say that a young man of intelligence will soon understand that the company of the matsotsis leads only to trouble, and will devote himself to study. Further, he will soon understand that it is foolish to work as a cook or houseboy or office-boy, for such people are never more than one or two or three together, but he will go into a factory, or even to the mines, because . . . But for the space of perhaps ten minutes Jabavu understands not one word, since Mr. Mizi is using such phrases as the development of industry, the working class, and historical mission. When what Mr. Mizi says becomes again easy to follow, it is that Jabavu must become such a worker that everyone trusts him, and at night he will study on his own or with others, for a man who wishes to lead others must not only be better than they, but also know more . . . and here Mrs. Mizi giggles and says that Mr. Mizi has a swelled head, and he is only a leader because he can talk louder than anyone else. At which Mr. Mizi smiles fondly, and says a woman should respect her husband.
Jabavu, breaking into this flirtation between Mr. Mizi and Mrs. Mizi, asks, suddenly: “Tell me, please, how much money will I earn in a factory?” And there is the hunger in his voice so that Mr. Mizi frowns a little, and Mrs. Mizi makes a little grimace and a shake of the head.
Mr. Mizi says: “Not much money. Perhaps a pound a month. But . . .”
And here Mrs. Mizi laughs irrepressibly and says: “When I was a girl at the Roman school, I heard nothing but God, and how I must be good, and sin is evil, and how wicked to want to be happy in this life, and how I must think only of heaven. Then I met Mr. Mizi and he told me there is no God, and I thought: Ah, now I shall have a fine, handsome man for a husband, and no Church and plenty of fun and dancing and good times. But what I find is that even though there is no God, still I have to be good and not think of dancing or a good time, but only of the time when there is a heaven on earth—sometimes I think these clever men are just as bad as the preachers.” And at this she shakes with laughter so much she puts
her hand over her mouth, and she makes big eyes at her husband over her hand, and he sighs and says, patiently: “There is a certain amount of truth in what you say. There was once a time in the development of society when religion was progressive and held all the goodness of mankind, but now that goodness and hope belongs to the movements of the people everywhere in the world.”
These words make no sense to Jabavu and he looks at Mrs. Mizi for help, like a small child at its mother. And it is true that she knows more of what is passing through his mind than either of the two clever men or even Mrs. Samu, who has none of the child left in her.
Mrs. Mizi sees Jabavu’s eyes, demanding love from her, and protection from the harshness of the men, and she nods and smiles at him, as if to say: Yes, I laugh, but you should listen, for they are right in what they say. And Jabavu drops his head and thinks: For the whole of my life I must work for one pound a month and study at nights and have no fine clothes or dancing . . . and he feels his old hunger raging in him, saying: Run, run quickly, before it is too late.
But the men of light see so clearly what should be Jabavu’s proper path that to them it seems no more needs to be said, and they go on to discuss how a leader should arrange his life, just as if Jabavu were already a leader. They say that such a man must behave so that no one may say: He is a bad man. He must be sober and law-abiding, he must be careful never to infringe even the slightest of the pass-laws, nor forget to have a light on his bicycle or be out after curfew, for—and here they smile as if it were the best of jokes—they get plenty of attention from the police as things are. If they are entrusted with money they must be able to account for every penny—“As if,” says Mizi, giggling, “it were money from heaven which God will ask them to account for.” And they must each have one wife only, and be faithful to her—but here Mrs. Mizi says, playfully, that even without these considerations Mr. Mizi would have one woman only, and so he needn’t blame that on the evils of the time.
At this, everyone laughs a great deal, even Mr. Mizi; but they see Jabavu does not laugh at all, but sits silent, face puckered with difficult thought. And then Mr. Samu tells the following story, for the proper education of Jabavu, while the voices bicker and argue inside him so loudly he can hardly hear Mr. Samu’s voice above them.
“Mr. Mizi,” says Mr. Samu, “is an example to all who wish to lead the African people to a better life. He was once a messenger at the Office of the Native Commissioner, and even an interpreter, and so was respected and earned a good salary. Yet, because he was forbidden, as employee of the Government, to talk at meetings or even be a member of the League, he saved his money, which took him many years, until he had enough to buy a little store in the Township, and so he left his employment and became independent. Yet now he must struggle to make a living, for it would be a terrible thing for the League if a leader should be accused of charging high prices or cheating, and this means that the other stores always make more money than the store of Mr. and Mrs. Mizi, and so . . .”
Very late, Jabavu is asked if he will sleep there for that night, and in the morning work will be found for him in a factory. Jabavu thanks Mr. Mizi, then Mr. Samu, but in a low and troubled voice. He is taken to the kitchen, where the son is still sitting over his books. There is a bed in the kitchen for his son, and a mattress is put on the floor for Jabavu. Mrs. Mizi says to her son: “Now that is enough studying, go to bed,” and he rises unwillingly from his books and leaves the kitchen to wash before sleeping. And Jabavu stands awkwardly beside the mattress and watches Mrs. Mizi arrange the bedclothes of the son more comfortably; and he feels a strong desire to tell her everything, how he longs to devote himself to becoming a man of light, while at the same time he dreads it; but he does not, for he is ashamed. Then Mrs. Mizi straightens herself and looks kindly at him. She comes to him and puts her hand on his arm, saying: “Now, my son, I tell you a little secret. Mr. Mizi and Mr. Samu are not so alarming as they sound.” Here she giggles, while she keeps giving him concerned glances, and pushes his arm once or twice as if to say: Laugh a little, then things will seem easier! But Jabavu cannot laugh. Instead, his hand goes into his pocket and he brings out the shilling, and before he knows what he is doing he has pushed it into her hand. “Now, what is this?” she asks, astonished. “It is a shilling. For the work.” And now he longs above all that she should take the shilling and understand what he is saying. And at once she does. She stands there, looking at the shilling in her palm, then at Jabavu, and then she nods and smiles. “That is well, my son,” she says, in a soft voice. “That is very well. I shall give it to Mr. Mizi and tell him you have given your last shilling to the work he does.” And she again puts her two hands on his arms and presses them warmly, then bids him good night and goes out.
Almost at once the son comes back and, having shut the doors so that his mother will not see and scold him, goes back to the books. Jabavu lies on his mattress, and his heart is warm and big with love for Mrs. Mizi and her kindness, also his good intentions for the future. And then, lying warm and idle there, he sees how the son’s eyes are thick and red with studying, how he is serious and stern, just like his father, and yet he is the same age as Jabavu, and a cold dismay enters Jabavu, in spite of his desire to live like a good man, and he cannot help thinking: And must I also be like this, working all day and then at night as well, and all this for other people? It is in the misery of his thought that he falls asleep and dreams, and although he does not know what it is he dreams, he struggles and calls out, so loudly that Mrs. Mizi, who has crept to the door to make sure her son has been sensible and gone to bed, hears him and clicks her tongue in compassion. Poor boy, she thinks, poor boy . . . And so goes again to her bed, praying, as is her habit before sleep, but secretly, for Mr. Mizi would be angry if he knew. She prays, as she has been taught in the Mission School of the Romans, for the soul of Jabavu, who needs help in his struggle against the temptations of the shebeens and matsotsis, and she prays for her son, of whom she is rather afraid, since he is so serious all the time and has always known exactly what he intends to become.
She prays so long, sitting in her bed, that Mr. Mizi wakes and says: “Eh, now, my wife, and what is this you are doing?” And she says meekly: “But nothing at all.” And he says gruffly: “And now sleep; that is better for our work than praying.” And she says: “Surely times are so bad for our people that praying can do no harm, at least.” And he says: “You are nothing but a child—sleep.” And so she lies down, and husband and wife go to sleep in great contentment with each other and with Jabavu. Mr. Mizi is already planning how he will first test Jabavu for loyalty, and then train him, and then teach him how to speak at meetings, and then . . .
Jabavu wakes from a bad dream when a cold, grey glimmer is already coming through the small window. The son is lying across his bed, asleep, still fully dressed, he has been too tired to remove his clothes.
He rises, light as a wild-cat, and goes to the table where the books lie tumbled, and looks at them. The words on them are so long and difficult he does not know what they mean. There he stands, silently, stiffly, in the small, cold kitchen, his hands clenched, his eyes rolling this way and that, first towards the clever and serious young man, who is worn out with his studying, and then towards the window, where the morning light is coming. For a very long time does Jabavu stand there, suffering with the violence of his feelings. Ah, he does not know what to do. First he takes a step towards the window, then he moves towards his mattress as if to lie down, and all the time his hunger roars and burns in him like a fire. He hears voices saying: Jabavu, Jabavu—but he does not know whether they commend a rich man with smart clothes or a man of light with knowledge and a strong, persuasive voice.
And then the storm dies in him and he is empty, all feeling gone. He tiptoes to the window, slips the catch up, and is over the sill and out. There is a small bush beneath, and he crouches behind it, looking around him. Houses and trees seem to rise from shadows of night into morning, for the sky
is clear and grey, flushed pink in long streaks, and yet there are street-lamps glimmering pale above dim roads. And along these narrow roads move an army of people going to work, although Jabavu had imagined everything would still be deserted. If he had known, he would never have risked running away; but now he must somehow get from the bush to the road without being seen. There he crouches, shivering with cold, watching the people go past, listening to the thudding of their feet, and then it seems to him as if one of them is looking at him. It is a young man, slim, with a narrow, alert head, and eyes which look everywhere. He is one of the matsotsis, for his clothes say so. His trousers are narrow at the bottom, his shoulders are sharp, he wears a scarf of bright red. Over this scarf, it seems, his eyes peer at the bush where Jabavu is. Yet it is impossible, for Jabavu has never seen him before. He straightens himself, pretends he has been urinating into the bush, and walks calmly out into the road. And at once the young man moves over and walks beside him. Jabavu is afraid and he does not know why, and he says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him.
African Stories Page 61
