White Paper, White Ink

by Jonathan Morgan

  “All of our storylines converged in Jo’burg, but began all over Africa,” he explains. “Remember there was Fresew from Ethiopia, Valentine from Cameroon, Stephen from Eastern Cape, and so on.”

  I stare at the cover and open the book to see a picture of my face, looking sideway with a big MISSING written on top of it. It is the same picture of the posters that were given out in Sun City, but now it’s in the book proper, like one of the pages.

  “Finding Mr Madini was second on the country’s bestseller list, second only to Antjie Krog’s Country of My Skull about the TRC,” he tells me.

  “Until a few days ago I didn’t even know the book was finished,” I say, weighing the thing in my hands, looking closely at the photo of Valentine and Steven on the front cover.

  “Well, we did it,” he says. “It came out in August. I looked all over for you. You can read about our search for you in the book itself – that’s why it’s called Finding Mr Madini. But to be honest, I gave up. I was sure you were dead.”

  Then his voice changes and he calls me Sipho again.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you let us know you were alive, Sipho? D’you think it was fun looking at dead bodies, trying to find you in all the morgues in Johannesburg? Huh?”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I guess I didn’t want to be found. I was trying to make it and find myself as a poet and a writer. I thought you’d judge me to be a criminal, no matter if I was guilty or not.”

  Then he takes out the scrapbook full of photos and stuff that he made to document the process of putting the book together and turns to a CNA advert for bestselling books in December 2000. The three best sellers then were Desmond Tutu’s No Future Without Forgiveness about the TRC testimony, Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, and our book, Finding Mr Madini. There they are, with Christmas bells around all three covers.

  “You must be thinking about the money,” he smiles. “If this was the USA we’d all be rich. In South Africa a bestseller means only 2000 books. The book sold for just over R100, our royalty was about R8 a book and that got split among all 10 of us.”

  He’s looking into my face, trying to gauge whether I understand.

  “Each person got paid according to their contribution,” he goes on, “calculated by both the number of their words that appear in the book, and the amount of effort they put in on a ten-point scale. The group voted on the effort thing. I argued that although the number of your words was low, as were the number of sessions you attended, your poems and using you going missing as a storyline amounted to a huge contribution, so you got paid relatively high compared to most of the others. So just from the book royalties, I’ve got about R3000 sitting in a savings account under my name – which is all yours, of course.’

  “And the film?” I ask. “I saw it on TV. We make anything from the TV?”

  “I was getting to that,” he says. “Now that was a little better. The SABC paid us R100 000 for the rights and the agent took R20 000, which left us with R80 000 and your share there is about R8000, so you’ve got R11000 in total that I am holding for you.”

  “More money than I’ve ever had,” I tell him. “You say it’s in a bank account for me?”

  “Whenever you want some, or all, just tell me,” says Jonathan. “Last week I enquired about a prisoner opening their own bank account and I was told you need to come in personally, which of course is not possible, but here’s a letter from me saying I’m holding the money for you and that it’s yours. Here, you need to keep this letter.” He reaches for a brown envelope in his green bag.

  “You doing any of your own writing?” I ask.

  “Mmm, the only job I have at the moment is writing this column for a local newspaper. I’ve also been thinking about writing a novel, but can’t come up with a plot or any definite subject matter. If anything, it will be about surfing,” he says, patting his surfboard like it’s a dog he loves or something.

  “Surfing’s, like, the exact opposite of writing,” he adds. “No hunching over a laptop, agonising over type and words and sentences, hammering at the keyboard with two fingers. When you’re on a wave, your board cuts and leaves a white trail across the wave. It’s kind of the opposite of writing in so many ways. Maybe a bit more like painting, like you are the paint brush and the wave is both the paint and the canvas, except at the end of a session – in fact, a second or two later – there is no record of whatever mark you might have made on the ocean.”

  He really sounds passionate about this surfing, but it hurts me to even think of the ocean and all that open space and freedom.

  “My aim is to ride a barrel,” he continues. “It’s also called a tube, a very hollow wave where you’re completely surrounded by the water.”

  “So your book will be about surfing and…”

  “I really don’t know,” he shrugs. “I had this strange experience the other day. A young guy with long hair and sunglasses knocked on my door. I opened up and he said, ‘This is probably a shot in the dark, but are you the musician who knows how to fly?’ ‘I’m afraid not – on both counts,’ I said, ‘unless you count flying in my sleep.’ ‘Uh, uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The guy I’m talking about used to live here. He drove a maroon bakkie and he really knew how to fly, without wings or anything. He taught me, but I’ve forgotten.’ Well, I now drive a marroon bakkie so I didn’t know what to say, but then this guy just says, ‘Shot, bru,’ smiles and walks away… Don’t you think that’s a great start to a novel?”

  “So you not working as a head shrinker?” I ask, remembering from the workshops that Jonathan can be quite quirky and hard to follow.

  He shakes his head.

  “How about you?” he asks in return. “There must be some pretty interesting material to write about in here.”

  “I’ve tried,” I say, reaching down to turn his wrist so I can see the time, “and that’s what we really need to talk about. Jonathan, these Number gangsters here, some really heavy guys, they have got me and you lined up in that little telescope on the rifle with the cross in it.”

  On the afternoon of 23 September, I am back in the blanket-walled office, the inner chamber of the Big Three.

  “So, how’d it go with your larnie, Morgan?” asks Pieter, the dark Chinaman.

  “Okay,” I say. “He’ll help us. He’ll come every second Saturday and take out the stuff I give him.”

  I don’t offer more, certainly not how damn excited he was. Like this was the most amazing opportunity, to be an instrument for the true telling of the Numbers gangs – and by the Numbers gangs – but, as part of the deal, to get all this material for his own bestseller, probably with my name in small print acknowledged just as a contributor. I sense trouble between these guys and Jonathan. And guess who’s going to get caught in the crossfire?

  It’s easy for him, surfing his fokken way through life, thinking mostly about the way the wind is blowing and the size of the waves on that day, living in a nice house in Cape Town, waking up every day with his sexy Japanese wife next to him, having dogs and cats and chickens and pigeons, and of course his children. But these Numbers don’t need to know anything about these feelings of mine. Putting the ball and chain back in their court, I just shaddup.

  “Okay, this is how it’ll work,” says Benny. “One, the warders don’t like to see prisoners’ writing of any kind leaving this place. ’Specially descriptions of what goes on here and conditions of prison life, how we are treated, and so on. So you not to write in a book, only on loose pages, and these you must give to Morgan when he comes to visit. If this doesn’t work, my mense, the 26s – the smokkelaars – will help you smuggle them out and get them to him. He lives near Fish Hoek, right?”

  “I don’t know where he lives,” I confess.

  “We do,” says Mandla. “At 93 Clovelly Road, near Ocean View where lots of the brothers live, so tell him that if he hears from someone there, not to be surprised.”

  “Two,” continues Benny, “as you know, there are thre
e gangs here in prison, three different Numbers. We are not rivals, but we have our differences and our different beliefs. Each of us learned what we know from a different book and each of us will tell you a different story. We don’t want you to mix these up into one story, one that is the average story. Or the one that sounds best to your ears. That might be good enough for the newspapers or magazines, but it’s not good enough for us. You must keep each story separate, that is the true history of the 28s, 27s and 26s. Now that’s it for today… We’ll contact you when we ready.”

  I leave them and go back to my cell. The others know something is going down but they know better than to ask.

  Nothing from the madotas that I didn’t expect. For the next few days I’m back in the boer’s potato fields. At the shed there is this one girl who is smiling shyly at me. And me back at her, not too confidently but something’s there. This writing was to help me get through this time but it’s becoming so stressfull and complicated. It’s a relief to sommer just leave the prison and all the politics and just be a farm labourer in the open sunshine, with my hat for shade. Two women on the horizon. A visitor every two weeks. Maybe things are looking up for me. But I still feel uneasy.

  If you had to trace my movements in prison, from a camera up in the sky, on a satellite or something, you would notice a new pattern. The office of the Big Three, the council, is far on the one side of the prison compound, the side away from the mountain. A cell that gets lots of sun, not icy cold all day like mine and most of the other cells. The three generals, Mandla, Pieter and Benny, as always, are there. At the door stand three guards, not warders. These are bodyguards, one for each general.

  Today they lead me into the curtained enclosure, which for some reason has been pushed to the side of the cell. They make me sit on the top bunk so I can see out over the blankets. I can sense that the madotas are excited today. They even ask me if I’m okay, if I need anything. “Toothpaste,” I tell them and, taking a chance, I ask if I can use the cellphone again. They had sent one of their guys to take it back a few days ago.

  “Don’t fokken push it,” says Pieter, the 28 leader. He hands me a black Bic pen, which is a bit cracked and old, and several blank, lined sheets of paper with the prison logo in green, black and red in the bottom right-hand corner. “Now just sit, listen and write,” he tells me. “We’ll check what you write and correct what you have misunderstood before you put it in the White Book. If you listen and watch carefully you will meet Nongoloza. It’s him they are calling.”

  From up there on the top bunk, facing the entrance to the cell, I hear the stomping of feet and quite a bit of noise getting louder and louder, but I don’t see anyone new. It’s just me, Pieter, Benny and Mandla in the cell. Then Pieter leaves us suddenly, but a few seconds later re-enters, this time followed by a whole bunch of 28s. He is at the head of the group, with the others fanned out behind him.

  “I am Nongoloza – Captain of the Dance, Commander of this regiment,” says Pieter. The group shuffles into the centre of the cell, stomping their feet, and clapping their hands softly, their bodies at the same time stiff but also with a measured rhythm of hip-hop and Cape Flats to them. Pieter leads them in what looks a little like toyi-toyi – the ‘war dance’ that survives till today in political marches – but there is also a spinning of their bodies in tight circles.

  Then they are standing still, then they are all squatting, but keeping the rhythm going clapping softly, all whispering, the effect more powerful than if they were shouting or moving fast.

  The way Pieter is holding his body reminds me of a cat about to pounce, relaxed but also coiled like a spring. These I know are dangerous cats and it is danger that I feel in their dance and movements.

  Then Pieter faces away from us, puffs out his chest and broadcasts to no one in particular, translating as he goes along:

  Hoe sal ek wys raak? How should I show?

  Wat is djy wat soek? What is it that you seek?

  He then takes a few paces back, stands on a chair – now facing the opposite direction – and in another voice he continues:

  Ek is Nongoloza. Jare terug was ek ’n frans. I am Nongoloza. Years ago I was a bird, a free prisoner, not a member of any Number gang.

  Toe het ek my ma en pa gewys dat ek werk gat soek. Then I showed my mother and father that I will go and seek work.

  Ek het nie vir hulle gesê nie watte werk ek gat soek. I didn’t tell them what kind of work I was seeking.

  Ek het geloop tot binne in ’n grasgroen bos. I walked till I came to a greengrass forest.

  Daar het ek gesit vir ’n jaar. There I sat for a year.

  Die tweede jaar het ek uitgerol ronde klippe sonder hoek of kant nie. In the second year I rolled out round stones that had no corners or sides.

  Ek het gerol tot op a kruispad. I rolled till I came to a crossroads.

  Ek het opgestaan. I stood up.

  Ek het die stof uit my oë en my klere afgevee. I wiped the dust out of my eyes and clothes.

  Ek het geloop tot ek ’n stem gehoor het. I walked till I heard a voice.

  Way way umsunu ka nyoko. Ek het gedink hy vloek my ma uit. I thought he was cursing my mother.

  So het ek nie die stem gehoor nie, en dan het ek weer ’n stem gehoor. Then I heard nothing, but then again I heard a voice.

  Ay way Magubaan – so ek het stil gestaan. Hey Magubaan – so I stood still.

  Ek het ’n hand op my linker skouer gevoel, ek het omgedraai. I felt a hand on my left shoulder, I turned.

  Ek het ’n man gesien met a khaki uniform, khaki hawersak, and bloedrooi boots met spierwit vieters, silwer caspir met a goue halweleeu kop. I saw a man in a khaki uniform, a khaki haversack, and blood-red boots with pure white puttees, silver clasps with a gold half-lion crest.

  Hy vra my om ouens te kom ontmoet met ringe deur die neus, gate deur die ore, en skiere in die gesig. He asked me to come and meet people with rings through their noses, holes in their ears, and scars on their faces.

  Hy het my gevra of my bene is sterk om te kan vat aan sy linker-bo mou. He asked me if my bones are strong enough to hold his left sleeve.

  Hy het my gevra wat sien ek as die son opkom. He asked me what I see when the sun comes up.

  Ek het hom gesê ek sien niks nie. I told him I see nothing.

  Hy het my gevra wat sien ek as die son sak. He asked me what I see when the sun goes down.

  Ek sien a groen boom met twee klippe. I see a green tree with two stones.

  Toe ek by die boom kom sien ek dis nie a boom nie, dis die ouens se rusplek. But when I reach the tree I see it’s not a tree, but a people’s resting place.

  Ek het op die rooi klip gesit en afgegly en ek het op die spierwit klip gaan sit. I sat on the red rock and slid off and then went to sit on the pure white rock.

  Hy vat uit die hawersak ’n khaki lap met drie kleure – grasgroen, spierwit, en bloedrooi. He then took out from his haversack a khaki cloth with three colours, grass green, pure white and blood red.

  Hy maak die kannakanna bloedrooi. He made the kannakanna blood red.

  En hy vra vir my of my bene sterk is om te gaan vat op die kannakanna. And he asked me if my bones are strong enough to go on to the kannakanna.

  En ek het hom gewys my bene is sterk. And I showed him that my bones are strong.

  En dan eet ek die piesang en dan het ek twee keer gesnuif en twee keer genies. And I ate the banana and I sniffed twice and I sneezed twice.

  Ek het weer die khaki lap opgerol, en weer in die khaki hawersak gesit. I again rolled the khaki cloth up and put it back in the haversack.

  En hy het vir my gevra wat sien ek as die son sak. And he asked me what I see when the sun sets.

  Ek sê vir hom ek sien tot a donker grot, ons het daar geslaap vir a jaar. I told him I see towards a dark cave, where we slept for a year.

  Hy het gepraat wat ek nie kan verstaan nie. And he spoke things I could not understand.

  This might seem like a lot but it only took two minutes fo
r Pieter to say all of this. As he spoke this amazing poem and what his body language communicated made me wish I had a video camera. It was more like a performance. But very confusing: bananas, kannakannas, looking for work, half-lions, silver, strong bones?

  I write as fast as I can, and when I miss a word or can’t hear it properly, I just make a question mark to come back later and ask Pieter. Other things I think I heard but I don’t know what they mean in English or Afrikaans. What the fuck is a puttee? After a few minutes, my hand hurts but three pages are full. But before I can even take a breather, Benny gets up and asks if I am ready.

  “Ready?” I say. “Ready for what?”

  I have taken in as much as I feel I can for one day but they are not through with me. This is a big day for them.

  “Can I have some water?” I ask.

  “Okay, go drink from the tap in the toilet,” says Benny. “We need some time to get organised, but make sure you back here in ten minutes. We are finished with the 28s for today. This next bit is about the 26s.”

  When I return I find more bunk beds have been brought in and pushed back to form a wide circle, like a laager. The outsides are covered with blankets to form a wall with only one entrance, where the blankets can be parted between two beds that are not as close to each other as the rest.

  Even Mandla and Pieter are now outside the circle, their faces to the wall, away from the circle. I am led inside and given a chair, and more paper to write on.

  Benny, the 26 leader, is the main man now and sits on a top bunk, his legs dangling off the side. I am told to sit next to him.

  Sitting outside the circle with his head and eyes down is the young boy who has been running errands for the 26s and who’s the one that always calls me when the generals want to see me.

  “The way to understand the 26s,” Benny starts off, “is to witness an induction of a new recruit. We have been watching this boy in the bush and have given him many tests, all of which he has passed. We have given him unlaced shoes and a pick, and we have given him some words to learn to protect him from being made into a wife for the 28s. Today he is to be initiated as a man, as a madota.”