Cry, The Beloved Country Part 22

It is true, umnumzana. You do not know what it is.

I do not know but I desire to know.

I doubt if I could tell it, umnumzana.

You must tell it, umfundisi. Is it heavy?

It is very heavy, umnumzana. It is the heaviest thing of all my years.

He lifted his face, and there was in it suffering that Jarvis had not seen before. Tell me, he said, it will lighten you.

I am afraid, umnumzana.

I see you are afraid, umfundisi. It is that which I do not understand. But I tell you, you need not be afraid. I shall not be angry. There will be no anger in me against you.

Then, said the old man, this thing that is the heaviest thing of all my years, is the heaviest thing of all your years also.

Jarvis looked at him, at first bewildered, but then something came to him. You can only mean one thing, he said, you can only mean one thing. But I still do not understand.

It was my son that killed your son, said the old man.

So they were silent. Jarvis left him and walked out into the trees of the garden. He stood at the wall and looked out over the veld, out to the great white dumps of the mines, like hills under the sun. When he turned to come back, he saw that the old man had risen, his hat in one hand, his stick in the other, his head bowed, his eyes on the ground. He went back to him.

I have heard you, he said. I understand what I did not understand. There is no anger in me.

Umnumzana.

The mistress of the house is back, the daughter of uSmith. Do you wish to see her? Are you recovered?

It was that I came to do, umnumzana.

I understand. And you were shocked when you saw me. You had no thought that I would be here. How did you know me?

I have seen you riding past Ndotsheni, past the church where I work.

Jarvis listened to the sounds in the house. Then he spoke very quietly. Perhaps you saw the boy also, he said. He too used to ride past Ndotsheni. On a red horse with a white face. And he carried wooden guns, here in his belt, as small boys do.

The old man's face was working. He continued to look on the ground, and Jarvis could see that tears fell on it. He himself was moved and unmanned, and he would have brought the thing to an end, but he could find no quick voice for it.

I remember, umnumzana. There was a brightness in him.

Yes, yes, said Jarvis, there was a brightness in him.

Umnumzana, it is a hard word to say. But my heart holds a deep sorrow for you, and for the inkosikazi, and for the young inkosikazi, and for the children.

Yes, yes, said Jarvis. Yes, yes, he said fiercely. I shall call the mistress of the house.

He went in and brought her out with him. This old man, he said in English, has come to inquire about the daughter of a native named Sibeko, who used to work for you in Ixopo. They have heard nothing of her for months.

I had to send her away, said Smith's daughter. She was good when she started, and I promised her father to look after her. But she went to the bad and started to brew liquor in her room. She was arrested and sent to jail for a month, and after that of course I could not take her back again.

You do not know where she is? asked Jarvis.

I'm sure I do not know, said Smith's daughter in English. And I do not care.

She does not know, said Jarvis in Zulu. But he did not add that Smith's daughter did not care.

I thank you, said the old man in Zulu. Stay well, umnumzana. And he bowed to Smith's daughter and she nodded her acknowledgment.

He put on his hat and started to walk down the path to the back gate, according to the custom. Smith's daughter went into the house, and Jarvis followed the old man slowly, as though he were not following him. The old man opened the gate and went out through it and closed it behind him. As he turned to close it he saw that Jarvis had followed him, and he bowed to him.

Go well, umfundisi, said Jarvis.

Stay well, umnumzana. The old man raised his hat and put it back again on his head. Then he started to walk slowly down the road to the station, Jarvis watching him until he was out of sight. As he turned to come back, he saw that his wife was coming to join him, and he saw with a pang that she too walked as if she were old.

He walked to join her, and she put her arm in his.

Why are you so disturbed, James? she asked. Why were you so disturbed when you came into the house?

Something that came out of the past, he said. You know how it comes suddenly.

She was satisfied, and said, I know.

She held his arm more closely. Barbara wants us for lunch, she said.

26.

THE GREAT BULL voice is speaking there in the square. There are many policemen there, both white and black; it gives one no doubt a sense of power to see them there, and to be speaking to so many people, for the great bull voice growls and rises and falls.

There are those who can be moved by the sound of the voice alone. There are those who remember the first day they heard it as if it were today, who remember their excitement, and the queer sensations of their bodies as though electricity were pa.s.sing through them. For the voice has magic in it, and it has threatening in it, and it is as though Africa itself were in it. A lion growls in it, and thunder echoes in it over black mountains.

Dubula and Tomlinson listen to it, with contempt, and with envy. For here is a voice to move thousands, with no brain behind it to tell it what to say, with no courage to say it if it knew.

The policemen hear it, and one says to the other, this man is dangerous. And the other says, it is not my job to think about such things.

We do not ask for what cannot be given, says John k.u.malo. We ask only for our share of what is produced by our labour. New gold has been found, and South Africa is rich again. We ask only for our share of it. This gold will stay in the bowels of the earth if we do not dig it out. I do not say it is our gold, I say only that we should get our share in it. It is the gold of the whole people, the white, and the black, and the coloured, and the Indian. But who will get the most of this gold?

And here the great voice growls in the bull throat. A wave of excitement pa.s.ses through the crowd. The policemen stand more alert, except those who have heard this before. For they know that this k.u.malo goes so far and no further. What if this voice should say words that it speaks already in private, should rise and not fall again, should rise and rise and rise, and the people rise with it, should madden them with thoughts of rebellion and dominion, with thoughts of power and possession? Should paint for them pictures of Africa awakening from sleep, of Africa resurgent, of Africa dark and savage? It would not be hard to do, it does not need a brain to think such words. But the man is afraid, and the deep thundering growl dies down, and the people shiver and come to themselves.

Is it wrong to ask more money? John k.u.malo asks. We get little enough. It is only our share that we ask, enough to keep our wives and our families from starvation. For we do not get enough. The Lansdown Commission said that we do not get enough. The Smit Commission said that we do not get enough.

And here the voice growls again, and the people stir.

We know that we do not get enough, k.u.malo says. We ask only for those things that laboring men fight for in every country in the world, the right to sell our labour for what it is worth, the right to bring up our families as decent men should.

They say that higher wages will cause the mines to close down. Then what is it worth, this mining industry? And why should it be kept alive, if it is only our poverty that keeps it alive? They say it makes the country rich, but what do we see of these riches? Is it we that must be kept poor so that others may stay rich?

The crowd stirs as though a great wind were blowing through it. Here is the moment, John k.u.malo, for the great voice to reach even to the gates of Heaven. Here is the moment for words of pa.s.sion, for wild indiscriminate words that can waken and madden and unleash. But he knows. He knows the great power that he has, the power of which he is afraid. And the voice dies away, as thunder dies away over mountains, and echoes and re-echoes more and more faintly.

I tell you, the man is dangerous, said the one policeman.

I believe you now that I have heard him, said the other. Why don't they put the b.a.s.t.a.r.d inside?

Why don't they shoot him? asked the first.

Or shoot him, agreed the other.

The Government is playing with fire, said the first.

I believe you, said the second.

All we ask is justice, says k.u.malo. We are not asking here for equality and the franchise and the removal of the colour-bar. We are asking only for more money from the richest industry in the world. This industry is powerless without our labour. Let us cease to work and this industry will die. And I say, it is better to cease to work than to work for such wages.

The native policemen are smart and alert. They stand at their posts like soldiers. Who knows what they think of this talk, who knows if they think at all? The meeting is quiet and orderly. So long as it stays quiet and orderly, there is nothing to be done. But at the first sign of disorder, John k.u.malo will be brought down and put in the van, and taken to some other place. And what will happen to the carpenter's shop, that brings in eight, ten, twelve pounds a week? What will happen to the talks in the carpenter's shop, where men come from every part of the country to listen to him?

There are some men who long for martyrdom, there are those who know that to go to prison would bring greatness to them, these are those who would go to prison not caring if it brought greatness or not. But John k.u.malo is not one of them. There is no applause in prison.

I shall not keep you any longer, says John k.u.malo. It is getting late, and there is another speaker, and many of you will be in trouble with the police if you do not get home. It does not matter to me, but it matters to those of you who must carry a pa.s.s. And we do not wish to trouble the police. I tell you we have labour to sell, and it is a man's freedom to sell his labour for what it is worth. It is for that freedom that this war has just been fought. It is for that freedom that many of our own African soldiers have been fighting.

The voice growls again, something is coming.

Not only here, he says, but in all Africa, in all the great continent where we Africans live.

The people growl also. The one meaning of this is safe, but the other meaning is dangerous. And John k.u.malo speaks the one meaning, and means the other meaning.

Therefore let us sell our labour for what it is worth, he says. And if an industry cannot buy our labour, let that industry die. But let us not sell our labour cheap to keep any industry alive.

John k.u.malo sits down, and the people applaud him, a great wave of shouting and clapping. They are simple people, and they do not know that this is one of the country's greatest orators, with one thing lacking. They have heard only the great bull voice, they have been lifted up, and let fall again, but by a man who can lift up again after he has let fall.

Now you have heard him, said Msimangu.

Stephen k.u.malo nodded his head. I have never heard its like, he said. Even I - his brother - he played with me as though I were a child.

Power, said Msimangu, power. Why G.o.d should give such power is not for us to understand. If this man were a preacher, why, the whole world would follow him.

I have never heard its like, said k.u.malo.

Perhaps we should thank G.o.d he is corrupt, said Msimangu solemnly. For if he were not corrupt, he could plunge this country into bloodshed. He is corrupted by his possessions, and he fears their loss, and the loss of the power he already has. We shall never understand it. Shall we go, or shall we listen to this man Tomlinson?

I could listen to him.

Then let us go nearer. He is difficult to hear.

Shall we go, Mr. Jarvis?

Yes, John, let's go.

What did you think of it, Mr. Jarvis?

I don't care for that sort of thing, said Jarvis briefly.

I don't quite mean that. I mean, it's happening, isn't it?

Jarvis grunted. I don't care for it, John. Let's go on to your Club.

He's too old to face it, thought John Harrison to himself, just like my father.

He climbed into the car and started up the engine.

But we have to face it, he reflected soberly.

The captain saluted the high officer.

The report, sir.

How did it go, captain?

No trouble, sir. But this man k.u.malo is dangerous. He works the crowd up to a point, and then he pulls back. But I could imagine what he would be like if we weren't there.

Well, we shall have to be there, that's all. It's strange, the reports always say that; he goes so far and no further. What do you mean, he's dangerous?

It's the voice, sir. I've never heard anything like it. It's like the grand stop of an organ. You can see the whole crowd swaying. I felt it myself. It's almost as though he sees what's happening, and pulls himself in.

Yellow, said the high officer briefly. I've heard that about the voice too. I must go to hear it myself one day.

Will there be a strike, sir?

Wish to G.o.d I knew. It may be a nasty business. As though we hadn't enough to do. It's time you went home.

Goodnight, sir.

Goodnight, Harry. Harry!

Sir.

I hear there may be a promotion for you.

Thank you, sir.

That puts you in line for my job one day. Good salary, high rank, prestige. And all the worry in the world. Like sitting on the top of a volcano. G.o.d knows if it's worth it. Goodnight, Harry.

Goodnight, sir.