My Children! My Africa! Page 6

  THAMI: Yes.

  ISABEL: And they are going to decide whether we can or can’t be friends!

  THAMI: I was right. You don’t understand what’s going on.

  ISABEL: And you’re certainly not helping me to.

  THAMI (Trying): Visiting you like this is dangerous. People talk. U’sispumla . . . your maid . . . has seen me. She could mention, just innocently but to the wrong person, that Thami Mbikwana is visiting and having tea with the white people she works for.

  ISABEL: And of course that is such a big crime!

  THAMI: In the eyes of the location . . . yes! My world is also changing Isabel. I’m breaking the boycott by being here. The Comrades don’t want any mixing with whites. They have ordered that contact must be kept at a minimum.

  ISABEL: And you go along with that.

  THAMI: Yes.

  ISABEL: Happily!

  THAMI (Goaded by her lack of understanding): Yes! I go along happily with that!!

  ISABEL: Hell, Thami, this great Beginning of yours sounds like . . . (Shakes her head) I don’t know. Other people deciding who can and who can’t be your friends, what you must do and what you can’t do. Is this the Freedom you’ve been talking to me about? That you were going to fight for?

  Mr. M enters quietly. His stillness is in disturbing contrast to the bustle and energy we have come to associate with him.

  MR. M: Don’t let me interrupt you. Please carry on. (To Thami) I’m most interested in your reply to that question. (Pause) I think he’s forgotten what it was Isabel. Ask him again.

  ISABEL (Backing out of the confrontation): No. Forget it.

  MR. M (Persisting): Isabel was asking you how you managed to reconcile your desire for Freedom with what the Comrades are doing.

  ISABEL: I said forget it Mr. M. I’m not interested anymore.

  MR. M (Insistent): But I am.

  THAMI: The Comrades are imposing a discipline which our struggle needs at this point. There is no comparison between that and the total denial of our Freedom by the white government. They have been forcing on us an inferior education in order to keep us permanently suppressed. When our struggle is successful there will be no more need for the discipline the Comrades are demanding.

  MR. M (Grudging admiration): Oh Thami . . . you learn your lessons so well! The “revolution” has only just begun and you are already word perfect. So then tell me, do you think I agree with this inferior “Bantu Education” that is being forced on you?

  THAMI: You teach it.

  MR. M: But unhappily so! Most unhappily, unhappily so! Don’t you know that? Did you have your fingers in your ears the thousand times I’ve said so in the classroom? Where were you when I stood there and said I regarded it as my duty, my deepest obligation to you young men and women to sabotage it, and that my conscience would not let me rest until I had succeeded. And I have! Yes, I have succeeded! I have got irrefutable proof of my success. You! Yes. You can stand here and accuse me, unjustly, because I have also had a struggle and I have won mine. I have liberated your mind in spite of what the Bantu Education was trying to do to it. Your mouthful of big words and long sentences which the not-so-clever Comrades are asking you to speak and write for them, your wonderful eloquence at last night’s meeting which got them all so excited—yes, I heard about it!—you must thank me for all of that, Thami.

  THAMI: No I don’t. You never taught me those lessons.

  MR. M: Oh I see. You have got other teachers have you?

  THAMI: Yes. Yours were lessons in whispering. There are men now who are teaching us to shout. Those little tricks and jokes of yours in the classroom liberated nothing. The struggle doesn’t need the big English words you taught me how to spell.

  MR. M: Be careful, Thami. Be careful! Be careful! Don’t scorn words. They are sacred! Magical! Yes, they are. Do you know that without words a man can’t think? Yes, it’s true. Take that thought back with you as a present from the despised Mr. M and share it with the Comrades. Tell them the difference between a man and an animal is that Man thinks, and he thinks with words. Consider the mighty ox. Four powerful legs, massive shoulders, and a beautiful thick hide that gave our warriors shields to protect them when they went into battle. Think of his beautiful head, Thami, the long horns, the terrible bellow from his lungs when he charges a rival! But it has got no words and therefore it is stupid! And along comes that funny little hairless animal that has got only two thin legs, no horns and a skin worth nothing and he tells that ox what to do. He is its master and he is that because he can speak! If the struggle needs weapons give it words Thami. Stones and petrol bombs can’t get inside those armored cars. Words can. They can do something even more devastating than that . . . they can get inside the heads of those inside the armored cars. I speak to you like this because if I have faith in anything, it is faith in the power of the word. Like my master, the great Confucius, I believe that, using only words, a man can right a wrong and judge and execute the wrongdoer. You are meant to use words like that.

  Talk to others. Bring them back into the classroom. They will listen to you. They look up to you as a leader.

  THAMI: No I won’t. You talk about them as if they were a lot of sheep waiting to be led. They know what they are doing. They’d call me a traitor if I tried to persuade them otherwise.

  MR. M: Then listen carefully Thami. I have received instructions from the department to make a list of all those who take part in the boycott. Do you know what they will do with that list when all this is over . . . because don’t fool yourself Thami, it will be. When your boycott comes to an inglorious end like all the others . . . they will make all of you apply for readmission and if your name is on that list . . . (He leaves the rest unspoken)

  THAMI: Will you do it? Will you make that list for them?

  MR. M: That is none of your business.

  THAMI: Then don’t ask me questions about mine.

  MR. M (His control finally snaps. He explodes with anger and bitterness): Yes, I will! I will ask you all the questions I like. And you know why? Because I am a man and you are a boy. And if you are not in that classroom tomorrow you will be a very, very silly boy.

  THAMI: Then don’t call me names, Mr. M.

  MR. M: No? Then what must I call you? Comrade Thami? Never! You are a silly boy now, and without an education you will grow up to be a stupid man!

  For a moment it looks as if Thami is going to leave without saying anything more, but he changes his mind and confronts Mr. M for the last time.

  THAMI: The others called you names at the meeting last night. Did your spies tell you that? Government stooge, sellout, collaborator. They said you licked the white man’s arse and would even eat his shit if it meant keeping your job. Did your spies tell you that I tried to stop them saying those things? Don’t wait until tomorrow to make your list Mr. M. You can start now. Write down the first name: Thami Mbikwana.

  He leaves. A few seconds of silence after Thami’s departure. Isabel makes a move towards Mr. M, but he raises his hand sharply, stopping her, keeping her at a distance.

  ISABEL: This fucking country! (She leaves)

  SCENE 2

  Mr. M alone. His mood at the beginning of the scene is one of quiet, vacant disbelief.

  MR. M: It was like being in a nightmare. I was trying to get to the school, I knew that if I didn’t hurry I was going to be late so I had to get to the school . . . but every road I took was blocked by policemen and soldiers with their guns ready, or Comrades building barricades. First I tried Jabulani Street, then I turned into Kwaza Road and then Lamini Street . . . and then I gave up and just wandered around aimlessly, helplessly, watching my world go mad and set itself on fire. Everywhere I went . . . overturned buses, looted bread vans, the government offices . . . everything burning and the children dancing around rattling boxes of matches and shouting “Tshisa! Qhumisa! Tshisa! Qhumisa! Qhumisa!” . . . and then running for their lives when the police armored cars appeared. They were everywhere, crawling aroun
d in the smoke like giant dung beetles looking for shit to eat.

  I ended up on the corner where Mrs. Makatini always sits selling vetkoek and prickly pears to people waiting for the bus. The only person there was little Sipho Fondini from Standard Six, writing on the wall: “Liberation First, then Education.” He saw me and he called out: “Is the spelling right Mr. M?” And he meant it! The young eyes in that smoke-stained little face were terribly serious.

  Somewhere else a police van raced past me crowded with children who should have also been in their desks in school. Their hands waved desperately through the bars, their voices called out: “Teacher! Teacher! Help us! Tell our mothers. Tell our fathers.” “No Anela,” I said. “This is too much now. Just stand here and close your eyes and wait until you wake up and find your world the way it was.” But that didn’t happen. A police car came around the corner and suddenly there were children everywhere throwing stones and tear-gas bombs falling all around and I knew that I wasn’t dreaming, that I was coughing and choking and hanging on to a lamppost in the real world. No! No!

  Do something Anela. Do something. Stop the madness! Stop the madness.

  SCENE 3

  Mr. M alone in Number One Classroom. He is ringing his school bell wildly.

  MR. M: Come to school! Come to school. Before they kill you all, come to school!

  Silence. Mr. M looks around the empty classroom. He goes to his table, and after composing himself, opens the class register and reads out the names as he does every morning at the start of a new school day.

  Johnny Awu, living or dead? Christopher Bandla, living or dead? Zandile Cwati, living or dead? Semphiwe Dambuza . . . Ronald Gxasheka . . . Noloyiso Mfundweni . . . Steven Gaika . . . Zachariah Jabavu . . . Thami . . . Thami Mbikwana . . .

  (Pause) Living or dead?

  How many young souls do I have present this morning? There are a lot of well-aimed stray bullets flying around on the streets out there. Is that why this silence is so . . . heavy?

  But what can I teach you? (Picks up his little black dictionary on the table) My lessons were meant to help you in this world. I wanted you to know how to read and write and talk in this world of living, stupid, cruel men.

  (Helpless gesture) Now? Oh my children! I have no lessons that will be of any use to you now. Mr. M and all of his wonderful words are . . . useless, useless, useless! The sound of breaking glass. Stones land in the classroom. Mr. M picks up one.

  No! One of you is still alive. Ghosts don’t throw stones with hot, sweating young hands. (Grabs the bell and rings it wildly again) Come to school! Come to school!

  Thami appears.

  THAMI (Quietly): Stop ringing that bell, Mr. M.

  MR. M: Why? It’s only the school bell, Thami. I thought you liked the sound of it. You once told me it was almost as good as music . . . don’t you remember?

  THAMI: You are provoking the Comrades with it.

  MR. M: No Thami. I am summoning the Comrades with it.

  THAMI: They say you are ringing the bell to taunt them. You are openly defying the boycott by being here in the school.

  MR. M: I ring this bell because according to my watch it is schooltime and I am a teacher and those desks are empty! I will go on ringing it as I have been doing these past two weeks, at the end of every lesson. And you can tell the Comrades that I will be back here ringing it tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and for as many days after that as it takes for this world to come to its senses.

  Is that the only reason you’ve come? To tell me to stop ringing the school bell?

  THAMI: NO.

  MR. M: You haven’t come for a lesson have you?

  THAMI: No I haven’t.

  MR. M: Of course not. What’s the matter with me. Slogans don’t need much in the way of grammar do they. As for these . . . (The stone in his hand) No, you don’t need me for lessons in stone-throwing either. You’ve already got teachers in those very revolutionary subjects haven’t you.

  (Picks up his dictionary. The stone in one hand, the book in the other) You know something interesting, Thami . . . if you put these two on a scale I think you would find that they weighed just about the same. But in this hand I am holding the whole English language. This . . . (The stone) is just one word in that language. It’s true! All that wonderful poetry that you and Isabel tried to cram into your beautiful heads . . . in here! Twenty-six letters, sixty thousand words. The greatest souls the world has ever known were able to open the floodgates of their ecstasy, their despair, their joy! . . . with the words in this little book! Aren’t you tempted? I was.

  (Opens the book at the flyleaf and reads) “Anela Myalatya. Cookhouse. 1947.” One of the first books I ever bought. (Impulsively) I want you to have it.

  THAMI (Ignoring the offered book): I’ve come here to warn you.

  MR. M: You’ve already done that and I’ve already told you that you are wasting your breath. Now take your stones and go. There are a lot of unbroken windows left.

  THAMI: I’m not talking about the bell now. It’s more serious than that.

  MR. M: In my life nothing is more serious than ringing the school bell.

  THAMI: There was a meeting last night. Somebody stood up and denounced you as an informer.

  Pause. Thami waits. Mr. M says nothing.

  He said you gave names to the police.

  Mr. M says nothing.

  Everybody is talking about it this morning. You are in big danger.

  MR. M: Why are you telling me all this?

  THAMI: SO that you can save yourself. There’s a plan to march to the school and burn it down. If they find you here . . .

  Pause.

  MR. M: GO on. (Violently) If they find me here what?

  THAMI: They will kill you.

  MR. M: “They will kill me.” That’s better. Remember what I taught you . . . if you’ve got a problem, put it into words so that you can look at it, handle it, and ultimately solve it. They will kill me! You are right. That is very serious. So then . . . what must I do? Must I run away and hide somewhere?

  THAMI: No, they will find you. You must join the boycott.

  MR. M: I’m listening.

  THAMI: Let me go back and tell them that we have had a long talk and that you have realized you were wrong and have decided to join us. Let me say that you will sign the declaration and that you won’t have anything to do with the school until all demands have been met.

  MR. M: And they will agree to that? Accept me as one of them even though it is believed that I am an informer?

  THAMI: I will tell them you are innocent. That I confronted you with the charge and that you denied it and that I believe you.

  MR. M: I see. (Studying Thami intently) You don’t believe that I am an informer.

  THAMI: No.

  MR. M: Won’t you be taking a chance in defending me like that? Mightn’t they end up suspecting you?

  THAMI: They’ll believe me. I’ll make them believe me.

  MR. M: You can’t be sure. Mobs don’t listen to reason Thami. Hasn’t your revolution already taught you that? Why take a chance like that to save a collaborator? Why do you want to do all this for me?

  THAMI (Avoiding Mr. M’s eyes): I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for the Struggle. Our Cause will suffer if we falsely accuse and hurt innocent people.

  MR. M: I see. My “execution” would be an embarrassment to the Cause. I apologize Thami. For a moment I allowed myself to think that you were doing it because we were . . . who we are . . . the “all-knowing Mr. M and his brilliant protégé Thami”! I was so proud of us when Isabel called us that.

  Well young Comrade, you have got nothing to worry about. Let them come and do whatever it is they want to. Your Cause won’t be embarrassed, because you see, they won’t be “hurting” an innocent man.

  (He makes his confession simply and truthfully) That’s right Thami. I am guilty. I did go to the police. I sat down in Captain Lategan’s office and told him I felt it was my duty to report
the presence in our community of strangers from the north. I told him that I had reason to believe that they were behind the present unrest. I gave the Captain names and addresses. He thanked me and offered me money for the information—which I refused.

  (Pause) Why do you look at me like that? Isn’t that what you expected from me? . . . a government stooge, a sellout, an arse-licker? Isn’t that what you were all secretly hoping I would do . . . so that you could be proved right? (Appalled) Is that why I did it? Out of spite? Can a man destroy himself, his life for a reason as petty as that?

  I sat here before going to the police station saying to myself that it was my duty, to my conscience, to you, to the whole community to do whatever I could to put an end to this madness of boycotts and arson, mob violence and lawlessness . . . and maybe that is true . . . but only maybe . . . because Thami, the truth is that I was so lonely! You had deserted me. I was so jealous of those who had taken you away. Now, I’ve really lost you, haven’t I? Yes. I can see it in your eyes. You’ll never forgive me for doing that, will you?

  You know Thami, I’d sell my soul to have you all back behind your desks for one last lesson. Yes. If the devil thought it was worth having and offered me that in exchange—one lesson!—he could have my soul. So then its all over! Because this . . . (The classroom) is all there was for me. This was my home, my life, my one and only ambition . . . to be a good teacher! (His dictionary) Anela Myalatya, twenty years old, from Cookhouse, wanted to be that the way your friends wanted to be big soccer stars playing for Kaizer Chiefs! That ambition goes back to when he was just a skinny little ten-year-old pissing on a small gray bush at the top of the Wapadsberg Pass.

  We were on our way to a rugby match at Somerset East. The lorry stopped at the top of the mountain so that we could stretch our legs and relieve ourselves. It was a hard ride on the back of that lorry. The road hadn’t been tarred yet. So there I was, ten years old and sighing with relief as I aimed for the little bush. It was a hot day. The sun right over our heads . . . not a cloud in the vast blue sky. I looked out . . . it’s very high up there at the top of the pass . . . and there it was, stretching away from the foot of the mountain, the great pan of the Karoo . . . stretching away forever it seemed into the purple haze and heat of the horizon. Something grabbed my heart at that moment, my soul, and squeezed it until there were tears in my eyes. I had never seen anything so big, so beautiful in all my life. I went to the teacher who was with us and asked him: “Teacher, where will I come to if I start walking that way?” . . . and I pointed. He laughed. “Little man,” he said, “that way is north. If you start walking that way and just keep on walking, and your legs don’t give in, you will see all of Africa! Yes, Africa little man! You will see the great rivers of the continent: the Vaal, the Zambesi, the Limpopo, the Congo and then the mighty Nile. You will see the mountains: the Drakensberg, Kilimanjaro, Kenya and the Ruwenzori. And you will meet all our brothers: the little Pygmies of the forests, the proud Masai, the Watusi . . . tallest of the tall and the Kikuyu standing on one leg like herons in a pond waiting for a frog.” “Has teacher seen all that?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Then how does teacher know it’s there?” “Because it is all in the books and I have read the books and if you work hard in school little man, you can do the same without worrying about your legs giving in.”