The high officer sighed, and pulled the papers toward him. Lines of worry puckered his brow.
Good pay, high rank, prestige, he said. Then he settled down to work.
It will be a serious matter if there is a strike. For there are three hundred thousand black miners here on the Wit.w.a.tersrand. They come from the Transkei, from Basutoland and Zululand and Bechua.n.a.land and Sekukuniland, and from countries outside South Africa. They are simple people, illiterate, tribal people, an easy tool in the hand. And when they strike they go mad; they imprison mine officials in their offices, and throw bottles and stones, and set places on fire. It is true they are in compounds in a hundred mines, and that makes control of them easier. But they can do great damage, and endanger human life, and bring the great industry of South Africa to a standstill, the industry on which South Africa was built up, and on which it depends.
There are worrying rumours about, that the strike will not be limited to the mines, but will spread to every kind of industry, to the railways and the ships. There are even rumours that every black man, every black woman, will stop working; that every school, every church, will close. They will stand idle and sullen about the streets, in every city and town and village, on every road and every farm, eight millions of them. But such a thing is fantastic. They are not organized for it, they would suffer untold hardships, they would die of starvation. Yet the thought of so fantastic a thing is terrifying, and white people realize how dependent they are on the labour of the black people.
The times are anxious, there can be no doubt about that. Strange things are happening in the world, and the world has never let South Africa alone.
The strike has come and gone. It never went beyond the mines. The worst trouble was at the Driefontein, where the police were called in to drive the black miners into the mine. There was fighting, and three of the black miners were killed. But all is quiet, they report, all is quiet.
The annual Synod of the Diocese of Johannesburg cannot be supposed to know too much about the mines. The days seem over when Synods confined themselves to religion, and one of the clergymen made a speech about the matter. He urged that it was time to recognise the African Mine Workers" Union, and prophesied a blood-bath if it were not. It is supposed that he meant that the Union should be treated as a responsible body, competent to negotiate with its employers about conditions of work and pay. But a man called a spokesman has pointed out that the African Miners are simple souls, hardly qualified in the art of negotiation, and an easy tool for unscrupulous agitators. And in any event, everyone knows that rising costs would threaten the very existence of the mines, and the very existence of South Africa.
There are many sides to this difficult problem. And people persist in discussing soil-erosion, and tribal decay, and lack of schools, and crime, as though they were all parts of the matter. If you think long enough about it, you will be brought to consider republics, and bilingualism, and immigration, and Palestine, and G.o.d knows what. So in a way it is best not to think about it at all.
In the meantime the strike is over, with a remarkably low loss of life. All is quiet, they report, all is quiet.
In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.
27.
MRS. LITHEBE AND Gertrude entered the house, and Mrs. Lithebe shut the door behind them.
I have done my best to understand you, my daughter. But I do not succeed in it.
I did no wrong.
I did not say you did wrong. But you do not understand this house, you do not understand the people that live in it.
Gertrude stood sullenly. I do not understand it, she said.
Then why do you speak with such people, my daughter?
I did not know they were not decent people.
Do you not hear the way they speak, the way they laugh? Do you not hear them laugh idly and carelessly?
I did not know it was wrong.
I did not say it was wrong. It is idle and careless, the way they speak and laugh. Are you not trying to be a good woman?
I am trying.
Then such people will not help you.
I hear you.
I do not like to reproach you. But your brother the umfundisi has surely suffered enough.
He has suffered.
Then do not make him suffer further, my daughter.
I shall be glad to leave this place, Gertrude said. The tears came into her eyes. I do not know what to do in this place.
It is not this place only, said Mrs. Lithebe. Even in Ndotsheni you will find those who are ready to laugh and speak carelessly.
It is the place, said Gertrude. I have known nothing but trouble in this Johannesburg. I shall be glad to be gone.
It will not be long before you go, for the case will finish tomorrow. But I am afraid for you, and for the umfundisi also.
There is no need to be afraid.
I am glad to hear it, my daughter. I am not afraid for the child, she is willing and obedient. She desires to please the umfundisi. And indeed it should be so, for she receives from him what her own father denied her.
She can also talk carelessly.
I am not blind, my child. But she learns otherwise, and she learns quickly. Let us finish with the matter. Someone is coming.
There was a knock at the door, and a great stout woman stood there, breathing heavily from her walk to the house. There is a bad thing in the paper, she said, I have brought it to show you. She put the paper down on the table, and showed the other women the headlines. ANOTHER MURDER TRAGEDY IN CITY. EUROPEAN HOUSEHOLDER SHOT DEAD BY NATIVE HOUSEBREAKER.
They were shocked. These were the headlines that men feared in these days. Householders feared them, and their wives feared them. All those who worked for South Africa feared them. All law-abiding black men feared them. Some people were urging the newspapers to drop the word native from their headlines, others found it hard to know what the hiding of the painful truth would do.
It is hard thing that this should happen at this moment, said the stout woman, just when the case is to finish.
For she knew all about the case, and had gone each time with Mrs. Lithebe to the trial.
That is a true thing that you say, said Mrs. Lithebe.
She heard the click of the gate, and threw the paper under a chair. It was k.u.malo and the girl. The girl was holding his arm, for he was frail in these days. She guided him to his room, and they were hardly gone before the gate clicked again, and Msimangu entered. His eyes fell on the paper at once, and he picked it up from under the chair.
Has he seen it? he asked.
No, umfundisi, said the stout woman. Is it not a hard thing that this should happen at this moment?
This judge is a great judge, said Msimangu. But it is a hard thing, as you say. He likes to read the paper. What shall we do?
There is no paper here but the one that she has brought, said Mrs. Lithebe. But when he goes to eat at the Mission House he will see it.
That is why I came, said Msimangu. Mother, could we not eat here tonight?
That is a small thing to ask. There is food enough, though it is simple.
Indeed, mother, you are always our helper.
For what else are we born? she said.
And after the meal we can go straight to the meeting, said Msimangu. Tomorrow will be easy, he does not read the paper on the days we go to the case. And after that it will not matter.
So they hid the newspaper. They all ate at Mrs. Lithebe"s, and after the meal they went to the meeting at the church, where a black woman spoke to them about her call to become a nun and to renounce the world, and how G.o.d had taken from her that desire which is in the nature of women.
After the meeting, when Msimangu had left, and k.u.malo had gone to his room, and while the girl was making up the bed in the place where they ate and lived, Gertrude followed Mrs. Lithebe to her room.
May I speak to you, mother?
That is nothing to ask, my child.
She shut the door, and waited for Gertrude to speak.
I was listening to the black sister, mother, and it came to me that perhaps I should become a nun.
Mrs. Lithebe clapped her hands, she was happy, and then solemn.
I clap my hands not because you should do it, she said, but because you should think of it. But there is the boy.
Gertrude"s eyes filled with tears.
Perhaps the wife of my brother would care better for him, she said. I am a weak woman, you know it. I laugh and speak carelessly. Perhaps it would help me to become a nun.
You mean, the desire?
Gertrude hung her head. It is that I mean, she said.
Mrs. Lithebe took Gertrude"s hands in hers.
It would be a great thing, she said. But they say it is not to be done lightly or quickly. Did she not say so?
She said so, mother.
Let us keep it unspoken except between us. I shall pray for you, and you shall pray also. And after a time we shall speak again. Do you think that is wise?
That is very wise, mother.
Then sleep well, my daughter. I do not know if this will happen. But if it happens, it will comfort the old man.
Sleep well, mother.
Gertrude closed the door of Mrs. Lithebe"s room, and on the way to her own, moved by sudden impulse, she dropped on the floor by the bed of the girl.
I have a feeling to become a nun, she said.
The girl sat up in her blankets.
Au! she said, that is a hard thing.
It is a hard thing, said Gertrude, I am not yet decided. But if it should be so, would you care for the boy?
Indeed, the girl answered, and her face was eager. Indeed I should care for him.
As though he were your own?
Indeed so. As though he were my own.
And you will not talk carelessly before him?
The girl was solemn. I do not talk carelessly any more, she said.
I too shall not talk carelessly any more, said Gertrude. Remember, it is not yet decided.
I shall remember.
And you must not speak of it yet. My brother would be grieved if we talked of it and decided otherwise.
I understand you.
Sleep well, small one.
Sleep well.
28.
THE PEOPLE STAND when the great Judge comes into the Court, they stand more solemnly today, for this is the day of the judgement. The Judge sits, and then his two a.s.sessors, and then the people; and the three accused are brought from the place under the Court.
I have given long thought and consideration to this case, says the Judge, and so have my a.s.sessors. We have listened carefully to all the evidence that has been brought forward, and have discussed it and tested it piece by piece.
And the interpreter interprets into Zulu what the Judge has said: The accused Absalom k.u.malo has not sought to deny his guilt. The defence has chosen to put the accused in the witness-box, where he has told straightforwardly and simply the story of how he shot the late Arthur Jarvis in his house at Parkwold. He has maintained further that it was not his intention to kill or even to shoot, that the weapon was brought to intimidate the servant Richard Mpiring, that he supposed the murdered man to have been elsewhere. With this evidence we must later deal, but part of it is of the gravest importance in determining the guilt of the second and third accused. The first accused states that the plan was put forward by the third accused Johannes Pafuri, and that Pafuri struck the blow that rendered unconscious the servant Mpiring. In this he is supported by Mpiring himself, who says that he recognized Pafuri by the twitching of the eyes above the mask. It is further true that he picked out Pafuri from among ten men similarly disguised, more than one of whom suffered from a tic similar to that suffered by Pafuri. But the defence has pointed out that these tics were similar and not identical, that it was difficult to find even a few men of similar build with any tic at all, and that Pafuri was well-known to Mpiring. The defence has argued that the identification would have been valid only if all ten men had been of similar build and had suffered from identical tics. We cannot accept this argument in its entirety, because it would seem to lead to the conclusion that identification is only valid when all the subjects are identical. But the partial validity of the argument is clear; a marked characteristic like a tic can lead as easily to wrong identification as to correct identification, especially when the lower half of the face is concealed. It must be accepted that identification depends on the recognition of a pattern, of a whole, and that it becomes uncertain when the pattern is partially concealed. In fact it becomes dangerous, because it would obviously be possible to conceal the unlike features, and to reveal only the like. Two people with similar scars, shall we say, are more easily confused one with the other when the area surrounding the scar is revealed, and the rest concealed. It would appear therefore that Mpiring"s identification of his a.s.sailant is not of itself sufficient proof that Pafuri was that man.
It must further be borne in mind that, although the first accused, Absalom k.u.malo, stated that Pafuri was present, and that he had a.s.saulted Mpiring, he made this statement only after the Police had questioned him as to the whereabouts of Pafuri. Did it then first occur to him to implicate Pafuri? Or was there a pre-existing connection between Pafuri and the murder? Counsel for the first accused has argued that Absalom k.u.malo had been in a continuous state of fear for some days, and that once he had been arrested, no matter what name or names had been submitted to him, he would have confessed what was so heavily burdening his mind, and that it was this state of mind that led to the confession, and not the mention of Pafuri"s name. Indeed his own account of his fearful state lends colour to that supposition. But one cannot exclude the possibility that he seized upon Pafuri"s name, and said that Pafuri was one of the three, not wishing to be alone on so grave a charge. Why however should he not give the names of his real confederates, for there seems no reason to doubt Mpiring"s evidence that three men came into the kitchen? He has given a straightforward account of his own actions. Why should he then implicate two innocent men and conceal the names of two guilty men?
One must also bear in mind the strange coincidence that what is argued to be a wrong identification led to the apprehension of an a.s.sociate who immediately confessed.
There is a further difficulty in this perplexing case. Neither of the other accused, nor the woman Baby Mkize, denies that all four were present at 79 Twenty-third Avenue, Alexandra, on the night following the murder. Was this again a chance meeting that caused the first accused to name both the second and third accused as his confederates? Or was it indeed the kind of meeting that he claims it to be? Was the murder discussed at this meeting? The woman Baby Mkize is a most unsatisfactory witness, and while the prosecution, and the Counsel for the defence of the first accused, demonstrated this most clearly, neither was able to produce that conclusive proof that the murder had been discussed. This woman at first lied to the Police, telling them that she had not seen the first accused for a year. She was a confused, contradictory, and frightened witness, but was this fear and its resulting confusion caused by mere presence in a Court, or by knowledge of other crimes to which she had been a party, or by the guilty knowledge that the murder was in fact discussed? That does not seem to us to have been clearly established.
The prosecution has made much of the previous a.s.sociation of the three accused, and indeed has made out so strong a case that further investigation is called for into the nature of that a.s.sociation. But previous a.s.sociation, even of a criminal nature, is not in itself a proof of a.s.sociation in the grave crime of which these three persons stand accused.
After long and thoughtful consideration, my a.s.sessors and I have come to the conclusion that the guilt of the second and third accused is not established, and they will be accordingly discharged. But I have no doubt that their previous criminal a.s.sociation will be exhaustively investigated.