Sometimes the chief took up explication in their own language, with his men; the white man was dropped from the discussion. Maureen’s concentration jerked a rein on July. — What’s he say?—
— He’s say he can’t believe that; white people are not shooting, the government is not killing those men? Always the white men got those guns, those tanks, aeroplanes. Long time. Even from fourteen-eighteen, King George war. Even from Smuts and Vorster time. The white men can’t run away. No. Why they run away?—
Us and them. Who is us, now, and who them? — They’re shooting all right. But they’re not the only ones with guns, now. Even planes. The blacks have Cubans flying from Moçambique and Namibia.—
Us and them. What he’s really asking about: an explosion of roles, that’s what the blowing up of the Union Buildings and the burning of master bedrooms is.
— And they want to kill you. — The chief spoke in English without any explanation and with a face that stopped short any show of surprise.
She — Maureen — seemed to take it she was the one addressed. On the stroke of dead silence, she laughed again, to him. Perhaps she couldn’t speak. And blood rose to the burned and freckled surface of her skin, the thin face glistening perpetually with sweat; poor thing, she changed nakedly like a chameleon before them — something beyond her control.
He — Bam — if they wanted to gloat at umlungu, white baas, nkosi, morema, hosi and his family delivered into their hands — there was nothing he would say to them. Even July did not look at the face of the one he used to insist on calling master. An exhibit has no claims on anyone. And they want to kill you. If it amused, if it shocked the chief — take the remark how you liked — it was his privilege, irascible, ill-nourished old man, king of migrant workers, of a wilderness of neglect, villages without men, fields without tractors, children coughing in rags. But when the edict came, Out, get out, that same kingly authority would have to order July to give back the vehicle; would a subject who had lived so long in the suburbs, under another authority that he had now seen destroyed (even white women looted medicine from shops), recognize a chiefs order?
One or two people got up and left; perhaps the audience was over. But it was merely a lull. The chief sucked loudly and sharply through the gaps in his teeth. Everyone listened to the sound as if it were intelligible. When he spoke again it was in his own language; July translated. — You think they can find this place with those people?’
— I don’t understand the chief.—
— Those people they’re fighting with the others.
— July was prompted by Daniel, in their language from which one foreign word dropped out: Cubas.
— You mean will the Cubans come here? How can I say?—
— He says, the government tell him long time, the Russias and those — what Daniel speak — they going to take his country here from him.—
— Oh the government. What they said. The sort of thing they told the homeland leaders, the chiefs. But now it’s black people who are making this war to get everybody’s land backfrom the whites who tookit—
— He’s ask, your land too?—
— I didn’t ever have any land, I don’t own farms—
— Your house, too?—
— Oh my house … yes, the land only whites could build on in town — maybe they’ll take that. Maybe not.—
It might be standing empty; it might be burned down. But July’s woman Ellen might have moved back into his quarters in the yard and be quietly caretaking …
The chief spoke for himselfagain, in English. — Those people from Soweto. They come here with Russias, those other ones from Moçambique, they all want take this country of my nation. Eh? They not our nation. Ama-Zulu, amaXhosa, baSotho … I don’t know. They were already there by the mine, coming near here. If they coming, the government it’s going give me guns. Yes! They give us guns, we going kill those people when they come with their guns. — He leaned far forward, breaking the angle of his legs at the bony knees like a penknife snapped half-shut. He could have been offering the privilege of a woman to the white man: —You bring your gun and you teach how it’s shooting. Before, the white people are not letting us buy gun. Even me, I’m the chief, even my father and his father’s father — you know? — we not having guns. When those Soweto and Russias, what-you-call-it come, you shoot with us. You help us. — The speech broke out into the eloquence of their own language; he harangued them all, his force flew rhetoric that ended majestically with reverberations from his iron-dark, iron-spare chest showing through a cheap nylon shirt, and in the dying away of hissing breaths with a final sound like a high-note clap! at the back of his throat.
— My gun. — Bamford Smales got on his feet, turned to his wife where she sat with her two fists on her thighs. All that met him was the movement of her eyeballs under thin membranes of her lowered lids; the eyes staring at the stamped earth with the reflex shift of focus brought about by a trail of ants in her line of vision, crowding round the feeding-trough formed by the body of a crushed insect.
There was about her the aura of someone under hypnosis whom it is dangerous to touch with reality. —My gun?—
He did not know he had lifted his arms wide until he saw July, the black men — all of them were looking at his palms open to them, sinking. — You’re not going to shoot your own people. You wouldn’t kill blacks. Mandela’s people, Sobukwe’s people. — (Would they have forgotten Luthuli? heard of Biko? Not of their ‘nation’ although he was famous in New York and Stockholm, Paris, London and Moscow.) — You’re not going to take guns and help the white government kill blacks, are you? Are you? For this — this village and this empty bush? And they’ll kill you. You mustn’t let the government make you kill each other. The whole black nation is your nation.—
Like the chief, like July, like everyone, she was hearing him say what he and she had always said, it came lamenting, searching from their whole life across the silent bush in which they had fallen from the fabric of that life as loose buttons drop and are lost.
The match worked from the right corner of the chief’s mouth to the left. He sucked once at the gap in his teeth. — How many you got there by Mwawate’s place? — One eye closed, hands in position, taking aim. Of course, ‘July’ was a name for whites to use; for fifteen years they had not been told what the chiefs subject really was called.
— It’s a shot-gun, to kill birds. Birds to eat. Oh and I did get two wart-hogs with it.—
— You not got another kind, revolver? — The kind white men are known to keep in their bedrooms, to protect their radios and TV sets and coveted suits of clothing.
— I don’t shoot people.—
A short disgusted short from the black man; a back-wash of laughter.
And when you are disbelieved you begin somehow to accommodate, to fit the accusation: not to believe yourself. The parrot-call of the whites back there had been ‘You mean to say you wouldn’t defend your own wife and children?’ Her husband kicked the big dead insect from before her, the thing landed among and sent squealing Gina and the threesome made with black children out in the heat. The child ran off clutched intimately in the thrilled group, and he had to call after her, she would disappear into the dark of this hut or that and wouldn’t be found, as usual, taken in, by those who lived inside, as neither he nor his wife ever were; beer-drink familiarity was of the order of pub acquaintance between men who never invited each other to their houses. — We’re leaving now, time to go!—