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Authors: Janice Warman
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Master . . .” He weaved off down the path. Joshua watched him negotiate the gate into the garden unsteadily, bottle dangling from his fingertips.
“Why are they smashing up the schools?” asked Anna. “It’s silly.” She was folding and refolding her cloth, watching Joshua as he finished the intricacies of the wheel spokes with his cloth-wrapped finger.
Joshua shrugged. He didn’t want to talk. Since the news about Sipho, since the radio bulletins, since Robert had returned from Guguletu, he’d felt — ragged. Torn inside. Shaky. He was angry. Those poor children! How could grown men shoot them? Didn’t they have children of their own?
That moment when he had stood in front of the mirror seemed a lifetime ago. He had felt different then. He had felt . . . He realized Anna was looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“How must I know!” he exploded. “How must I know!”
“We give them schools, we give them books, and this is how they repay us,” she said in a singsong voice. She had obviously heard her parents talking. “But where would they be without us?”
She gave him a sly look. “Is that what you think?”
He rubbed furiously at the shining wheel, not looking at her.
“I must go in now,” he said. “The car is finished. I have other work to do.”
And he held out his hand for her cloth.
Normally, she would have said, “Can I help you?” Normally, she would have said, “Oh, please let me.
Pleeease
,” and turned down her mouth, and her face would have flushed dark red. Normally, she would have trailed behind him, whining.
Today she handed him the cloth and went.
Joshua sat on the filtration tank, kicking his heels. He did not know what to do. He’d cleaned the pool. He did not have any other jobs left. His mother, he knew, had gone to visit her friend Hester at Anna’s house. Although she was only next door, he couldn’t go there.
Anna could come here as much as she liked. But then, she could go anywhere, he thought. She went to school every day. She could go to the beach. She could go to the shops. She could ride that smart new bike of hers up and down the road. She could go to the top of Table Mountain. She could sit on those benches that said SLEGS BLANKES. WHITES ONLY. She could ride on any bus she chose. Only she’d be driven in her father’s big black Jaguar with the leaping silver cat on the front of the hood.
And when she was grown up? She would have a choice. She could be a white Madam like Mrs. Malherbe — only younger, he couldn’t imagine her that old — and have white brats like the Websters across the road, and run her finger along the mantelpiece and say to her maid, “What’s this? I pay you to keep the house clean.” Or she could go to university and be a doctor. She could go overseas. She could do anything.
And him? What could he do? He could just about read, thanks to his mother and Tsumalo. He might, if he was lucky, go back to school one day. Then, when he was grown up, he might get a job in the mines, like Sipho. Or be a gardener like Goodman.
If he was unlucky, he would end up as a
bergie
, sleeping rough on the mountain, drinking purple meths, the cheapest alcohol there was. Which would kill him, eventually.
He jumped off the tank and headed up the path toward Tsumalo’s shed. He was angry.
He saw Robert coming down the path toward him, Robert with his blue eyes and his wide grin and his curly hair, looking more unsteady now, but even friendlier.
Joshua turned his face the other way and ran straight past. He had to talk to Tsumalo.
W hen he got to the shed, Tsumalo was staring out the window. He was smoking, something Joshua had never seen him do.
“Tsumalo! I have to talk to you! Why have the riots happened? What is going on?”
“Hey,” said Tsumalo. It was a very small cigarette, hand-rolled.
“Tsumalo! Why did they kill all those children?”
But the man was in a strange mood. “It is all going according to plan,” he said
“Why are they smashing up the schools?” asked Anna. “It’s silly.” She was folding and refolding her cloth, watching Joshua as he finished the intricacies of the wheel spokes with his cloth-wrapped finger.
Joshua shrugged. He didn’t want to talk. Since the news about Sipho, since the radio bulletins, since Robert had returned from Guguletu, he’d felt — ragged. Torn inside. Shaky. He was angry. Those poor children! How could grown men shoot them? Didn’t they have children of their own?
That moment when he had stood in front of the mirror seemed a lifetime ago. He had felt different then. He had felt . . . He realized Anna was looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“How must I know!” he exploded. “How must I know!”
“We give them schools, we give them books, and this is how they repay us,” she said in a singsong voice. She had obviously heard her parents talking. “But where would they be without us?”
She gave him a sly look. “Is that what you think?”
He rubbed furiously at the shining wheel, not looking at her.
“I must go in now,” he said. “The car is finished. I have other work to do.”
And he held out his hand for her cloth.
Normally, she would have said, “Can I help you?” Normally, she would have said, “Oh, please let me.
Pleeease
,” and turned down her mouth, and her face would have flushed dark red. Normally, she would have trailed behind him, whining.
Today she handed him the cloth and went.
Joshua sat on the filtration tank, kicking his heels. He did not know what to do. He’d cleaned the pool. He did not have any other jobs left. His mother, he knew, had gone to visit her friend Hester at Anna’s house. Although she was only next door, he couldn’t go there.
Anna could come here as much as she liked. But then, she could go anywhere, he thought. She went to school every day. She could go to the beach. She could go to the shops. She could ride that smart new bike of hers up and down the road. She could go to the top of Table Mountain. She could sit on those benches that said SLEGS BLANKES. WHITES ONLY. She could ride on any bus she chose. Only she’d be driven in her father’s big black Jaguar with the leaping silver cat on the front of the hood.
And when she was grown up? She would have a choice. She could be a white Madam like Mrs. Malherbe — only younger, he couldn’t imagine her that old — and have white brats like the Websters across the road, and run her finger along the mantelpiece and say to her maid, “What’s this? I pay you to keep the house clean.” Or she could go to university and be a doctor. She could go overseas. She could do anything.
And him? What could he do? He could just about read, thanks to his mother and Tsumalo. He might, if he was lucky, go back to school one day. Then, when he was grown up, he might get a job in the mines, like Sipho. Or be a gardener like Goodman.
If he was unlucky, he would end up as a
bergie
, sleeping rough on the mountain, drinking purple meths, the cheapest alcohol there was. Which would kill him, eventually.
He jumped off the tank and headed up the path toward Tsumalo’s shed. He was angry.
He saw Robert coming down the path toward him, Robert with his blue eyes and his wide grin and his curly hair, looking more unsteady now, but even friendlier.
Joshua turned his face the other way and ran straight past. He had to talk to Tsumalo.
W hen he got to the shed, Tsumalo was staring out the window. He was smoking, something Joshua had never seen him do.
“Tsumalo! I have to talk to you! Why have the riots happened? What is going on?”
“Hey,” said Tsumalo. It was a very small cigarette, hand-rolled.
“Tsumalo! Why did they kill all those children?”
But the man was in a strange mood. “It is all going according to plan,” he said
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