I do not say we are free here. I do not say we are free as men should be. But at least I am free of the chief. At least I am free of an old and ignorant man, who is nothing but a white man's dog. He is a trick, a trick to hold together something that the white man desires to hold together.

He smiled his cunning and knowing smile, and for a moment addressed himself to his visitors.

But it is not being held together, he said. It is breaking apart, your tribal society. It is here in Johannesburg that the new society is being built. Something is happening here, my brother.

He paused for a moment, then he said, I do not wish to offend you gentlemen, but the Church too is like the chief. You must do so and so and so. You are not free to have an experience. A man must be faithful and meek and obedient, and he must obey the laws, whatever the laws may be. It is true that the Church speaks with a fine voice, and that the Bishops speak against the laws. But this they have been doing for fifty years, and things get worse, not better.

His voice grew louder, and he was again addressing people who were not there. Here in Johannesburg it is the mines, he said, everything is the mines. These high buildings, this wonderful City Hall, this beautiful Parktown with its beautiful houses, all this is built with the gold from the mines. This wonderful hospital for Europeans, the biggest hospital south of the Equator, it is built with the gold from the mines.

There was a change in his voice, it became louder like the voice of a bull or a lion. Go to our hospital, he said, and see our people lying on the floors. They lie so close you cannot step over them. But it is they who dig the gold. For three shillings a day. We come from the Transkei, and from Basutoland, and from Bechua.n.a.land, and from Swaziland, and from Zululand. And from Ndotsheni also. We live in the compounds, we must leave our wives and families behind. And when the new gold is found, it is not we who will get more for our labour. It is the white man's shares that will rise, you will read it in all the papers. They go mad when new gold is found. They bring more of us to live in the compounds, to dig under the ground for three shillings a day. They do not think, here is a chance to pay more for our labour. They think only, here is a chance to build a bigger house and buy a bigger car. It is important to find gold, they say, for all South Africa is built on the mines.

He growled, and his voice grew deep, it was like thunder that was rolling. But it is not built on the mines, he said, it is built on our backs, on our sweat, on our labour. Every factory, every theatre, every beautiful house, they are all built by us. And what does a chief know about that? But here in Johannesburg they know.

He stopped, and was silent. And his visitors were silent also, for there was something in this voice that compelled one to be silent. And Stephen k.u.malo sat silent, for this was a new brother that he saw.

John k.u.malo looked at him. The Bishop says it is wrong, he said, but he lives in a big house, and his white priests get four, five, six times what you get, my brother.

He sat down, and took out a large red handkerchief to wipe his face.

That is my experience, he said. That is why I no longer go to the Church.

And that is why you did not write any more.

Well, well, it could be the reason.

That, and your wife Esther?

Yes, yes, both perhaps. It is hard to explain in a letter. Our customs are different here.

And Msimangu said, are there any customs here?

John k.u.malo looked at him. There is a new thing growing here, he said. Stronger than any church or chief. You will see it one day.

And your wife? Why did she leave?

Well, well, said John k.u.malo with his knowing smile. She did not understand my experience.

You mean, said Msimangu coldly, that she believed in fidelity?

John looked at him suspiciously. Fidelity, he said. But Msimangu was quick to see that he did not understand.

Perhaps we should speak Zulu again, he said.

The angry veins stood out on the great bull neck, and who knows what angry words might have been spoken, but Stephen k.u.malo was quick to intervene.

Here is the tea, my brother. That is kind of you.

The woman was not introduced, but took round the tea humbly. When she had gone, k.u.malo spoke to his brother.

I have listened attentively to you, my brother. Much of what you say saddens me, partly because of the way you say it, and partly because much of it is true. And now I have something to ask of you. But I must tell you first that Gertrude is with me here. She is coming back to Ndotsheni.

Well, well, I shall not say it is a bad thing. Johannesburg is not a place for a woman alone. I myself tried to persuade her, but she did not agree, so we did not meet any more.

And now I must ask you. Where is my son?

There is something like discomfort in John's eyes. He takes out his handkerchief again.

Well, you have heard no doubt he was friendly with my son.

I have heard that.

Well, you know how these young men are. I do not blame them altogether. You see, my son did not agree well with his second mother. What it was about I could never discover. Nor did he agree with his mother's children. Many times I tried to arrange matters, but I did not succeed. So he said he would leave. He had good work so I did not stop him. And your son went with him.

Where, my brother?

I do not rightly know. But I heard that they had a room in Alexandra. Now wait a minute. They were both working for a factory. I remember. Wait till I look in the telephone book.

He went to a table and there k.u.malo saw the telephone. He felt a little pride to be the brother of a man who had such a thing.

There it is. Doornfontein Textiles Company, 14 Krause St. I shall write it down for you, my brother.

Can we not telephone them? asked k.u.malo hesitantly.

His brother laughed. What for? he asked. To ask if Absalom k.u.malo is working there? Or to ask if they will call him to the telephone? Or to ask if they will give his address? They do not do such things for a black man, my brother.

It does not matter, said Msimangu. My hands are yours, my friend.

They said their farewells and went out into the street.

Huh, there you have it.

Yes, we have it there.

He is a big man, in this place, your brother. His shop is always full of men, talking as you have heard. But they say you must hear him at a meeting, he and Dubula and a brown man named Tomlinson. They say he speaks like a bull, and growls in his throat like a lion, and could make men mad if he would. But for that they say he has not enough courage, for he would surely be sent to prison.

I shall tell you one thing, Msimangu continued. Many of the things that he said are true.

He stopped in the street and spoke quietly and earnestly to his companion. Because the white man has power, we too want power, he said. But when a black man gets power, when he gets money, he is a great man if he is not corrupted. I have seen it often. He seeks power and money to put right what is wrong, and when he gets them, why, he enjoys the power and the money. Now he can gratify his l.u.s.ts, now he can arrange ways to get white man's liquor, he can speak to thousands and hear them clap their hands. Some of us think when we have power, we shall revenge ourselves on the white man who has had power, and because our desire is corrupt, we are corrupted, and the power has no heart in it. But most white men do not know this truth about power, and they are afraid lest we get it.

He stood as though he was testing his exposition. Yes, that is right about power, he said. But there is only one thing that has power completely, and that is love. Because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power. I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the good of their country, come together to work for it.

He was grave and silent, and then he said sombrely, I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find we are turned to hating.

This is not the way to get to Doornfontein, he said. Come, let us hurry.

And k.u.malo followed him silently, oppressed by the grave and sombre words.

But they were not successful at Doornfontein, although the white men treated them with consideration. Msimangu knew how to arrange things with white men, and they went to a great deal of trouble, and found that Absalom k.u.malo had left them some twelve months before. One of them remembered that Absalom had been friendly with one of their workmen, Dhlamini, and this man was sent for from his work. He told them that when he had last heard, Absalom was staying with a Mrs. Ndlela, of End St., Sophiatown, the street that separates Sophiatown from the European suburb of Westdene. He was not sure, but he thought that the number of the house was 105.

So they returned to Sophiatown, and indeed found Mrs. Ndlela at 105 End Street. She received them with a quiet kindness, and her children hid behind her skirts, and peeped out at the visitors. But Absalom was not there, she said. But wait, she had had a letter from him, asking about the things he had left behind. So while k.u.malo played with her children, and Msimangu talked to her husband, she brought out a big box full of papers and other belongings, and looked for the letter. And while she was searching, and Msimangu was watching her kind and tired face, he saw her stop in her search for a moment, and look at k.u.malo for a moment, half curiously, and half with pity. At last she found the letter, and she showed them the address, c/o Mrs. Mkize, 79 Twenty-third Avenue, Alexandra.

Then they must drink a cup of tea, and it was dark before they rose to leave, and the husband stepped out with k.u.malo into the street.

Why did you look at my friend with pity? asked Msimangu of the woman.

She dropped her eyes, then raised them again. He is an umfundisi, she said.

Yes.

I did not like his son's friends. Nor did my husband. That is why he left us.

I understand you. Was there anything worse than that?

No. I saw nothing. But I did not like his friends.

Her face was honest and open, and she did not drop her eyes again.

Goodnight, mother.

Goodnight, umfundisi.

Out in the street they said farewell to the husband, and set off back to the Mission House.

Tomorrow, said Msimangu, we go to Alexandra.

k.u.malo put his hand on his friend's arm. The things are not happy that brought me to Johannesburg, he said, but I have found much pleasure in your company.

Huh, said Msimangu, huh, we must hurry or we shall be late for our food.

8.

THE NEXT MORNING, after they had eaten at the Mission House, Msimangu and k.u.malo set off for the great wide road where the buses run.

Every bus is here the right bus, said Msimangu.

k.u.malo smiled at that, for it was a joke against him and his fear of catching the wrong bus.

All these buses go to Johannesburg, said Msimangu. You need not fear to take a wrong bus here.

So they took the first bus that came, and it set them down at the place where k.u.malo had lost his pound. And then they walked, through many streets full of cars and buses and people, till they reached the bus rank for Alexandra. But here they met an unexpected obstacle, for a man came up to them and said to Msimangu, are you going to Alexandra, umfundisi?

Yes, my friend.

We are here to stop you, umfundisi. Not by force, you see - he pointed - the police are there to prevent that. But by persuasion. If you use this bus you are weakening the cause of the black people. We have determined not to use these buses until the fare is brought back again to fourpence.

Yes, indeed, I have heard of it.

He turned to k.u.malo.

I was very foolish, my friend. I had forgotten that there were no buses; at least I had forgotten the boycott of the buses.

Our business is very urgent, said k.u.malo humbly.

This boycott is also urgent, said the man politely. They want us to pay sixpence, that is one shilling a day. Six shillings a week, and some of us only get thirty-five or forty shillings.

Is it far to walk? asked k.u.malo.

It is a long way, umfundisi. Eleven miles.

That is a long way, for an old man.

Men as old as you are doing it every day, umfundisi. And women, and some that are sick, and some crippled, and children. They start walking at four in the morning, and they do not get back till eight at night. They have a bite of food, and their eyes are hardly closed on the pillow before they must stand up again, sometimes to start off with nothing but hot water in their stomachs. I cannot stop you taking a bus, umfundisi, but this is a cause to fight for. If we lose it, then they will have to pay more in Sophiatown and Claremont and Kliptown and Pimville.

I understand you well. We shall not use the bus.

The man thanked them and went to another would-be traveller.

That man has a silver tongue, said k.u.malo.

That is the famous Dubula, said Msimangu quietly. A friend of your brother John. But they say - excuse me, my friend - that Tomlinson has the brains, and your brother the voice, but that this man has the heart. He is the one the Government is afraid of, because he himself is not afraid. He seeks nothing for himself. They say he has given up his own work to do this picketing of the buses, and his wife pickets the other bus rank at Alexandra.

That is something to be proud of. Johannesburg is a place of wonders.

They were church people, said Msimangu regretfully, but are so no longer. Like your brother, they say the church has a fine voice, but no deeds. Well, my friend, what do we do now?

I am willing to walk.

Eleven miles, and eleven miles back. It is a long journey.

I am willing. You understand I am anxious, my friend. This Johannesburg - it is no place for a boy to be alone.

Good. Let us begin then.

So they walked many miles through the European city, up Twist Street to the Clarendon Circle, and down Louis Botha towards Orange Grove. And the cars and the lorries never ceased, going one way or the other. After a long time a car stopped and a white man spoke to them.

Where are you two going? he asked.

To Alexandra, sir, said Msimangu, taking off his hat.

I thought you might be. Climb in.

That was a great help to them, and at the turn-off to Alexandra they expressed their thanks.