It is a long journey, said the white man. And I know that you have no buses.

They stood to watch him go on, but he did not go on. He swung round, and was soon on the road back to Johannesburg.

Huh, said Msimangu, that is something to marvel at.

It was still a long way to Twenty-third Avenue, and as they pa.s.sed one avenue after the other, Msimangu explained that Alexandra was outside the boundaries of Johannesburg, and was a place where a black man could buy land and own a house. But the streets were not cared for, and there were no lights, and so great was the demand for accommodation that every man if he could, built rooms in his yard and sublet them to others. Many of these rooms were the hide-outs for thieves and robbers, and there was much prost.i.tution and brewing of illicit liquor.

These things are so bad, said Msimangu, that the white people of Orange Grove and Norwood and Highlands North got up a great pet.i.tion to do away with the place altogether. One of our young boys s.n.a.t.c.hed a bag there from an old white woman, and she fell to the ground, and died there of shock and fear. And there was a terrible case of a white woman who lived by herself in a house not far from here, and because she resisted some of our young men who broke in, they killed her. Sometimes too white men and women sit in their cars in the dark under the trees on the Pretoria Road; and some of our young men sometimes rob and a.s.sault them, sometimes even the women. It is true that they are often bad women, but that is the one crime we dare not speak of.

It reminds me, he said, of a different case on the other side of Johannesburg. One of my friends lives there in a house that stands by itself on the Potchefstroom road. It was a cold winter's night, and it was still far from morning when there was a knock on the door. It was a woman knocking, a white woman, with scarcely a rag to cover her body. Those she had were torn, and she held them with her hands to hide her nakedness, and she was blue with the cold. A white man had done this to her, taken her in his car, and when he had satisfied himself - or not, I cannot say, I was not there - he threw her out into the cold, with these few rags, and drove back to Johannesburg. Well my friend and his wife found an old dress for her, and an old coat, and boiled water for tea, and wrapped her in blankets. The children were awake, and asking questions, but my friends told them to sleep, and would not let them come in to see. Then my friend went off in the dark to the house of a white farmer not very far away. The dogs were fierce and he was afraid, but he persisted, and when the white man came he told him of the trouble, and that it was the kind of thing to be settled quietly. The white man said, Huh, I will come. He brought out his car, and they went back to my friend's house. The white woman would have shown her thanks with money, but she had no money. My friend and his wife both told her it was not a matter for money. The white man said to my friend, he said it twice,Fy is 'n goeie Kaffer , you are a good Kaffir. Something touched him, and he said it in the words that he had.

I am touched also.

Well, I was telling you about this pet.i.tion. Our white friends fought against this pet.i.tion, for they said that the good things of Alexandra were more than the bad. That it was something to have a place of one's own, and a house to bring up children in, and a place to have a voice in, so that a man is something in the land where he was born. Professor h.o.e.rnle - he is dead, G.o.d rest his soul - he was the great fighter for us. Huh, I am sorry you cannot hear him. For he had Tomlinson's brains, and your brother's voice, and Dubula's heart, all in one man. When he spoke, there was no white man that could speak against him. Huh, I remember it even now. He would say that this is here, and that is there, and that yonder is over there yonder, and there was no man that could move these things by so much as an inch from the places where he put them. Englishman or Afrikaner, they could move nothing from the places where he put them.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. I have talked a great deal, he said, right up to the very house we are seeking.

A woman opened the door to them. She gave them no greeting, and when they stated their business, it was with reluctance that she let them in.

You say the boy has gone, Mrs. Mkize?

Yes, I do not know where he is gone.

When did he go?

These many months. A year it must be.

And had he a friend?

Yes, another k.u.malo. The son of his father's brother. But they left together.

And you do not know where they went?

They talked of many places. But you know how these young men talk.

How did he behave himself, this young man Absalom? k.u.malo asked her.

Have no doubt it is fear in her eyes. Have no doubt it is fear now in his eyes also. It is fear, here in this house.

I saw nothing wrong, she said.

But you guessed there was something wrong.

There was nothing wrong, she said.

Then why are you afraid?

I am not afraid, she said.

Then why do you tremble? asked Msimangu.

I am cold, she said.

She looked at them sullenly, watchfully.

We thank you, said Msimangu. Stay well.

Go well, she said.

Out in the street k.u.malo spoke.

There is something wrong, he said.

I do not deny it. My friend, two of us are too many together. Turn left at the big street and go up the hill, and you will find a place for refreshment. Wait for me there.

Heavy-hearted the old man went, and Msimangu followed him slowly till he turned at the corner. Then he turned back himself, and returned to the house.

She opened again to him, as sullen as before; now that she had recovered, there was more sullenness than fear.

I am not from the police, he said. I have nothing to do with the police. I wish to have nothing to do with them. But there is an old man suffering because he cannot find his son.

That is a bad thing, she said, but she spoke as one speaks who must speak so.

It is a bad thing, he said, and I cannot leave you until you have told what you would not tell.

I have nothing to tell, she said.

You have nothing to tell because you are afraid. And you do not tremble because it is cold.

And why do I tremble? she asked.

That I do not know. But I shall not leave you till I discover it. And if it is necessary, I shall go to the police after all, because there will be no other place to go.

It is hard for a woman who is alone, she said resentfully.

It is hard for an old man seeking his son.

I am afraid, she said.

He is afraid also. Could you not see he is afraid?

I could see it, umfundisi.

Then tell me, what sort of life did they lead here, these two young men? But she kept silent, with the fear in her eyes, and tears near to them. He could see she would be hard to move.

I am a priest. Would you not take my word? But she kept silent.

Have you a Bible?

I have a Bible.

Then I will swear to you on the Bible.

But she kept silent till he said again, I will swear to you on the Bible. So getting no peace, she rose irresolute, and went to a room behind, and after some time she returned with the Bible.

I am a priest, he said. My yea has always been yea, and my nay, nay. But because you desire it, and because an old man is afraid, I swear to you on this Book that no trouble will come to you of this, for we seek only a boy. So help meTixo .

What sort of life did they lead? he asked.

They brought many things here, umfundisi, in the late hours of the night. They were clothes, and watches, and money, and food in bottles, and many other things.

Was there ever blood on them?

I never saw blood on them, umfundisi.

That is something. Only a little, but something.

And why did they leave? he asked.

I do not know, umfundisi. But I think they were near to being discovered.

And they left when?

About a year since, umfundisi. Indeed as I told you.

And here on this Book you will swear you do not know where they are gone?

She reached for the Book, but, it does not matter, he said. He said farewell to her, and hurried out after his friend. But she called after him: They were friendly with the taxi-driver Hlabeni. Near the bus rank he lives. Everyone knows him.

For that I give you thanks. Stay well, Mrs. Mkize.

At the refreshment stall he found his friend.

Did you find anything further? asked the old man eagerly.

I heard of a friend of theirs, the taxi-driver Hlabeni. Let me first eat, and we shall find him out.

When Msimangu had eaten, he went to ask a man where he could find Hlabeni, the taxi-driver. There he is on the corner sitting in his taxi, said the man. Msimangu walked over to the taxi, and said to the man sitting in it, Good afternoon, my friend.

Good afternoon, umfundisi.

I want a taxi, my friend. What do you charge to Johannesburg? For myself and a friend?

For you, umfundisi, I should charge eleven shillings.

It is a lot of money.

Another taxi would charge fifteen or twenty shillings.

My companion is old and tired. I shall pay you eleven shillings.

The man made to start his engine, but Msimangu stopped him. I am told, he said, that you can help me to find a young man Absalom k.u.malo.

Have no doubt too that this man is afraid. But Msimangu was quick to rea.s.sure him. I am not here for trouble, he said. I give you my word that I am seeking trouble neither for you nor for myself. But my companion, the old man who is tired, is the father of this young man, and has come from Natal to find him. Everywhere we go, we are told to go somewhere else, and the old man is anxious.

Yes, I knew this young man.

And where is he now, my friend?

I heard he was gone to Orlando, and lives there amongst the squatters in Shanty Town. But further than that I do not know.

Orlando is a big place, said Msimangu.

Where the squatters live is not so big, umfundisi. It should not be hard to find him. There are people from the Munic.i.p.ality working amongst the squatters, and they know them all. Could you not ask one of those people?

There you have helped me, my friend. I know some of those people. Come, we shall take your taxi.

He called k.u.malo, and told him they were returning by taxi. They climbed in, and the taxi rattled out of Alexandra on to the broad high road that runs from Pretoria to Johannesburg. The afternoon was late now, and the road was crowded with traffic, for at this time it pours both into and out of Johannesburg on this road.

You see the bicycles, my friend. These are the thousands of Alexandra people returning home after their work, and just now we shall see the thousands of them walking, because of the boycott of the buses.

And true, they had not gone far before the pavements were full of the walking people. There were so many that they overflowed into the streets, and the cars had to move carefully. And some were old, and some tired, and some even crippled as they had been told, but most of them walked resolutely, as indeed they had been doing now these past few weeks. Many of the white people stopped their cars, and took in the black people, to help them on their journey to Alexandra. Indeed, at one robot where they stopped, a traffic officer was talking to one of these white men, and they heard the officer asking whether the white man had a license to carry the black people. I am asking no money, said the white man. But you are carrying pa.s.sengers on a bus route, said the officer. Then take me to court, said the white man. But they heard no more than that, for they had to move on because the light was green.

I have heard of that, said Msimangu. I have heard that they are trying to prevent the white people from helping with their cars, and that they are even ready to take them to the courts.

It was getting dark now, but the road was still thick with the Alexandra people going home. And there were still cars stopping to give them lifts, especially to the old people, and the women, and the cripples. k.u.malo's face wore the smile, the strange smile not known in other countries, of a black man when he sees one of his people helped in public by a white man, for such a thing is not lightly done. And so immersed was he in the watching that he was astonished when Msimangu suddenly burst out: It beats me, my friend, it beats me.

What beats you, this kindness?

No, no. To tell the truth I was not thinking of it.

He sat up in the taxi, and hit himself a great blow across the chest.

Take me to court, he said. He glared fiercely at k.u.malo and hit himself again across the chest. Take me to court, he said.

k.u.malo looked at him bewildered.

That is what beats me, Msimangu said.

9.

ALL ROADS LEAD to Johannesburg. If you are white or if you are black they lead to Johannesburg. If the crops fail, there is work in Johannesburg. If there are taxes to be paid, there is work in Johannesburg. If the farm is too small to be divided further, some must go to Johannesburg. If there is a child to be born that must be delivered in secret, it can be delivered in Johannesburg.