Sipho drew the bolt across the door of his wooden shack, snapped the padlock shut, then made his way down the steep, red earth track until he was outside the perimeter of his Eastern Cape township.
On the steep, grassy banks bordering the main road lounged a dozen black Africans, draped in shabby clothing of mixed style, and sporting a variety of headgear – sweat-stained baseball caps, knitted skullies, or encephalitic, Rastafarian-style berets bulging with ropes of hair. The men were waiting for transport to take them to the pineapple farm, where they worked. By order, they travelled light, allowing the maximum number of bodies to stand, crammed onto the trucks and came empty handed, rendering body searches unnecessary at the end of shifts.
The only pedestrians at 7.00 a.m. were black Africans on their way to work as shop and office cleaners, domestic workers, or gardeners. A steady stream of them, like molten molasses, trickled down the hill from the township, along the main road into town, filtering through the side streets of the residential areas into well-appointed, white-owned homes.
Every day, Sipho walked six miles over rough terrain to reach the house of his employer, a self-employed builder. He was ranked superior to seasonally employed kraal-hands and factory skivvies,
“I expect you here Monday to Friday, 8.30 am to 5.30 pm, all year round, except for Christmas and New Year’s Day,” Anton Griezel had said, stabbing his index finger to within six inches of Sipho’s nose, “with one, repeat, one hour break a day for lunch.”
Sipho had nodded, then waited in measured silence, an essential part of the ritual.
“How much, Baas?”
“Three hundred rand a week.”
Sipho lowered his eyes, as if weighing up the odds, while Griezel stared at him, knowing that the youth had no choice.
“Well, come on, boy. Yes or no?”
“Yes, Baas. Enkosi. When you like me start?”
“Now,” snapped Griezel. “There’s a pile of wood outside. Bring it into my workshop.”
Sipho obeyed, eager to conclude the talk that made him feel shy and girlish.
“And, Sipho.”
“Yes, Baas?”
“Work hard and you’ll learn a good trade and get on in life, but do anything wrong, like lying or stealing and you’re out with nothing. Understand?”
Sipho nodded.
“Yes, Baas.”
“And stop calling me Baas,” added Mr Griezel testily. “There’s been a black government here since 1994. You’re the bosses now.”
Sipho had no idea what Mr Griezel meant. How many black bosses did he know? None. Where was the government? Pretoria which was up country somewhere, remote and unaccountable. But, now at last he had his treble clipper − a regular 300 rand weekly wage. Perhaps soon, he could afford to secure himself a bride − the radiant Zandi perhaps, if he could get in first by paying her father the dozen cattle required as lobola.
Now, Sipho, walking to work, sweated afresh as he remembered that scene with Mr Griezel. Money-talk with whites always made him squirm, as if he had done something wrong.
He branched off the main road to climb a steep, earthen track that wound like a fraying red scarf around the neck of the euphorbia-clad hillside. It was late May, South Africa’s autumn, and the bleached veld shimmered under a hoary dew.
He stopped to catch his breath, turning to look down on the new marina development that had put the town on the international tourist map. The ox-bow loop of the Kowie River, with its smart jetties and miniature, neatly moored boats, snaked and glinted in the sunrise like a gigantic silver bracelet hung with pendant charms.
Below him, in a sheer drop, stretched a matted jungle of impenetrable scrub and vicious acacia bushes sprouting masses of stiff thorns, while a flock of white egrets squabbled for a foothold on a branch of a faded jacaranda tree, stirring hidden animal life into a chattering frenzy.
Beyond, Sipho could see the corrugated tin roofs and litter-strewn fences of his black township, which crowned the green hillside like a crusty scab. Over twenty thousand people lived there, crammed into hundreds of rickety tin, or wooden shacks, many without running water, or electricity.
A five-feet high terracotta termite hill loomed ahead, the half-way landmark of his daily journey. There had been times, when autumn’s drizzle became winter’s downpour and in mid-trek, he had wondered if it was worth continuing. If Mr Griezel judged the weather too inclement to rouse himself from his drunken stupor, he often sent Sipho packing; cropping his wages for the day. But Mr Griezel was Baas, so Sipho invariably plodded on, dressed in an old army coat and leaking trainers, donated by the white ladies who ran the town’s Penny Lane Charity Shop.
Recently, Sipho had arrived for work drenched through, with red mud caking his feet, giving them the appearance of a pair of outsize circus clown’s boots. Even Mr Griezel had laughed before handing him a pair of his own, worn dungarees to change into. When Sipho returned them neatly folded at the end of the day, Mr Griezel had responded, “You don’t expect me to wear them again now, do you? Keep them as spares.”
Sipho had taken them home and rolled them up as a valuable reserve, for when his own dungarees disintegrated into shreds. There was no room for clutter in match-box sized shacks, so the spare dungarees served as extra padding under his pillow, cushioning Sipho’s head throughout his broken dreams. ‘Grizzly Griezel’ could have got a lot more wear out of them, if he hadn’t, in an impulsive gesture, after one too many dops from his bottle, allowed Sipho’s sweat to contaminate them.
Sipho, resting during his rural walk, smiled at the memory. He was sweating, though the surrounding air was chill. A damp autumn looked set to drag into a wet winter and he knew that Mr Griezel was unhappy. Demand for his garden furniture, veranda decking and building services had declined. Clients cancelled jobs, suppliers refused credit and Mr Griezel, though a skilful carpenter, had no tools to prop up a falling rand. He was in no mood either to listen to Sipho’s plea for a wage increase.
“Money’s tight everywhere,” he complained. “I’m nearly bankrupt myself.”
Sipho didn’t believe him. Mr Griezel was drinking heavily and alcohol cost money. He was stinking of spirits when he acknowledged Sipho every morning and the fumes intensified during the day. He calculated measurements with frenzied, red-rimmed eyes, planed and sanded wood with shaking hands and shouted at everyone, sending even his sour-faced wife scuttling around the property.
Jobs were scarce, as white employers reacted to ANC regulations on minimum wages by dismissing native-born staff. Sipho resolved to swallow his pride, bite his tongue under daily provocation, but to continue working for ‘Grizzly Griezel’. Better the devil he knew.
It was Monday and Sipho knew his first chore was putting out the black, plastic bags for refuse collection. Weekly, the huge Isuzu truck rumbled through the streets, the black refuse-men in their blue overalls and beanie hats ambling alongside it, dumbly throwing bags into the truck’s grinding jaws. The bags gaped open, because groups of black beggars toured the streets at dawn sifting through them for empty bottles to use in their own shebeens and for plastics to sell at local re-cycling depots. Sometimes there were even tasty chicken carcases to pick clean, or slivers of stale cake to chew on as they worked.
Sibho hated these scavengers, who made conscientious black workers like him feel ashamed, but he also feared becoming one of them, if circumstances were to change.
That sobering thought forced Sipho back onto his feet to complete the last section of his journey. He entered white suburbia with its rows of immaculate houses and manicured gardens set in orderly plots, many protected by razor-wire fences, or electronic gates. The sight always made him wonder what heinous crime his ancestors could have perpetrated that shut him and his kind, permanently, outside this consumer Paradise.
What were the magic passwords that opened these golden gates?
The human jackals were just leaving Griezel’s property, armed with plastic bags bulging with empty bottles, remnants of the cocktail of schnapps, gin, whisky and brandy currently accumulating and fermenting inside Griezel’s vitriolic liver and spleen. Sipho hovered outside, waiting to be spotted. Suddenly raised voices from within the house reached him and Sipho crouched instinctively against the wall to place himself outside the periphery of Mr Griezel’s anger.
“You must be mistaken, Anton,” came Mrs Griezel’s nasal whine. “Calm down and look again.”
“I’ve searched everywhere,” shouted Mr Griezel. “The money’s gone.”
“Well, Grace wouldn’t have stolen it. She’s been our maid for over ten years. I’d trust her with our lives.”
“Our lives! Can’t you understand? Our lives are worthless, unless I find the money. All our savings have disappeared.”
Mrs Griezel shrieked, “All of it? Thousands of rand! How can you have been so careless?”
“It’s not my fault, I tell you. It’s been stolen,” shouted Mr Griezel, demented.
“Why on earth did you withdraw so much money?”
“Because using cash means big discounts. Suppliers don’t want cheques and credit cards. They want money in their hands. You don’t understand.”
“I understand that our life’s savings have gone, but you can’t accuse Grace of theft, without proof. Gone are the days when you could blame black servants for everything. On your logic, the thief could be Sipho.”
“Sipho’s never been into the house. Grace has the run of the place twice a week. She’s had the perfect opportunity.”
Sipho, his heart pounding at the mention of his name, heard the sound of heavy furniture being pushed across the floor tiles.
“Have you searched all cupboards and drawers? Would you have hidden it under the mattress?”
Mr Griezel exploded with rage.
“Why would I have done that?”
“You’re doing a lot of strange things recently. Things I don’t understand.”
“Like what exactly?” growled Mr Griezel.
“All this drinking for a start. Klipdrift. Witsblitz. Whisky. God knows what else.”
Sipho heard the thud of furniture being overturned, followed by a crash of breaking glass, and an anguished female cry.
“Don’t be silly, Anton,” his wife pleaded. “Money’s not worth it.”
Suddenly, the front door burst open and Mr Griezel, pale and dishevelled, rushed out. Sipho stood and waited expressionlessly for his orders. Silently, Mr Griezel motioned to Sipho to follow him into the workshop.
Later, Sipho glimpsed Mrs Griezel holding a pad over one eye. He showed no reaction – he was immune to domestic violence. His people lived in airless matchboxes, deprived of basic comforts and hope. Tempers became frayed and people could ignite like straw.
The day followed its usual pattern, until Mr Griezel approached Sipho late afternoon, holding out a wad of rand notes.
“I’ve got to fire you, Sipho. This is your last pay packet. You must look for another job.”
Sipho glanced at the kitchen window and saw Mrs Griezel watching intently – her right eye swollen and discoloured.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” said Mr Griezel, brusquely, “but I’ve lost all my money and must sell the business. Please go.”
Sipho walked slowly back to his township shack. Later, carrying his pay packet, he wandered into the shebeen, nudging aside the rabble of ragged scroungers hovering at the door.
He drank alone, drowning in waves of despair, before walking unsteadily back and locking himself inside his shack. He lay on his bed, staring vacantly ahead. Now all hope of wooing the lovely Zandi had gone forever. Her sparkling eyes, smooth skin and soft hands would soon belong to a worthier man.
It might never occur to Sipho, now jobless, to unroll his extra ‘pillow’ and to delve into the pockets of Anton Griezel’s cast-off dungarees, stuffed, not simply with the manufacturer’s utility padding and designer logo, but with a thick wad of mislaid, mint-condition two hundred rand banknotes – the magic passwords, that could open for Sipho the golden gates of a long-lost Paradise.
updated by @bel-roberts2: 11/14/17 09:26:54PM
