The Death of Masaba

The Death of Masaba

'Fellows, what do you think of this business of Masaba?'

'Yes, just tell us what happened.'

'Men, the boy is dying. I heard from Stimela, the boss-boy of the lashers, that Masaba fainted twice in the mine today. Stimela he ran to tell Boss Tom, who did not even want to listen to him, but only said: "Get away, there are lots of boys in the compound."

'But what made Masaba faint in the mine?'

'Well ... I saw that there was a mistake in his ticket. It was not stamped ten days' light underground work.'

The others they laughed when they heard the word 'mistake'.

'Clear out,' they cried, 'there is no mistake there! We old boys know well that if Masaba had been a white man there would have been no mistake. Didn't Boss Tom say "there are lots of Kaffirs in the compound"? "If one dies," meaning Masaba, "the Government will bring more." He said that after Stimela had told him, "Masaba is fainting, he cannot lash."

The others were silent; each was busy with his own thoughts.

This affair was worrying their hearts a great deal. These men - they were five, sitting round a glowing bucket fire - had left their kraals for the mines, forced to do so by hunger and want. They left their homes knowing of the terrible accidents that occur below the surface of the mines. Their only hope was that the always-wise white people would be true to them and treat them well: safeguard them from underground dangers, and work them as people with equal feelings though their skins were black.

The working place where they were stationed was deep down on the eighteenth level. The heat on that level was terrible; so intense that unacclimatised boys were liable to get heatstroke. Behind them a yawning, dreary shaft threatened their lives; while in front a naked, creaking rock rose sheer above them. From its grim, muddy face trickled drops of dirty, poisonous water.

Under these disabilities, with death everywhere beckoning, Boss Tom made them lash as though the Furies were after them. Here their half-naked bodies were bent unceasingly over the shovels. Even old lashing hands were seen staggering under the heat, and through the pangs of hunger. As these were their daily lot in life, they did not mind it at all, for they had infinite trust in their masters.

But today, when they saw Masaba, the victim of callous indifference, yes Masaba, their young fellow countryman, who was not even supposed to be placed on the lashing gang, their hearts were filled with blood. The first incident happened when they were shovelling madly. Masaba suddenly dropped down ... and fainted.

Boss Boy Stimela ran and told Boss Tom: 'Nkosi, the boy Masaba has fainted. He can't lash.'

Boss Tom was greatly surprised when he heard that a 'Kaffir' could not do the job for which he was solely created, the handling of the shovel. He said to Steamer: 'What! Masaba can't lash? A bloody Kaffir ... can't lash?'

'I know, sir,' replied Steamer, 'that Masaba faints as soon as he stoops to lash. I think he's not used to it yet.'

'Oh, kick him, Steamer.'

Steamer was, however, one of those fast-dwindling Boss Boys who, instead of 'waking up' Masaba with a kick, according to orders, went to him and said, "Try and lash, boy. The Boss will hit you, say you're loafing.'

Poor Masaba went and threw himself at his master's feet.

'Nkosi, I am not used to lashing yet. I get so tired, sir, and my head aches so. My eyes get clouded and misty when I stoop to lash, sir. I beg you, sir, my good Boss, my father, give me another job until I'm used to this job of lashing. I will work well, sir. I will do anything for you, Boss. But lashing kills me, Boss, please.'

And he burst into tears, while his fellow workers muttered ominously under their breath.

It is difficult for a boy and his Boss to come to quick understanding down there. Because in the mine their language is different from ours. There their speech is made up of all those naked and revolting phrases that would shame the Prince of Darkness. Still muttering amongst themselves, they said, 'Masaba, isn't your ticket stamped?'

'I don't know,' sobbed Masaba. "This is my first time to work in the mine. I began work yesterday.'

'Hey, what's up there?' bawled Boss Tom, drawing nearer. 'If I get you talking again, Masaba, there'll be hell for you.'

'He is dying, sir,' cried Stimela in a strained voice.

It was then that Boss Tom uttered words seemingly innocent in his thoughts, but to natives' minds full of damning meanings. This thoughtless ganger who did not know the working of a native's mind said: 'There are lots of Kaffirs in the compound!'

The boys having digested these words bent once more over their shovels. A piercing cry stopped their labours. For, with a heartrending cry, Masaba fell with a sickening thud, knocking his head against a jagged piece of rock on the stope. Without delay he was carried to the surface and from there was hurried to the hospital. When his fellow countrymen heard that Masaba was seriously ill, they brooded.

'Lord Jesus, please save Masaba for his poor mother's sake. She will be left alone in this world.'

The next day, as they were changing from their wet clothes, a mine police boy entered their room: 'Er ... er ... Madoda, the manager said I should come to tell you that Masaba is dead.'

When an inquiry was held over the death of Masaba, it was found that Boss Tom was guilty. For he had caused a new boy to lash before putting him first on light underground work, as was the rule with new boys. Through his carelessness and indifference he had caused the death of Masaba.

'I say, fellows, if Masaba had died accidentally, it would not have mattered. But I hold that he was murdered. For his ticket was stamped: Not to be employed on lashing.'

'Hau, didn't you hear that Boss said to Stimela, "There are many Kaffirs in the compound"? Ho! Ho! You don't know the white people!'

And they went out to dig Masaba's grave.

CASEY MOTSISI Kid Playboy

Every time a hick job comes around in the office I get saddled with it. Now the editor pushes this folded white card at me and says to find out what I can get out of this here invite. I walk out of the office and read the card once more. According to the gold-lettered words a certain Kid Mabothobotho stays out Dube is getting hitched to an Alexandra cherrie.

On Saturday the wedding will take place at the cherrie's place in Alex. I decide I'd rather wait for it to come around to Dube on Sunday because I'm somewhat scared of hopping off to Alex especially on weekends on account the bright boys over there have turned the place into a gunsmoke and knife-happy township.

On Sunday I haul out my top hat and tails to make ready to go to Dube. I expect it to be one of those high society shindigs, as you know how hoity-toity these Dubeheimers can get when they want to. I get a good look at myself in my landlord's son's wardrobe mirror as I put on the tie he lent me, and I see that my eyes are unusually clear - sure sign among the boozing fraternity that I've been keeping shebeen queens, especially Aunt Peggy, waiting.

I get to Dube and don't have any difficulty spotting the place where this wedding is taking place on account of the half-dozen beribboned convertible cars parked in front of the house. A guy who meets me at the door looks scornfully at my not-too-well pressed trousers, whereupon he gives me the VIP treatment. Only he reckons the 'I' in VIP stands for 'Inconsequential'. He tells me to go and sit in the tent at the back of the house. I tell him who I am, whereupon he smiles and ushers me into the room.

This girl this guy's getting married to is so beautiful that I can't take my eyes off her for a pretty long time. After a while I manage to pull my eyes away from her to look at the groom. Cripes! It's none other than Kid Playboy. I feel the blood revolting in my veins. This is the same Kid Playboy who took away from me some time back the only girl I ever loved. He promised this girl of mine everything in the world and crowned the long list of promises by telling her that he would build a fire under the ocean just so's she can swim in winter.

And like all starry-eyed girls, this girl of mine went and believed every word he told her. Maybe if she hadn't been so gullible she would still have been alive today. As it turns out, Kid Playboy gives her the bird after stringing her for a month on account another foolish cherrie falls for his sweet talk. So what does she do, but commit suicide!

Kid Playboy's eyes meet mine and I pull out my tongue at him. He turns coal black and his Adam's apple starts moving up and down like someone who's seen a ghost. The guy looks real scared, and I am just beginning to hate myself for having scared the boy by sticking out my tongue at him when I realise that it's not me who's the cause of his sudden jitters. There's a girl who's sitting a few feet behind me who is proving to be the why for Kid's jaded nerves.

I turn around and look at this girl to see what it is about her that can cause so much panic in a satanic soul. But all I can see is that she's an ordinary homely girl, and the small sleeping child she's holding in her arms is the sweetest thing I ever did see.

I'm still busily occupied at looking at this fear-instilling girl and hoping that she's not a ghost, when a voice that sounds like a constipated ostrich's booms, 'Ladees and gentlemen, all those who have presents for the bridal couple may now see the "mabalane" (the MC of the wedding).' The 'mabalane' stands up, breaks into a toothless grin, bows and sits down again.

I thought they had invited us to a wedding, now they want to fleece presents out of us! But seeing as the announcer man said 'ladies and gentlemen', I reckon he has left me out on account nobody ever accused me of being a gentleman, let alone a lady. So I happily ignore him.

A few folk get away from their eats and drinks with parcels of varying sizes beneath their armpits. They stand in line before the 'mabalane', who jots down the name and address of each and everyone who dumps a parcel on the table. Some guys who had decided beforehand that it would be much better to save the few pennies they have for paying their rent instead of buying presents for Kid Playboy and his spouse - and perhaps a few others who have a needle against him, like yours truly - suddenly discover that the room is too hot and march out.

After some time the last name and address is written down, and I can see the 'mabalane' hinting at the groom's people for his payment for services duly rendered - a nip of hooch. But he doesn't get the hooch. Instead, the girl with the baby, who had so disorganised Kid Playboy a short while ago, stands up and walks to the 'mabalane'. She dumps the child, who is now awake and bawling his young head off, on the table and says, 'Here's my present to the bride and groom. My name is Maisie.' She gives a Mapetla address somewhere in Site and Service. She winds up by saying Kid Playboy's the pop of the child.

All of a sudden, there's a bang of a hullabaloo going on. Kid Playboy is making a hurried exit out of the house, and the bride is tearing at her bridal dress and hurling all sorts of names at Kid Playboy and his family, including the late ones. After every burst of unprintable words she keeps chorusing that she's got a lawyer that's going to show them what makes the grass green.

Up to today nobody ever hears a word about Kid Playboy. But Mr Rumour goes around the townships telling all and sundry that Kid Playboy is in his hometown somewhere in the Tanganyika Territory, although the folks from there pronounce it 'Tananika Torrotoro'.

I reckon the next time the editor tells me to go and cover a 'wedding', I'm gonna take an advance on my salary and hightail it to Aunt Peggy's joint and cover a bottle of hooch with Kid Playboy's ex-bride on my lap, as she now frequents this place ever since her lawyer proved not to be as hot as she had thought him to be.