Roots of Outrage

‘Good God!’ the head girl gasped. ‘Luke!’

Luke crouched in the hedge, gasping, his head splitting, looking at the menacing silhouettes of astonished, stick-toting girls. He was about to make a plea for he knew not what when a quiet voice said: ‘Leave him, girls …’ And there was Miss Rousseau, in her dressing gown, arms folded, a sombre smile on her lovely face. ‘Go back to bed, girls.’

The excited girls reluctantly turned to leave, staring back, giggling, exchanging glances. Mahoney straightened up painfully, dishevelled. He looked at Lisa.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

Lisa Rousseau smiled ruefully. ‘We’re in trouble, Luke. Tomorrow there’s going to be big trouble.’

Luke closed his eyes and shook his head.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Not you. There’s no reason for two of us to be in trouble.’

‘To talk?’ the headmaster repeated furiously.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘To talk?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The headmaster gave a growl. ‘At midnight you’re shinning up the drainpipe of the girls’ hostel to talk to the housemistress? That’s what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

George Mahoney, sitting beside his son, sighed.

‘To talk about what, pray?’

‘About life, sir.’

‘About Life? With a capital L, of course? And what aspect of Life were you so desperately anxious to talk about at that hour?’ He waved a hand. ‘The birds and the bees, perhaps?’

‘No, sir. About my career, sir.’

‘Your career …’ The headmaster whispered it with the contempt it deserved. He turned and paced across his study. He turned back. ‘Do you know what happens to one’s career when one is expelled from a school? Do you know what a blemish – what a criminal record that is you’ll carry with you for life – with the capital L?!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you are not daunted?’

‘Yes, I am daunted, sir.’

Another growl. ‘And what made you think Miss Rousseau would be willing to talk to you at midnight about your career?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing?’ Steely eyes. ‘She didn’t … invite you perhaps?’

‘No, sir, she did not.’

‘You expect me to believe that? You just took it into your head to climb up her drainpipe at midnight? Without any encouragement whatsoever?’

‘Correct, sir.’

The headmaster glared at him. George Mahoney had his eyes down, a grim smile twitching his face. The headmaster stabbed the air with his finger. ‘I put it to you, Mahoney, that if you didn’t have encouragement from Miss Rousseau, your behaviour was insane! Unless you intended to rape her! Was that your intention?’

Mahoney was shocked. ‘Absolutely not, sir!’

‘To try to seduce her perhaps?’

‘No, sir.’

‘But to “talk”? About your career? At midnight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘“Oh, good evening, Miss Rousseau – or should I say good morning? – just dropped around – or climbed around – to have a little chat about my future career as an historian. I say do you mind giving me a bit of a leg-up over this window sill – but if you prefer I’ll just cling to this drainpipe for half an hour while we ‘talk’ … ”’

And Luke Mahoney, seventeen years old, in the dock without a defence, had very nearly had enough, after a sleepless night. He looked his headmaster in the eye, and his voice took on a new edge: ‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’

The headmaster glared. ‘Do I detect a note of aggression there?’

Luke looked the man in the eye. ‘No, sir. Just a note of self-defence.’

The headmaster’s glare lost its steel for a moment, then his face filled with fury: ‘‘You describe your story as a defence? Would your father –’ he flung an eloquent hand at the lawyer – ‘consider that a credible defence?!’

Luke Mahoney did not care anymore – suddenly he had had enough of this humiliation and he did not care that he was going to be expelled: and as he was going to be expelled why the hell was he putting up with this shit?

‘Very well, sir, as you evidently don’t think much of that defence, how about this one: I climbed up that drainpipe at midnight because I’m madly in love with Miss Rousseau, sir. Because faint heart never won fair lady, sir. But I absolutely assure you, sir, on a stack of bibles, that Miss Rousseau knew absolutely nothing about this passion of mine, sir. And that you have obviously interpreted her resignation as evidence of complicity is quite incorrect, and if that will be a blot on her copybook, if that will prejudice her career, if you give a bad report about her to the education authorities, that will be the grossest of injustices. That would be like the injustice suffered by an honourable woman who is stigmatised by society after being raped, sir. And I promise you I will correct that by writing to the Department of Education and confessing my guilt, sir.’

There was a silence. The headmaster was staring at him. George Mahoney was looking at his son with something approaching pride. Luke Mahoney stood there grimly – and he wasn’t blushing anymore. Take it or leave it, sir, was his demeanour. The headmaster recovered, and glared:

‘And what did you expect Miss Rousseau to do about that, if she had given you no encouragement?’

‘I had no idea, sir.’

His father sighed. The headmaster rasped softly: ‘I don’t believe you, Mahoney. I find it too much of a coincidence that Miss Rousseau does not intend to press charges against you –’

‘Indeed, sir, I’ve gathered that you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh? And have you also gathered that I intend expelling you?’

‘I have, sir.’

The headmaster glared. Then he slumped down into his chair. He sighed, then said: ‘You had a good life ahead of you, Mahoney. Brains, sportsman, personality, good looks. You had an excellent chance of winning a Rhodes Scholarship. Now? Do you realize you’ll have great difficulty even finding employment with an expulsion record?’

Mahoney said grimly: ‘Yes, I realize that, sir. So can we now please get on with it?’

The headmaster was taken aback by this impertinence. ‘Get on with it?’

‘My medicine, sir. The six of the best you’re going to give me. And let me get on the road.’

The headmaster blinked, then leaned forward. He hissed: ‘You can thank your lucky stars that before I formally expel you I am giving you the chance of leaving this school voluntarily.’

Mahoney closed his eyes. And sighed in relief. ‘I am very grateful, sir.’

‘I hope you’re still grateful after this …’ The headmaster picked up a cane. ‘Drop your trousers.’

Mahoney undid his belt. He pulled down his trousers. He bent over.

The cane whistled.

They drove home in grim silence. George parked in the garage. He switched off the engine, then slumped. He turned to his son. ‘You’ve been punished. I’m not going to punish you further.’

‘Thank you.’

The old man nodded. ‘Besides, you’re not a schoolboy anymore. You’re a young man now, whether you and I like it or not.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything. Yes, he felt like a man, though his arse felt like a schoolboy’s.

‘You became a man in the headmaster’s study, You stood up for yourself, you protected Miss Rousseau and took your medicine.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything.

‘Miss Rousseau did know you were coming, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mahoney said grimly.

The old man sighed. He looked away. ‘But you technically saved her honour. Just. That was right.’ He added: ‘Though I’d have expected nothing less of you.’

Mahoney said nothing.

‘Yes, I’ve noticed a sudden maturity’s come over you lately. Now I know why.’ The old man shook his head. ‘So, she did you some good, Luke. That’s the way to look at it.’

Mahoney nodded grimly. ‘Yes.’

‘But I hope you’re not going to keep in touch with her.’

‘No, sir. She and I agreed that last night.’

‘Good. That’s wise.’ The old man looked at him. ‘You’re not really in love with her, are you?’

Mahoney wished he could vaporise. Maybe that would also stop his arse hurting. He lied: ‘No, sir. It was just very exciting.’

For the first time the old man smiled. ‘I bet it was … And I think you can stop calling me sir. You’re out in the big wide world now. You can’t stay in this town. Though you might be a hero with the boys, it’ll be very embarrassing.’

‘Yes.’

George sighed. ‘So, young man, you’re going to Cape Town, to stay with your uncle. You leave by train tomorrow. And you’re going to finish your matric by correspondence course. When that’s over, you’ll come home and we’ll review your future.’ He sighed again. ‘But there’s no chance of sending you to Oxford now, without that scholarship. Or any other university overseas. I can’t afford that.’

‘Of course not, Dad.’

‘And that means you’re going to have to take your law degree by correspondence too, through the University of London. Because there’s no point in taking a South African law degree – there’s no future in this country under apartheid. You must prepare yourself for somewhere where they practise English law.’

‘Apartheid can’t last forever, Father.’

‘No, but it could easily last half your lifetime. And it’s going to collapse in a bloodbath. And when that happens you’ll need an English law degree, not Roman-Dutch. I want your sister to get out too.’

‘I’m not sure I want to be a lawyer.’

‘Nonsense. I know talent when I see it – you’ve got a nose for the law, like I have. And for argument. Anyway, it’s an excellent degree to have, good background for other walks of life. What the hell do you think you want to do – history?’

‘Yes. Or journalism.’

The old man sighed. ‘History? Look, son, you’re under the influence of this woman. Sure, history’s fascinating but there’s no money in it and anyway you’re far too brainy to be a teacher. Even if you become a university professor, there’s no money in it. And as for journalism, forget it, there’s no money in it either. And all newspapermen drink too much. Listen, son: you’ll get enough journalism if you write up those journals arid get them published one day – including your own story. The modern South Africa. In fact I want you to make me a solemn promise that you’ll do that. You’ve got the gift of the gab and history. Do you? Promise?’

Mahoney looked at his good father. ‘Yes, sir,’ he promised.

George slapped Luke’s knee: ‘The Law, son. It’s a grand profession. Get to the top! Become a QC. Then a judge. Not a country attorney like me. So, do you promise me you’ll do an LLB through the University of London? I’ll pay the fees.’

Luke was in no position to refuse anything. ‘Yes, I promise you.’

George Mahoney nodded. ‘So the next question is what job are you going to do while you’re doing your LLB? You can’t work for me in this town, after what’s happened. I think we could get you a job with HM Shipping for a few years?’

Mahoney said grimly: ‘I don’t want family charity.’

‘Charity? I’m sure you’d do an honest day’s work, even if you are bored out of your mind. I would be too. But –’ he pointed out a bright side – ‘I’m sure they’d give you a few trips on their freighters. See something of the world? Australia. The States.’

‘I’d love that, but not at the price of being a shipping clerk.’ Luke turned to his father. ‘No, for those three years I’ll be a newspaper reporter.’

The old man looked at his son. ‘And that’s a slippery slope, my boy. However …’ He sighed and began to get out of the car. ‘We’ll preview the future when you come home at Christmas. And now – let’s go and face your tearful mother.’

Mahoney put his hand on his father’s arm – a good man whom he’d disappointed so badly. ‘Dad? I’ve screwed up. And I don’t want you to pay for my stupidity.’

The old man smiled. ‘Miss Rousseau wasn’t stupidity, son. She was Life. The stupid part was getting caught. Remember that. Of course I’m bitterly disappointed about your Rhodes Scholarship. But don’t worry about my opinion of you, young man. You’re all right. And you only did what any young man with balls would do. And one day you and I will be laughing about this.’ He looked at his son, then clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And now let’s go and face the music …’

But there was no music from his mother. Only her gaunt face, her sniffs. Only once did she start to recriminate: ‘And we had such hopes that you were going to be a top lawyer one day … ’ and George Mahoney muttered: ‘And who says he won’t be?’ Nothing else was said throughout the meal, except Please and Thank you. The clink of cutlery, the tasteless meal. Jill glanced at her big brother with big, compassionate eyes and said not a word. Justin came in to replace plates and dishes: he knew the Nkosaan was in big shit. The whole town knew Luke Mahoney was in big shit. When the dessert was over Mrs Mahoney dabbed her eyes, and departed wordlessly.

That night, when silence had descended, there was a scratch on Luke’s door, and Jill came creeping in. She pulled a letter out of her dressing gown. ‘Miss Rousseau made me promise to tell nobody about this.’

Luke switched on his bedside light. He opened the envelope.

Dearest Luke

It will seem that a terrible thing has happened, but one day you will laugh about this. Despite this setback, I am confident you will get through the examinations ahead, and the many others you will doubtless sit, with flying colours. You should not think of contacting me, but I’m sure I will hear about you and I will do so with pride and great affection. You are the most promising historian, and young man, I have met. Work hard, and you will have a wonderful life.

Love

Lisa

Jill whispered: ‘Does she say she loves you?’

Luke switched out the light. ‘No.’

Jill didn’t believe that. ‘Are you going to marry her when the exams are over?’

Luke smiled despite himself. ‘No.’

‘Why not? She’s so wonderful. She loves you, all the girls think so. Did you … you know?’

‘What?’

‘You know …’

Luke put his hand on his sister’s. ‘No,’ he smiled sadly.

Jill put her hands to her face and gave a sob.

‘Oh I can’t bear it! My two most favourite people leaving at once, you and Miss Rousseau!’

Luke said softly: ‘You’ll be leaving too, in a few years.’

She sniffed. ‘Do you promise that you’ll write to me … ?’

Later there was a tap on Luke’s window. ‘Nkosi?’

Luke got out of bed and went to the window.

‘Come with me,’ Justin whispered. He turned and crept away through the garden.

At this hour? It could only be Lisa. He thought she had already left town! He scrambled into shorts and climbed breathlessly out of the window.

Justin was waiting. ‘I have a witch doctor here.’

Luke’s knocking heart sank. Not Lisa … ? And, oh, he didn’t want medicine from any witch doctor. ‘But I have no money.’

‘You can pay me tomorrow. He is a very good witch doctor, from my area; he is staying in my room tonight.’

Justin led the way down through the vegetable garden towards the servants’ quarters. Outside the row of rooms a cooking fire was glowing under a big black tripod pot. Round it squatted the cookboy, and gardenboy and their wives. And dominating them all, the witch doctor.

He was an old man. Around his neck hung the accoutrements of his office: the cloak of civet skin and monkey hide, the pig’s bladder, the necklace of baboon’s teeth, the pendants of bones and claws and fruit-pips, the bracelets of animal hair, the leggings. He looked up at Luke, without rising, and softly clapped his hands. ‘I see you.’

Luke clapped his hands. ‘I see you, nganga.’ He squatted down on his haunches. The servants looked on, wide eyes white in black faces. Luke wished they were not there to hear his troubles.

The witch doctor crouched, staring at the ground for a long minute, his white head down. Luke waited, and despite himself he was in the age-old grip, in the awe of the medicine-man, the priest, the medium to the supernatural. Then suddenly the witch doctor gave a shriek, and everybody jerked, he flung out his hands, and bones scattered on the ground.

They all stared at them. The witch doctor looked at the bones intently, motionlessly: then he pointed. To one, then another, then another: then he began to chant softly. He chanted over the bones for a minute; then scooped them up and threw them again. He threw them a third time. Then he rocked back on his heels, eyes closed. For a minute he was still: then he spoke softly: ‘Beware the land of twenty-one

Mahoney’s heart was knocking. Beware the land … A hundred and twenty-five years ago his great great grandfather had written in his journal, Woe unto the land whose borders lie in shadow … And that prophecy had turned out to be true. The murder of Piet Retief. Blaukrans, Weenen … It gave Luke gooseflesh. But the land of twenty-one?

‘Beware the woman with the red forehead.’

The red forehead … ?

‘Beware the woman who talks of pigs …’

Who talks of pigs?

Then the witch doctor said: ‘Stay in the land of the evening sun, or you will weep in the land that lies in shadows.’

Luke had gooseflesh. The land that lies in shadows … He wanted to ask, Where is this land? Justin touched his knee and shook his head, No. Then the witch doctor opened his eyes. He got up and disappeared into the nearest room.

Justin stood up. He beckoned to Luke. They walked back through the vegetable garden towards the house. Luke said in English: ‘Please ask him where the land of twenty-one is. And about the women. Come to the window and tell me.’

‘He only knows what the spirits have spoken.’ Justin stopped. ‘Maybe one day we will see each other again, in Johannesburg. I will pray for you.’

Luke’s eyes were burning. He held out his hand.

PART II

GHANA AND NIGERIA GRANTED INDEPENDENCE

BELGIAN CONGO TO GET INDEPENDENCE

HAROLD MACMILLAN MAKES WIND OF CHANGE SPEECH

SHARPEVILLE MASSACRE

6

In Kenya the bloody Mau Mau rebellion had finally been stamped out and, as Lisa Rousseau would have pointed out, referring to the Boer War, history repeated itself: having finally crushed the rebellion, Britain promptly gave independence to the blacks, and Jomo Kenyatta, the pro-capitalist but Russian-helped revolutionary, became the prime minister of Kenya and immediately instituted a one-party state. Ghana had been granted its independence, and Kwame Nkrumah had thrown his opposition into jail. The British had promised Nigeria its independence and fierce tribal fighting for dominance had broken out. In the vast Congo there were also demands for independence, the Belgian government panicked and agreed to grant it soon: there was fierce tribal fighting and looting in anticipation, and the whites were fleeing back to Europe. It was a bloody time in Africa and it was set to get bloodier.

Luke Mahoney started writing up his family’s journals in the Antarctic, on the whaling ships: there was nothing else to do when you came plodding off shift through the gore. He did not enjoy whaling but the pay was good, and you had nothing to spend it on down at the Ice. For four months you waded through gore, but you had enough money to last the next eight months. Most of those months Mahoney spent doing his compulsory military training. Then he returned to the whalers and plodded through more blood. And for the next three years he also plodded through blood as a crime reporter for Drum at the same time as he kept his promise to his father to study for a law degree through the University of London.

Drum was a glossy English-language magazine for blacks, about black issues, black society, black fashions, black music, black beauties, black sports; black news, black views, black politics, black crime, and black gore. Drum was a good magazine and the publisher wanted his black readership to be mindful of the blood they shed: the blood of faction fights, witchcraft murders and the blood of political rivalry. For junior reporters like Luke Mahoney it meant the stuff of police stations, courtrooms, photographs of pathologists’ tables with every glistening wound for the judge to see, the probes inserted to show the depth, the bones exposed, the gaping stomach, the severed limb, the shattered skull, and the weapons that caused it, the knives, the knobkerries, the axes, spears, screwdrivers, guns, all neatly labelled. And if there was not enough of the right gore, Luke Mahoney went to the black townships to look for it.

Soweto was the best place for that. Soweto, the vast black township beyond the Johannesburg horizon with its desolate rows of concrete boxes in tiny dusty yards, sprawling slumlands of shacks made of flattened tin and cardboard, the sprawling compound which supplied the labour needs of the Golden City, the grim place whites never saw where their serfs lived, the city of tsotsis who robbed and killed for a living, the city of shebeens and witch doctors and warlords and tribal fighting and just plain murder. Soweto had the highest murder-rate in the world. Usually the police telephoned the crime reporters if something worthwhile had happened because, firstly, they wanted the public to know what they were up against, and, secondly, the press were regarded as left-wing, anti-government, and the police wanted to rub their noses in the barbarity of Africa.

‘Thought you might like to see some of these photographs, Mahoney …’

The scene-of-crime photographs, the mortuary photographs. The charred body, the flesh still smoking.

‘We’ve got the body in the morgue right now. Like to see it?’

‘Who was he?’

‘Who knows? His face is burnt off. Probably somebody your ANC pals didn’t like. I hope you print that. And this one,’ the sergeant said, flipping the photograph, ‘we’ve got her in the morgue here, too, you must see her …’

The inside of a squatter’s shack: on the floor, in a mush of blood, the torso of a naked black girl of five, her stomach slashed open and her liver hacked out, her arms hacked off, her genitals removed.

‘Muti,’ the sergeant said. ‘He needed her liver and arms to make medicine to win the next fight.’

‘Who is “he”?’

‘Her father, Mr Mahoney. Her father cut her arms off while she screamed for mercy. Her mother saw everything. She’s here now, you can ask her yourself.’

‘But who were they fighting?’

‘An ANC gang. Unfortunately, he’ll hang. The evidence is strong.’

Unfortunately … He wrote an article that night around that word. Two interpretations were possible: ‘Unfortunately for the accused he will hang’, and ‘It is unfortunate that we have to hang a man who fights the ANC’, which is what the sergeant had in mind. Divide and rule: ‘Let ’em fight each other, the more the better.’ And there was a third interpretation, Mahoney wrote, with which many South Africans would secretly agree, even though they clamoured for the end of apartheid: they were afraid of them, the ANC, and felt secretly sorry for the primitive man who wanted muti to enable him to fight them … But the editor didn’t publish it: ‘Good stuff, Luke,’ he said, ‘but we can’t say it.’

And then came the famous speech in South Africa by Harold Macmillan, prime minister of Great Britain, and then came the gore of Sharpeville, and then came the gore of the prime minister of South Africa.

Harold Macmillan had just been on a whistle-stop tour through his government’s colonies in Africa. He had been impressed by the level of African nationalism and he wanted to tell Her Majesty’s dominion of South Africa a thing or two about their folly of apartheid.