A Guest of Honour

by Nadine Gordimer

  Clever Shinza, Bray thought, to pick this man. But there were statements to be twisted from this politically unaligned context, too. Ndisi Shunungwa, present Secretary—General of UTUC, was able to speak from another advantage—everyone knew he himself had been elected to office, yet he was reminding Party members that the man to be appointed in future by the President would not be an outsider—there were provisions that this could not happen—he would be a member of the executive of UTUC, and therefore someone freely elected to speak for them by the union members themselves, else how would he be in UTUC at all?

  Basil Nwanga’s huge backside blocked the view of the men in the seats on either side of his as he rose. “Mr. Chairman, that’s all right as the nice and tidy answer of an incumbent who maybe feels confident he’ll stay where he sits if the Secretary—General is appointed instead of elected”—his sharply affable voice went on at once before the chairman could raise any objection— “Well, of course, personal views are not what interests us, we must decide on facts, hey, and the one that got left out here is that in UTUC itself there are people who represent different ideas in the trade union movement. It’s only the majority of members of UTUC who have the right to decide which man, representing which ideas, will serve the workers best as S.-G. If the appointment comes from outside it can only be seen to favour one set of views above another. It must be like that. —There will be trouble in the unions. Let the workers elect their own man—it’s the duty of the Party to support this right—” He spoke jerkily, in his heavily accented English that broke up sentences into unfamiliar stress—patterns, but he had a youthful bluntness that released spontaneity. Applause came like thrown pennies as he lowered his bulk out of the way again. Someone stood up to ask why the matter was being discussed at a PIP Congress at all—wasn’t it something for the trade unions to argue?—but was at once ruled out of order, to triumphant applause meant not for him but as self—congratulation on the part of the supporters of the motion.

  Shinza had come slowly out of his concentrated withdrawal; he had applauded Nwanga, but merely smiled a moment at this affirmation. As the debate quickened Bray had the impression that Shinza was all the time keyed to something that he was listening for, watching out for, behind the echoing voices of the speakers, even behind the rather disorderly background murmur that rose in spite of the chairman’s censure. A sub—debate was going on among the delegates all over the tiers of seats; notes were being passed, people changed places, backs were hunched confidentially and as ears were inclined with bowed heads, eyes—eyes yellowish and veined with blood, eyes clear and prominent showing white, eyes marbled with ageing—met others with that gloss of inner—directed attention that gives away nothing.

  Mweta folded his arms across his robe; unfolded them and sat back in his chair, hands loose upon the table. How few public gestures there were—and even these governed by the same set of conventions as, even if they were not actually set down by, the ancient form that held the gathering. Did Mweta have doubts about the power that was being questioned? Did he sit there, handsome little Roman emperor in his robes, knowing himself in the wrong but believing himself justified in accepting the rigging for power that he thought he couldn’t hold any other way?

  Someone—a picked member of the Shunungwa—Mweta faction—was whipping up heat at the “insult to our great leader” shown by those who opposed his right to choose the S.-G. “These people should leave this Congress. This is a one—party state. We are one nation, we have one leader, he is the leader of the members of the Trades Union Congress and all the people—”

  The uproar made the speaker inaudible though he went on bellowing. He was being applauded, shouted down—a great surge of opposing energies seemed literally to shift the cinema seats clamped to one another and the floor, so that Bray felt the pressure heaving at him. Roly Dando’s little sliver of a white face was moving on his neck like a roused bird’s. Party stewards were reinforced by the sudden presence of white—helmeted policemen who appeared through the curtained exits where the Joshi brothers’ smart mulatto usherettes usually waited with torches and trays of sweets. There was a scuffle up on the left of Bray somewhere, near the back of the cinema—a fight?— “Old man’s had a heart—attack,” someone repeated—but the white—helmeted men went up the aisle three steps at a time and swiftly brought down a young man with fury bunched in his face at being exhibited like this, and another man with the sleeve of his worn jacket torn out of the armhole. As they were pushed through the doors chanting of some sort came from out there, as if the dial of a radio twirled briefly through the wavelength of a station—the women again, no doubt—and a few red—sashed Young Pioneer “marshals” got in. The police did not seem to know what to do about them; but the young men’s self—styled authority wavered in the company of that more obviously vested in white helmets, leather boots, and holstered guns. They stood beside the police, their presence neither asserted nor rejected, looking sideways at each other.

  There were calls for Mweta but he gave no sign that he would speak. Bray, putting himself in his place, wondered why he left it to Shunungwa and his other lieutenants to argue the case. —You don’t want to be in at the kill?—He wouldn’t hear the question from me, now, even if I could be there right next to him, asking it for his ear alone; wouldn’t hear. And he was far away on the other side of this sounding—place vibrating as if they were all within a vast bell with the ringing of speakers’ voices and the numberless thought—waves spreading, overlapping, looping among echoes: a single intention towards him drowned out before it got there; he became, to Bray, as Bray tried to hold him in sight, in mind, something that stood for Mweta—the familiar face, the robe. Justin Chekwe, Secretary—General of PIP as well as Minister of Justice, had apparently been chosen as big gun against the motion. He was an eloquent speaker (ex-Oxford Union, as a cocky black scholarship student) and while he didn’t descend to emotional appeal, the very sight and sound of him, enhanced by the power of his portfolio since Independence in the way a woman is made more sexually attractive by her private knowledge that she is conducting a love affair, drew confidence. Every villager in his scraped—together best could see what—if it were too late for oneself—a son could become. There was no austerity in Chekwe’s manner; he wore the white man’s expensive clothes as he used the most expensive words, words that came only at the price of the most expensive education. And in this he remained African in a way that was recognized instantly without any need of explanation, such as was necessary to reassert a pride in things reinstated from Africa’s own neglected scale of values. What he was saying, of course, was aimed directly at Shinza; it was based, for tactical reasons, on a deliberate misinterpretation of motives. Was Congress being urged to approve the adoption by African movements of a purely professional trade unionism? Supporters of this attitude refused to allow trade union participation in any form of governmental activity. The late Tom Mboya once argued the case for this and, indeed, in theory, it was admirable … “for countries whose economies are sufficiently highly developed to afford it—though if we look at some of them, England, for example”—he allowed himself a sympathetic smile at the Labour government’s troubles— “we wonder if anyone can afford it.” … But even the most ardent supporters of this theory had come to realize through experience in Africa that the trade union movement could not concern itself solely with the defence of the workers’ immediate interests, and “let the country go hang.” Even the most ardent advocates of so—called “corporate” trade unionism today realized that the only way to further the interests of the workers was to assist the government in every way to achieve its economic goals. It was absolutely necessary for the trade union attitude to take into account long—term economic planning and ensure that this was carried out “with the closest possible trust and cooperation between the government and the unions. The President’s appointment of the Secretary—General of UTUC is the most important recognition of this cooperation. It is the governmen
t’s guarantee that this cooperation will take place on the highest level and will never be endangered by such petty internal dissensions as might arise from time to time within trade union movements themselves….”

  The arguments were being taken down at the press table, recorded on tape, but rising and falling decibels would not capture what was really happening. Beneath this graph was another, the shift back and forth of a balance between Shinza and Mweta. And beneath that, yet another: and of the nature of that, even Bray wasn’t sure. All this afternoon’s clamour and talk would become part of a small curve in the rise and fall of forces over the whole continent, would be swept up in the historian’s half—sentence some day— “towards the end of the decade, there could be discerned a certain paradigm of alignment into which apparently dissimilar states….” It isn’t signifying nothing, this clamour, that’s too easy, too. Its significance is something to be listened for, reached by parting a way through words, presences, the cramp in one’s knees, and the compulsive distraction of lighting another and another cigarette.

  Still Mweta made no sign. He could have spoken if he wanted, even if it had been agreed that he wouldn’t. He had done it before; it was part of his impulsive naturalness, the political sense he had had that went beyond the stale concept of politics as a “game” in which all moves must be plotted and adhered to. Politics had always been concrete to him, a matter of bread, work, and shelter. He sat there in his robe; a piece of popular political art, Bray thought—just as there is popular religious art, plaster figures painted blue and gold.

  The other faction had their plan of action, as well. Shinza was to have their last word. When he stood up he waited for silence and got it; but then those who had given it as a due exacted found that he was looking round as if he wanted to remember them all, everything; he lingered on the thugs and the policemen, awkward presences that had no dealing with words, in a gathering whose meaning depended on the binding validity of the word or was nothing—he looked at them with the beginnings of a dry, playfully pitying smile, the smile men give jailers. And then he began to speak. “In our country, as in most other African states, before independence nationalism was given priority in trade union activities because the economic and social situation of the African worker was a direct consequence of colonialism. Now that independence is gained, economic and social problems come to the fore again—look at them all around us in the strikes and riots on the mines, the fisheries, the railways. The African trade union movement has to reformulate its policies to deal with these problems. Now let us be clear about one thing. This reformulation can only take place within a framework limited by the legacy of the colonial system, the trade unions’ role in the political growth of the State, and the size of the social and economic problems which face us. —That is what the Yema resolution is about; that is what the Honourable Minister Mr. Chekwe is talking about; that is what I’m talking about.” All the mannerisms that his eager pupil (robed, shoulders back like a bust on a coin) had learned from him; but, in Shinza himself, without that concession known as charm: done with that. “The label of professional trade unionism, corporatism, won’t stick on UTUC. Not even the ‘enlightened’ professional trade unionism that Mr. Chekwe is prepared to flatter it with … Because what he is saying in effect is that trade unions can support any government whose policy favours the workers, no matter what that government’s over—all policy is. Well, we know where this reasoning can lead. In Europe it led to Mussolini, it led to Hitler—it led to fascism. Africa is making enough mistakes of her own; one of the last hopes of the world and ourselves is that at least she will not have to repeat all Europe’s. In Africa, Mr. Chekwe quotes the example of Mboya. Yes, the late Tom Mboya did follow ‘enlightened’ corporatism as a union man and later as Minister of Economic Planning and Development, and we respect his memory as one of the great men of our continent; but there are people who say he used this argument to justify his blind attachment to the Western bloc, abandoning the principles of positive neutralism to which the People’s Independence Party and our country are committed; and at the time of his death foreign business interests were flourishing while the Kenyan people remained poor.… No, the label of professional trade unionism, of an evasion of the realistic and proper role of the unions in a developing state, won’t stick on UTUC because what UTUC has stood for since the days when our Party grew out of the trade unions is the fullest participation of the worker in the formulation of the policies of the state. In 1959 when I came out of jail I hardly had time to look for a clean shirt”—splendidly casual reminder that he had been in and out of prison for PIP— “before UTUC sent me off to Conakry to the UGTAN conference—one of the first important attempts to create pan—African trade unionism—with a mandate to support trade union involvement in political action as the only way to achieve social and economic progress. During the years, later, when PIP was banned and for a time UTUC acted as our front organization, the trade unions reaffirmed this conviction in actions”—perhaps he said “louder than words”—his own were beaten out by a swell of aggressive applause somewhere— “The trade unions saw then that the workers’ greatest need was the country’s need to struggle against colonialism and imperialism. The reason why now their Secretary—General should not be appointed over their heads is not because they think their role after independence is to be less involved at government level, but on the contrary, because it is to be more involved, because the workers’ greatest need now is to ensure that the government continues the struggle against neo—colonialism and all that it means to the workers. This thing neo—colonialism is not, as some people would like to tell us, a catch—phrase, an honest investor from Europe or America or wherever, dressed up by the Communists in sheets and an evil spirit’s face. It is with us now in the form of ‘disinterested’ help given by the great powers; in the domination of our national resources by international companies; and in the perpetuation of our economic inferiority as the eternal producers of raw materials at low prices and customers for the finished product at high prices.”

  Two fingers went into the pocket of the rumpled shirt, as if, carried away in discussion with a friend, he were looking for the usual cigarette. But what he encountered there with the package was the realization that he was on a public platform, talking for his political life; Bray saw the hand become absent, withdraw. “After independence, trade unionism is the population’s means of defence against foreign capital. You don’t believe me?—We only hear about the need to attract foreign capital. But the fact is that we need a defence against it, too. We need to make sure it doesn’t own us.… We have valuable resources in our country and of course we’ll have to go on seeking money to develop those resources for some time to come. But the conditions under which that foreign capital is invested and the type of development for which it’s used—these are matters where we need the active involvement of independent trade union opinion, not the rubber stamp of a government appointee”—and he brought down his fist so that the water carafes all along the table shook and this was visible right to the back of the cinema in the wobble of light off their contents. “—And it’s not only as a watchdog that trade unions in a newly independent country defend the population against foreign capital. Julius Nyerere was speaking to his people in Tanzania, but it could have been meant for us when he said, ‘We have made a mistake to choose money, something which we do not have, to be our major instrument of development … the development of a country is brought about by people, not by money.’ Where a government admits vigorous cooperation with the trade unions, there are possibilities for types of development we haven’t even touched on, here. I’m not talking of structural changes in the country’s economy—nationalization of mining, banks, insurance companies and so on—though we mustn’t forget, in our fear of frightening off the rich man from over the sea, that nationalization is, after all, a post—colonial measure to restore the national economy and give a democratic base to independence.… What I am saying is that i
t’s possible, through cooperation at the highest level between government and trade unions to establish such things as a fishermen’s cooperative on the lake, cooperatives among peasant farmers. —We could get help from the Histadrut, for example, the Israelis, with this, as other countries have done. And why don’t we go into the possibility of the government purchase of the farms of departing white settlers for the benefit of the people who worked the land for the settlers? There’s the autogestion scheme that was first started in Yugoslavia and then taken up in Algeria—the word means self—management, the idea that the land is handed over to the farm workers, the people who know how it was being made productive in the first place, and then the farms are run by committees of the farm workers themselves. A better idea than setting up big brand—new government plantations from scratch, as our agricultural services are busy borrowing money to do now; those plantations the experts find in the end they’re unable to turn over to the management of inexperienced villagers.… The self—management system has a very important side effect, too. It helps the integration of the unemployed into a permanent work—force by discouraging the use of casual labour and putting all agricultural work on a permanent basis.