A Guest of Honour

by Nadine Gordimer

  “And in the towns—in industry—where are the profit—sharing schemes for African workers? Many international companies operating here have stock purchase plans or profit—sharing plans for their employees in other countries, outside Africa. Why must Africa be the exception? These companies should develop appropriate schemes for our workers, incorporated in bargaining agreements with the trade unions. There are many other possibilities and they all need recognition of trade union initiative at government planning level. A workers’ investment corporation could be set up as a prelude to other business activity, to get Africans into the sector of our economy at present dominated by expatriates. It makes more sense than throwing stones and looting foreign shops, as some Young Pioneers did last month at Temba.… Why shouldn’t we have a people’s bank, a state—aided bank to help our small farmers and shopkeepers who can’t raise loans from ordinary banks? The self—management scheme can be adapted to small factories, too; you can set up in towns a system parallel to that of the rural areas. Factories, shops—a whole industrial unit can be controlled by the workers who run the management through their own board of administration, while managerial staff and engineers are appointed by the government. The foreign investor doesn’t own those factories and shops. They may not run as efficiently as the foreign firm would have run them, the profits may not be as high as they would have been, but there are no shareholders in other countries waiting to take the profits away. I know a small foundry that’s just closed down because it wasn’t making enough money to satisfy the white man. But it was earning enough to satisfy the twenty—six men who worked for him.… They have now joined the unemployed …

  “When we vote on this motion, there are two things to remember, and both show the state appointment of the Secretary—General of UTUC as something to be condemned by this Congress. One—whatever the avowed position of the trade unions in relation to political power, UTUC can’t avoid fulfilling its main function, which is to convey the discontent of the workers it represents. No appointed S.-G. will get round that. Two—the role of the trade unions in an independent state is not to become purely functionary, a branch of the Ministry of Labour, but to see that the type of society being planned based on the people’s labour is in accordance with the aims of the people. In the United Trades Union Congress constitution there is laid down as one of its aims ‘the maintenance of the UTUC as one of the militant branches of the movement which will build the socialist state under the political leadership of the People’s Independence Party.’ I call upon Congress to defend that branch of the Party, or betray the Party itself.”

  Shinza’s supporters battered the assembly with their hard—heeled acclaim. A flash of acknowledgement lit across his face, a taste of something; but the sort of sustained applause that comes strength after strength, from every corner and tier, and sweeps a man higher and higher above opposition, was not there. Instead there was a strange atmosphere of consternation. He sat down. The debate went on but there was the feeling that nobody listened; yet a crystallization was taking place in every creak of a seat, every uneasy shift of position, in the echoes stirred like bats when voices came from certain quarters, and even—Bray felt absurd portents press in—the boredom of the thugs from the Young Pioneers. Others were talking and now Shinza like Mweta said nothing. But Mweta’s silence, his presence, was growing, spreading over the people who sighed, scribbled absently, avoided each other’s eyes, sat forward tensely, or back, waiting. And before the vote was taken it was there: Mweta’s silence had spoken to them. It was that, then, for which Shinza had been listening, from the beginning, behind the debate. Now Bray heard it, felt it—no word for how it was apprehended—as Shinza must be doing. The waverers were overcome with their hands, so to speak, in midair for Shinza. They voted for him, seated there asking nothing of them in his robe, because he expected it of them.

  Shinza took the cigarette out of his pocket now. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth and was lighting it with Rebecca’s present, that always worked first try.

  So that’s my man Bray thought; that’s my man.

  Chapter 17

  He found himself with Dando and Shinza in one of the bars of the Great Lakes Hotel; if it were true that anyone ever “found himself” anywhere: by haphazard more purposeful than would appear, the pull of a fascinated reluctance had brought them slowly from group to group at the cocktail party going on in the Golden Perch Room. He hadn’t known whether to expect Shinza to turn up at all; Dando’s was the first voice he heard— “What sort of sex symbol, without a between to its legs”—declaiming over the latest piece of redecoration, the huge stuffed lake perch that had given the room its name and now had the upper half of a woman’s body, in gilded plaster, in place of its own fishy head.

  Many of the delegates had never seen the inside of a place like the Great Lakes before. They stood about overcome by unfamiliarity with the required manner of eating and drinking in such surroundings and were ignored by waiters who disdained to initiate them, hurrying past with gins and whisky—sodas for those who knew how to appreciate these things. When Mweta (in a correct dark suit) moved among them lemonade in hand, and himself pressed them to the plates of tidbits and drinks, they sat down solemnly to the treat they were bidden and blindly ate the bits of shrimp on sticks; some even became roistering among themselves, as the drinks went down, while the professional politicians and the people who sat on company boards drank steadily and achieved nothing more than the glowing self-importance associated with social drinking. The triumphs and resentments of all factions seemed to be contained this way, a feast following a funeral as it does a wedding.

  Shinza was wearing the same crumpled holiday shirt, as if he had come with the object of making his presence a jarring note. He was seen with various knots of people, never in the vicinity of Mweta, apparently talking detachedly. Now he was surrounded by a few young men like a dangerous object that may go off any moment. One, older and a little drunk, was the leader in boldly taking him up—they were asking questions about autogestion—“Was that the blacksmith’s place in Kinshasa Road you’re talking about?—But one of my in—laws worked there and he’s got a job at a boiler—makers’ place now.” “So what, man.” Someone was ashamed of the level of the question. “—But who owns these farms and factories, then—the government?”

  Roly Dando had had a great deal to drink; his companions were head—down, entranced over their glasses while poker—faced he talked louder and louder until his voice reached out into the neighbouring discussion— “of course, respect for trade union action’s just a pious hope in African states. You know that, for God’s sake, don’t you, Shinza?—Of course he does. Knows it as well as I do.”

  Faces opened up to make way, gleaming. Shinza smiled slowly with closed lips and ran his first finger along them in a parody of apologetics. “Well, I’m learning—fast.” They were pleased with him; they laughed. Ras Asahe, who had dragged Bray off to the bar, addressed Shinza through Bray. “Oh yes, we believe you, my friend. There’s only one way to make you learn, though.”

  “… talking into your beard, this business about the workers and the government building the socialist state for the benefit of the workers,” Dando was saying. “In African states the economy can only be developed to the detriment of the workers. For a hell of a long time to come. That’s a fact. I don’t care what political creed or economic concepts you want to name, the realities of production and distribution of wealth remain the same, just the same, right through the continent. No, no—I know what’s coming—don’t trot out what happened in Europe a hundred years ago, because you know the answer to that one, too. The sacrifices squeezed out of the European working classes in the nineteenth century enabled Western economies to reach a point where they could acknowledge the demands of the poor bastards who’d sweated their guts out. It was possible for one reason only: the point had been reached without disturbing the pattern of growth. Within limits, they’d come to a stage where increased co
nsumption leads to greater investment.”

  Shinza and Dando were shoved into the cockpit by the smallness of the bar, the drink in their veins, the curiosity of their companions—and also something else, an awareness of each other in the same room. Shinza took up the exchange with the air of a man who has done with argument. “And why is that impossible?”

  “Because, my dear Shinza, in Africa today internal saving’s nonexistent. Nonexistent or unproductive. A few quid stuffed into a mattress along with the bugs. And consumption’s so low it’s impossible to restrict it any more to encourage increased investment, so your salary freezes won’t help. Wealth is distributed in an irregular and morally unjustifiable way, but I’m damned if anyone knows what to do about it. Trade unionism’s all trussed up because it’s come on the scene long before complete industrialization has taken place.”

  “Spouting Marx to defend black capitalism! Remember who you’re working for these days, Dando.” Shinza pulled down his bearded mouth, half—humouring, half—patronizing. “—All you’re saying’s the workers won’t feel the benefit right away—”

  “—Not Right away or Left away or Middle—of-the-road away—you can talk till kingdom come. Have a drink, Edward. —Come on, man, look after the gentlemen,” he berated the barman. The circle drew in closer. “Edward and I were talking about these things when you were all a lot of snotty—nosed kids … he knows what I’m saying.”

  “What’s this rubbish about trade unionism being ‘tied up.’” Shinza took a swallow of Dando’s round of whiskies. “Listen—what it has to do is make a choice. For the sake of economic development, it can become an organ of the government’s policy—making machinery—which means any criticism of government incompetence is out—finished. Then union activity’s restricted to one thing—ensuring the allegiance of workers in productive industries. Now that’s something that perpetuates your famous inequitable distribution of national income, all right. You hand out the big money to dignitaries, you foot the bill for a massive police force to keep everyone quiet. And all that represents unproductive expenditure, ay? So the trade unions’ll be able to congratulate themselves on consolidating the political power of the elite. —But there’s another way—”

  Dando started shaking his head while Shinza was speaking. “—Defence-of-the-workers’-interests line. Tell me another one, do. Inevitably leads to a slowing of economic growth. All your ideas about activities based on the workers’ productive role can have only a very limited effect. Either you get the workers to buckle down and shut up—”

  Shinza was waving an arm at him— “That’s what you’ve tried to do, that’s what you’ve tried!”

  “Oh nobody’s denying there’re plenty of doubts about the unions’ ability to put their policies into practice. We know that.” Bray, also on Dando’s whisky, found himself borne into the argument. “Until now, the trade union leader’s metamorphosis into a political’s forced him to compromise … that’s one of the principle causes of weakness here. But the fundamental weakness is a mixture of the two—industrial underdevelopment plus the political responsibility trade unionists have had to assume.”

  “Oh for Christ’ sake. The only thing is, take that political responsibility properly—” Shinza’s hands extended under something invisibly heavy— “No holds barred,” Dando said. Bray turned on him— “You’d agree that a big say in the drafting of an economic development plan is one of the basic demands of most African trade unions, Roly?”

  “Listen to it: demands, demands—” Dando began showing off, appealing to his audience.

  But to them Bray was as much a part of the performance as he was. “… it’s the only way to overcome the contradiction between demands that aim at short—term results, and measures you’re going to have to take if you want to establish a real development policy. Of course the difficulties are enormous … it’s risky …”

  Every now and then Dando momentarily lost grip and talked out of some hazy response twitching through the alcohol in his brain— “Risking your life every time you cross the road, feller.”

  “… the position of the unions and the government could become irreconcilable.”

  “Ha-ha, ha—ha-ha.” Dando wasn’t laughing; he shadow—boxed above the bar. “Tread lightly, Bray, eggs underfoot, y’know.” His attention lashed back, drawn to Shinza. “You get your trade union membership largely from public administration, apart from the mines. If you start cracking down on bureaucracy, there’ll be cutbacks. How’re you going to get these people to agree without losing hundreds of members?”

  “I couldn’t care less about your few hundred bloody bureaucrats if we can gain thousands of peasants. Forget it, man—”

  Two or three people had started singing PIP songs, at first raggedly, and then, with the African inability to sing out of tune even when drunk, in noisy harmony. Roly had become defiant without knowing what about; he looked very small and white, his thin greased hair standing up sparsely at the crown, his glasses turning on this target or that. “Better than the whole damn bunch of you, I can tell you that. More guts than some of you’ll see in a lifetime … I don’t trust him as far as the door, old bastard … but you, wet behind the ears, the lot of you, you won’t see another one like him, not for you to start telling me—”

  Bray felt an old affection for poor Dando, never standing on the dignity of his office but keeping for himself the exactions of personal response, no matter how battered or ridiculous he might emerge. Only an African state would employ a man like that; anywhere else, his professional ability would be lost against considerations of professional face.

  Ras Asahe was talking of the strikes at the mines and Bray was only half—listening— “not such a push—over to stop production now that the Company’s got the hardware to crack down on them!” The phrase was an arrow quivering: “Hardware?”

  “Yes, they won’t have to stand around biting their fingernails any more when the boys cut up rough. I saw it the other day, very hush—hush—but, man, it’s all there! A nice little fleet of Ford trucks converted into armoured vehicles—”

  “The Company police are being armed?”

  “Well, what do you think? They’re going to stand around waiting for the space men” (the regular police were called this because of their helmets) “to come? Or for the President to decide whether or not it’s time to call in the army? Apparently the Company went along to him and said, look here, if you can’t do it, you must let us.… And he gave them the green light.”

  “They’ve got guns?”

  Ras spread his elegant hands. “The full riot—squad outfit. Tear gas, guns—helicopters so they can move a dozen or so men where they’re needed, fast. It’ll be a great help wherever there’s trouble … even if it’s not the mines … the Big Man knows they’re there if he needs them.”

  At the same time there was some sort of sensation in the knot round Dando and Shinza. All Bray saw was Dando putting his arm round Shinza’s shoulder in a flamboyant gesture, a lunge, and—distinctly—Shinza avoiding it quietly and swiftly as a cat slips from under a hand. Shinza wasn’t looking at Dando, he was turned away talking to someone else at that particular moment; he must just have become conscious between one instant and the next of the arm claiming him. But Dando, already over—reached from the bar—stool, was unsteady, and the movement tipped his balance. He fell; there was a scuffle—people picked him up in the confusion that looks the same whether it represents hostility or concern.

  Asahe said disgustedly, “That old man’s the best argument for Africanization I know. They should let the two of them finish each other off; this place needs streamlining.”

  “What a prig you are, Ras. Perhaps you should send for some tear gas.”

  But Asahe was flattered to be thought tough; Bray was aware of being under the smile of a man who felt he could afford it. He went quickly to Roly Dando. Dando was on his feet again, somehow rather sobered. “Shall we go home?”

  “Why the baby�
��talk, Bray. Anyhow, aren’t you eating with Mweta?” He had the look of a fowl taken unharmed from the jaws of a dog.

  “There’s time to go home first.”

  “Good God no, I’ve got a date.” He went off with two young men who had dusted him down, a cheerful, short—arsed little Mso—they were a dumpy people; Batwa blood trickled down from the Congo, there, in some forgotten migration—and a talkative, stooping man who, in addition to the Party tie, wore various insignia from colonial times—Boy Scout and Red Cross buttons.

  He left behind him raised voices and exaggerated gestures; the confusion had released private antipathies and post—mortem tensions over the day’s business in Congress. Shinza was surrounded solidly by his own men, now; Nwanga, Goma, Ogoto were drinking round a small table with an air of not being anywhere in particular, as if they were in a railway waiting room or on an airport. But Shinza said to Bray over his shoulder, “The old man’s all right?”

  He had dinner alone with Mweta, late; those guests at the Great Lakes who had not gathered in the bars took a long time to disperse from the Golden Perch Room. Mweta was troubled, as always, by the choice of a cocktail party as a way of entertaining people— “Specially Congress.”

  So Congress deserved something better. Yet he had sat there, in his robe that symbolized their coming into their own, and allowed himself to take from them consent to his rigging himself into a position of more power. Bray smiled. “Cocktail parties and democracy go together.”