No Time Like the Present

by Nadine Gordimer

  The track returned to, Terror and Dandala embrace. Holding hands, they dance together, now Zuma’s not the only one to do the traditional African high-kick for the voters’ pleasure and reassurance: one of them.

  There’s a pair of wide pyjama pants hung over the branch of one of the shrubs that once were planted to dignify the street outside the magistrates’ court. The pants shelter from the sun a child asleep. She can’t see a face, it will be one of the faces of those playing in the gutters or hanging from a woman’s hand; the soles of the feet at drawn-up legs are not black but worn grey with the friction of paving and roads. All is just as it was, only twice as much so. A continuity which overturns what this word generally means, the ultimate of disconnection: chaos. There’s no longer space for the ingenious normalcy of an old man rolling cigarettes out of bits of newspaper round tobacco scavenged from cigarette butts, the woman dividing railway lines through hair, attaching false locks on heads. The defiant culture of poverty. Culture’s the term she’s come to use, like everyone else, for an activity that’s seen as an ethnic response—the politicians dancing—and it is missing around her walkabout, this time. These people—brothers and sisters—now too destitute even to make a culture out of nothing; or they’re others come, haven’t been in this situation, at this destination of the Methodist Church long enough yet to do more than overrun the ‘culture’ established there to the disgust of the city. Well what do I know. I’m not a refugee ‘problem’ in somebody else’s country. I’m here a lawyer following an advocate’s instruction to investigate a case—scene of crime, Jake said when she told the comrades that was what she was going to be doing. Jake always ready with a wry take. You can count on him.

  One of the Suburb comrades who’s member of the Communist Party—not much volume of electioneering from their small ranks but at least a few of them in government, veterans of the Struggle and likely to be in a continuing government alliance—the comrade’s theme is that race, pigment, are going to be replaced post-Struggle by class struggle evidencing itself already with the new rich, the blacks, including, don’t ignore, the youth leader Malema in designer outfits, never mind the shares it’s said he has in some big engineering industry.

  A member of the class of the legal profession in her home country; not like those Brothers and Sisters whose close bodies her own is gently pushing past through the church doors. Not now. The present. But the present doesn’t last—have tenure, the legal vocabulary comes to her although Baba, before, made sure she would have a constantly expanding contemporary one for her future—even books in detention. Some of these placeless people blacks like herself are educated, with professional skills; on the wrong side of the political palaces. Baba’s Zuma, what would follow Zuma’s time, tenure, would the Youth ready to kill for him now, is it not on the condition he shall make way for them—euphemism for overthrow, discard him and take the country for themselves. Suburb soapbox talk: —Luthuli had to make way for the young, didn’t he? Mandela, Tambo, Sisulu breaking down the doors the old man was knocking at.—

  —They weren’t Julius Malema ready to kill in time of freedom.—

  Refugee Brothers and Sisters lying on the wrong side of political palace walls of Idi Amin, Mugabe, Malema. Sindiswa and Gary Elias on some Methodist Church pavement. But no neighbouring country available as refuge, refugees from those themselves seeking a pavement to sleep on.

  Australia.

  She is not the eagerly confiding, open young one, his girl in the Swaziland discovery of sexuality as a natural part of political discovery: you were not white, she black in the risk of prison, torture threat to both on your short-lived existence that was set fighting to end existing categories of power, custom, what-have-you and create in their country a human one out of all the divisions bedevilling the hideous past. Working with law, its sane obstinacy defending justice within the new varieties of injustice, she has come to act as determinedly.

  Ah . . . I don’t want to go—no echo there also in the decision of their future? They don’t need even to suppress the subject, there’s no distance between them: she’s there for him, for departure; the leaving. They’re in it together. In their bathroom, taken off the bubble of her shower cap, with the other hand she’s lifted the stiff tumbled locks released, they are dancing wildly pointing the hair about her head. —Medea!— He’s amused. But the reference is unlikely to have visual meaning for Jabu, just as in Zulu image or metaphor often her reference has no meaning—match—for him. In Australia at least however they’ll both not have references to the local foreign images, metaphors. That in common.

  But if references not known between them at home are sign of the intimately irreconcilable, coming from their different ‘cultures’, aren’t they, haven’t they been from the beginning the fascination of what’s called the Other!

  The aspects of the election are divergent for the different concerns of groups each in its familiar enclosure: coffee-room focus is that in its last weeks before dissolution of parliament the government has made a farewell announcement. The Ministry of Education is to be split into two departments: ‘Primary’, for schools, and for universities and technical institutions, ‘Tertiary’—avoiding the old-style category ‘Higher Education’ with its suggestion of class distinction. Probably not coincidental that in this last month before the Day of the Vote the Education Minister visited the university to inspect improvements in progress. A bank has funded a building which will provide new lecture halls, a student centre and tutorial rooms. —He doesn’t know how the guys and the gals are going to miss the necessity to squeeze up close.— It’s old Professor Miller from Maths who enjoys showing he’s cool. A new appointee in the History department, Hafferjee, a thin gold earring winking in approval. —More Internet connections for students—

  —Facebook, Twitter—enough enough!—what they need is somewhere to live, what about shortage of beds and bathrooms.— Lesego in Nelson Mandela dashiki turns to Professor Neilson in his form of academic dress, impeccable suit-and-tie, everyone has a constitutional right to traditional attire, with official uncertainty about veiled Muslim girls in school. —Three-ninety-nine million the university’s asked for from ‘Tertiary’. The man won’t be in his ministry after April twenty-two, he won’t be there to see we do get it.—

  Overture to that day of election is deafening against everything else even if he reminds himself he will not meet what comes after. The Secretary General of the Party—His and Jabu’s, the Mkizes’—says of the brain drain, professionals follow opportunities as a result of the country being part of the integrated global economy.

  Nothing to do with the prospect that the new President at the crest of fervour for the man of the people, will be a President with seventy-two charges of fraud and corruption against him?

  She’s uncovered that 20 per cent of the people living in the Methodist Church and the pavement dormitory are not refugees from Zimbabwe or any other country but are destitute South Africans, thrust finger down the open mouth.

  Hasn’t Zuma’s corruption case caught the delay wind.

  —There have been calls for a review of the Constitutional Court decisions.— Lifting not his machine-gun song but the weapon of Christian values he accuses the judges of ‘behaving as if they were almost close to God’. And in the same cycle of this country the National Union of Metal Workers is calling for the nationalisation of a mining company owned by Struggle veteran Tokyo Sexwale and Patrick Patrice Motsepe; black, two of the wealthiest men in the country. Brothers betraying the egalitarian ideals of the ANC? South Africa—mixed economy—is still largely a capitalist society—if only one in which laws preventing the emergence of a black entrepreneurial class have been abolished.

  A voice from under the bonnet. —You can’t attack white fat cats without pointing at black as well. Double standard.— The friend of Peter Mkize joining the Suburb comrades to give advice about the faults of acceleration in Blessing’s car, is one of those who are members both of the ANC and the
SACP. —We won’t exempt class betrayal by brothers profiting on capitalist enterprise.—

  Peter can place him. No offence possible between them, no contradiction in the policy of the ANC alliance. —Who’s arguing about that, we’re equal now whether exploiting or exploited, isn’t it, aih, sinning or sinned against, all got the vote. The workers have the same boss if he’s black like us or white like Stevie.—

  —Ja, we’ve heard it all—(whether he means: even down in the engine’s belly)—Eish man, we know, tarara black capitalists generate new wealth the white capitalists tell us, how’s it go, they make job opportunities, they have to pay taxes that increase money for social grants poor women get something to feed their kids—

  Isa and Jabu coming out with coffee and a tray of mugs; Jabu is there with the figures. —Inequality, it’s increased more than fourteen per cent, that’s since two years after the first all-race election (as if prompted the horn blurts from inside the car’s engine where Peter’s friend must have touched a wrong part)—alarm bells, you see it in the service delivery protests. At the Justice Centre we have reports, political connections work in favour of prominent ANC members winning contracts for upgrading township water supply, electricity, over tenders of firms lower priced, better qualified. We’ve seen houses where the roof’s blown off in the first storm after tenants moved in. People rewarded with tenders are making millions. There’s the risk, street protests will lead to black class conflict, Zuma’s going to have his hands full. You can forget about xenophobia.—

  Always he finds himself curiously in the same relation to her as are other people while she is speaking from a professional perspective. Instead of that indefinable identity called wife. Other women are desirable, that’s the basis of man-woman, but there’s no woman other than she who could have been, could be the identity of all he has found in her. He’s in recognition.

  Jake —That’s why the big man has to make sure the hands of support are well greased!—

  Is it a jolt back to personal reality or a diversion . . . Gary Elias’s school. Another ‘incident’. One of the matric class who was involved in the initiation affair apparently not directly enough to be named then, has lined up senior boys on a grandstand for what he called ‘haircut inspection’. He swore at a boy about his unacceptable haircut, kicked him in the chest, thrust fallen to the ground.

  When he comes home from an after-hours meeting at the university she is with Gary Elias sitting close, on the terrace. Wethu is there; she groans a soft accompaniment while mother and son tell what happened.

  —Must have been yesterday, we only knew today, the headmaster didn’t call us to the hall he came to our class, every class, first we didn’t have a clue what it was about.—

  So their boy didn’t see.

  She explains —The football team had been taken to play in a match at another school.— Gary Elias has been spared violence, even the corrupting spectacle of it, not on TV.

  —We won, six-three, easy.—

  —Blessing called while she was driving the boys home from school today, the line kept breaking . . . I’d left the Centre, was here at the time she dropped Gary.—

  They shared relief each can confirm unspoken, Gary is not frightened; in fact shows again sense of importance of one who is connected with the sensational at second-hand: he could have been in the school when it happened, it might have been experienced not only as he is conscious of being present at the battles of space monsters on television.

  Julius Malema in the news channel switched on out of habit tonight. A clip from the twenty-ninth birthday party of the ANC youth leader, who has said the youth are ready to take up arms and kill for Zuma, is with one of the successful businessmen and the premier of the province where the birthday boy was born.

  Nice shot of political connection between rebellious youth and new capitalist. But doesn’t say this to her, doesn’t belong in their present moment.

  He and Peter Mkize go together to the headmaster of the school next morning. Not along with the usual transport to school shared by Mkizes and Reeds; they agree it’s better not to add to the impact on their boys by showing how disruptive the ‘incident’ is of reassuring routine. They’ll go later without the sons knowing. He’s called the faculty to arrange for someone to take his class in the laboratory, Peter waves away any need to explain late arrival at his firm.

  The headmaster can’t refuse to see parents but the secretary asks, do they have an appointment.

  If the man is unable to be prepared for dangerous bullying in his school he hardly qualifies for the formalities. The fathers will sit it out until the headmaster returns to his office from whatever he is about. There is a whispered consultation behind computers and a young woman is sent, evidently to summon him. Her ankle twists on a stalk-heel shoe and is embarrassedly righted, as she passes. The office staff must have been told to say the headmaster is unavailable. —Doesn’t want the press to get hold of this.— Peter is accustomed to waiting, it’s the timetable of the blacks’ apartheid past, when he was a youngster.

  But Mr Meyer-Wells (good mixture of origins in that name) arrives in full stride. Smiles as if they are people he’s called upon. He’s recognised: two father-friends from one of those new suburbs where black and white live as neighbours. —The son of Mr Mkize, good to see you. (One of the few black lads, the school should be able to attract more.) Professor Reed—it’s been too long! Gary Elias is doing well, and going to be one of our sports stars— (A coloured, actually the school has more of those, along with the Indian intake.)

  In the principal’s office the young woman who went to summon him brings tea. There’s determination to make this a friendly occasion of a request to see the master of the school, not a confrontation by parents, one a university professor, who’ve come in academic and business hours to speak to him. Yes, it happened. The problem is—how to predict these unfortunate things. And the learner (nomenclature in accord with a progressive private school) this boy is not a boarder, we cannot know what influences he might encounter that his parents aren’t aware of. —Of course they are very disturbed. He’s apparently a friend of one of the matriculants although he’s in a class below. He may of course—think of the behaviour a couple of months ago as assertion . . . You’ll know from experience with your own offspring, childhood’s become very short these days, I’ve no experience in this regard with adolescent girls, but in twenty-six years’ teaching the male young I think I can claim knowledge of change—adolescent boys now take charge of themselves before they have the moral judgement to succeed, if you follow me, they experiment with mores and morals—behaviour—to reject the intermediate stage of life they feel we impose on them in preparation. For the world they’re going to live in; and with modern technology they’re so much more exposed to the kind of world it is than other generations I’ve taught. It’s a world of display isn’t it—you must show who you are, and the way to hand is take power loud and abusive over your peers.—

  A fluent analysis—but if his experiences can’t see the signs, can’t predict. —Have you thought of some combined group of teachers and boys—the boarders and day boys, like ours—to talk together, why they think—see—these things happen among them. It won’t be easy, they may be quick to button up in suspicion of being recruited to spy. Tell-tale. But you can deal with that; if your staff’s open, make clear this is absolutely not a disciplinary tribunal. It’s their school.—

  The principal feels obliged to listen attentively to the academic; he teaches, too, and the campuses have their troubles—and then some! He rests chin on fist. —Perhaps you—one of your colleagues, a young lecturer himself not so long out of school, mh?, he could come along and meet our boys, talk to them as the young men they’re going to be.—

  It’s not a bad idea but what is the headmaster himself going to do about the peer group that follows its own code of discipline in the school, probably they’ve never heard, been taught about fascism but the fact is they’re young fa
scists in the making, Mussolini-style, Nazi-style, Apartheid-style. History’s always ready to make a comeback. The man can’t regard what’s happening as a mishap in his school’s production of a free-thinking generation in a free country.

  Each must go his own way, to the city, the university, now’s not the time to talk about what they, parents, have to do . . . There’s only the shared frustration—what use was the confrontation. Alone in the car, addressing himself. Poor devil’s having to deal with developments coming to him from outside the school walls. Julius Malema’s harnessed himself bucking high to the election campaign, pulling the great eager mass of black youth (brothers of Njabulo and Gary Elias although without the privilege of private school) behind Zuma. For the time being not singing his adapted hate song, the generic ‘Kill The Boer’ which in Struggle days meant not the Afrikaner farmer but the white army of apartheid. On the subject of discipline—Malema’s still successfully ignoring any edict against hate speech, with gibes, insults, racist and sexist, at opposition leaders. If not a hero, he’s created a climate which sweats rebellion.

  Peter draws up alongside the open car window as both are driving off. He’s in some agreement with himself —Not much sense, aih, taking the boy out in the middle of the year, I think let him finish it and then start somewhere else, new school, next year.—

  —Peter’s going to leave Njabulo to complete the year.—

  She prompts with questions the account of the principal’s response to Mkize and him.

  —And then?—

  He’s aware what both are thinking.

  It’s end of summer but still warm enough for them to exchange the day on the terrace where the Dolphin’s welcoming gift of the hibiscus plant is blooming man-tall. —Njabulo’ll be in another school next year; that’s it.—