Honorary White

by E. R. Braithwaite

  The challenge was more like a dare, and he seemed to be daring himself rather than me. Daring himself to carry off another first? An Englishman, and now a Black? Perhaps I did him an injustice, perhaps he was completely sincere in all he said. But how would I feel meeting with a group of men psychologically, philosophically, and spiritually conditioned to see Blacks, myself included, as barely human and undeserving of ordinary human treatment?

  “Well?” he prodded. They all seemed to be waiting for my answer. I wondered if I was making far too much of the situation. In my work and travel in the United States, I’d eaten and talked with men who, upon examination, were no less bigoted than South Africans are reputed to be. If this man, himself a product of the environment and conditioning which nurtured the hates and fears within this society, was willing to make a gesture, should I reject it? Call it dare or challenge, what the hell? From the far distance of New York, I had cried for dialogue. Well, here it was offered, in the very heartland of racism. He’d said that native Blacks would very likely treat an overture to friendliness with suspicion and distrust. He didn’t say how they would treat a dare, a challenge. I’d come this far to see and hear for myself, from anyone who would show me and tell me. Would I reject such an invitation if it came from a liberal or a Black?

  “Okay,” I said to him.

  “Then you’ll come?”

  “Yes. I’ll come.”

  Soon after we sat down to dine. The banker excused himself and left. Now the conversation shifted to other things, gas shortage, the state of the economy, the imminent elections, etc. Like any other dinner party anywhere. Relaxed with them, I enjoyed the food, the company, the talk, but from time to time would pull myself up wondering if it was all a special exercise in good manners for my benefit. Impossible. They were talking among themselves in a familiar, ordinary way. My being there imposed no strain upon them. I’d have to watch myself and not let my blackness become my own handicap.

  Chapter

  Three

  ABOUT NINE O’CLOCK THERE was a call for me from a friend of a friend in England. I’d spoken to him earlier and mentioned that I would be dining at Helen’s. Now he phoned to let me know that he’d arranged for me to meet a group of people and, if I wished, he’d come to the Suzman home to fetch me. I agreed.

  In London and New York, friends had said, “While you’re in South Africa, you must meet so-and-so, a really fine person who could be very helpful to you over there. I’ll give you his (her) phone number and drop him (her) a line to say you’ll be in touch.” I’ve never been very enthusiastic about that sort of introduction, and was even less so in the case of South Africa. My friends in New York and London were white and the introductions were to white South Africans. Were they really liberal or would they put on an act of liberalism for the sake of their distant friends? So far, Helen was everything that had been claimed for her. I’d soon find out about John.

  He arrived about an hour later and I left with him. On the way to his home, he told me that the people he’d invited to meet me were all involved in the arts—in an amateur way, because there was little opportunity for them professionally. The arts were still struggling in South Africa, and though there were rich veins of talent running throughout the society, too little attempt was made to tap and promote them. As we drove, he pointed out places of local interest, mostly new multistoried buildings, and commented on the elaborate highway system under development.

  At his home, I met his wife, two teenaged sons, and his other guests, all men, four black and one white. I was quite surprised, perhaps foolishly so, because he’d given no hint of their color, but spoke merely of artists. At Helen’s, the only other Blacks in sight were servants. Judging by the large living room, the house was commodious, but the shabbily comfortable furniture suggested a modest budget. I wondered what John did for a living; his strong handclasp in greeting had been made with a calloused hand, hinting at outdoor work. What was his relationship to these Blacks and how was he able to bring them together at such short notice?

  The family and guests welcomed me. I wondered how I should approach the black men, my memory of my encounter in the park bidding caution, so I expressed my pleasure at being in their country and hoped they would take it from there.

  “My name’s Obie and this is James and Kebo and Molefe. We’ve all read at least one of your books, To Sir, with Love. When we heard from John here that you were here, we agreed to take a chance and stay in town a little later to meet you.”

  “Take a chance?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you know? Blacks are not allowed in the city at night,” he replied, his easy smile sugarcoating the words.

  “So where do you live?”

  “We all live outside the city in a place they created for us called Soweto. But tell us, what are you doing in this place? John wouldn’t give us any details.”

  “I’m just visiting,” I replied.

  “Did you know that your books were banned here?” the one named Molefe asked. He was short, stocky, with a shiny, hairless head and tiny curls on his upper lip and chin. The total effect was a little startling, as if he would be more at home on a pirate ship with a cutlass held between his large, white teeth.

  “Yes. I knew.”

  “What we’ve been wondering,” Molefe continued, “is why they issued you a visa after banning your books.”

  “The ban was lifted,” I replied. “There was an announcement in the Official Gazette.” They were making me feel uncomfortable; the warmth of their greeting had quickly evaporated. I looked at John, wondering whether he had deliberately set this up. Hell, I’d never met him before tonight and he had knowingly brought me into this. Since entering his house, he’d retreated into the background, saying nothing, leaving it to the others to grill me. His wife sat on a divan with her sons, silent, observing.

  “Makes no difference, man,” Obie interposed. “The things you say in your books remain. I read Reluctant Neighbors. No white man is going to love you for that one and no South African White would forgive you for even thinking such things. So we want to know if the ban was lifted after you applied for a visa.”

  “No. I saw the notice of the lifting of the ban and then inquired about the visa.”

  “Did you have any trouble getting it?”

  “I wouldn’t call it trouble. When I learned that the ban was lifted I spoke with the South African Consul General in New York. He suggested that I formally apply for a visa to test the lifting of the ban on my books. I waited about five months after applying, then I learned that the visa was granted.”

  “As easy as that? No restrictions, no limitations?” Obie was slim, in a neat dark suit, and soft spoken with an easy, intellectual air. He chose his words carefully, as if weighing each one to insure its fullest impact. His heavy-lidded eyes always seemed half closed.

  “When the visa came through, I arranged to see the Consul General and asked whether, if I visited his country, I would be allowed to move about freely and talk with persons black and white. He assured me that I’d have no difficulty in either respect. After giving the matter considerable thought, I decided to make the visit and here I was.”

  “As easy as that?” from Obie again.

  “As easy as that,” I answered.

  “Doesn’t it tell you anything, man?” Molefe asked. “Your books were banned. The film of the first one was first banned, then released but restricted to White-only bijous**. They ban the works of people they consider dangerous, or they consider the works dangerous, whatever way you look at it. They go to all that trouble against you and then hand you a visa. Doesn’t it tell you anything?”

  “They’re using you, man,” the deep, resonant voice of Kebo intervened. He was big, his bulk further emphasized by the bulge of his belly under the loose-fitting, short-sleeved caftan. A tiny golden earring fitted snugly into the lobe of his left ear. A l
arge, handsome man, I could imagine him a fierce Othello.

  “I don’t agree.” They were getting to me, stirring up resentments I didn’t imagine I’d feel against fellow Blacks. Did they think I was some kind of cretin? In New York, I’d asked myself all these questions and more. Not only about the banned books, but about my United Nations speeches and statements as well. These men were suggesting that the lifting of the ban on my books was a deliberate ploy to entice me into visiting South Africa! By implication they were crediting the South African Government not only with the highest intelligence, but with prescience as well. I didn’t buy that.

  “Think about it,” he went on. “They ban your books and your film. Okay. Now they lift the ban and give you a visa. No restrictions. Ergo, South Africa is pursuing more liberal policies, see? They let you in, a black man with an international reputation as a critic of racist and discriminatory policies. That means something, man. It’s like Arthur Ashe playing in their tennis tournament and Bob Foster fighting their lily-white champion. Liberal South Africa.” He made a brushing gesture with his large hand as if to erase an unwelcome vision.

  “I’m here because I wanted to come here,” I said. “If your Government so cleverly anticipated my moves, so what? I’m still in charge of my own eyes and ears. I’m still in control of my own mind.”

  “Happy to hear it,” said Obie.

  “Famous last words,” from Molefe, a sly grin pulling down one side of his mouth. Okay, if these bastards were playing some game, I’d had enough of it. I looked at John, but he refused to meet my eye.

  “Where are you living?” James asked. He had been sitting all the while in a large overstuffed chair which seemed to hold his tiny body captive. In the deepest chair, in the darkest corner of the room, he’d become inconspicuous and now I could see little more than the narrow face. However, I was grateful for his intervention.

  “I’m staying at the Landdrost.”

  “That’s the new hotel on Plein Street opposite the park,” John said.

  “Bob Foster stayed there,” Molefe said.

  “Do you plan to write a book about South Africa, after your visit?” Obie asked, smiling his soft smile.

  “It’s very possible.”

  “How do you plan to see the country and the people? Will you just wander around by yourself or will you be shown, officially?”

  “Whichever way will help me see what I want to see,” I said. “I was told in New York that the Information Office would give me any help I need. I’d be very grateful if any of you can give me any leads.” Maybe I was missing something here. Could be that these fellows were trying to be helpful, in their own way. What was it Helen Suzman had said about them not trusting me? Maybe that was it. Perhaps they’d learned to be damned careful, even with other Blacks. Well, they had a perfect right to question my motives, but I wished it could have been done in a more friendly manner.

  “The Information Office!” he exclaimed. “So you’ll be given the conducted tour and shown only what they want you to see. The white tour. Then you’ll go back to where you come from and say South Africa’s a lovely place.”

  “Look, I’m a stranger here. I don’t know my way around, so I’ll have to depend on someone to tell me things. If you don’t trust the official line, why don’t you help? Why don’t you show me what you think I ought to see?”

  “The Landdrost is a far cry from the way Blacks live in this country,” Kebo chimed in.

  “I have no choice but to stay at the Landdrost.”

  “Why don’t we cut the shit and tell our brother what it’s really like to be black in this place. If he’s willing to listen. After all, he’s come to see us, so let’s tell him what it’s like to be treated like shit in the land of his forefathers.” Kebo stood up, looking large and threatening as the light caught the shiny smoothness of his massive forearms. “I read your book, my brother. It hurt you when you couldn’t get the job you wanted, because of your black skin. You think that’s something? Here you won’t even be allowed to apply. Here, no Black would dare raise his ambitions that high. Any job higher than shit carrier is reserved for the white man. By law.”

  Reaching under his caftan into a pocket of his trousers he produced a flat, worn little book and flicked it open before my face.

  “This is what every black man and woman is reduced to in this place. This thing. It governs our lives. Because of it, you’re nothing. Without it, you’re less than nothing. Man, you could leave your country thousands of miles away and come here, just because you wanted to see how we live! All you needed was a visa. We can’t move a single step without this thing, day or night.”

  I wanted to take a closer look at the thing he held under my nose, but thought it unwise to interrupt him. His anger was all the more powerful because it was so controlled.

  “Listen, brother,” he said, “John got in touch with us today and told us you were in town. We wanted to meet you, to meet a black brother who can come and go as he pleases, write as he pleases, think as he pleases. But when we meet you, we realize how it is possible to live differently from the way we are. We give you some shit because we are angry at the difference between you and us. Christ, even to meet you we have to creep about in the dark like criminals. We are here in John’s house. When it’s time to go, do you think we can just walk out the door? No. However late it is, John will have to take us out of the city to Soweto where we live.”

  “Why?” I asked, directing the question to John, wanting to hear from him about it. Before he could reply, Molefe said, “Any Black found in the city after eleven o’clock at night is in trouble. The police cruise around in vans looking for Blacks. Only a few house servants or restaurant employees or watchmen are allowed here at night; they have special permission obtained by their employers. For any other, it’s into the van and off to the police station.”

  “Even if you have one of those books?” I pointed to the one which Kebo still held in his hand.

  “Yes. Even if you have the Book. That only permits you to be in the city by daylight. Not at night. It’s called the Book of Life. Here, take a look at mine.”

  He handed it to me. It was a thin group of printed forms stapled together inside a black leatherette cover and arranged alphabetically as follows:

  Page A. Residential address:

  Permit to be employed in Johannesburg daily from 8 A.M. to 11 P.M.

  Page B. Reserved for monthly signature of employer.

  Page C. Poll tax stamps.

  (Poll tax must be paid by June of each year.)

  Page D. Homeland tax stamps.

  (Rated according to individual’s earnings.)

  Page E. Bantu Labour Health Regulations.

  Page F. Driver’s license.

  Page G. Reserved for Arms License.

  (This is a mockery as no arms licenses are issued to Blacks. Any Black found in possession of even a penknife is liable to arrest and prosecution.)

  Page H. Personal particulars, including those of wife and children, if any.

  Page I. Reserved for photograph of individual.

  “Think of it, my friend,” Molefe continued. “You walk free. Every one of us Blacks, from the age of sixteen, must carry one of these at all times. Without it you have no identity, no life, so you spend your life safeguarding it.”

  “Do you know what’s one of the most humiliating acts of my life?” Obie said. “Getting my Book signed each month. It says that it should be signed by the employer, but that really means that any white man can sign it, and the signing is usually assigned to the most junior white in the job. Boy, and do they shit on you! They’re so happy to have someone below them, they make you crawl for that signature. And I crawl, my brother. Me, who would love to take them by the throat, I crawl for that signature. In your book, Reluctant Neighbors, you talk of pride as if it is every man’s birthright. Her
e the black man has no birthright, not even the pride in being a man.”

  “You asked me earlier how I planned to move around and learn about conditions. I’ll see what the officials want to show me, but I’d like to hear from you and other Blacks, too, about conditions as you see them, if you’d be willing to talk to me and show me.”

  “Only if you’re prepared to come and see us where we live,” Molefe replied. “We can’t come often to John’s house. Too risky for him and his family. Before you know it the Security Police will be on to him for consorting with Blacks. They’ll think we’re plotting something. In any case, it would be better to show you how we live than merely tell you about it. Think your stomach can stand it?”

  “Certainly. If yours can.”

  John’s wife and children served some cool drinks and the discussion switched to other things. Mainly writing. Poetry. Now I discovered that the white guest, Brian, was involved in publishing and promoting the works of black authors and poets in South Africa. Without a white person to help, Blacks had no access to the publishing houses. Obie, whose recently published book of poems had been very well received, was particularly bitter about this.

  “In every way, at every turn, we’re made and kept dependent on the white man. Brian here’s okay, but why should we have to need even him? Whites come along and claim to be interested in our poetry, novels and plays and promise to act on our behalf. Then they promote our work for their own benefit, they complete the negotiation without a word to us, they give us what they choose. They know we can’t fight them in the courts. God, let our day come!”

  The Whites seemed quite unmoved by these outbursts as if they’d either heard them all before or were confident that they occupied a separate and different place in the Blacks’ regard. Perhaps people like John, his family, and Brian represented a bridgehead of interracial trust and understanding. Maybe there were others like him. John’s surname suggested that he was of Boer stock. His hands were rough and calloused by hard work. How did he manage to win the trust of Blacks like these bright, intelligent men? How deep and real was his liberal stance? His children seemed comfortable in the company of Blacks, and children of that age are usually an excellent barometer of a family’s racial attitudes. Christ, there was so much to be learned and so little time. I’d planned to stay six weeks and already that seemed too short.