by Wilbur Smith
‘What strange ideas you have picked up on that newspaper of yours! He murdered your grandfather,’ Centaine said, and shot a glance down the table at Shasa. Shasa interpreted it fluently and it meant, ‘We have another problem on our hands here,’ but Michael was going on obliviously.
‘Moses Gama will die on the gallows – I think we all know that. But his words and his ideas will live on. I know now why I had to be a journalist. I know what I have to do. I have to explain those ideas to the people of this land, to show them that they are just and fair, and not dangerous at all. In those ideas are the hopes for our survival as a nation.’
‘It is a good thing I sent the servants out,’ Centaine interrupted him. ‘I never thought to hear words like those spoken in the dining-room of Weltevreden.’
‘Vicky Gama waited for over an hour in the visitors’ room at Roeland Street prison while the warders examined the contents of the package she had brought for Moses and made up their minds whether or not to allow her to hand it to the prisoner.
‘It is only clothing,’ Vicky pointed out reasonably.
‘These aren’t ordinary clothes,’ the senior warden protested.
‘They are the traditional robes of my husband’s tribe. He is entitled to wear them.’
In the end the prison governor was called in to arbitrate and when he finally gave his permission, Vicky complained, ‘Your men have been deliberately rude and obstructive to me.’
He smiled at her sarcastically. ‘I wonder how you will treat us, madam, if you and your brothers in the ANC ever seize power. I wonder if you will allow us even the courtesy of a trial or whether you will slaughter us in the streets, as your husband tried to do.’
When Vicky was at last allowed to hand the parcel to Moses under the watchful eye of four warders, he asked her, ‘Whose idea was this?’
‘It was mine but Hendrick paid for the skins and his wives sewed them.’
‘You are a clever woman,’ Moses commended her, ‘and a dutiful wife.’
‘You, my lord, are a great chief, and it is fitting that you should wear the robes of your office.’
Moses held up the full-length cloak of leopard skins, heavy and glossy golden, studded with the sable rosettes.
‘You have understood,’ he nodded. ‘You have seen the necessity of using the white man’s courtroom as a stage from which to shout our craving for freedom to the world.’
Vicky lowered her eyes and her voice. ‘My lord, you must not die. If you die, then the great part of our dream of freedom dies with you. Will you not defend yourself, for my sake and for the sake of our people?’
‘No, I will not die,’ he assured her. ‘The great nations of the world will not let that happen. Britain has already made her position clear and America cannot afford to let them execute me. Her own nation is racked by the struggle of the American coloured people – she cannot afford to let me go to my death.’
‘I do not trust the altruism of great nations,’ Vicky said softly.
‘Then trust in their own self-interest,’ Moses Gama told her. ‘And trust in me.’
When Moses Gama rose before the court in the golden and black robes of leopard skin, he seemed a reincarnation of one of the ancient black kings. He riveted them.
‘I call no witnesses,’ Gama told them gravely. ‘All I will do is to make a statement from the dock. That is as far as I am prepared to co-operate in this mockery of justice.’
‘My lord,’ the prosecutor was on his feet immediately. ‘I must point out to the court—’
‘Thank you!’ Judge Villiers interrupted him in frigid tones. ‘I do not need to be told how to conduct this trial,’ and the prosecutor sank back into his seat, still making inarticulate sounds of protest.
Heavily the scarlet-robed justice turned his attention back to Moses Gama.
‘What counsel for the prosecution is trying to tell me is that I should make it clear to you that if you do not enter the witness stand and take the oath, if you do not submit to cross-examination, then what you have to say will have little relevance to the proceedings.’
‘An oath to your white man’s God, in this courtroom with a white judge and a white prosecutor, with white prosecution witnesses and white policemen at the doors. I do not deign to submit to that kind of justice.’
Judge Villiers shook his head with a woeful expression and turned both his hands palms up. ‘Very well, you have been warned of the consequences. Proceed with your statement.’
Moses Gama was silent for a long time, and then he began softly.
‘There was once a small boy who wandered with joy through a beautiful land, who drank from the sweet clear rivers, who listened with pleasure to the song of the bird and studied the antics of the springbok and pangolin and all the marvellous wild things, a small boy who tended his father’s herds, and sat at night by the fire and listened to the tales of the great heroes of his people, of Bambata and Sekhukhuni and mighty Chaka.
‘This boy believed himself to be one of a peaceful people who owned the land on which they lived and were free to move wherever they wished in confidence and joy. Then one day when the boy was nine years of age a curious being came to the kraal at which the boy lived, a creature with a red face and a lordly manner, and the boy saw that the people were afraid, even his father and his grandfather who were chieftains of the tribe, were afraid as the boy had never seen them afraid before.’
There was no sound nor movement in the crowded courtroom as Moses Gama described his loss of innocence and how he had learned the bitter truths of his existence. He described his bewilderment as the universe he knew was proved an illusion. He told them of his first journey into the outside world, where he learned that as a man with a black skin there were places where his existence was circumscribed and limited.
When he went to the white man’s towns, he found that he could not walk the streets after curfew without a pass, that he could not live outside the areas that had been set aside for his people on the outskirts of that town, but most important to him he found that he could not attend the white man’s schools. He learned that in nearly every public building there was a separate entrance for him to use, that there were skills he was not allowed to acquire, and that in almost every way he was considered different and inferior, condemned by the pigmentation of his skin always to remain on the bottom rung of existence.
Yet he knew that he was a man like other men, with the same hopes and desires. He knew that his heart beat as fiercely and that his body was as strong, and his brain was as bright and quick as any other. He decided that the way to rise above the station in life that had been allotted him was to use that brain rather than employ his body like a beast of burden as most of his people were forced to do.
He turned to the white man’s books and was astonished to find that the heroes of his people were described as savages and cattle-thieves and treacherous rebels. That even the most sympathetic and charitable of the authors he read referred to his people as children, unable to reason or think for themselves, children who must be sternly protected but prevented from taking part in the decisions which governed their lives.
He described to them how at last he had realized that it was all some monstrous lie. That he was not different, that because his skin was black he was not unclean or contaminated or childlike. He knew then for what purpose he had been put upon this earth.
‘I came to know that the struggle against injustice was my life,’ he said simply. ‘I knew that I had to make the white men who ruled me and my people understand.’
He explained how each of his attempts to get the white men to listen had failed. How all his people’s efforts had resulted only in more savage and draconian laws, in fiercer oppressions.
‘In the end I had to accept that there was only one course left to me. That was to take up arms and to strike at the head of the serpent whose venom was poisoning and destroying my people.’
He was silent and his audience who had listened in complete a
nd rigid silence for most of the morning, sighed and stirred, but as soon as Moses Gama spread his arms they were completely attentive once more.
‘Every man has a right and a sacred duty to protect his family and his nation from the tyrant, to fight against injustice and slavery. When he does so he becomes a warrior and not a criminal. I challenge this judge and this white man’s court to treat me as a soldier and a prisoner of war. For that is what I am.’
Moses Gama drew his leopard skins about him and sat down, leaving them all shaken and silenced.
Judge Villiers had sat through the entire address with his chin couched in his hand, his eyes hooded with concentration, but now he let his hand drop and he leaned forward to glower at the prisoner.
‘You claim to be the leader of your people.’
‘I do,’ Moses replied.
‘A leader is chosen or elected. How were you chosen?’
‘When an oppressed people has no voice, then their leaders come forward of their own accord to speak for them,’ Moses told him.
‘So you are a self-proclaimed leader,’ the judge said quietly. ‘And your decision to declare war on our society was taken alone. Is that correct?’
‘We are involved in a colonial war of liberation,’ Moses Gama replied. ‘Like our brothers in Algeria and Kenya.’
‘You approved of the methods of the Mau Mau, then?’ Judge Villiers asked.
‘Their cause was just – their methods, whatever they might have been, were therefore just.’
‘The end justifies the means – any means?’
‘The struggle for liberation is all, in the name of liberty any deed is sanctified.’
‘The slaughter and multiation of innocents, of women and children. These are also justified?’
‘If one innocent should die that a thousand might go free, then it is justified.’
‘Tell me, Moses Gama, do you believe in democracy – in the concept of “One man, one vote”?’
‘I believe that every man should have one vote to elect the leaders of the nation.’
‘And after the leaders are chosen, what should happen?’
‘I believe that the people should submit to the wisdom of their chosen leaders.’
‘A one-party state – with a president for life?’
‘That is the African way,’ Moses Gama agreed.
‘It is also the way of the Marxists,’ Judge Villiers observed drily. ‘Tell me, Moses Gama, what makes a black totalitarian government superior to a white totalitarian government?’
‘The wishes of the majority of the people.’
‘And the sanction of your people, of which only you are aware, makes you a holy crusader – above the laws of civilized man?’
‘In this land there are no such laws, for the men who make the laws are barbarians,’ said Moses Gama softly, and Judge Villiers had no more questions to put to him.
Twenty-four hours later Mr Justice André Villiers delivered his judgement to a hushed and expectant court.
‘The basis of the case brought by the crown against the accused rests upon the consideration of how an individual reacts to what he perceives as an injustice. It raises the question of the individual’s right or duty to resist those laws which he considers unjust or evil. I have had to consider what loyalty a person owes to a government which was elected by a process from which he was totally excluded, a government which has furthermore embarked upon a programme of legislation that will deliberately alienate that person from most of the major rights, privileges and benefits of the society of which he is a member—’ For almost an hour Judge Villiers enlarged on and examined this proposition, then he summed up. ‘I have therefore reached the conclusion that no duty of loyalty exists towards a state in which the individual is denied the basic democratic right of representation. Accordingly, on the charge of high treason I find the accused not guilty.’
There was a throaty roar from the body of the court and in the non-white section of the gallery they were dancing and singing. For almost a full minute Judge Villiers watched them, and those members of the court who knew him well were amazed by his forbearance. But the judge’s features were crumpled with an unusual compassion and terrible sadness as he took up his gavel to quieten them.
In the silence he spoke again. ‘I come now to the other charges against the accused. Those of murder and attempted murder. The crown has, with the help of the most eminent and trustworthy witnesses, made out a case which the accused has not attempted to challenge. I accept that the accused placed a large body of explosive in the assembly chamber of the South African parliament with the intention of detonating that charge during a speech by the Prime Minister and thereby inflicting the greatest possible damage and death. I accept also that when his plot was discovered, he slew Colonel Blaine Malcomess and immediately thereafter attempted to murder Minister Courtney.’ The judge paused and turned his head towards Moses Gama, who sat impassively in the dock, still wearing his leopard-skin robes of chieftainship.
‘The accused has offered the defence that he is a soldier in a war of liberation and is therefore not subject to the civil law. While I have already expressed my sympathy for and understanding of the accused’s aspirations and those of the black people whom he claims to represent, I cannot entertain his demand that he be treated as a prisoner of war. He is a private individual who, while fully aware of the consequences of his actions, set out on the dark road of violence, determined to inflict the greatest possible destruction in the most indiscriminate fashion. It is therefore without any hesitation whatsoever that I find the accused guilty of murder and two charges of attempted murder.’
There was no sound in the courtroom as Judge Villiers went on softly, ‘The prisoner will rise for sentence.’
Slowly Moses Gama came to his full height and he regarded Judge Villiers with an imperial stare.
‘Is there anything you wish to say before sentence is passed upon you?’ the judge asked.
‘This is not justice. We both know that – and history will record it so.’
‘Is there anything further you wish to say?’
When Moses shook his head, Judge Villiers intoned, ‘Having found you guilty on the three main charges, I have carefully considered whether any extenuating circumstances exist in your case – and at last having determined that there are none, I have no alternative but to impose upon you the maximum penalty which the law decrees. On all the remaining charges, taken jointly and severally, I sentence you, Moses Gama, to death by hanging.’
The silence persisted for a moment longer and then from the rear of the court a woman’s voice rose in keening ululation, the harrowing wail of African mourning. It was taken up immediately by all the other black women in the courtroom and Judge Villiers made no attempt to silence it.
In the dock Moses Gama raised a clenched fist above his head.
‘Amandla!’ he roared, and his people answered him with a single voice: ‘Ngawethu! Mayibuye! Afrika!’
Manfred De La Rey sat high in the grandstand, in one of the special boxes reserved for the most important spectators. Every single seat in the stand had been sold weeks before and the standing areas around the field were crammed to capacity. This great concourse of humanity had assembled to watch one of the major events of the sporting calendar, the clash between the Western Province and Northern Transvaal rugby football teams. At stake was the Currie Cup, a trophy for which every province of South Africa competed annually in a knock-out tournament. The fanatical partisanship which this contest evoked went far beyond that of mere sporting competition.
Manfred smiled sardonically as he looked around him. The Englishman Macmillan had said that theirs was the first of the African nationalisms. If that was correct, then this was one of their most important tribal rituals, one that united and reaffirmed the Afrikaners as a cohesive entity. No outsider could grasp the significance of the game of rugby football in their culture. True it had been developed at a British public school almost one hundred
and fifty years ago, but then, Manfred thought wryly, it was too good for the rooinekke and it took an Afrikaner to understand the game and play it to its full potential.
Then again to call it a game was the same as calling politics or war a game. It was more, a thousand times more. To sit here amongst his own, to be a part of this immense spirit of Afrikanerdom, gave him the same sort of religious awe that he felt when he stood within the congregation of the Dutch Reformed Church, or when he was part of the throng that gathered before the massive Voortrekker Monument that stood on the hills above the city of Pretoria. On the day of the Covenant with God, his people gathered there each year to celebrate the victory that the Almighty had given them over the Zulu King Dingaan at the battle of Blood River.
As was fitting on such an occasion as this, Manfred wore his green blazer piped in gold with the flying Springbok emblem on the pocket and the legend ‘Boxing 1936’ below it. No matter that the buttons could no longer fasten across his dignified girth, he wore it with pride.
His pride was infinitely magnified when he looked down on the field. The turf was seared by the frosts of early winter but the highveld sunlight gave everything a lucid quality so that Manfred could make out every detail of his son’s beloved features as he stood out near the centre of the field.
Lothar De La Rey’s magnificent torso was not obscured by the blue woollen jersey that he wore, rather it was emphasized by the thin stuff, so that the lean hard muscle in his belly and chest stood proud. His bare legs were sturdy, but at the same time long and shapely, and the cap of close-cropped hair, coppery blond, burned like fire in the bright highveld sunshine.
Slowly Lothar bowed his head, as though to pray, and a hush fell over the packed grandstand. There was no breath of sound from even one of the forty thousand throats, and Lothar’s dark brows clenched in complete concentration.