Mike finished his address and sat down and sat back and looked at the judge. The judge nodded absently, squinted at the clock at the back of the courtroom then he turned and whispered in turn to each assessor. Then he looked back at the bar and Mike and Pete stood up.
‘Well, gentlemen – the Court will deliver judgment in, say, half an hour? We will take some tea and resume in half an hour or as soon thereafter as possible.’
The judge pushed himself to his feet and everybody stood up.
‘Silence in Court!’ the orderly bellowed, and the judge and assessors walked to their private door. Everybody stood still until the judge disappeared and then counsel stood easy and Pete took out his cigarettes and tossed one along the bar to Mike. Mahoney caught Samson’s eye as he was led off to the cells below and they nodded to each other. Mahoney went to the bar and took one of Pete’s cigarettes without asking. Mike shuffled over to him.
‘Well, what d’you think?’ Mahoney asked both of them.
Mike tilted back his wig and shrugged.
‘He’s a goner,’ he said and Pete nodded. Mike shrugged again and lit his cigarette. ‘Sorry, Joe, but what could I do?’
‘Did he give evidence?’
Mike nodded, exhaling smoke.
‘Yes, and he wouldn’t admit a bloody thing. He made an idiot of himself in the box.’
‘He is an idiot.’
He turned and walked to the dock. He opened the little gate of the dock and peered down the stone steps, and then he looked around for a policeman in the Courtroom.
‘Come and open the cells for me,’ he called, ‘I want to see the accused.’
The black policeman preceded Mahoney down the steps to the bottom and juggled the key in the thick wooden door.
It was a long dark cellar with the dark thunder-clouded afternoon shining dully through the iron bars at the far end. There were two cells side by side and a dim electric light burning overhead. An African constable sat on a stool struggling to read a newspaper. He stood up when he saw Mahoney and straightened his khaki tunic.
‘Which cell is the accused Ndhlovu in?’
‘This one, sah.’
‘Open it.’
The constable swung the big iron door open. Samson was sitting on the bench under the small iron grid. He looked up listlessly as Mahoney entered. He shuffled to his feet. The cell was dim and the walls were painted brown with many scratch marks on them, and there was a dented latrine bucket in the corner. The cell smelt of yesterday’s disinfectant overlaid with today’s sweat and latrine bucket.
‘Kunjani?’ Mahoney said.
Samson looked at Mahoney’s nose, not his eyes.
‘Ngiyaphila. Ngingabuza wena?’ he answered quietly.
‘Ngiyaphila. Be seated.’ They both sat down on the wooden bench. Samson rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands between them and leaned forward and looked at the cement floor beneath his feet and waited.
Mahoney leaned back and looked at his profile. The man’s face was wooden, giving nothing away. He was breathing slowly and his eyes were surly and hooded but there was moisture on his forehead and on his lip and a long thick rivulet of sweat ran down the side of his face from his ear and glistened in the dull light from the grid. The light shone on the back of his black woolly head, and between the short tight curls sweat glistened on the chocolate scalp.
Mahoney felt in his suit pocket for his cigarettes and held the box out to Samson.
‘Thank you.’ Samson took one. Mahoney sat back and blew smoke out.
‘Eh – eeh,’ Samson said slowly.
‘Eh – eeeh.’
Samson nodded between his knees and blew smoke onto the floor. ‘So I am going to die, Nkosi?’
Mahoney watched his profile as he pulled on the cigarette.
‘The ma-judgi is still considering the verdict,’ he said emptily.
Samson shook his head shortly and put the cigarette back to his mouth, still looking at the floor between his feet. He took the smoke deep and spoke as he exhaled it.
‘But I am going to die,’ he said, ‘the ma-judgi will find me guilty.’
Mahoney didn’t answer. Samson twisted his head round slowly and looked half-upwards at him, waiting for an answer. The rivulet of sweat shone down his chocolate neck.
Mahoney looked him in the eye. He nodded.
‘Yes, old man.’
Samson turned his head back to look at the floor.
‘What are we waiting for then?’
‘The ma-judgi is thinking out his words.’
Samson nodded slowly to the floor. Mahoney opened his mouth again to speak but Samson took a breath to say something and frowned at the floor like a man about to mention something that has always puzzled him but which he has never got around to asking before.
‘But I will be hanged even though the Nkosi was not in the house? If the Nkosi was not in the house, how could I injure the Nkosi’s body?’
It was his first indirect admission that he had thrown the bomb.
‘Yes,’ Mahoney said.
‘Why?’
‘That is the law, old man. The ma-judgi has no choice in the matter.’
Samson nodded again.
Mahoney pulled on his cigarette.
‘But,’ he said, ‘you still have a right of appeal. And, thereafter, the high ones in the Government reconsider the ma-judgi’s sentence and they can lessen the sentence.’
Samson did not look up. He gave a small shrug.
‘I am without hope of that,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Mahoney did not contradict him. They were silent for a moment, then Samson said tonelessly: ‘The boys in the prison, they say that soon the Government in England will send soldiers here and defeat the white man here. Then they will give the Government to the black men and we will be liberated and we will be made heroes. They say we will be given plenty of money and farms and cattle, and those of us who are already hanged they will make statues of us and put them where the statues of Rhodes stand in Jameson Avenue.’
Samson looked sideways at Mahoney to see his reaction.
Mahoney nodded. ‘That could be,’ he said.
Samson smirked wryly.
‘The wise ones in prison say that then they will hang all the white men who put them in jail. And the African police will have to go back to Europe with the Europeans.’
Mahoney nodded.
‘What else do they say in the prison, old man?’
Samson shrugged.
‘They say Britain will now do all their work for them in getting the country from the white men. They will not have to fight too much now because Britain will send the soldiers. They say it is very good for the black man that the white man has stolen independence because now the white man is finished, like a man who masturbates does not have the strength to take a woman afterwards.’
Mahoney nodded again.
‘What else?’
‘Nothing much. They are youths with big mouths who say the same thing over and over again. They say that when the black man rules the country we will all be very rich, we will all have motorcars and plenty money and white women.’ He shrugged again.
‘And what will they do if Britain does not send soldiers?’
Samson twisted his head to look at Mahoney again.
‘Then it will be the Night of the Long Knives,’ he said slowly. ‘They say that then every black man will kill his master and his master’s wife and the children all in one night. And we will break out from the jail and fight.’
Mahoney pulled on his cigarette.
‘When will this be?’
Samson shrugged.
‘We will be told.’
‘And you, old man? What will you do?’ Samson snorted softly.
‘I will already be dead, Nkosi,’ he said. ‘But if I were alive—’ he sighed and shrugged, ‘I would fight too, so that I can escape the gallows. But,’ a thin wry smile flickered once, ‘I will not kill the Nkosi. The Nkosi is like my el
der brother or my father.’ He shrugged again.
They were silent for a moment.
‘Old man?’
‘Yes?’
‘Listen, old man. You have admitted a short time ago that you had thrown the bomb. Listen’—he held up his hand to silence the black man—’Listen, old man, what I am about to say is very very important. It will save your life. Are you listening?’
Samson was looking at his feet.
‘I am listening, but I did not throw the bomb.’
Mahoney continued: ‘This is important. If the ma-judgi finds you guilty, the law says he must sentence you to death. But before he passes sentence he must also ask you if you have any reason why you should not be sentenced to death. Now this is very important. When he asks you that question, you should tell him three things. First,’ Mahoney looked at Samson steadily and ticked them off on his fingers. ‘First, that you are very very sorry for what you have done.’ He paused. ‘Second, if you were forced into doing this thing, you must tell him you were forced, and you must tell him all the details about how you were forced. Third, if the bomb was a fake you must tell the judge now. It is your last chance.’
Samson shook his head.
‘I have heard. But I did not throw the bomb.’
‘Samson,’ Mahoney said sharply, ‘the time for lies is finished. If you tell the judge the truth, then there is a good chance that the high ones in Government when they consider the question of mercy will decide not to hang you. A very good chance, because we do not like to hang people. Do you understand?’
Samson nodded.
‘I understand, but I did not throw the bomb.’
‘Christ,’ Mahoney said in English. Then in Sindebele: ‘Don’t be a stupid fool. Do not lie to me!’ He raised his voice angrily.
A voice echoed through the cell corridor. It was the European Court orderly.
‘Bring up the accused—’
Mahoney took hold of Samson’s shoulder.
‘The judge is ready now.’ He squeezed the shoulder. ‘Good luck, induna. I will be sitting directly behind you. Here—’ He lit a cigarette hastily and put it in Samson’s mouth. Then he stuffed the rest of the pack and a box of matches into Samson’s jacket pocket. ‘Have a few puffs quickly. Now—’ He shook Samson’s shoulder urgently, ‘hear me! Tell the judge what I told you! Do you hear me?’
Samson nodded quickly.
‘Do not think that because you have denied you must continue to deny. Lawyers are used to people changing their stories. Tell the truth, for if you do not you will die—’
They were standing. The African constable was turning the key in the cell door. Samson puffed hard on the cigarette. His face was masked again but his hands were trembling. The door swung open and the African constable was in the doorway. Mahoney glanced at the constable and then turned to Samson. He punched him lightly on the shoulder and he turned and walked out past the constable and up the dim corridor.
Outside the sky was very black with rain and it was hot.
It was very quiet in the big courtroom, quiet so that the judge’s voice fell heavily loud. It was dark and still and heavy outside and the streetlights were burning, and in the courtroom the overhead lights shone yellow and old on the panelled walls. The gallery was full of black faces. Everything was very still in the courtroom, but for the shorthand writer’s pens and pages. The judge leaned forward and spoke steadily into the middle distance.
He paused at the end of every sentence and the black interpreter translated sentence for sentence into Sindebele. Samson Ndhlovu did not move, he did not look at the interpreter, he stared at the wall behind the judge.
Mahoney sat, legs crossed and chin resting on his hand, listening carefully. It was a good judgment, the old boy overlooked nothing, he chose his words carefully and slowly. It was the only judgment he could deliver. It was a hanging judgment all right.
The judge sat back in his big high red leather chair.
‘Accordingly,’ he said, ‘I find you guilty as charged.’
‘Samson Ndhlovu,’ the young registrar was on his feet speaking now, and Samson Ndhlovu stood up in the dock and the black constable sitting beside him shoved his helmet straight and stood up beside him, ‘—Samson Ndhlovu, you have been duly competed of the crime of contravening section 37, sub-section i, sub-paragraph b, sub-section i of the Law and Order Maintenance Act, Chapter 39, as amended.’ The young registrar spoke tonelessly, a little nervously. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you have anything, or do you’—he glanced at a piece of paper he was holding—’do you have anything, or do you know of anything, why the Sentence of Death should not be passed upon you according to the Law?’
The judge sat back looking at the ceiling. The interpreter translated it to Samson. Counsel sat very still. Mahoney craned forward, looking up at the side of Samson’s neck.
Say it, he willed. Say what I told you, for God’s sake.
Samson looked steadily at the registrar while the interpreter translated.
Say it.
Samson dropped his eyes for a moment and shuffled his feet once and then said to the interpreter: ‘Yebo.’
‘Yes, my Lord, I have something to say, please,’ the interpreter said out loud. Mahoney closed his eyes and breathed out.
‘Yes?’ the judge said. ‘What is it you have to say?’
‘Speak,’ the interpreter said.
Everything, Mahoney willed, tell him everything—
Samson blinked slowly again, and he straightened up and cleared his throat.
Everything—
Samson Ndhlovu spoke to the interpreter and Mahoney sat back with a groan and put his hand to his forehead.
‘I have only this to say,’ the interpreter said in English: ‘I did not throw the bomb.’
The judge nodded.
‘Anything else?’
Samson shook his head.
‘No, my Lord,’ the interpreter said.
The registrar stood up again and twisted his head round and looked at the judge. His Lordship nodded briefly. The registrar looked across the courtroom at the Court orderly and nodded. The orderly was on his feet and he began to chant in a deep Irish accent.
‘Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. All persons are charged to stand and keep strict silence while the Sentence of Death is passed upon the prisoner at the bar.’
The two counsel stood up, and the registrar and the judge and his two assessors.
‘The sentence of the Court,’ the judge said flatly and slowly, ‘is that you be returned to custody, and that the Sentence of Death be executed upon you according to Law.’
Samson Ndhlovu listened passively to the interpreter, and then he blinked once and nodded his head once to the judge.
It was dark, but the stars were hidden behind the thunderclouds. The judge had gone home, the counsel had gone home, the High Court was in darkness but for the electric light burning in the cells and in the police orderly’s office. The police staff were waiting for the truck to come from the prison to fetch Samson Ndhlovu.
Mahoney walked slowly up and down the dark courtyard, smoking and thinking. He was thinking, strangely, of Hong Kong. He was thinking of pulsating life and lights throbbing in crowded streets, of the jangle and jostle and bars and cars, of ships standing in the harbour, of harbour lights twinkling on the water, of the breath-taking fairyland dazzle from the top of Victoria Peak, of the salty wind on his face as he rode on his chopping junk out to the islands, of week-ends in tiny white bays with palms. He was sick sick sick and tired tired tired; he was thinking of that cell below the High Court with that solitary sweating man sitting in it waiting to be taken to Death Row, in the heart of landlocked Africa. He was sick sick sick and tired of the vast landlocked prison of darkest Africa, of the vast sullen mass of ignorance and fear and hatred.
Honk Kong, America – anywhere. How strange life is. If I had not come back, if I had gone back to America I would be rich now and Samson Ndhlovu would not be sitting in that cell. What g
ood has come out of it? I came back to—why did I come back? I came back to, well, take part in—in evolution I guess, in a little piece of history, to be in on something worthwhile. And what have I got to show for it? A bad liver bludgeoned by drink, a couple of hundred quid, maybe, in the bank, a thick tome full of criminals I have sent down, Suzie gone and—and Samson Ndhlovu sitting in the cell. What have I contributed? At least in America I would have made lots of widows rich when their husbands kicked the bucket. There is something to be said for that.
What, indeed, have I contributed?
Hong Kong, America – I am sick of primitive smouldering Africa. A seething swamp that needs to be drained, a swamp as big as Africa. I have contributed nothing, admitted, but what could I contribute? What can a man contribute – it’s like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. If every single white man in Rhodesia did his little bit, it would be no more than trying to drain the ocean with a kiddies’ beach bucket. That man sitting in the cell – it was no good feeling sorry for him. It is like hearing the death screams of an animal in the bush at night as a leopard gets him. It is part of the life in the jungle – animals come and animals go and they are forgotten, for they are incidents in the life of the jungle. Necessary incidents. The antelope serves the purpose of the leopard. Samson Ndhlovu has served his purpose, he is finished, it is his death scream you hear in the night. It is but a small incident in the lifetime of the jungle. It is no good feeling sorry for him or trying to crash in there and pull the leopard off him. The only way to stop those death screams every night is to gather an army and go in there and clean up the jungle of the leopards.
That’s not a bad idea, at that. But it would take one hell of a big army, for the leopard does not hunt alone. He uses the fox and the wildcat and the snake and the scorpion and the wasp and the bloody termite too.
But it’s worth a try.
Mahoney shook his head.
‘Hong Kong,’ he said aloud, ‘or America. You can’t empty the bloody ocean with a teaspoon. Get away from it all—’
The prison truck arrived. The police orderly’s door opened and a long shaft of light fell into the courtyard.
‘Oi-Oi, Mac,’ the prison officer said,’—come to fetch the stretcher case.’
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