The Colour of Gold

by Oliver T Spedding

  "Even if we don't fight them, we are going to be destroyed." Bala said grimly. "They are forcing us to move our business to a place that we cannot afford, a place where we cannot survive. It will take years before people come to shop regularly at the Oriental Plaza and we cannot survive that long. The rental is too high so we will be forced to raise our prices. Most of the people that we rely on for business come from Soweto and they don't want to shop at the Oriental Plaza because they believe that the prices there are too high. But what has become more important to me is that this is happening to us because of the colour of our skin. The government doesn't force white people to move their businesses and their homes. Why not? Are they better than us? Are we inferior? No, my dearest, we have to stand up against them even though I know that we can't and won't win."

  "I'm so frightened." Fatima said.

  "So am I." Bala said.

  ***

  Bala stood in the doorway of his shop and watched the small white government sedan park in an empty parking space nearby. A large white truck, also with government number plates and with a number of black men in orange overalls on the back, stopped directly opposite the little shop. Mister Viljoen, the official from the Department of Community Development, who had visited Bala two weeks ago, climbed out of his car. In his hand he held a brown folder. He walked to the truck and as he spoke to the driver he pointed over his shoulder towards where Bala was standing. The driver climbed out of the cab and motioned to the men in the back of the truck. They climbed down and stood in a small group on the pavement.

  Mister Viljoen walked up to Bala.

  "Good morning, Mister Desai." he said. "As promised two weeks ago, we're here to move your enterprise to the Oriental Plaza. I hope that you're not going to give us any trouble. Here's the official order."

  The government official handed the document to Bala who made no effort to take it. Viljoen released it and it floated down onto the pavement.

  "I'm not going to allow you to ruin me by moving my business to the Oriental Plaza." Bala said, his voice shaking worth both fear and anger. "What you are doing is wrong and unacceptable by any standard of decency."

  The white official sighed and shook his head.

  "Mister Desai." he said. "I'm not going to stand here and argue with you. You're being stupid by preventing me from doing my work. You are obstructing the course of the law which is a criminal offence and if you continue to do so, I will have no option but to call the police and have you arrested. We've had a lot of experience in dealing with people like you. Now stand aside so that my men can enter these premises and do their job of removing the contents."

  "I will not move!" Bala said loudly. "Call the police and have me arrested! I'm not afraid of them! They've beaten me up before! Call them!"

  "Mister Desai." Viljoen said. "You're being foolish! You can't defy the law! Don't make things more difficult for yourself! We're going to move your business regardless of what you do. Now, please move aside."

  "I won't move!" Bala shouted, angry at his helplessness as he stared at the white official and the men waiting behind him. He felt frustrated at his own inability to prevent what was about to happen.

  By now a small group of spectators had gathered on the pavement nearby, most of them Indians. Bala looked at them, seeing the anger in their faces as they witnessed the injustice that he was being subjected to. They began to mutter amongst themselves and then one man shouted at Viljoen.

  "Leave the man alone! He is a South African citizen and has every right to do business here! You can't force him to leave!"

  Several more of the spectators began to shout at the white official. Behind him, the black men waiting to carry out the removal stood quietly trying not to attract the attention of the angry crowd which had by now grown considerably. Viljoen looked at the angry crowd and then glared at Bala.

  "Don't say that I didn't give you a chance to stop trying to prevent me from doing my job." he said angrily as he turned and walked quickly to his car. He reached in through the open front window and pulled out the microphone of a two-way radio. He spoke into it briefly while staring at Bala and then replaced the apparatus. He walked back to where Bala stood in the shop's doorway.

  "I warned you, Mister Desai." he said angrily. "I've summoned the police riot squad. Whatever happens to you next will be your own fault."

  "I don't care!" Bala shouted above the increasing noise from the spectators. "I won't let you ruin my business and my life!"

  Viljoen turned and walked to the waiting removal team. He spoke to them and they listened quietly. Above the noise Bala heard the distant wail of police sirens. He braced himself for the coming onslaught, relieved that he had insisted that Fatima not come with him to the shop that day.

  The sound of the approaching police vehicles grew louder and Bala saw some of the spectators move away quickly. He felt his fear well up in his gut as three yellow police vans, their headlights and the blue lights on top of their cabs flashing came to a halt in the street opposite the shop. Policemen in blue uniforms clambered out, their long black quirts held firmly in their hands. Quickly they surrounded the gathering and stood poised to strike. The crowd shouted and booed them and Bala could see the hatred on their faces. An officer holding a loud speaker walked over the Viljoen. The two men spoke briefly and then walked up to Bala.

  "I'm Major Kruger and you are obstructing the process of law." the police man said to Bala. "If you do not move away and let these men carry out their instructions I will have no option but to arrest you. You have ten second to move away and let the officials continue with their duties."

  "I won't move aside!" Bala shouted. "You can't do this to me! I'm a South African citizen by birth!"

  The policeman shook his head in frustration and turned away. He beckoned to two hefty policemen. They hurried closer.

  "Take this man and lock him up in one of the vans." the officer said. "He's obstructing the course of the law and creating an illegal gathering."

  The two white policemen stepped forward and grabbed Bala by his arms. He tried to resist but they were far too strong for him. They marched him across the pavement and into the street. The crowd shouted and ridiculed the men. One of the policemen opened the van's back door and the two men hurled Bala headfirst into the interior. His shins struck the floor of the truck with a painful thunk. Pain shot up from the injuries as Bala slid across the metal floor. The smell of stale sweat and old vomit rushed into his nostrils. The door of the van slammed closed behind him. He struggled to sit up and as he peered out of the side window of the vehicle he saw someone in the crowd throw a large stone at Viljoen and the police officer. It struck Viljoen on his right cheek, causing a deep gash. The man staggered backwards, blood streaming down his face and dripping off his chin. The police officer turned to his men.

  "Disperse them!" he screamed. "Knock the shit out of them!"

  The police contingent hurled themselves at the angry crowd the "swish-wop" of the whips resounding through the air as the policemen lashed out at the crowd. The defenceless people scattered, knocking two elderly women to the ground. The police turned on the two unfortunate women, lashing them mercilessly. As one woman tried to rise a policeman kicked her viciously on the face knocking her unconscious. Men shouted and women screamed. Gradually the pavement in front of the shop emptied except for the two elderly women, one trying to crawl away and the other lying motionless. Two Indian men rushed forward and picked up the unconscious woman while the police lashed them with their sjamboks.

  "Okay, that's enough!" the police office shouted through his loudspeaker.

  The policemen gathered in small groups, breathing heavily and grinning at each other.

  As Bala watched from inside the police van, Viljoen beckoned to the waiting removal team. The black men entered the shop and a few minutes later began coming out again carrying armloads of fabric and clothes that they threw onto the back of the truck. The men returned to the shop and brought out the small gla
ss counter, the silver cash register, the two sewing machines, the two chairs, the cutting table and the clothing rack. They loaded everything onto the back of the truck and climbed in as well. The white driver got into the cab, started the motor and drove away.

  The police officer and Mister Viljoen walked to the police van where Bala sat imprisoned. A policeman opened the back door and the officer leant in.

  "Come out!" he shouted, his voice filled with hatred.

  Unsteadily Bala clambered out of the vehicle his shins burning painfully from their injuries. Mister Viljoen handed him the keys to the shop.

  "Major Kruger has decided not to take you into custody." he said. "But you have caused us a lot of trouble and it won't be forgotten. I would advise you to change your attitude before it gets you into serious trouble. There are still a few things left in the shop that you'll have to remove yourself. Make sure that they're out of the place before five o'clock this afternoon or they'll be confiscated. Your shop at the Oriental Plaza is number twenty two. See the centre manager, Misses Dadoo, when you get there."

  Mister Viljoen turned and walked away. Major Kruger waved to his men. They climbed into the back of the police vehicles, the engines roared into life and they drove away. Bala walked to the pavement and stood looking at what had been his little shop. The only thing left was the sign above the door. The document that Viljoen had handed him lay on the pavement, brown footprints obscuring the message. Bala picked it up and walked into the little shop. He began collecting the items that had been left by the removal men.

  ***

  Bala put the cardboard box down on the pavement in front of him. His shins still ached from the blow they'd received when he'd been thrown into the back of the police van earlier in the day. He stared at the huge beige brick building across the road. Designed to create an image of India, the name "Oriental Plaza" stood proudly above the main entrance in large cut-out brass letters. Fatima stood beside him clutching his arm for support.

  "Well, my dearest." Bala said. "This is it. This is where we either succeed or fail. The government seems determined to deprive us of our rights. We must not let them succeed."

  "Yes." Fatima said. "But the whole place is deserted! How are we going to survive here?"

  "I don't know." Bala replied. "All I know is that we have to survive somehow. Come on. Let's go inside and find the manager."

  Bala picked up the cardboard box that contained the items that the removal crew had left at the little shop on Fourteenth Street. He smiled weakly at Fatima and stepped into the street. She followed, a worried expression on her usually placid face. The couple walked through the imposing entrance and into the mall, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

  As Bala moved further into the complex he was relieved to see that most of the shops were occupied. What worried him though was the dearth of shoppers. At this time of day he had expected the centre to be crowded.

  "I only hope that the sign we left in the old shop's window is seen by our customers." Bala said. "That's our only hope. We can't expect much business from passing trade here. Hopefully our old customers have been satisfied with our service and will bring their custom here."

  Fatima pointed to a sign nearby.

  "Look. There's a sign pointing towards the manager's office." she said.

  Bala and Fatima set off in the direction that the sign indicated until they found the office occupied by the centre's management. They entered the room and Bala placed the cardboard box on the floor. A middle-aged Indian woman, dressed in a colourful sari stood up from behind a desk at the back of the office and walked closer.

  "May I help you?" she asked.

  "I'm Bala Desai and this is my wife Fatima." Bala said. "Our belongings were moved here earlier today by the authorities. I believe we've been allocated shop twenty two."

  Bala showed the woman the dirty summons that Viljoen had given him.

  "Oh, yes." the woman said. "I'm Misses Dadoo. Welcome to the Oriental Plaza. I'm the manageress. I hope that your stay here will be happy and prosperous. I sympathise with the way that you've been treated by the authorities and I'll do whatever I can to help you establish your business here."

  "Thank you." Bala said struggling to build up any enthusiasm.

  Misses Dadoo picked up a bunch of keys that had been lying on her desk top.

  "Come with me." she said. "I'll show you to your new premises."

  Bala and Fatima followed the manageress along the quiet corridor until they reached shop number twenty two. It was right at the entrance number three. The shop had a large plate glass window on each side of the glass front door and the interior walls had been painted a pale shade of blue. Fluorescent strip lighting attached to the white ceiling lit the room that was about three times the size of the shop that Bala had previously occupied. The clothing, rolls of fabric, sewing machines and other items from the old shop had been put down haphazardly on the floor. Bala was relieved to see that nothing appeared to have been broken or stolen.

  "I'll arrange for two of my staff to come and help you arrange your possessions." Misses Dadoo said. "I'm also able to help arrange finance for your signage on the windows, electricity and water and any other needs that you may have. Unfortunately the biggest problem facing the tenants here is the dearth of shoppers. At the moment only an average of a thousand shoppers visit the Centre every month and this has resulted in almost thirty percent of the traders who moved here going out of business within a year. I trust that you have notified all your customers that you have relocated to the Plaza?'

  "Yes." Bala replied. "I've also left a notice in the window of the old shop."

  "Of all the businesses that have moved here, yours is probably more likely to survive the change. I would guess that you are not particularly reliant on passing trade." Misses Dadoo said. "I presume that most of your customers reside in this area?"

  "Yes. Hopefully they will continue to support us." Bala said.

  "Well, I'll leave you to organize the layout of your shop." Misses Dadoo said as she handed the keys to Bala. "I'll send my staff to help you immediately. If there's anything else that I can do to help you settle in, please come and see me in my office. Despite the difficult situation that we all find ourselves in, I'm determined to make a success of the Oriental Plaza."

  Misses Dadoo walked away. Bala and Fatima gazed around the shop.

  "It's a lot bigger than the old shop." Fatima said. "Perhaps we can stock more readymade clothing."

  "That's a good idea." Bala said. "My biggest worry though, is that there are so few shoppers. I only hope that our old customers continue to support us."

  ***

  "I received a tip-off just after the attack on the Westdene police station that a yellow Mazda 323 was seen in the vicinity a few days before it was attacked as well as on the night of the attack." Captain Tiaan Botha said to Brigadier van Tonder. "My guys have been keeping a sharp lookout for it but it hasn't been seen again. If it was used by the men who attacked the police station then it's quite likely that it's hidden somewhere in Soweto and won't be used again for some time. But, knowing the enemy's shortage of funds, I'm sure that it will be used again in the not too distant future. What I'd like to do, sir, is fly over Soweto in a chopper and see if I can spot it. It's probably parked in a secluded yard behind one of the houses and should be fairly easy to identify from the air."

  "Good idea." the Brigadier said. "Just don't fly over Soweto too many times or you'll send out a message to the enemy that we're looking for something. Also, you'll have to keep our expenses down. Perhaps you should spread the search over several days so that the flights aren't that noticeable."

  "I'll do that, sir." Tiaan said.

  ***

  The helicopter clattered across the sky three thousand feet above Soweto. Both the side doors of the aircraft were open. Tiaan sat strapped into his seat as he scanned the untidy metropolis through his binoculars as it slid swiftly past beneath him while on the other side of the fus
elage another security policeman monitored the other side. Each policeman had a high-resolution camera hanging around his neck, ready to photograph anything suspicious or relating to the vehicle they were seeking.

  It was the third flight in as many days and, although they had seen several vehicles that appeared to be hidden purposefully, none of them was a yellow Mazda 323. The two policemen had photographed these vehicles in any case and also identified their exact locations for investigation at a later stage. Now though, he needed to find the yellow Mazda.

  As the helicopter flew over the suburb of Moletsane on the far western side of Soweto, Tiaan sat up abruptly as a small yellow object drifted into his view. It was definitely a motor car but it was partially obscured by the roof of a small shack. He grabbed his camera and quickly photographed the area. The aircraft flew on and eventually returned to its base. As the rotors of the craft slowed Tiaan jump out and, bending low, hurried to the nearby offices. He dashed up the stairs to the photographic laboratory on the third floor.

  "Have this film developed for me." he told the technician. "I'm especially interested in the last five pics."

  "I'll do that right away, sir." the man said. "You can have then first thing tomorrow morning."

  "Thanks." Tiaan said. "I'll collect them myself."

  ***

  Tiaan and Brigadier van Tonder studied the photographs spread out on the desk top.

  "From above it's very difficult to identify the make of a car unless it's clearly visible." Tiaan Botha said. "This image shows the vehicle the most clearly but it's partly obscured by the roof of the shack. I'm pretty sure though, that it's the vehicle we're looking for. It's the only yellow vehicle that we've seen during the three days that we've been searching."

  "Where is it?" the Brigadier asked.

  "It's in Malia Street in the suburb of Moletsane, sir." Tiaan replied.

  The photograph showed a yellow vehicle parked in a small yard behind a shack made of corrugated iron sheeting. The surrounding shacks were all situated very close to each other and formed an impenetrable barrier that blocked out the view of the yard and its contents on all sides. A narrow dirt lane led from the street to the tiny back yard.