Tandia

by Bryce Courtenay

  There is a part of the African mind which never closes down, but lies in a patch of twilight between wakefulness and sleep, like a watchdog filtering the sounds of the environment around it. Even before the loud banging on the door of the shed and the shout, 'Open, Police!' that followed, Gideon was awake and standing upright beside his iron cot, gulping for enough breath to fight the sudden rush of adrenalin through his body. Without being fully conscious of what he was doing, he found himself pulling on an old pair of khaki shorts to cover his nudity.

  'Mina fika, I'm coming,' he shouted, grabbing for the small torch he kept beside his bed.

  'Maak oop, polisie!' the voice demanded again, this time in Afrikaans. With a sudden crash, the door was kicked open, swinging violently inwards on its hinges. Gideon, who'd almost reached the door, was blinded by a bright light shining directly into his eyes. The small flashlight he was holding was knocked from his hands. Clattering, it rolled under the iron cot where it cast a yellow crescent moon on the cement floor.

  'Is jou naam Gideon Mandoma?' the voice demanded. Then almost immediately the question was repeated in English with a thick Afrikaans accent: 'Is your name Gideon Mandoma?'

  'Yes, baas.'

  'Ja, I can see it is you. I seen you on boxing posters.' The white police officer gave a short, high-pitched laugh, which seemed to emphasize the tension in his voice. 'I reckon your boxing days is over, man! You under arrest.'

  'What for you arrest me, baas?' Gideon asked, keeping the respect in his voice, aware that the white man was nervous and that the barrel of the revolver he was pointing at him would be pushed straight into his teeth if it seemed to him the kaffir boy was being cheeky.

  'You a member of the ANC, a Comminist, that's enough. Put out your hands, maak gou, kaffir!'

  Gideon held out his hands for the handcuffs. 'Please baas, I want to put on my shirt.'

  'No, man! Where you going you don't need a shirt!' The policeman still held the torch close to Gideon's face, making it impossible for him to see the white man's features. 'My pass, baas, it is in my coat, behind the door.' The policeman turned to one of several black policeman behind him, momentarily diverting the torchlight from Gideon's face. Gideon caught the flash of the triple 'SB' bar on his shoulder. His heart sank. He was being arrested by the Special Branch; he was in serious trouble.

  'Hey, you, Matuli, get his coat behind the door,' the white officer instructed. The black constable edged past him to get behind the door, where he removed a jacket neatly placed on a hanger, and a pair of grey flannel trousers folded over its crossbar. The black policeman removed the sports coat from the hanger and handed it to Mandoma.

  'Fok!' Gideon felt a sudden stab of pain as the barrel of the policeman's revolver smashed down hard, then raked across the back of his hand and fingers. The jacket fell to the floor as Gideon clutched at his hand in pain and alarm. 'You stupid black bastard!' the white policeman screamed. 'The foking kaffir could have a foking knife or a gun in his coat! I said, get his pass book! Take it man, take it out yourself!'

  The black policeman went down on his haunches and searched for Gideon's pass book. Finding it in the inside pocket of the sports coat he proffered it up to the white man.

  Gideon held the damaged hand tightly, trying to squeeze the pain from it. He hadn't uttered a sound but the tears ran down his cheeks from the effort it took to contain his anguish.

  The policeman handed his gun to another of the black policemen who pointed it at Gideon, holding the butt in both hands. The officer opened the pass book and examined it briefly by torchlight. The torchlight kicking back from the pages of the pass book lit the white man's face. Gideon noted that he didn't seem more than twenty years old; standing side on to him he could see that the back and sides of the white man's head were closely shaved, a barber's clipper starting at the base of his neck and cutting tight against the skin right up to where his head disappeared into the rim of his cap. His short thick neck sat on broad shoulders and his face was wide and flat, with a wide nose and thick lips. Despite his fair skin and light eyes he had a distinctly African appearance. This one was a throwback for sure, a coloured who'd scraped in as white. One of his forebears, perhaps three or four generations ago, had hidden his sausage in the dark forbidden valley and the stubborn black gene was still throwing. Gideon knew they were the worst kind, constantly having to justify their whiteness, conscious that their skin and their eyes granted them immunity but that the moulding and the bone structure they'd inherited left other white men looking at them quizzically, turning away with a small smile when you caught them looking. 'Ja, orright, put the cuffs on him, we got the right kaffir!' He kicked the jacket which lay at his feet and it slid along the cement floor, disappearing into a dark corner beyond the arch of torchlight.

  Three hours later Gideon found himself alone in a police cell. He'd been bundled into the back of a police wagon, unable to see out. They'd travelled for a while across the bumpy unmade roads of Meadowlands until he'd suddenly felt the smooth tarred surface of the main road to Johannesburg. Meadowlands is about fourteen miles from the central police cells in Marshall Square where, as a 'political', he would expect to be taken. But there was no change of light coming through the narrow air slats in the police van to indicate street lights. Then it occurred to him they might be taking him somewhere to beat him up and afterwards to leave him unconscious on the side of the road. It happened often enough as the first warning to politically minded black people not to progress any further with their affiliations.

  It must have been nearly four in the morning when they drew up outside a small suburban police station on the outskirts of Pretoria. The small cell into which he'd been thrown smelled of a mixture of sweat, urine and Jeyes Fluid.

  Otherwise, for a 'kaffir' cell, it was remarkably clean. The toilet bucket. hadn't been used, which suggested the station was quiet and probably in a good white area where blacks are required to be off the streets by nine o'clock curfew.

  His right hand where the police officer had hit him with the barrel of his gun throbbed painfully and was badly swollen and Gideon had trouble moving his thumb and index finger. He guessed the fingers were broken and hoped like hell the same wasn't true of his hand.

  He tried to think why he'd been arrested. After the Congress of the People the ANC had been relatively quiet. In his own case, apart from addressing his chapter in the new native township of Meadowlands at several low-key meetings, his own activities had been modest and entirely above board, most of them involving the hopeless last ditch protests at the destruction of Sophiatown. It was not as though he was one of the leaders of the movement in the new township. He was still working his way up in the ANC Youth League where, despite the promise he showed as an orator, he wasn't among the very top of the young street-smart radicals who'd grown up in the city slums. Nor was he included with the 'educated' leaders, those few young Africans who had managed a university degree at Fort Hare or, even more impressively, at Witwatersrand University. His value lay more in his role as a boxer and therefore an example of significant black achievement.

  He'd attended the Congress of the People in June and his name had been taken at the raid when police had arrived during the reading of the Freedom Charter. But even this wasn't of great concern; they'd taken the names of all three thousand delegates. Besides, that was nearly eighteen months ago. Surely they wouldn't attempt to arrest all three thousand? And for what? Attending a public meeting which had been well publicized and for which a permit had been issued by the supreme court? Even for the Special Branch it seemed improbable.

  And again, why a suburban police station in Pretoria? Perhaps they had arrested everyone - all three thousand delegates, a great many of whom came from the Rand - and the Johannesburg Fort and Pretoria Central Prison were full, so the small fry like himself got the suburban cop stations? He didn't have long to wait. Dawn on the high veld comes early and light was just beginn
ing to soften the square of black window set high up into the wall of the cell when two black policemen opened the door and pushed in a small table and chair. Both pieces of furniture looked as though they belonged to the station kitchen amenity; the table was covered with yellow aeroplane cloth which had been neatly tucked under at the edges and held secure with large, flat-headed brass drawing pins, while the chair was painted a bright apple green. They now took up almost half the available space and looked incongruously cheerful as they faced the bench on which Gideon sat with his back against the wall.

  Twenty minutes passed and the square of light was tinged with the blue of another flawless highveld summer's day, when there was a rattle of keys at the door. A white police officer entered and closed the door behind him. Gideon had noted his lieutenant's rank and the SB insignia on the epaulettes of his uniform before he realized he was facing Geldenhuis. He'd not seen the white boxer in uniform before and the peak of Geldenhuis's cap, at first, made it difficult to see his face.

  But when Geldenhuis glanced briefly over at him it was the police officer's unmistakable blue eyes which he immediately recognized. He'd often wondered about these eyes. Peekay, a white man he loved, had eyes of the same colour as Geldenhuis, yet the two sets of eyes were worlds apart. Gideon rose from the bench and stood to attention in the customary manner, except that his head was not bowed in the obsequious way demanded by a white police officer confronting a black man.

  Geldenhuis, apart from the brief glance, ignored Gideon's presence. He carried several sheets of paper which he now placed carefully on the table, squaring the sides of the paper until they made a single block positioned precisely in front of the chair. Then he pulled back the chair and sat down, removing his cap. He sighed and looked up at Gideon, nodding his head slightly. 'So Mandoma? We meet again. This time in my ring.'

  Gideon wasn't sure how to reply. As a black man it would have been smart to call Geldenhuis 'baas' but as a boxer of equal merit this was difficult for him to do; however, simply to reply without acknowledging the policeman's superior status was asking for trouble. 'Yes, sir,' he murmured.

  The beginning of a smile appeared on the police officer's face. 'Ag, man, you don't have to call me "sir" just "officer," that's okay by me. We boxers, hey.' Geldenhuis popped the bright brass button through the flap of the top pocket of his tunic and withdrew from it a gold Parker fountain pen. The gesture was meant to seem casual but was rather too studied and Gideon realized that the young police lieutenant was also nervous. They'd met as equals in the ring but hadn't ever met outside of it. Neither of them was sure which rules applied.

  'Yes, sir,' Gideon said.

  'Officer!' Geldenhuis looked up sharply.

  'Yes, officer!' Gideon shot back quickly.

  'See, even for a boxer, you learn quick if you try.' It was meant to be a joke and Geldenhuis smiled, but Gideon noted his eyes; those curious white man's blue eyes remained cold. Gideon smiled back at him, and to Mandoma's annoyance he felt the slightest tremble, no more than a tic at one corner of his mouth. He hoped the light was too poor for Geldenhuis to have noted it. He admonished himself silently: 'I am the loin-child of three kings; Shaka, Dingane and Cetewayo, I must show courage.' His hand throbbed painfully and he placed it behind his back so Geldenhuis wouldn't notice the swelling.

  'Do you know why you here, man?' Geldenhuis suddenly asked. He hadn't raised his voice and the question seemed mildly put.

  'No, sir…officer.'

  'Well, I'm telling you it's serious, very serious, the most serious crime there is.'

  Mandoma looked puzzled, 'I am not for making crime, sir?' He was having trouble remembering to say officer when he addressed Geldenhuis.

  The police lieutenant let it pass. He had a dreamy, unfocused look in his eyes and his voice was soft. 'You black people, you funny you know? You do things, bad things and then you look all innocent, like you are at a Sunday school picnic or something and all of a sudden got arrested by the police.' His eyes focussed suddenly. 'You ANC, Mandoma. I know that's not a crime, but you also a Communist, isn't that enough, man?'

  'I am ANC, this is true, sir. But I am not Communist, sir!' Geldenhuis threw back his head. 'Ha! Jus' because Communism is banned in this country of course you are not a Communist, but a member of the ANC is the same thing, you all Communists, everyone of you, you hear?'

  'No, sir. It is not same thing.'

  Geldenhuis seemed to lose interest and resumed his former unblinking look which seemed to be concentrated on a point somewhere on the wall about Gideon's head. Finally he spoke, his eyes still focussed on the same spot. You know something, Mandoma? You the luckiest kaffir in the world!' The policeman leaned forward. Resting his elbow on the table and cupping his chin in his left hand, he looked directly at him. 'Tonight we arrested one hundred and fifty-seven terrorists. All the big names; also amongst them twenty-three of the white kaffir boeties. The white rats from the COD who run with the blacks. Also some coloureds and Indians, the leaders from the SACPO and SAle. You all finished, you hear? The ANC is finish, finish and klaar, we got you all on a charge of high treason!'

  Gideon was deeply shocked. If what Geldenhuis said was true, it was totally unexpected. There had been some police harassment following the Congress of the People, but it had been no more than was expected, a few token arrests and a fair amount of government posturing in the press.

  'I am not important, sir. I think to arrest me you have missed many, many others. The ANC can live, I think.'

  'Ja, perhaps! Maybe you think you not important, but we not fools, man. If we arrest only the big- names then "their places will quickly be filled with you people from the Youth League.' Geldenhuis stabbed the table top with his finger. 'So we also arrested the radicals in the Youth League. We weren't born yesterday, jong!'

  Gideon was one of the few people in the ANC Youth League who constantly warned that the police were to be taken seriously. A misplaced convention existed in the ANC and in particular in the more militant Congress Youth League that the Afrikaner was basically a fool, a knotheaded farmer, and that his native stupidity was best exampled by the average white Afrikaner policeman. Its members were mostly in their twenties, the product of secondary schools and the University College of Fort Hare, the black university. They were, for the most part, teachers, trade union officials, journalists and clerks, the black educated elite. Almost as a matter of necessity, these young men fed their egos by minimizing their opposition. The Afrikaner government and the police became the constant butt of their jokes. Tragically they were naive enough to believe this invention of the dull-witted Afrikaner. They didn't seem to be able to grasp that, while bigotry and racism may well be stupid, it is not an automatic sign of ineptitude or incompetence. For an organization with its back constantly to the wall the ANC's planning was haphazard and open and the police had little trouble infiltrating its ranks with informers and bringing its schemes undone. Anyone examining both sides for culpable stupidity would have been forced to conclude that the balance weighed heavily in favour of the ANC.

  It was Gideon's lack of education and his cautionary attitude that kept the young radicals from allowing him a more assertive role in the Congress Youth League. They thought of him as a village African, a natural Jonah and an arch conservative. Because he had started his life as a rural African, to many of them he was a herd boy, a bush African who'd already been cowed by the white farmer's sjambok. They believed themselves street-smart urban Africans with more intelligence and sagacity than their white Afrikaner opposition. Now it was too late. The raid which had just taken place would bring the organization to its knees. It could effectively destroy it for years to come. In the name of Communism, the Nationalist government had found a way effectively to eliminate all its enemies. 'I do not think I am lucky, sir.'

  Geldenhuis grinned. 'Ja, man, the luckiest kaffir alive! You want to know why?' He smiled at Gideon, suddenly in excell
ent spirits. 'Simple! When they allocated the raid details I got Meadowlands and Alexandra and what's left of Sophiatown. There were twenty-three names on my list, names for my squad to apprehend and remove to the Fort.' He paused. 'Yours was there also!'

  Geldenhuis seemed to expect some sort of reaction. For want of anything more appropriate to say, Gideon replied, 'Thank you, sir.'

  'Ja, I think you should say that!' The young police lieutenant inhaled, throwing out his chest. 'Dankie, Jannie Geldenhuis…Lieutenant Geldenhuis! I think you will owe me that forever!' He seemed impressed with his own magnanimity. 'You see, I have taken your name off the arrest list!'

  Gideon Mandoma, shaking his head in disbelief, looked up at the police lieutenant. 'Haya, haya, haya! Why you are doing this for me, sir?'

  'Ag, man, it's nothing. A small favour, among friends, just one good turn deserving another!'

  Gideon didn't recognize the English expression but he guessed what it meant. He kept his face blank, playing dumb. 'We are not friends, you are not my brother, sir?'

  Geldenhuis was somewhat taken aback by this denial that any friendship existed between them. While he knew this to be true, the white man, who takes the sycophancy of the black man for granted, doesn't expect this kind of courageous honesty. 'Boxing! We are friends in boxing. We help each other. You know? You scratch my back and I scratch yours!'