Unlike Gideon, who saw a South Africa where blacks shared power with the other racial groups on the basis of a universal franchise, which meant a black prime minister and a black majority, Tandia believed in the Africa for Africans movement with its uncompromising cry, 'Hurl the white man into the sea!' In fact, she would sometimes make Juicey Fruit Mambo drive her down to the harbour where she would stand on the sea wall built to contain the yacht basin, imagining a continuous line of whites being marched over the edge and into the sea. 'Good riddance bad rubbish!' she would shout into the crashing waves, her fist raised in the ANC salute.
There is a time in most thinking adolescent lives when we are granted the gift of absolute certainty, when all is known to us and a position on everything is willingly taken, with no possibility of compromise. Tandia, no less than Peekay, believed in truth and justice, but the difference between them was that her Africa included no whites and insisted on revenge before the Freedom Charter could become a reality.
When she first talked to Gideon about terrorism he'd been reluctant to discuss the topic. But after his arrest and interrogation by Geldenhuis on the night of the farcical national raid in the name of the Suppression of Communism Act and with the subsequent Treason Trail at present underway, he'd started to think differently. He was one of the leaders of the ANC Youth League who now talked openly about an armed struggle against apartheid. 'We are not ready yet, but its time will come and then we will call it Umkonto we Sizwe, The Spear of the Nation,' he told her. Five years later, when in December 1961 the first acts of sabotage announced the formation of Umkonto we Sizwe, the young black activist lawyer, Tandia Patel, was secretly sworn in as the first female member.
THIRTY-ONE
The lower end of Fox Street, just opposite the Johannesburg Magistrates Courts is a dingy part of town where at sunset the streets go suddenly empty. Newspapers blow across the pavements and the smell of garbage and the rancid fat of cheap cafes pervades the atmosphere. In the vacant blocks sow-thistle grows among the tom-down building debris. But it was handy for Africans coming into court and that's why Peekay chose it for their law chambers.
Hymie would have preferred more fashionable chambers, but Peekay insisted that although whites would come to scungy rooms for good legal advice, blacks would be intimidated by oak panelling, carpets on the floor and rows and rows of leather-bound tomes - all the plush and hush of the legal profession.
Nevertheless Solomon Levy insisted on carpeting the offices, as well as the long corridor leading to them, with his very best red British Axminster. In the end, the black people were intimidated. They would often remove their shoes before walking down the pontifical corridor, or if they wore no shoes, when they saw the brilliant red carpet they paused to wash the soles of their feet at the courtyard tap before entering the building.
The law firm of Levy, Peekay & Partners became known in African as 'inDawo ye cansi elibomvu', the place of the red mat, and after a while it was shorted to 'Red'. By 1958, when Gideon and Tandia both joined the firm, it was not uncommon for an African plaintiff, asked by a magistrate whether he had counsel, to proclaim proudly, 'Yes, baas, I am standing on the red mat!'
An African arrested at a political rally or taken at home during a night raid would jam his feet against the buckboard of the kwela-kwela and resist being thrown into the back of the police van until he was sure someone within earshot had heard him scream, 'ukuBizwa Bomvu! Call Red!'
Peekay's reputation as a defender of the black people had a spectacular beginning in a preliminary hearing before Magistrate Coetzee, the recently appointed chief magistrate of Johannesburg, in which he sought to indict two police officers on a charge of murder. Because of the high profiles of the people involved, it was a hearing which kept the nation hurrying out to the front lawn for the morning newspaper and gave the black people their first tangible evidence that the Onoshobishobi Ingelosi, the Tadpole Angel, was their true defender now that he was grown to adulthood. As the case came to court and continued for nearly three years it established the Red Mat's reputation among the people and also saw Tandia Patel introduced as Peekay's junior counsel. Two days after Peekay was crowned Welterweight Champion of the World he and Hymie were admitted to the South African Bar. The following day he received a call from Madam Flame Flo, whom he'd met briefly at the Levys' party.
'Peekay, I'm sorry to bother you, I suppose you very busy you and all?' she began.
Peekay laughed. 'Madam Flame Flo, I have a desk, a telephone and a law degree. Somehow I know they all go together but I'm not sure how. So far I haven't been given the opportunity to give even free advice. What can I do for you?'
'Well, I dunno, man, first let me tell you the story. Yesterday I got a call from a doctor at Baragwanath Hospital about a young black boxer who has been brought in with a bad ear infection. He was a young boy who used to help around the shebeen in Sophiatown, a tribal kid who became quite a good boxer under the name the Black Tornado. He doesn't have anyone here, you know, his own people, so when they asked for next of kin, he gave my name. Well, the doctor said the ear came from his having been badly beaten. Well, I mean, man, he's a boxer, so I didn't think much about it. The doctor told me the boy said he had some money in the Post Office, but they wanted me to guarantee his hospital fees.' Madam Flame Flo paused. 'Well, I mean, man, you can't just go guaranteeing people all over the place, so I said I'd come out and see him. Well, to cut a long story short, it turns out this boy, whose name is Tom Majombi, was the black sparring partner for Jannie Geldenhuis leading up to the fight with Gideon and the damage they done to his ears, it wasn't just an accident.'
'You mean there was malicious intent?' Peekay asked.
'I dunno what you call it, jong, but I'm telling you something for nothing, it was on purpose!'
Peekay agreed to go out and see Tom Majombi, taking a Nagra tape recorder with him.
Peekay drove over to the huge black hospital in Soweto. It turned out that Tom Majombi appeared to have lost the hearing in his left ear and complained of a ringing sensation in his head, with a great deal of pain. Peekay immediately agreed to pay for the X-rays needed to check whether permanent brain damage had occurred, and for any other medication Majombi might need.
Peekay spoke to the Zulu fighter in his own language. 'The iBhunu punches very hard, I think? With heavy sparring gloves and with your headgear on, he is still able to make your ears bleed?'
Tom Majombi laughed. 'The gloves I wore were heavy, but the ones he wore were for fighting; six-ounce gloves and there was no headgear for me, only for the iBhuni.'
The young black fighter went on to explain that when no outside witnesses were present he was not permitted to wear a headguard. The idea was to closely simulate the effect of a real fight, with the Zulu boxer wearing the heaviest possible sparring gloves, permitted to fight back as hard as he liked.
Majombi boasted quietly about how he had refused to go down, but admitted he was no match for the brilliant Geldenhuis. Day after day, he took a lot of punishment to the head with no protection. He recalled how Colonel Klaasens, Geldenhuis's trainer, called this aggressive sparing 'bloed krag', blood power, and boasted it was designed to feed his fighter's hate for the kaffir boy, Mandoma. Despite his apparent stupidity for not playing possum in the ring when he'd had enough, Tom Majombi proved to be an intelligent young man who would be able to handle himself in the witness box. Peekay felt sure he could bring either a legal indictment against Geldenhuis or at the very least have him and his trainer up before the South African Boxing Board tribunal for diSCiplinary action and compensation to the young black fighter. Before he left Peekay gave instructions that Tom Majombi was to get the best pOSSible treatment available. He signed a commitment to pay and he left.
The following morning Peekay called the hospital to enquire about the results of the X-ray and he was told that the Zulu boxer had been removed to Pretoria Prison Hospital for further obs
ervation. The young intern who'd originally called Madam Flame Flo came to the phone and told Peekay that a kwela-kwela had arrived to remove the young boxer less than two hours after Peekay's visit. He'd been powerless to prevent the removal or even to ask that the Zulu boxer be taken by ambulance, so he'd sent a request to the superintendent of the prison hospital for X-rays to be taken, though he was extremely doubtful that this would be done. Peekay told him to keep the duplicate paperwork of Tom's admission and to hide it.
'Haya, they are not stupid,' the African doctor replied laconically, then added 'these amaBhunu are from the Special Branch. The admission papers and medical notes have been confiscated; no record exists of Tom Majombi's stay at Baragwanath.'
'There must be something. Look for it, we may need it later, doctor.'
After he put the phone down, Peekay turned to Hymie. 'The bastards have got Tom Majombi. He was supposed to have been taken to the Pretoria Prison Hospital but I've checked and they have no admission for anyone of the name. Tom Majombi has been abducted by the police, forcibly taken out of a hospital without being arrested. We've checked all the local police stations. In effect he's been kidnapped.'
'Can the police be charged with kidnapping?' Hymie asked.
'The point is he's disappeared and we know he was taken by the police. But I can't get any leads from that point. It can only be Special Branch and it can only be Klaasens and Geldenhuis.'
'But we have no proof.'
'We have his testimony on tape. That's not a bad start.'
'Look, I'll call Van Breeden. Moving against a policeman of Klaasen's rank could be bloody difficult; he may help, though I don't see why he should.'
'Jesus, Hymie, if it was a white boxer!'
'Okay, okay! I'll call him.'
The police major general listened and promised to call him back. He did so an hour later, suggesting Hymie drop round to de Villiers Square to see him.
Hymie was shown directly in to see Van Breeden and the policeman came straight to the point. 'Listen, Hymie, it's not so easy. I've got Colonel Klaasen's record, he's head of Special Branch in Pretoria, a member of the Broederbond and was Ossewa brandwag. He's also on the executive board of the Police College and his record shows him to be an exemplary officer. I'm telling you now, I'm not prepared to move against him even if the evidence was better than it is. We've checked both Baragwanath and the Prison Hospital in Pretoria; nobody of the name of your Zulu boxer appears to have been admitted. My advice to you is to forget the whole thing; the boy is not charged with anything and will be safe if we just let the whole thing die down. If you stir things up, who knows? People disappear all the time.'
'Sir, Peekay won't buy that answer.'
'With the greatest respect, this incident with the black boxer, if it was reported to a local police station it is doubtful the sergeant would take it seriously enough to make even a phone call. Peekay has to grow up! This is South Africa, the Nationalist government has been in for nine years and looks like being in for ever. Justice for a black man is not the same as for a white. Peekay would do well to understand this.' 'General, I appreciate your time and I hear what you say. I assure you Peekay isn't trying to prove anything or bignote himself, but in matters such as this he thinks with his heart. He'll march on Pretoria Prison personally unless I can give him some sort of assurance that Tom Majombi hasn't been abducted and is getting the best possible attention.'
'You mean he'll bring the matter up with the press, don't you?'
Hymie nodded. Van Breeden sighed. 'Okay, tell him I'll call Colonel Klaasens and drop a hint to him that we know there is a black person, a Zulu boxer by the name of…' Van Breeden looked down at the pad in front of him. 'Majombi, Tom Majombi,' Hymie said.
'Ja, okay, I have it here, Tom Majombi. This should be enough to keep him safe. I can almost personally guarantee it.'
'l am grateful to you, sir.' Hymie was genuinely appreciative of Van Breeden's help. He pushed his chair back ready to rise, conscious that Van Breeden had made time in his day for something so trivial it probably wouldn't normally even appear in the charge book of a district police station, but which nevertheless now involved the tedious business of the police investigating the police. 'Hymie, don't go for a moment.' Hymie sat back in his chair again. 'Yes, sir?'
'I don't scare easily and I don't much like being threatened. In this country there are a million Tom Majombis and, depending on your viewpoint, each has a genuine grievance against the white man, the police, the system and the state. You would be well advised to stop tilting at windmills because, I'm telling you, you won't win!' Van Breeden smiled. 'I have a feeling that the law firm of Levy and Peekay is going to be a very big pain in the arse. Particularly the Peekay part. Will you do me a favour?'
'Well, that depends, sir.'
'Spoken like a true lawyer. But even good lawyers need friends and I'm beginning to feel you're going to need your share of contacts in the right places. Do you understand me, Hymie?'
'Well, it still depends, general.'
'Both you and that difficult little welterweight partner of yours seem destined not to make too many friends among the lower ranks of the police force or magistrates or even the higher echelons of the judiciary.' Bul Van Breeden smiled again. 'The two of you will make a lot of noise and get your names in the paper, but you won't change anything. Let me tell you something for nothing, man! In the end the black people will despise you and the Nationalists will ignore you. And if they can't ignore you they'll find a way to silence or eliminate you.' Van Breeden leaned forward over his desk, serious now. 'There are new laws being drafted right at this moment. One of them allows the government to retain anyone in custody for as long as it likes without trial. Another allows them to place a person under house arrest. He or she is confined to their own home and may not meet with more than three people at a time. It can happen to anyone for any reason at any time.'
'Sir, I'm a Jew. The last time that sort of law existed my people was damn near eliminated.'
'I want you to keep the line open between us, Hymie. I want to be able to pick up the phone and call you and have you do the same for me.' The policeman smiled. 'A special phone. Your office phone and your house phone will be tapped; that I can guarantee, not by my department, but by the Special Branch.'
Three weeks after Peekay first visited Majombi in hospital the Zulu boxer was found dead on the side of a lonely farm road midway between Johannesburg' and Pretoria. The death of the black man had been reported to the Meadowlands police station who had sent out a police truck to pick up the body and remove it to the morgue. Tom Majombi was just another dead kaffir in a day that would usually produce four or five of the same.
A small crowd as usual gathered outside the township mortuary as the two Black Jacks pulled the corpse from the police van. A brown paper bag had been pulled over Tom Majombi's head and tied with a piece of string around his neck, so that faceless, he resembled a limp, dark, dusty scarecrow. A head bag was easier to use and cheaper than a body bag and served the same basic purpose, to avoid identification in the event that the dead man was someone of political importance whom the crowd might recognize.
Johnny Tambourine and Dog Poep Ismali pushed to the front of the crowd gathered around the police van. Their families, along with the rest of the gang, had been forcibly moved from Sophiatown to Meadowlands and Moroka.
Now the two boys stared at the body and Dog Poep Ismali jabbed Johnny Tambourine in the ribs. 'Hey look, it's Tom Majombi,' he announced in a loud whisper.
'How can you tell?' Johnny Tambourine whispered back.
'The tattoo, see the tattoo on his arm!' Etched on the deep brown forearm of the young Zulu fighter in the familiar midnight blue of tattoo ink was the name Black Tornado, Tom Majombi's fighting name.
The news of the boxer's death was soon on the" township streets and, as always, reached Madam Flame Flo by nightfall.
She called Peekay and he went directly to the morgue. It was after five and the white man who was responsible for the morgue, a large Boer named Klopper, at first refused to admit him.
'It's after hours, man, tell him to come back tomorrow,' Klopper had told the black clerk who'd come to tell him a white man was making an enquiry. Occasionally a white would come to the mortuary looking for a black servant whom the family may have been fond of, but Klopper didn't like this. They were kaffir boeties and not to be encouraged. But then he'd glanced down at the card the black man had handed him and had seen Peekay's name. 'Here, man, why didn't you say so, this is the Welterweight Boxing Champion of the whole world!' He hurried out to meet Peekay.
Peekay identified Majombi's body. 'When does the doctor perform the autopsy, Meneer Klopper?' he asked.
'Ag, man, we don't worry too much.' Klopper waved his hands, indicating the fifteen or so bodies lying on the cement floor of the mortuary. 'When you seen one stab wound you seen them all. The doctor comes in for half an hour, maybe sometimes forty minutes, every day and writes out certificates for the coroner.'
'And if there isn't any stab wound?'
'Man, then it's only one of two things, a heart attack or the spoke.'
'Spoke?'
'Ja, man, a bicycle spoke is a major murder weapon. Come I'll show you.' He walked over to the body of a young male and turned him over onto his stomach. The man was naked and there appeared to be no marks on his body. Klopper went down on his haunches and pointed to a tiny red spot between the first and second vertebrae at the base of the neck. 'The victim is pushed forward and a sharpened bicycle spoke is pushed in. His spine is cut. He's dead in ten seconds, maybe less, and there's no mark, no noise. Here in Soweto, Advocate Peekay, the spokesman is the hired killer. A good spokesman is higher up than a gunman. He can kill a kaffir in a crowd and nobody will notice; they just think the man fell down or something.'
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