Conversations with Myself (20 page)

My wife passed me a note in which she informed me that the previous night she had dreamt that I had sentenced an innocent man whose only crime was that of messiah to his people. ‘There before you, Pilate, is the man of my dream; let justice be done!’ I knew that what my wife said was quite true, but my duty demanded that I sentence this man irrespective of his innocence. I put the note in my pocket and proceeded with the case. I informed the prisoner what the charge was against him, and asked him to indicate whether or not he was guilty. Several times he completely ignored me and it was clear that he considered the proceedings to be utter fuss, as I had already made up my mind on the question of sentence. I repeated the question and assured him that I had [
sic
] authority to save his life. The prisoner’s gleam dissolved in a smile and for the first time he spoke. He admitted that he was king and with that single simple answer he totally destroyed me. I had expected that he would deny the charge as all prisoners do, and his admission brought things to a head.

You know, dear friend, that when a Roman judge tries a case in Rome, he is guided simply by the charge, the law and the evidence before the court, and his decision will be determined solely by these factors. But here in the provinces, far away from Rome, we are at war. A man who is in the field of battle is interested only in results, in victory and not justice and the judge is himself on trial. So it was, that even though I well knew that this man was innocent, my duty demanded that I give him the death sentence and so I did. The last time I saw him he was struggling towards Calvary amidst jeers, insults and blows, under the crushing weight of the heavy cross on which he was to die. I have decided to write you this personal letter because I believe that this confession to a friend will at least salve my uneasy conscience.

This in brief is the [story] of Jesus and comment is unnecessary; save to say that Langenhoven wrote the story…to arouse the political consciousness of his people in a South Africa where and at a time when, in spite of the formal independence his people enjoyed, the organs of government, including the judiciary, were monopolised by Englishmen. To the Afrikaner, this story may recall unpleasant experiences and open up old wounds, but it belongs to a phase that has passed. To you and I, it raises issues of a contemporary nature. I hope you will find it significant and useful, and trust it will bring you some measure of happiness.

20. FROM A LETTER TO WINNIE MANDELA, DATED 26 OCTOBER 1976, AT THE WOMEN’S JAIL IN JOHANNESBURG, AND TRANSLATED FROM ISIXHOSA INTO ENGLISH BY A PRISON OFFICIAL

I have just read a book by our famous writer about the Karoo and some other areas. It reminded me of the times when I went through those places by air, rail and road. I saw it again on passing through Botswana on my way back from Africa. But of all the deserts I don’t think there is one fearful as the Sahara where there are heaps and heaps of extensive masses of sand visible even when in the air. I never saw a single tree nor a patch of grass.

So dry it was in the desert that there was not a drop to quench my thirst. The letters from you and the family are like dew and summer rains and all the national beauty that refreshes the mind and makes one feel confident. Since you were detained I only received one letter from you dated Aug. 22. Up to now I don’t know anything about the affairs at home, the person in the house, the paying of rent and telephone account, the maintenance of the children and costs or [if] there is hope that you will be reinstated in your work after release. Before I receive your letter explaining these things I will never be settled…As I am writing, the book of that famous author about the desert country is not far from me. The spiritual [drought] has vanished and [been] substituted by the rain that fell as I completed it. Your letter dated 19/9 is just arriving now. As I am speaking, all the springs of life are running. The tributaries are full of clean water, the lakes are full and all the grandeur of nature has returned to normal.

21. FROM A LETTER TO ZINDZI MANDELA, DATED 10 FEBRUARY 1980

The other day I was going through the notes I took from Black As I Am.
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Unfortunately, the actual book is no longer in my possession, and although I can now read the collection a little more carefully, I do not have the advantage of studying each poem with the help of the accompanying photographs. Nevertheless, when I first saw the anthology, I took the necessary precaution that may help me to remember the associated picture whenever I dealt with a particular poem.

Reading ‘a tree was chopped down’ with the picture of the dry tree above it clear in my mind, and with the shanties and mountain range in the background, I was immediately fascinated by the symbolism of contradictions that clearly looms from the lines. It is perhaps this type of contradiction that is inherent in almost every aspect of life. In nature and society these contradictions are in the centre of every phenomenon and can stimulate the urge for serious thinking and real progress.

Without the lines below, the tree would look less than ordinary. Hardly anybody would even notice it. It seems to have been struck by lightning during the stone age and its sap to have been drained by a thousand vampires. If inanimate objects could ever become ghosts, that tree would easily have been one.

Age or disease have destroyed it. It can no longer trap the energy of sunlight nor draw the vital water supplies from the soil below. Its branches and its leaves, its beauty and dignity that once caught the eye of nature lovers and game of all kinds have disappeared. The tree is no more than firewood on roots. It is as barren as an iron-stone and few people will easily believe that at some [time] in the course of its history it could bear fruit.

Yet the metaphor has turned that same dead spectacle into a living object of tremendous meaning, more significant than a young and healthy tree in a fertile and well-watered valley; with a range as wide as that of David’s sling of Biblical fame. There must be few things in nature that are so dead and deadly at one and the same time as that wretched looking tree. But in verse it ceases to be an insignificant object in a local area and becomes a household possession, part of world art that helps to cater for the spiritual needs of readers in many countries. The skilful use of the metaphor makes the tree the centre of a conflict that is as old as society itself; the point where two worlds meet: The one that was and the other that is; the symbol of a dream house raised to the ground, of hopes shattered by the actual reality in which we live out our lives.

Good art is invariably universal and timeless and those who read your anthology may see in those lines their own aspirations and experiences. I wonder what conflicts in Mum’s thoughts and feelings must have been aroused by the anthology. Happiness and pride must have been galore. But there must be moments when your pen scratches the most tender parts of her body, leaving it quivering with sheer pain and anxiety, all of which would turn her bile ever more bitter.

The chopping down of the tree and the scattering of the fruit will remind her of the loving peach tree that stood next to our bedroom window and its harvest of tasty peaches. Her dreams must have been haunted by the picture of a merciless wood-cutter whose trade is to demolish what nature has created and whose heart is never touched by the lament of a falling tree, the breaking of its branches and the scattering of its fruits.

Children on the ground and out of reach! I immediately think of the late Thembi and the baby Makaziwe I [the first] who succeeded him and who has slept at Croesus [cemetery] for the last 3 decades. I think of you all in the wretchedness in which you have grown and in which you now have to live. But I wonder whether Mum has ever told you of your brother who died before he was born. He was as tiny as your fist when I left you. He nearly killed her.

I still remember one Sunday as the sun was setting. I helped Mum out of bed to the toilet. She was barely 25 then and looked loving and tasty in her young and smooth body that was covered by a pink silk gown. But as we returned to the bedroom she suddenly swayed and almost went down. I noticed that she was also sweating heavily and I discovered that she was more ill than she had revealed. I rushed her to the family doctor and he sent her to Coronation Hospital where she remained for several days. It was her first dreadful experience as a wife [and] the result of the acute tension brought on us by the Treason Trial which lasted more than 4 yrs. ‘A tree was chopped down’ reminds me of all these harsh experiences.

But a good pen can also remind us of the happiest moments in our lives, bring noble ideas into our dens, our blood and our souls. It can turn tragedy into hope and victory.

22. FROM A LETTER TO WINNIE MANDELA, DATED 26 APRIL 1981

I continue to dream, some pleasant, others not. On the eve of Good Friday you and I were in a cottage on the top of a hill overlooking a deep valley with a big river coursing the edge of a forest. I saw you walk down the slope of the hill not as erect in your bearing as you usually are and with your footsteps less confident. All the time your head was down apparently searching for something a few paces from your feet. You crossed the river and carried away all my love, leaving me rather empty and uneasy. I watched closely as you wandered aimlessly in that forest, keeping close to the river bank. Immediately above you there was a couple which presented a striking contrast. They were obviously in love and concentrating on themselves. The whole universe seemed to be on that spot.

My concern for your safety and pure longing for you drove me down the hill to welcome you back as you recrossed the river on your way back to the cottage. The prospect of joining you in the open air and in such beautiful surroundings evoked fond memories and I looked forward to holding your hand and to a passionate kiss. To my disappointment I lost you in the ravines that cut deep into the valley and I only met you again when I returned to the cottage. This time the place was full of colleagues who deprived us of the privacy. I so wanted to sort out many things. In the last scene you were stretched out on the floor in a corner, sleeping out depression, boredom and fatigue. I knelt down to cover the exposed parts of your body with a blanket. Whenever I have such dreams I often wake up feeling anxious and much concerned, but I immediately become relieved when I discover that it was all but a dream. However, this time my reaction was a mixed one.

23. FROM A LETTER TO AMINA CACHALIA, DATED 3 MAY 1981

Now and again there have been rumours that my health has broken down and that I am on my last legs. The latest of these rumours must have shaken the family and friends. It is true that a treacherous disease may be eating away at the vital organs of the body without the victim becoming aware of it. But up to now I have felt simply tremendous…

24. FROM A LETTER TO ZINDZI MANDELA, 1 MARCH 1981

Often as I walk up and down the tiny cell, or as I lie on my bed, the mind wanders far and wide, recalling this episode and that mistake. Among these is the thought whether in my best days outside prison I showed sufficient appreciation for the love and kindness of many of those who befriended and even helped me when I was poor and struggling.

25. FROM A LETTER TO THOROBETSANE TSHUKUDU, DATED 1 JANUARY 1977
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Fourteen yrs [years] is a long period in which setbacks and good fortune have gone hand in hand. Beloved ones have aged rapidly as a result of all kinds of physical and spiritual problems too terrible to mention, bonds of affection tend to weaken whilst the idealist recites the maxim: absence makes the heart grow fonder, children grow old and develop outlooks not in line with the wishes of pa and mum. When absent parties eventually return they find [a] strange and unfriendly environment. Dreams and time schedules prove difficult to fulfill and when misfortune strikes fate hardly ever provides golden bridges.

But significant progress is always possible if we ourselves try to plan every detail of our lives and actions and allow the intervention of fate only on our own terms.

26. FROM A LETTER TO WINNIE MANDELA, DATED 9 DECEMBER 1979

Distortions have misled many innocent people because they are weaved around concrete facts and events which those who still have a conscience would never deny. Habits die hard and they leave their unmistakable marks, the invisible scars that are engraved in our bones and that flow in our blood, that do havoc to the principal actors beyond repair, that may confront their descendants wherever they turn, depriving them of the dignity, cleanliness and happiness that should have been theirs. Such scars portray people as they are and bring out into the full glare of public scrutiny the embarrassing contradictions in which individuals live out their lives. Such contradictions are in turn the mirror which gives a faithful representation of those affected and proclaim ‘whatever my ideals in life, this is what I am’.

Our life has its own built-in safeguards and compensations. We are told that a saint is a sinner who keeps on trying to be clean. One may be a villain for ¾ of his life and be canonised because he lived a holy life for the remaining ¼ of that life. In real life we deal, not with gods, but with ordinary humans like ourselves: men and women who are full of contradictions, who are stable and fickle, strong and weak, famous and infamous, people in whose bloodstream the muckworm battles daily with potent pesticides. On which aspect one concentrates in judging others will depend on the character of the particular judge. As we judge others so we are judged by others. The suspicious will always be tormented by suspicion, the credulous will ever be ready to lap up everything from oo-thobela sikutyele,
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while the vindictive will use the sharp axe instead of the soft feather duster. But the realist, however shocked and disappointed by the frailties of those he adores, will look at human behaviour from all sides and objectively and will concentrate on those qualities in a person which are edifying, which lift your spirit [and] kindle one’s enthusiasm to live.