No Time Like the Present: A Novel (22 page)

Migrants Sought to Stimulate Economy

He had attended—that’s the inadequate word for action of a kind not relevant to his life—their life—a free seminar. Migrants sought to stimulate economy. The flattering inference, for those wanting to leave their country for another, that they would not be immigrants simply received charitably but would indeed be serving the needs of that grateful country. The Australian consultancy was particularly interested in—first of a list of desirables—people with degrees. He had in fact sat through the process as if secretly—clandestine form self-awareness: what are you doing here? There was among the attentive gathering in a conference room of one of the five-star chain hotels a single face recognised while looking to typify the attendants by class, the crude tape-measure, businessmen in suits and ties, others in informal outfits declaring their difference—someone from a faculty of the university. Unknown by name, but seen about, as he himself must have been recognised by the individual. Brothers under the academic gown invisible over their shoulders, no acknowledgement called for. One black man only. Difficult to read in classification because while wearing an elegant dashiki, not the cheap ones for sale in the passage at the Methodist Church, his crossed legs were in pinstripe trousers, his briefcase unscuffed fine leather. Why be so surprised? If there were some millions of black men invading South Africa out of poverty at home, why should there not be a bourgeois black man for his own reasons wanting to emigrate. Over there. Down Under. Some have already gone to the West, doctors opting for higher pay and better working conditions in hospitals.

One of the unimagined circumstances in the clandestine possibilities of what he had not abandoned was that you still had no one to talk to about it; an inhibition. Not even her.

The Australian representatives conducting proceedings were unpompous and friendly in their speech-making, even when warning the proviso ‘conditions apply’, and affable in exchange with those who asked complex questions, from educational policy to health insurance, income tax. Nobody asked about crime; whatever the safety situation might be, must be better than the one prospective emigrants would leave behind. Flee. Wasn’t that a morally acceptable reason, against betrayal of patriotism.

An immigration lawyer, registration number supplied, would be available for any one-on-one consultation. ‘Cost applies.’

Peter and Blessing play a tooted phrase twice in greeting whenever they drop Gary Elias after fetching him with their Njabulo from the chosen school. It was Wednesday, rugby training (that English game) after classes, so late afternoon.

—Comrade Steve home yet?—Peter calling from the car.

She was on the terrace helping Sindiswa with some research for homework—hoping to win the argument that the child should go to the encyclopaedia instead of, as second nature to her, Internet to save the trouble of turning all those pages.

Through the house to show herself at the front door.—He’s not back. But come in.—

—No, won’t disturb you, Jabu.—

—I’m pleased to be let off Sindi’s homework—you’re welcome,
nafika kahle!
—

A slamming of car doors, Njabulo and Gary Elias immediately disappear about their own affairs, the regular thump of the oval ball panting through the house. The three embrace cheek-about-cheek as comrades signal one another. Wave a hand—there’s Sindi at the computer on Internet…Exchange parents’ tussles with their children’s ideas of education, laughing critically; Blessing’s proud and jealous.—They can learn anything, we were stuck in our little books.—

The precious books decoded in detention. Without them how ever would Jabu have become a lawyer. There’s a swerving crunch over gravel in the yard and he’s arrived, Steve. It’s often a reminder—how attractive, to her, he sometimes is, other times you don’t really notice each other; today it’s as if he’s gone away and then come anew, there again, in everyday.

He carries radio batteries she asked him to remember, along with his university stuff, and an early edition of the evening paper under his arm although it’s delivered every evening. It drops on the cane and glass table (survivor of Glengrove Place) beside Peter, as if for him.—News of what the principal’s doing about it?—no need to identify as the head of that other university.

—They’re going to ‘deal’ with it in the university before a disciplinary committee. How does that sound to you.—

—Oh it’s just a student
prank
.—Peter’s lips twist and work. He makes the word a foreign one.

—Oh sure, high spirits, a
jol
that went a bit over the top.—

Across whatever Jabu is beginning to say.—They’re not going to expel them?—Blessing’s high voice cuts in—Not even the guy who—A gesture will do.

Steve reaches for the newspaper. It’s one that just gives the facts.—The disciplinary committee will decide on ‘appropriate action’.—With his files of student work brought home to mark he has another newspaper, less cautious in producing what’s coming before the disciplinary committee, board, whatever. It’s a press that is attacked as a rag by politicians who don’t want to see in print some of the things they’ve said or done. Open it and here’s again the picture taken from the video one of the students kept as a souvenir, trophy?—didn’t have the sense to destroy. Gloating grinning faces applauding the stream of urine going into the
potjiekos
from one whose back’s to camera. Legs sturdily planted apart.

—I don’t want to see.—Blessing’s hand up to her eyes.

Peter with a laugh bursting as a rude noise.—I don’t know why you’re all in such a state—man, isn’t it what you’d expect? Having what’s for them a good time.—But turning seriously on himself—So if the principal expels a couple of them, which ones? And divide the rest up, some of the guys sent to this hostel, some to that? Punish them by having to live with students who see them as rubbish? Must be some in that place who know what that is, even in the Free State
University
. But what’ll they care, the rubbish. They should be kicked out. Not accepted at any university.—

So. Anger. Revulsion to be satisfied by in-house punishment rap-over-the-knuckles of the ‘rubbish’. The law, justice as she learnt early on in an LLB correspondence course, is founded on the principle of perpetrator and victim.—None of us—not the newspapers he’s brought—is talking about the cleaners, the lowest at the bottom of our pile. Who’s thinking about the men and the women invited to the ‘party’? Who’s asking if the university Convocation, their academic justice is
justice
for these people? There’s the law, redress under our Constitution. That’s the only justice.—The comrades (surely he) ought to see that. She’s donned authority like a black gown worn in court.—A university committee, senate, convocation—go as high as you like—they cannot send down a decision in terms of the Declaration of Human Rights. The students must come to account. A criminal indictment against them. Charged. Nothing else. Nothing less.—

The relation, lover and comrade, to each other, is contesting, come alive. He trusts her suddenly come out in this aspect of herself, from her withdrawal that first day. A lawyer is
for
the victims, not one of them, no matter other, personal identification.

—How does anyone go about it?—The others turn to her, on her. It is recognition, something comrades learnt, had to, demand of one another’s qualities, chance of effectiveness, in the Struggle.

The eagerness to see action instead of settling for condemnation by disgust; she sees they have higher expectations of her familiarity with the process of justice than she can offer, straight off. Justice Centre elders will know how, by whom, what criminal charges should, can be made.

Jabu has long overcome what she had to admit, face that time when she went to her father after her day at the Zuma trial and found the poster image celebrating dismissal of the case at her Baba’s place, her home. If you live with someone through successive phases of your life together, you don’t, can’t know how he or she has come to terms with them, the disillusion and the pain, can only sense this has come about. She’s gone back on a visit to the village where the Elder of the Methodist Church, the school headmaster, decrees the way of an extended family’s life, his synthesis of what are known as traditional values and his rightful claim of whatever gained at such a price of centuries’ loss and indignity (you defy tradition and send your female child for education in the coloniser’s culture). He certainly supported Zuma for triumphant election, president of the ANC at Polokwane, as preliminary to becoming president of the country, giving the weight of his voice to electioneering among collaterals and the village. But does not expect, it seems, obedience from her. There was the customary welcome for this daughter and the grandson who successfully belongs both to the colonial-style city school and the country cousins on their soccer field. Offered to teach them to pick up the ball and run with it rugby-style.

So she’s tough, Jabu. Tougher than a Reed. Although together—they’ve grown through bush camps and detention as their initiation. No—not tough, this gentle woman of his, soft flesh on her hips and more on backside now, in confirmation of black women’s femininity. No other ideal adopted; not conditioned like his mother, dieting to stay young beyond successive stages. No, not tough, strong in the way he never could be, of course. A matter of another conditioning, her people, her Baba, all the generations behind them have survived those centuries of everything determined to demean and destroy them. His drop of Jew’s blood? If he’d been the survivor son of German Jews who were shoved into Nazi incinerators; if he were a Palestinian in Gaza, he would be tough in her way, maybe.

Now she has the resources she’s earned, she’s able after that initial retreat into victim as along with the cleaning women, to use all these advantages combined within her.

She keeps the two of them informed on the understanding that it will be a long process, there are many devices of the guilty for delaying the law: the Judicial Commission may have to be involved before there’s public demand for justice to be seen to be done before the Constitutional Court. Maybe he could get going movement at his university beyond its certainty that such horror could never have happened there.

How certain. Change, change, the past had to be overturned but what crawls out of the rubble can surface in some form anywhere, even in institutions undergoing real transformation: there are more black-of-all-shades in the Faculty of Science this year than last. Remind himself; some reassurance against disgust.

There is between them the realisation that he had not discarded, ruled out consideration. Did this mean she is convinced it would not, could not come to pass, but she must grant him the freedom to research what he knows he is putting before her, and what he is putting before their daughter and son. He receives some further information he applied for by email from the immigration department of the government of Australia.

Yes yes conditions apply. A positive response, a sign. He takes it to his lawyer—wife, comrade, for interpretation beyond his: interpretation for them all, Steve, Jabu, Sindiswa, Gary Elias, applying to them all, if it comes to that; comes about.

September, spring, season of burgeoning.

The African National Congress Youth League has a new spokesman, he says of the call to ‘Kill for Zuma’ the League won’t use the word again but ‘will stop at nothing to see Zuma elected as the country’s next president’.

Peter Mkize is promoted general manager of a group of communication enterprises, mobiles, data modems.

Blessing has now her own catering firm in partnership with Gloria Mbanjwa who used to be a waitress at the coffee shop Isa frequents; a BEE opportunity.

Isa has opened a gallery selling indigenous art, with one of the artists himself.

Jake is in insurance, with good prospects, a company where one of the ministers of the present government (may not be around next year after the elections) sits on the board and has investment.

Jabu’s place among comrade ex-combatants, in her career both prestigious, likely to become prosperous, while devoted to justice against the past and for justice in the present, has been the first to see something like the Black Economic Empowerment policy in evidence even if only within the class of the Suburb.

When the Suburb gets together each in this trusted company can unburden frustrations, unforeseen situations, unexpected successes of their piece of the jigsaw, argue where it will fit in to make the map of the new life. Not everyone sees the same cartography, anyway. These are the mountains to sweat your way up—no, these are the cesspits still to be drained of the shit of the past, no, they’re the green fields in the dew.

—What d’you do with leftovers when you make all that fancy food for government people, what happens to it I wonder? Do your helpers eat what they like? Takeaways?—Isa tick-tocking a finger at Blessing.

—It goes to any orphanage or old age home, school—you know, that’s near, we’ve got our fridge van.—

—Caviare for the kids.—Jake makes affectionate fun of Blessing.

Peter joins in.—You’re not jealous she brings things home for me. I’ll call you next time she has a bottle of wine under her apron.—

There’s also development of another nature, would seem entirely personal if it were not that all their situations out of their pasts are personal to the ex-combatants’ comradeship of the Suburb. Marc was now often not among the Dolphins when the Reeds brought their young over for a Sunday swim. He was missing in the lively adult playfulness around the church pool; assumed with his growing success that he was busy staging his new play in some festival, another part of the country. He walked in one night late when Steve and Jabu were about to go to bed and told them he had fallen in love with a woman. He was going to live with her: his first time, ever. He wanted to talk. Never been bisexual. This was a decisive discovery—they would understand. He who’d become their comrade was no longer a Dolphin.

Summer and he’s in court again, Jacob Zuma: the charges of corruption against the President of the African National Congress are withdrawn in a High Court judgment. The statement later that this order was made while it was the judge’s belief that there had existed political interference in the defendant’s case was not the reason why he held that charges against Zuma were unlawful, his belief was merely a response to the State’s desire to have the allegations struck off…it was ‘an adjunct to issues of law’: the national Department of Prosecution had not, he said, given Zuma a chance to make representations before deciding to charge him.

—This did not relate to Zuma’s guilt or innocence in the criminal charges against him—what the hell does that mean?—Now it is Jake who turns up: at the Reed door. She’s home, the lawyer comrade, and it’s to her that a page torn from a newspaper is thrust.

Steve brings beers and a packet of chips to one of the Suburb’s usual sites of discussion, the terrace.

—You’re guilty or you’re not guilty, isn’t that what the court decides! What else does the whole rigmarole, evidence, counter-evidence—

—Oh hold on Bra, you’re not a lawyer, neither am I, but there’s the case of extenuating circumstances, I remember that time when what’s-his-name, Fikile—

—
Extenuating
all right, the charges have been hanging on for a year now, no hearing.—

Under this, she has been rereading to herself the newspaper report she knows from a copy of the judgment at the Justice Centre—there were calls for a commission of inquiry. This means he says he was not in this specific corruption case handing down judgment on the arms deal—Zuma’s involved there, too, through allegations of his money-making tenders conspiracy with Shaik and the French arms company.—Look, Zuma’s had threats of prosecution over his head for years.—

—Commission of Inquiry. Not to worry, delay, delay, and it’ll all j-u-s-t go away.—Jake’s sweep of the arm to a future. It is set before them: this is what the years in prison, exile, deaths in the bush battles were for.

And Zuma himself was ten years on the Island.—

Wethu has seen Marc at the gate and brought him through the garden, the Reed and Anderson, Mkize boys come along from the street with their steeds, a rivalry of ikon-adorned bicycles.

—What’s making your cabal so long-faced, losses on the stock exchange, you should be so lucky, afford the bull and the bear ring, ay? Don’t you listen to the radio, this evening’s Friday programme how to appreciate booze was on whisky, enjoy the single malt from the unpolluted streams of Bonny Scotland, not that beer you’re swallowing brewed with urine from streams around squatter camps.—He’s come to invite them to church, not the church pool but the Anglican one where he is going to be married, and to a party with the Dolphins after.—They’re reconciled to my defection, not only same-sex marriages are respectable, kosher, now.—

The flash of laughter changes the aspect of everyone.

Isa swings round to reach him with a knowing embrace, they’re laughing together as if in some secret shared. Yes, of course, he, the Dolphin was the one who came to take care of her and the children while Jake was in hospital after the hijack attack, when no comrade made her- or himself available. After the celebratory neighbours left with the future bridegroom the mood remained. Jabu who rarely makes any intrusive remarks about the Suburb’s private lives, softly, barely mouthed,—D’you think she…did it that time when they…—He spluttered again into laughter, now at her, his turn an urge to embrace her as if in example.—Are you telling me our Isa initiated him!—

And then recovered, asking himself—why are we heteros so joyful, is he a trophy for us, do we still have a trace, throwback contempt for the third sex, righteous about any conversion to our kind, the only way to live; to be.

A week after Jacob Zuma had again walked free out of court not on a charge of rape but of corruption, the National Executive Council dismissed the President of the country, Thabo Mbeki, from the National Presidency. It’s the landline that’s summoning not the Michael Jackson signal on Sindiswa’s mobile. Jake:—So the vacancy’s there for Zuma!—