Table Of Content

3 •G Si I? n B csQ -L? Volume 10 Number 1 1992 Contents Comment.... A.W.Oliphant Blues in Calypso Stories Phedi Tlhobolo EQ| The Three Hundred and EBI Fragments of a Dream Sixty Dollar Tissue Zachariah Rapola •KM The House of Raydon Steven Brimelow EQUI Morning Samba Patrick Sekhula Phedi Tlhobolo EB Independence IW Topic Van Jueluit £ M Macphail WfM Those Who Stayed Monageng Mogapi Farieda Khan EJ Two Poems EB A Brief Visibility Susan Mathieson |m Blessed be the Poor in the Gavin du Plessis New World Order tTSM Diary From a Sanitorium Timothy Homes Fr^<i Khumalo KM In the Body of the Earth •:j» The Forbidden Fruit Lesego Rampolokeng Jerome Morrison EU Over This Long Road Essays Sterling D. Plumpp Sexual Politics and 'Free' Women in im Enjeman A. Dangor's 77z<? Z r<9w?z Trilogy Desiree Lewis Jabulani Mkhize EES Secrecy B9 The Viability of Grassroots Shoba Mthalane Cultural Organisations • 3f Now I Live Junaid Ahmed Makhanda Senzangakhona W\M A Case for Motsisi EM Three Haikus Bruno van Dyk Dennis Brutus Poetry WTM Mkhozi B*B Threnody of the South Easter Wa/£ Oyi-Sipho ka Mtetwa Gavin Kruger d that sound E3 Two Poems 5am Hallat Michael Titlestad JBEKk Two Poems WSM Today. Kismoos Dev Naidoo EH Two Poems KHU Two Poems G. 5. Cummiskey £>£v Naidoo EQH The Last Embrace E£B Ideological War Mashupye Ratale Kgopala /ofl/i Metelerkamp Two Poems Mboneni Wangu Ike Muila STAFFRIDER EDITORIAL COLLECTIVE General Editor: Andries Walter Oliphant ESI Two Poems Judith Sternberg REGIONAL EDITORS AND DISTRIBUTORS EEI ^wo P°ems Transvaal: Lance Nawa, Steve Kromberg, Frank Meintjies Makhanda Senzangakhona Natal: Ari Sitas, Pearl Jean Gorrie, Jabu Mkhize EJ9 Two Poems Western Cape: Hein Willemse, Mario Pissarra, Mary-Rose Hendrikse Donald Parenzee, Anette Horn Free State: Cingani Phaku, Patrick Nyezi, Play Grant Tsimatsima Eastern Cape: Susie Mabie, Michael Barry | Stinking System Gamakhulu Diniso EDITORIAL ADVISORS: Reviews Njabulo Ndebele, Nadine Gordimer, BM Realism and the African Novel Mongane Serote, Kelwyn Sole, Paul Weinberg, Gary Rathbone, Achmat Dangor, Mbulelo Vizikhungo Mzarnane Christopher van Wyk, Gcina Mhlophe, E3I A New Beginning for SA Poetry David Koloane, Nise Malange, Dirk Klopper Luli Callinicos. Photographs Typesetting, Design and Layout: Shereen Usdin Illustrator and Artist: Andrew Lord ( 2 H3 The 'Helen Joseph' Women's Hostel, Marketing and Distribution: Matthew Krouse Alexandra Anna Zieminski Staffrider is published by the Congress of Paintings and Graphics South African Writers, P.O. Box 421007, QH Still Life With Mirrors Fordsburg 2033. Copyright is held by the individual contributors of all material, Carel-Brink Steenkamp including the visual, photographic and graphic Detail of above material published in the magazine. Anyone Promised Land wishing to reproduce material from the magazine should approach the individual Martin Steyn contributors c/o the publishers. Detail of above Contributions and correspondence should Dancer be sent to T.S. Kabiba The Editorial Collective CT By That Time Staffrider P.O. Box 421007 Helen Sibidi Fordsburg EJJI Ivory Towers 2033. Johnathan Comerford All contributions should be accompanied by a KfflHMLTan With Crosses stamped, self-addressed envelope Carel-Brink Steenkamp and a short two-line biography. d Traitors Printed by Creda Press Lauryn Arnott Repro by Industrial Graphics Egg Self Portrait Lucky Madonsela Front Cover Artwork: Two Turkeys by Thamae Setsogo (Woodcut) Courtesy of Newtown Galleries Back Cover Artwork: Pata Pata by Isabel Thompson (Woodcut) Courtesy of Newtown Galleries Comment Innovation and creative renewal are at the heart of with peasants and workers and every other sector of literary and artistic work. In times of rapid social change society interested in freedom. In a post colonial context these aspects acquire an added impetus. Thus, as the the pertinent question to pose, he pointed out, is whether process of social change unfolds in South Africa writers the oppressive conditions which existed before indepen and artists as well as critics are ceaselessly confronted dence have been, or are in the process of being removed. with new challenges. Those who in the past have been in If the answer is negative, then as far as he is concerned, the fore-front of the struggle for cultural change are now his commitment to change cannot be abandoned simply responding with renewed vigour in a context which because one set of rulers has been replaced by another. requires contributions towards reconstructing South This question was raised from another angle in a African society and culture. recent radio interview I conducted with Breyten Breyten- On the other hand, conservative forces, fearful of bach. He touched on the role of writers in a future change, cling to redundant ideas with the tenacity and democratic South Africa. In his typical paradoxical aggression of threatened creatures. While there is little manner, he remarked that 'the power of the writer is to fear and everything to gain in the establishment of non-power'. The implication is that by resisting being equal rights and democracy in South Africa, these reac drawn into the political power associated with the State, tionary forces are fast becoming their own worst ene writers are able to retain the freedom to criticise without mies. Likewise, those who live in the complacency of favour or compromise. self-deluding notions of cultural superiority are soon to Last year also saw the highly successful New Nation awaken to the irrelevance of self-proclaimed cultural Writers' Conference which took place in December at exclusivity. Wits University and a number of other venues all over As the old social structures are discarded, even in the South Africa. It gave an indication of the range of face of fierce minority opposition, the persistence of cultural issues and problems facing a changing South out-moded forms of thinking, increasingly appear farci Africa. While there were visitors from all over the cal. So too does the compulsive reiteration of obsolete world, the contributions by Njabulo Ndebele and Lewis positions and values. Writers who have worked towards Nkosi, among others, emphasised the fact that there establishing a just and free society know that these cannot be meaningful change without justice and the values can never be taken for granted nor can they be complete emancipation of the majority of South Afri proclaimed from ivory towers or in parochial publica cans in all spheres of life. Staffrider, of course, upholds tions intended for cliques lost in mutual admiration. the view that literature and art are human activities Freedom and justice have to be fought for and main realised in a social context. As such the various forms of tained through a vigilance which steadfastly remains art make up the fabric of free interpersonal and aesthetic critical of all abuses of power. exchange in which the society as a whole can partici During his visit to South Africa last year as guest of pate. the Congress of South African Writers, the exiled Ken This edition of Staffrider contains some provocative yan writer, Ngugi Wa Thiong'o offered a number of essays, stories, poetry and artwork. It is an exciting text crucial insights into the problems which have arisen in in which the full ensemble of literature and art is pre post-colonial Africa. When asked how he saw the role of sented. Also announced in this issue are three important the writer after national independence he responded by literary awards for new fiction.^ pointing out that in a situation of oppression and injus tice he saw his role as one of engaging in cultural work Andries Walter Oliphant limn The Nadine Gordimer Short Story Award 1992 The Congress of South African Writers invites entries to the annual Nadine Gordimer Short Story Award. All writers who have not yet had an own collection of stories published are welcome to submit a maximum of two short stories, each not exceeding 5 000 words. Stories can be in any South African Language. A written statement declaring that the stories are the unpublished, original work of the entrant and have not been submitted for this award previously, should accompany all submissions. All stories should be typewritten. Two writers whose stories are assessed as the best by a panel of judges will receive book vouchers to the value of R500 each. The ten best stories will be considered for publication in an anthology by COSAW Publishers. The deadline for submissions is 31 July 1992. Writers will be informed of the decision of the judges by 30 October 1992. The decision of the judges will be final and no correspondence will be entered into. Copies of stories should be mailed to: The Nadine Gordimer Short Story Award 1992 Congress of South African Writers P.O. Box 421007 Fordsburg 2033 Although every care will be taken in the handling of entries the Congress of South African writers accepts no responsibility for lost entries. Entrants who wish to have their stories returned must include a self-addressed envelope. For further information contact A.W. Oliphant at (021) 833 2530 Fragments of a Dream Zachariah Rapola C yprian was a sickly boy. He grew up to become an extremely lone ly young man. Subdued and at times listless. Forever encased in eternal quiet ness like a monk. Underneath that facade there lurked an aura of silent grace found only in statues. When I first met him he was twenty-three. Even then he was still in the habit of wetting his bed. You shouldn't mistake him for an abnormality though. He was sane, strangely sane. He was both sane and insane. At times he even appeared old. Like the old young man of Biafra. There were times when my eyes perceived something like a phosphorescent halo around him. Maybe it was my imagination. Then there were times also when he'd appear embalmed in a haunting paleness during the day... maybe it was my imagination, again. It was a relief though, that I could imagine things, yet never see or hallucinate embarrassingly. It was on that level that I came to know Cyprian closer. Then we came friends. Even our friendship was strange. By then, I myself was twenty. 'You are a funny girl,' my mother used to say. And of course she was right. Then girls were not supposed to be funny. It all started with my being a tomboy. That mood dampened itself when I failed to outgrow it. I was the average insignificant girl. That resulted in gripping urges of my first longings and finally, desperation to find some impressive attachments. And Cyprian was there, always there. Cyprian was sick, but he was signi ficant. So my insignificance found solace under his shadow. Time was later to make the Cyprian role model of my fantasies about men. While to many people his passage on this earth was light, feathery and absolutely insigni ficant, unnotable and shadowy, to me he was the extreme opposite. There were times when in my sleep I could hear tremors of the earth caused by his vibrant footsteps. Yet his malehood couldn't make a tremor. Because Cyprian couldn't kiss. Neither could he make love. 'Do you masturbate then?' I remember asking him one evening, as we stood under a fig tree. 'No I don't...' was his response. I looked deep in his eyes, there was reflected only calm and innocence. 'Do you fuck other men then?' I jabbed again, evenly restraining the urge to slap him to consciousness. To this he again responded that he didn't know how. 'You are certainly sick... you must see some doctor, or psychiatrist,' I I Staff rider Vol. 10 No. 1 1992 Fragments of a Dream i .... - • \ ?-,\<&~". - WA... 1 ' *5 ' '•::: PPl \. life' - - - -, lU* ' -i /»- *1 /!,~5i '^rnKK ^ J¥' v "!S*\ X |3 iJfll sip* r Sfi'.W-••• L//e H>*7/* Mirrors • Carel-Brink Steenkamp • Oil on canvas added. My eyes took a scanning sweep from his legs else could one explain it. For Cyprian was long dead upwards. then, approximately eight years. There and then I knew I was in love. At the same I remember the day he died.... time tingles of a strange shiver crept all over me. He told me that on that particular night he was 'I am in love...in love with a sick man,' the awoken by this strange noise outside his room. He words kept on lurching from deep within my con said he then heard blaring police sirens. He tiptoed sciousness. My attempts to stifle them were futile. to his window to look. He flipped his curtains It was only afterwards and years later that the same slightly, but then a strong storm-like breeze tossed creepy feeling would sweep over me whenever I them wide open, flinging his window open at the thought of him. Then my husband would warn I same time. There was this giant search light trained have been bewitched. There were times when I was on his room. Then he noticed a troop of counter- inclined to believe him. insurgents...all with sniffer dogs and marksmen 'You are sick!' my mother yelled at me once. 'It ready to storm his room. is because of that sick boy of yours,' This was after A blaring loudhailer commanded him and his I'd confided in her strange feelings which were accomplices to come out with their hands raised. becoming familiar in my life.... Weighed by both terror and confusion he wobbled, Every time I had an orgasm, which was rare, dragging himself to the door. when making love to my husband, Cyprian would The scene outside was more dramatic than he appear, would always be there, sometimes he'd just thought. For apart from the troop unit, a squadron watch me accusingly. But then there were times composed of about six SuperCobra attack helicop when he would become violent. He would grab ters was hovering above. Further on surrounding his Dikapeso (that is my husband) and shove him aside. yard was a division of tanks; their hungry turrets He then would mount and take me to some unimag zeroed in on his one roomed-house. inable ecstasy. Maybe my mother was right. How Thereafter, when he landed on the ground, after i Staff rider Vol. 10 No. 1 1992 Zachariah Rapola having laboriously descended the four steps, a pack each other leave the room. Through that misty of sniffer dogs hurled themselves at him. apparition I could well define his tall and bony Not exactly, for that wasn't the day he died, but profile, and the silhouette of some Evita-like wom the exact date he died was six years later. an. My affair with Cyprian was passionate but non- It dawned on me that he had finally died.... erotic. We were lovers before all except ourselves. I jumped from his bedside, uttered some hollow I could not reach him. I could not arouse him — prolonged ugly shriek. Even to date I can't associ because there was this image he adored. It was only ate that hideous scream with my refined self. on his death-bed that he opened his heart's secret to 'She's mad! she's mad.' me. Throughout that ordeal I had to remain with 'Get her, man...get her and strap her on the bed.' him. Oh! my God, Cyprian's death was an ordeal. A stampede of running nurses and orderlies He pleaded and implored me not to leave him. It was came after me. My mother later confirmed I brayed a turn now for my murky shadow to pave way for his like a donkey. She said that the same sort of sound traumatised soul. That was also to be the first and was to repeat itself when I gave birth to my quadru last time he'd kiss me. I well remembered it, be plets. cause that kiss left a halo imprinted on my lips. Not exactly, for that scenario was enacted on the For a full twenty-four hours he told me about exact hour of the day he'd die three years later. their relationship. Through that narration I came One day in the middle of nowhere, though it face to face with my rival. wasn't really. For I was longing and pining for some Throughout his story I kept quiet. There were romantic sweet talk from him, instead he said: times when I thought he'd fall silent from sheer 'From tomorrow I start with my hunger strike.' exhaustion. But he went on and on. She was thirty- 'Why?' I asked. three...she stayed alone...she was still a virgin...they 'I want to know my origins,' he responded. were really in love, and were planning to get mar 'But that's ridiculous — how can a hunger strike ried some day...she stayed at Nineteenth Avenue, or fast, or whatever you call it help you in that...?' near the Jukskei river, like himself...she was the Even before I could finish my sentence or hear perfect, prettiest innocent woman — I gathered his response my mind was already far away. It was from his ramblings. But later on he contradicted trekking through a quagmire of thoughts, sparked himself. He explained his bed wettings and erotic by that philosophical debate I once heard between couplings he indulged in with her. I was all of a a decorated Koevoet veteran and a conscientious sudden jerked to fuller alertness when he told me objector. she was there in the room. He introduced us, even The two were debating the moral supremacy or made some teasing comments about eloping with denigration of deliberate hunger striking for polit me should she yet again request postponement of ical convictions, and free-will fasting for spiritual their wedding. His face glowed, a waxy radiance of redemption. After hours of exhaustive arguing the contentment covered him. His eyes would now and two ended in some tense silence, then chuckled, then fix on me, then stare back at her. I knew then then laughed and finally embraced in fraternal so something was wrong. Either I was dreaming, imag lidarity. Because to them subconscious logic and ining things or plainly mad...or either he was mad, rationality were still supreme. The war veteran was imagining things or dreaming. For there was no still a passionate humanist at heart, while the pac body except the two of us in the room. After his ifist was at heart still a maniac, only temporarily lengthy monologue, a lapse of silence followed. It inhabiting in peace laurels to placate his troubled was only after he had ceased breathing that I saw, conscience after having butchered his fiance during or thought I saw two shadowy figures clinging to one of his previous lives. I Staff rider Vol. 10 No. 1 1992 Fragments of a Dream 'Just wait and see...,' Cyprian's voice kept on In damned silence, I knew the revelation was echoing in my mind. done, and I was confirmed witness. For Cyprian was 'Damn fool!' I sighed silently. And I'd wait and male, and I was female. Two beings who were now see. This boy was certainly sick. Now I believed my bared to our nakedness. We were transformed from mother. Then, as if reading my thoughts he said: natural and social beings to executioners, wild 'I don't have either a father or mother, still I'm heartless beasts marauding and feeding on each no fool. The only source left to reveal that secrecy other. Our passion was the executioner's song, is nature.' perpetual elegies disguised as serenades. At times 'Look Cyprian, I do understand your situation....' our hearts, minds, bodies and souls were lent to 'No...no — you don't,' he interjected. others; at times swapped over and over, inter 'Okay, maybe I don't. I was merely trying to changeably between and among different races, yet understand.' deep down we were all similar. Eternally estranged 'No no! you certainly are not, and never will....' twins. Love songs we all silently hummed and tuned 'But Cyprian! I am your friend-your lover.' while with lustful glee we were busy sharpening 'No-no, you certainly are not. And stop pretend axes to terminate other lives. ing you are.' His responses were now fermenting Nostalgically, I still remember my Cyprian. I into a verbal brawl, which I could not at that agree, I am a happily married woman, with four moment find cause for. children. But what could I tell my boys and girls. I stood there, humiliated, defeated and stunned They are still babies. I wish and would prefer it that by that explicit rejection. Yet there was no malice way. I wish and hope they will grow up to adulthood in his eyes. I struggled to remain calm, but finally and die still being babies at heart. Knowing no gave in. I felt the veins down in my soul bleed, thing. Immune from life's realities. I am also happy finally that fibre of composure burst. It swelled that Cyprian never lived to see them. Even better, itself over until finally it vomited the stream down happier that he isn't their father. my eyes. A violent and hostile welcome of the Cyprian could never have been a father, because outside world turned that fragile inner river into on his death bed I discovered why he couldn't kiss tears; sour, salty and bitter they were. Trickles that or even consumate love. I could see his large won neither my palms nor handkerchief could restrain, dering and depressed eyes, trying and struggling to save maybe his shaky gentle touch or hesitant com understand his life, his existence. But there was no forting whispers. one to give hints or provide him with answers...until, Then I did wait and see. And that which I saw until his haunted soul stumbled upon the truth. And wasn't pleasing. From that time I was to know. I was that made him swallow his heart. For Cyprian was to understand. That no matter what sympathy I conceived after rape on his girl-mother by the offered him, none would be sufficient enough to child-boyfriend's friend. And to erase and escape cushion him against the knowledge of his violent the shame she went for an abortion. All that is still origins. Nor the renewed violence it was to awaken. mirrored in his eyes, the dingy, filthy, smelly and After that I could never ever again face him without inhospitable 'operation theatre'. feeling ashamed. And he could not tell me, yet I Doesn't it make sense now...? When he insisted knew, and out of that, neither could he too face me I could and would never understand him. Of course without shame anymore. At times I even did think I could never have understood that his dreams it was contempt. would forever be blemished with endless harrowing For some prolonged time thereafter we tried to screams and pools of blood. A nightmarish penance down play the shameful disgrace and inhumanity which he miraculously survived, and yet finally we represented to each other. succumbed to its persistent wooing and nagging. i Staff rider Vol. 10 No. 1 1992 Zachariah Rapola Still Life with Mirrors (Detail) • Carel-Brink Steenkamp • Oil on canvas Could he always then, even in me, his beloved, have catastrophe or plaque that is crushed and reduced to been seeing those haunting phantoms: two a mild social irritation or even a tragedy that wob scavenging monster-reptiles masquerading as human bles and merely crumbles before it could haunt or beings. terrorise its defenseless victims. For Cyprian, as I Without him to explain it, I now knew of that know him, or as I would have liked to know him, scenario — when soldiers came for him. It was yet was long dead. He quietly died on that fateful night again another episode of an epic nightmare. Those in a darkened alley when he was conceived. He was were then toys or gnomes, merely manipulated to yet again to die, on that rainy day in a darkened perform another scene in a millionth act set play. mkhukhu when he was hastily ripped from his The play was a self propelling spiral. Starting with mother's womb. Though he survived, the darkness the Chief of counter-insurgency dreaming of a of the alley and the mkhukhu were forever stamped camped band of operatives at 324-19th Avenue. It on his forehead. In the end he fizzled into one in climaxed with the storming of Cyprian's room, and them, a giant sea of darkness that feeds remnants of flop-ended with the apprehension of unharrased frightened life in what is called Alexandra. mice being part tenants in that little cramped room. The parable, in its unravelling became complex. But because its appetite could not be satisfied, it For how was Cyprian to be normal? How was he to choose to start its sojourn with the birth of Cyprian. be normal when all elements that shaped his exist Tingles of veiled relief smothered my brows. ence were abnormal? His veins, his whole being 'Oh! there is some relief,' I sighed in self satis was contaminated with spiteful semen. That two fied comfort. Because it was a self-defeated night foot organ, swelled with greed and rage, and ven mare, a death long dead before its birth. To some geance. With those pictures and thoughts crystalising the apparition has appeared as love, a national themselves I started choking and throwing up.... fej