The Power of One (69 page)

“You had ten thousand Africans singing “SikeleP i Afrika” to experience. Do you think Gideon can convince him on his own? He's the only tone-deaf Zulu ever born.” It was true; Gideon had a singing voice like a rusty rasp on hardwood.

“No, of course not. But by the time we're finished with that cheeky black bastard he's going to sound like Othello.”

Morrie and I composed a speech for Gideon Mandoma which, I must say, was pretty terrific, The idea was that Gideon would learn it in Zulu and I'd translate it into English as though hearing it for the first time. Singe ‘n' Burn would be so knocked out by the language, the poetry, and the brilliance that he would realize the black man was not just a hewer of wood and a drawer of water nor even a noble savage, but someone who had all the brilliant potential to become a Renaissance man.

We trained Gideon in the speech and, dressed in a white shirt and neatly patched pair of pants from an old suit and with his old black shoes shining, we presented ourselves at Singe ‘n' Burn's study. I must say, he was very gracious, and we all sat in his big old leather armchairs and Miss Perkins, his secretary, brought us tea and Marie biscuits. We'd anticipated the offer of tea and had practiced Gideon in the balancing of a cup on his knee so he looked pretty suave and at home. But I knew on the inside he'd be packing it.

I explained to Singe ‘n' Burn that Gideon's English wasn't sufficiently fluent for him to conduct a conversation and that I would act as interpreter. I think the fact that one of Sinjun's People could conduct the interview in Zulu impressed the old boy no end.

Gideon, as we had rehearsed it, began in English. His beautiful white teeth flashed in one of his best smiles. “Excuse for my English, sir, she is not so good for tell this thing in my heart.”

The head nodded sympathetically. I could see the plan beginning to work already. Gideon cleared his throat and then began in Zulu. After each carefully rehearsed sentence I translated in my best voice, keeping it low and dramatic.

“I do not come from a nation of slaves, but I have been made a slave. I come from a people who are brave men, but I am made to weep. I, who am to become a chief, have become what no man ought to be, a man without rights and without a future.” I paused dramatically before continuing, “I am seventeen summers. I have killed a lion and sat on the mat of the high chief, but I have been given my place. That place is not a seat at the white man's table, and that place is not a voice in the white man's
indaba.
” I could see Singe ‘n' Burn was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He wouldn't know what had hit him by the time we were through. Talk about guilt, old Singe hadn't seen anything yet.

To my surprise Gideon suddenly stopped following the script. “My bondage is not of the white man's making. My bondage is not forced upon me by the white man's
sjambok.
My bondage

is in my own brain. Here in my head I carry the Zulu pride of my ancestors, but I also carry no learning. My stupidity is my bondage, it is the instrument of the black man's misery and despair. If the white man would give me his rights and the same voice, I would not be able to use them, I would still be in bondage. I would still be a servant, a black kaffir, an inferior human, because I would not know how to use these rights, how to make my voice felt among the people. Please, sir, my mind cries for knowledge. I wish to cup knowledge in my hand and drink it as one drinks water by the side of a stream. I am naked without knowledge. I am nothing without learning. Please, sir, give me this knowledge, give me this learning, so that I too can be a man.”

Gideon's words had been so easily put that I had no trouble making an almost perfect translation and his flow was hardly interrupted. The tears rolled down his cheeks, and he made no effort to wipe them away. I realized suddenly that for a Zulu to cry is a great shame, but he couldn't wipe away his tears with the cup and saucer balanced on his knee. I leaned forward and removed the cup and looked over at Morrie, not daring to look at Singe ‘n' Burn. I could see Morrie was annoyed that I'd removed Gideon's cup; the tears were the best part, the clincher. Othello had nothing on Morrie's cheeky black bastard.

“The tears are not for myself, they are for the people,
inkosi,”
Gideon said softly, wiping them away with the back of his hand. I sneaked a look at Singe ‘n' Burn and saw that his eyes had grown misty and he too was struggling with his emotions.

“Remarkable, quite remarkable.” Then, turning to Morrie and me, he said, “This young man shall have his school, and I charge you both to give of your best.”

We'd won! Singe ‘n' Burn, the senior housemaster from Winchester School and trustee of the great private school tradition to the colonies, Renaissance man and liberal thinker, had been made to touch the heart and feel the soul of black Africa.

Morrie was the first to react. “Can the school supply exercise books and stationery, sir?”

Singe ‘n' Burn nodded. “See Miss Perkins for a stationery authority, Levy. Your students must be properly equipped.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said and turned to Gideon to tell him the news. Gideon broke into a giant smile.

“Many boy, same like me, we thank you,
inkosi.
” Singe ‘n'

Burn acknowledged Gideon with a nod of his head. It was plain he was enchanted with the young Zulu chief.

The school began with the black boxers from Solly's gym its only pupils. Within a month, local chauffeurs, cooks, and houseboys had swelled the ranks and Pissy Johnson, Cunning-Spider, and Atherton, as well as two guys from school house who could speak Sotho, were roped in to teach on Saturday nights.

Even before the head's agreement we had dispatched a long letter to Miss Bornstein asking her how we should best go about teaching language and numbers to adult Africans. She had responded with a superb set of teaching notes and several textbooks that enabled Morrie and me to prepare a complete curriculum, which I was able to translate into Sotho, Zulu, and Shangaan, as well as Fanagalo.

With Singe ‘n' Burn's approval, we also set about teaching the curriculum to the newly elected Sinjun's People so that the night school could be carried on after Morrie and I matriculated at the end of the year.

After only a few weeks, the results were astonishing. Students loaded down with homework after Saturday night's four-hour teaching session would return with everything done, anxious for more. Word of the school spread among the Prince of Wales School boys, and soon collections of nursery rhymes, primers, and all sorts of textbooks were brought in and we had more volunteers than we could cope with. Then Morrie, loath to waste any free resource, hit on a one-to-one teaching method where every black student had a personal white tutor. All our black students would be taught collectively in the school hall for the first hour, after which they would break away into a corner of a classroom with their personal tutors. Every tutor worked to a set of notes supplied by us and was required to stick to Miss Bornstein's outlines.

Progress was much faster than it would have been for white students in a conventional classroom situation. Morrie, not content with our first curriculum, worked and worked on the notes, ironing out the errors and getting them perfect.

Some four months later, we were visited by a reporter and photographer from
The Rand Daily Mail
and in the following Wednesday morning edition we had a full-page write-up, which also contained a picture of Morrie, Gideon, and me.

The article, very exaggerated, told a cocked-up version of the fight I had had with Gideon and how Morrie and I had opened a school for boxers which continued to grow, giving the impression we had become a major black educational resource. It was full of inaccuracies, but nevertheless it caused some real excitement in the school. Singe ‘n' Burn called Morrie and me into his study and admonished us for not checking with him before speaking to a reporter. He suggested it was altogether a rather silly thing to have done in the light of the political situation, where black schools were forbidden in white urban areas.

Coming out of the head's office, Morrie shrugged his shoulders. “Any publicity is good publicity, I guess.”

“I hope you're right. I reckon we goofed.”

“Yeah, so do I,” he said softly.

The following Saturday night the police raided us. The doors of the hall were suddenly blocked by khaki-uniformed police, both white and African. A police lieutenant wearing a Sam Browne belt and a holstered revolver jumped up onto the stage and blew his whistle loudly.

“This is a police raid. Everybody remain seated and nobody will get hurt, you hear!” He stood on the stage, his legs apart, with his hand on his revolver holster as though daring one of us to make a move. “Who is in charge here?”

“Ons is,
” I said in Afrikaans, indicating Morrie and myself.

The police officer continued in English. “Why is there no adult in charge?”

“The class is run by the boys,” I said.

“You mean white kids teach these blery kaffirs?”

“That's right.” I was beginning to gain courage after my initial surprise.

“Ag, sis,
man, are you telling me you teaching blery stinking kaffirs their ABCs? Don't you have anything better to do with your time on a Saturday night?”

“Have you got a search warrant?” Morrie asked.

“Who're you, man?” the policeman asked.

“You answer my question first,” Morrie said in an even voice.

“Hey, you being cheeky?”

“He merely asked if you have a search warrant, officer,” I said. The policeman suddenly realized that we were not intimidated. In fact, he was wrong. We were both scared to death.

“And what if I heven't?” he challenged.

“Then you're trespassing and I must ask you to leave at once,” I said.

“You're only a blery kid, who you think you talking to, hey?”

“If you haven't got a warrant to enter this school then piss off!” Morrie hissed at the officer.

To my surprise the police officer suddenly grinned. Then, stroking his nose with his forefinger and thumb, he said, “You're the Jewboy, hey?” He turned toward me. “And you the boxer who fights kaffirs.” He pointed at the Africans seated silently in front of us. “Let me see the kaffir you fought, man.”

Without being asked to do so, Gideon rose from his chair. “Come here, Joe Louis, come and stand next to the Jewboy and the kaffir
boetie.”

The officer called a black policeman over from the doorway, and as he waited for him to come onto the stage, he undid the shiny brass button on the pocket of his khaki tunic and withdrew a piece of paper, which he extended in our direction. “Here, Jewboy, read it for yourself.” Morrie moved over and accepted the paper, which was obviously a warrant to enter and search the premises. The lieutenant turned to the black policeman at his side. “Tell the black bastards that they must all show their passbooks and a pass from their employer to stay out after nine o'clock curfew.”

I turned to the white policeman. “It isn't nine o'clock yet, Lieutenant. No one's broken curfew.”

He grinned, “
Ja
, I know, man, but it will be when I'm finished here, and any black bastard without a pass is arrested.”

“This warrant is for St. John's College,” Morrie said suddenly. “Look, see, it says St. John's College, Houghton. That's the school about a mile down the road!”

“Don't play silly buggers with me, you hear? Or you three will spend the night in a cell down at central.”

Morrie walked over to the white police officer. “Read it for yourself. It says St. John's College, Houghton. That's not us. Now will you kindly leave!”

“This is the right place. This is the place in the newspaper, I'm telling you, man! St. John, that school, does it also teach kaffirs?” I could see he was suddenly confused.

“You'll have to ask them that yourself, officer.” I said, not trusting myself to look at Morrie.

The police officer folded the warrant and put it back into his pocket. “I should arrest you for obstructing the police in their duty. You know it's only a technical error, man. They got it wrong when they was looking on the map. This is the school, I'm telling you!”

“That's not what it says on your piece of paper. I really must ask you to leave, officer,” Morrie said, playing the situation for all it was worth.

“Okay, Jewboy, but don't think you seen the last of me. I know a
comminist
when I see one.” He pointed at me. “You too, you and your kaffir friend. I can smell a comminist a mile off.”

He left with his men, and we could hear their boots on the cobblestones as they crossed the school quad.

“Holy Molenski! That was close,” I said. “What happens now?”

Gideon grinned, a lopsided sort of smile. “I think it is finish— the school is finish.”

“Not on your fucking life!” Morrie said. “I'll get my old man's lawyers if they try doing that again.”