Changes

aaa (Ze Changes An Anthology of Short Stories— ee ara QiziC Change: An Anthology of Short Stories Design © by Marang Publishers (Pty) Ltd 2015 All cghts reserved. No part af this publication may be reproduced, stored ina retioval system, or transmitted if any form orby any means, elestanic, pnotecopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the ‘conyight nalder on acordanee withthe provsions ofthe Copyright Act, 1978 fas amended) ‘Any person who does any unauthorised actin relation to tis, ublcation may be lable for eiminal prosecution and cl ‘aime for damages, Fist published 2016 by Marang Publishers “The Willow Otfice Park 1278 Goorgs Foad Migrand ‘[Link] mal: [Link] ‘Maran Publishers (ty) Lid 2015, 10127109 198797086420 ISBN: 978-1-028292-00-5 Allrigns rasorved, including the right of roproduction in whol or in partin any form. It ie ilagal to photocopy any part of this book withoxt prior anangement wrth the publisherChange: An Anthology of Short Stories Design © by Marang Publishers (Pty) Lid 2015, All cghts reserved. No part af this publication may be reproduced, stored ina retioval system, or transmitted if any form orby any means, elestanic, pnotecopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the ‘conyight nalder on acordanee withthe provsions ofthe Copyright Act, 1978 fas amended) ‘Any person who does any unauthorised actin relation to tis, ublcation may be lable for eiminal prosecution and cl ‘aime for damages, Fist published 2016 by Marang Publishers “The Willow Otfice Park 1278 Goorgs Foad Migrand ‘[Link] mal: [Link] ‘Maran Publishers (ty) Lid 2015, 10127109 198797086420 ISBN: 978-1-028292-00-5 Allrigns rasorved, including the right of roproduction in whol or in partin any form. It ie ilagal to photocopy any part of this book withoxt prior anangement wrth the publishera = ~C® y Contents Introduction susssssssssessessisstseiseeiasisesesntaciasisnneensnasiaesensensisal Can Themba: Forbidden 10Ve [Link] sessesseutusssanneeseetnansenaesD Nadine Gordimer: A chip of glass Ub .....e0 raremcmraeerae TS Margaret Atwood: Bread .. 2 aos sateen 2-30 Larry Fondation: Deportation at breakfast... . sn 34 Bessie Head: Village people 38 Nosente of Umgqwashe: The story of Nosente. 44 Mariama Ba: Rejection SI James Joyce: Eveline 60 Agnes Sam: A bag of sweets ... 66 Sean O’Paolain: The fur coat... 73 Nambla Tshisana: Class act... 81 Katherine Mansfield: The doll’s house 87 Gina Mhlophe: Transforming moments . Charles Mungoshi: The CLOW so. D.H, Lawtenice: MEtCuty sesso Sam Kahiga: The last breath ..... Kurt Vonnegut: Next d00t oso Bessie Head: The wind and a boy Ama Ata Aidoo: The girl who can. Ernest Hemingway: In another country Kedibone Seku: Triumph in the face of adversity .....[Link] SE Buchi Emecheta: The new tribe . 165 Njabulo Ndebele: The test 182 Responding to the contextual questions .......c00ocssensnneennnnee 203, Glossary Acknowledgements References List of authors.......Introduction All narrativity ... is also about change, about creating in yourself and your readers the sense we have been somewhere, transitioned from one condition to another Reading short stories Often when teachers teach young leamers to write stories they use a simple tool to show the “shape” of a typical story The “shape” looks like this? ~ reading from the bottom left, up to the turning point, and to the resolution: turning point resolution problems closure S rise in tension opening character wants or desires This very simply maps out a story structure: a character wants or desires something she or he encounters problems in getting what is wanted tension rises while the character deals with the problems or a turning point is reached some resolution (the character gets what is wanted, or does not aeeee get it) the closure is the denouement from the French, meaning “untying” — where all the knots of the conflict are unravelled. + 1 feces 0 pony, Lance Oem, with Trevor Dodge, Guide Dog Books, Bowie, MO, 2012, p. 85 Seecneunson mn chtecties of pose 9.84Bea = SY 2C® Not all stories work this way, but it is a good place to start What we can learn from this story structure is that © stories usually have one character that is the focus, and we follow that character through the story © stories have a beginning (where the character wants something) and an end that is linked to the beginning (we see if the character gets what was wanted, or not) there are problems or incidents in a story. If we put this structure into a cartoon, we can learn a little more. Notice the wants, the obstacles and the resolution in the graphic story below: The wise man! Gntee the mountains But hele \Xellyou about tel aetcrger me. aay aoa hank goodness | learned that on my. men nee lead him 2 et= SY 2® Basically, the story of this cartoon is that the character wants to gain wisdom from the wise man on the mountain (wants, or desires). He overcomes various obstacles to get up the mountain (problems, obstacles). When he gets there, instead of learning from the old man, the man asks him to show the way down (resolution). Now, in this story it looks as though the character did not achieve his wish But, there he is, finally leading the wise man. Perhaps we should see that on his journey, whilst overcoming obstacles, he has in fact learned something. He becomes the teacher, the guide. He has changed. But when we see the story structure in the cartoon, we can see a few other important aspects of stories. Firstly, there are other characters, two in this case. We call these “minor characters"; as opposed to the “main character” (the main character is called the “protagonist”). Notice that the main character undergoes some change, or learning, whilst the minor characters in a story don’t usually change or develop. Another thing that is clear: each stage of the cartoon is set in a different place. When we read stories we call the place where the action occurs the setting. This cartoon is set in rural areas, through the journey, to the hilltop. ‘Also, itis clear that time is moving on in the story. As the character is shown moving from one setting to the next, time also changes. But there are gaps in the time, too: the storyteller does not show every stage of the process, but selects significant scenes or stages of the story to share with the reader. We can also begin to discuss aspects such as the type of dangers the protagonist faces. The second frame shows the long, hot uphill way the protagonist must walk, while the third frame shows the night-time dangers. This shows us that the boy is determined, he is not afraid. Notice, the author does not telll us these things, but shows us, through the action depicted. Short stories usually work with the writer showing us, rather than telling us, aspects of the life of the protagonist. . # >= SY 2® Basically, the story of this cartoon is that the character wants to gain wisdom from the wise man on the mountain (wants, or desires). He overcomes various obstacles to get up the mountain (problems, obstacles). When he gets there, instead of learning from the old man, the man asks him to show the way down (resolution). Now, in this story it looks as though the character did not achieve his wish But, there he is, finally leading the wise man. Perhaps we should see that on his journey, whilst overcoming obstacles, he has in fact learned something. He becomes the teacher, the guide. He has changed. But when we see the story structure in the cartoon, we can see a few other important aspects of stories. Firstly, there are other characters, two in this case. We call these “minor characters"; as opposed to the “main character” (the main character is called the “protagonist”). Notice that the main character undergoes some change, or learning, whilst the minor characters in a story don’t usually change or develop. Another thing that is clear: each stage of the cartoon is set in a different place. When we read stories we call the place where the action occurs the setting. This cartoon is set in rural areas, through the journey, to the hilltop. ‘Also, itis clear that time is moving on in the story. As the character is shown moving from one setting to the next, time also changes. But there are gaps in the time, too: the storyteller does not show every stage of the process, but selects significant scenes or stages of the story to share with the reader. We can also begin to discuss aspects such as the type of dangers the protagonist faces. The second frame shows the long, hot uphill way the protagonist must walk, while the third frame shows the night-time dangers. This shows us that the boy is determined, he is not afraid. Notice, the author does not telll us these things, but shows us, through the action depicted. Short stories usually work with the writer showing us, rather than telling us, aspects of the life of the protagonist. . # >= S¥ 2® Qi= Notice, too, that we can start talking about the feeling, or the atmosphere of each scene. In the second frame, it is hot (notice the sun), with a long uphill path. The feeling one gets here is of beauty in the countryside, but also of a long, hot, uphill walk ahead. However, the atmosphere in the next frame is different It is cooler, with the moon having risen. The owl and the dark sky tell us that the circle depicts the moon; or we can say that the ow! helps us to understand the circle as being the moon. Another way of putting this is that the owl on the tree and the dark sky provide the context for us to see the circle as the moon. One can start analysing the scenes: # Does the owl symbolise danger? What time of year is it? Thus, the middle frames provide details of the type of journey, and the nature of the difficulties faced on the way. When we see an owl at night, it starts to suggest, or symbolize, the fear, the danger the characteris in. The atmosphere of the frame becomes gloomy, frightening: the tension rises in the story. Notice too that where the story ends, in the final frame, the whole story falls into place. Itis the next day, the bay has found the wise man. They speak. This quick succession of events as the story closes is called the denouement, or the resolution. The character might not always get what he or she is looking for. Examples of stories in this collection in which the character does not achieve his or her desires are A bag of sweets, and Class act, amongst others.CRE Se = ~P®@ Qi: Read the next cartoon: For a business? cree I ai Bloemfontein! —~“‘Aloan! a / Sorry, too (fishy fora) \ 57 Well Mhave earned not 1 \ (Prove ue. start my busines, \ small, with less money. Then watch me grow! J~ Here there is movement from the rural areas to a city. The character wants to get a loan to start a business, and has a lot of problems getting to the bank. The bank manager turns him down, but the man feels that he has learned so much just getting there that he has the determination to go back and develop his business on his own We can also notice the types of problems he faces: as a young businessman he does not have a vehicle and has to use public transport. However, he sets ‘out all packed, in hope. The flowers against the moon might suggest hope (there is no ow! to bring negative thoughts in). < 5 eeCRE = SY 2C® But the next frame shows that the hope is frustrated, and there is a sense that things are broken. However, our protagonist walks on, determined. There is a sense of shock in the picture, of hurt. Perhaps it isa frustrated sunrise scene. Or, perhaps the sun is setting, and things are beginning to look dark. We need to look at the picture to find evidence for our interpretation, just as we look at a story to find evidence for our analyses. Finally, however, the protagonist makes it to the city, Unfortunately, the request for a loan is denied. The bank manager's response is not the final word, though. We should notice that this isa similar story to the first cartoon. The pattern of events is similar, but the settings are different, the obstacles are different. The resolution is frustrating for the protagonist in each case, but for different reasons. Stories may have very similar structures, but can be different in their themes and interpretations. We might stop and examine the reasons for the manager denying the request. What sort of character is the bank manager? Have a look at how he is depicted, and then we can ask whether we can see any reasons he might have denied the loan We can see that the story is starting to talk about society, and some issues in society. This story begins to speak about different levels of wealth and power, the difference between rural and urban, and so on ‘And what happens if the main character is a woman?= SY 2® Qi= Is there any change in the issues the story deals with if the protagonist is a woman? Are new themes introduced? We can see that there is a lot of meaning in how an author tells a story, how the author describes characters, and the setting, These aspects of story telling all start to mean something. if one elaborates this scheme a little, we can add a few more helpful terms. Below is an image of Freytag’s Pyramid’, a scheme drawn up by Gustav Freytag and published in his The Technique of Drama in 1863. turing point / climax rising action falling action exposition: resolution / character background; denouement wants and desires The exposition includes the beginning and the details: who the main character or protagonist is, where the story is set, what the nature of the conflict is. The problems, or conflicts, emerge in the rising action, which leads to the climax, or turning point, "that decisive action which marks a change in the protagonist's state of affairs’. In the falling action, the protagonist either achieves, or does not achieve, their original desires (perhaps either wins, or loses, the conflict) and the resolution finalises the story’s threads. This structure is not given as an “answer” to all stories, but it does give us some pattern to start looking for, and some words to use, when reading and discussing stories, Fortunately, all stories are not the same, but this structure will help with reading and understanding some of them. 1 pege ado ep am arcetie poss, 8Bea = SY 2C® A common theme in this collection is change, so an alertness to how the protagonist changes in each story, or does not change, or learns something is a good starting point for discussions, Additional terms used in the discussion of stories will be found in the glossary at the end of the text.Can Themba: Forbidden love Can Themba (South Africa) was born in Pretoria in 1924, and named Canodoise Daniel. He studied at the University of Fort Hare, and taught in Johannesburg's western township areas before becoming a Journalist on the Drum magazine, and later at the Golden City Post. He was declared a banned person in South Africa, which meant severe political and social restrictions were placed upon him and his works. Leaving South Africa, he taught in Swaziland where he died in 1968. His short stories, collected and published after his death, offer a humanistic view of life in Sophiatown before the suburb was destroyed under the provisions of the Group Areas Act in 1955. The apartheid government's prohibitions on mixed relationships were often reflected in social tension, creating “Romeo and Juliet situations", where people were involved with members of other races against the wishes of some family members. This story reflects such a situation. In the background the reader can also discern the apartheid government's practice of classifying people, sometimes finding more than one race in the same family. In this story racist attitudes often stem from fear or from self doubt. Themba depicts three humanistic woman characters, and one young man, who stand against the fear and hatred that causes people to gang together to bully others.CRE = SY 2C® be eC Dora Randolph was now running in the dark, down the road that dipped into the hollow of the bridge spanning the stream that separated ‘Noordgesig from the Western areas. From the bridge the road climbed the hillock and sailed away to Newclare, Western Township and Sophiatown. He must have seen her for his dark form swam toward her, and caught her in his strong arms. ‘Not here, darling,’ he said hastily, ‘some car-lights may strike upon us. He led her higher up the road into the tall grass. Suddenly she caught his coat lapels and dragged him down so that no one could see them. He clambered towards her and curled her into his arms. His lips thrilled upon hers, burningly sweet, and with digging fingertips she tried to find the source of his fire in his spinal column. Then the flames went out of them, settling into a low glow. She broke away with a sigh. She caught a stalk, put it in her mouth, and turned to look at the scattered lights of Noordgesig. “They were at it again, Sweetie,’ she said between her teeth, ‘and what makes me mad is that I cannot fight back anymore.’ “What did they say now?’ Mike asked, a little worried. ‘Mr Van Vuuren was at our place again, It looked almost as if Dad had called him in to preach to us. He spoke about how terribly important it is that we keep away from the ‘Natives’, otherwise we would be associated with them. And his voice had a trick of making that word ‘associated’ sound horrible. But what made me hate him was the way he stared at Louisa as he spoke. 1" ‘Louisa is that sister of yours who Is dark, isn’t she?” Michael Chabakeng asked. He had seen her once at the Rhythmic Cinema with Dora, and he remembered how she was darker even than he, and that she had woolly, kinky hair like his. Dora went on: ‘Yes, the dark one, and | feel like giving back to them all the hurt that they make little Louisa suffer. Why wasn't it I, Mike? ‘Why wasn’t I dark, instead of fair? Then you might not have been so afraid of my love?” ‘Huh?’ Michael was so taken aback by the sudden tenseness in her tone that he did not quite know what to say. ©. She turned her head and placed her chin on to his chest. ‘Somehow, ike,’ she tried to explain, softened again now. 'I feel trapped by a ‘doubly guilty shame. | am ashamed that it is my people who are in the < “>= ~C® forefront of every move against your people - ashamed of my father whom T love, but who is violent in his hatred of Africans; ashamed of my sister Louisa, who ought to feel nearer your people, but hates them so unreasonably; ashamed of brother's shame for having been classified African; ashamed of my mother’s silence when I suspect (I know it!) that she disapproves of their attitudes. And then, Sweetie, sometimes when T listen to them all, [= 1- [am ashamed, in a queer way that I hate, of this secret love of ours. Ohl’ Michael drew her close, and then his voice came, softly as if it came out of the grass: I don’t know if I can make you understand this. But, darling, everybody's trouble is that he is afraid. Everybody! Even you and 1 “Your father, and that . . . that Mr Van Vuuren are afraid their old world is turning over and they will now have to fight for things. And they are not used to fighting. They have too long . . . too long...’ he searched frantically for words that would not hurt her, and at last said weakly, ‘too long not fought.’ “Yes. Mike,’ she said. ‘Your sister, Louisa, is afraid because of this thing that might tear her away from you ~ all who she loves, and from the comparative safety of your way of life; this thing, this business of becoming an African is nearest to her, seems would soonest catch her in its cruel fingers. More than the fear of your father and Mr Van Vuuren, hers is most likely to. become cruel.’ Michael thought about what he was saying for a moment. The significance of his own words was only just becoming clear even to himself. ‘But my mother, Mike, I can't understand her silence.’ ‘I’m not sure I can understand everybody's feat,’ Michael said after a moment, ‘but, tell me, haven't you ever felt that your mother chooses silence because she doesn’t want to say anything that might influence her children?” ‘Tsee, Mike,’ Dora said, feeling with her fingers for the hard swelling on his biceps. ‘And my fear is that I know I'm doing just the thing that my mother fears her words might influence us into doing’ ‘Partly. But, my dear, let’s forget all the world’s fear. Let's forget even your fear and mine. Between you and |, there is, lying side by side with the fear, a faith. Let’s feed the faith. Let’s talk of love.’ The 1950 Papas Regiation Act made a aw hat every cise be legal clase ana egstered according to the rae they were deemed to ben some fies caused tardy members 10 be dasea diferent, casing much pn ibecsure aparece races diferent determning vere one cul he, go tn seo or many < ~S= SY 2C® ‘No, Sweetie, let's arms, and feel it.’ After a long while he released her, raised her to her feet. “Tomorrow, three o'clock show at the Rhythmic. Here's your ticket.’ He kissed her again. The headlights of a car on a bend higher up shone on them for a moment, A ghost-like shadow flew out to Noordgesig like a tongue flicked out of a mouth mockingly. As the driver of the car dipped into the bow! toward the river and the bridge, he said to his companions: ‘That guy sure must have a dangerous weapon.” not talk of love, let's just lie still in each other's In their two-room apartment in Sophiatown Michael was again nagging his sister about the one thing that was eating into his peace of mind. “You keep stalling, dodging me, but do you think it is really in the best interests of the child that you hide its name? After all, I've been thinking of getting married myself . . . sometime soon . . .’ and his voice trailed off. ‘Don’t you worry, Mike,’ Salome said. ‘I’ve the child’s true interest at heart. But there are times when there is good reason for not doing the obvious thing. | assure you the child’s father is an honourable man,? That, is all [ can say for the moment. You must trust me.” Michael looked into the fire in the stove, his mouth twisted into a strained grimace of concentrated thinking. ‘I still don’t like it,’ he said at length. ‘What about you, what about your future? However romantic, I don’t like the picture of a man who will not stand up to his responsibilities.” “You don't understand.’ And she began to hum one of those catchy songs that fill the streets of Sophiatown’ now and then for a brief spell. Michael felt beaten again. He was always beaten in this game. The trouble was that he had full confidence in his sister's intelligence. But this, she was right, he could not understand. He remembered something he had heard somewhere: ‘A woman in love is operating at the lowest level of the intellect."* He went out. ‘"Thambe shows an rape of sreotping: the reader knows the character tahing of ath and ove, butte people ‘nthe ea spy assume he sare and dangeraus Tiss rther example of Fest nthe Hon Inthe hstoncal conte theineates thatthe oer snot mores man Sopher t was mane bythe opr goverment was 3 EGR mth re, th tong «Mother ample a earotyping: Salome is Iter shown tobe wite- and rae. < >= ~C® Meneer Carelse, of the Noordgesig Primary School, leaned over the {gate of the school yard and looked for the small group of coloured boys who would be sitting in a circle in a corner of the yard. He called one of them. “Take my bag and put it into the History classroom,’ he said to the sandy-haired, smart-looking youngster who came up to him. He looked at the citcle of boys wistfully. He knew what they were doing now during these precious few minutes before lessons started. They were teasing each other in the age-old school tradition. Probably vulgar, the naughty little scamps, he thought tolerantly as his mind went back to his own school- days as a youngster. Then he hurried away to Aunt Sannie’s house for that daily cup of coffee Meanwhile Freddie Williams, the sandy-haired, smart-looking youngster, sped across the playground to the History classroom. Freddie Was not going to miss that morning's session of their little tease- club. But gee! they got Bobby Randolph at last. Freddie had met Dick Peters that morning on their way to school, and that eternal victim of Bobby Randoph’s tease-tongue had intimated to Freddie that he had a bombshell with which he was going to blow Bobby to bits and blazers. That is why, as he went flying over the playground, Freddie had shouted to the gang already assembled, ‘Wait for me!’ Dick Peters did wait for Freddie. He wanted a full audience, and he wanted to make sure that his friend Freddie was present in case of any fighting Freddie was still gasping for breath when Dick stood up, faced Bobby, and exploded his bombshell without finesse* or ceremony. “Your sissy goes with a Naytif!” ‘You lie!” Yes, it’s true. I seen her by the bioscope on Saturday. Your sissy goes with a Naytifl’ ‘The gang burst into laughter. Bobby broke loose with such a fierce barrage of blows upon Dick that they both tumbled over onto the ground. Dick did not stand a chance. Bobby's arms were flailing into his face and the blood was spurting out. Dick yelled out with sudden fear and pain, finesse dees ses Nay the enldrans pronunciation of "nate", etm or Arcane used more general atthe me the soy fet and considered tebe ater. the context of beso Inaates hat ts used unanay fo terete and wages 4 Sangin There story prejudices ke te gherngs of groups gang or even fais < 7Cae = SY 2C® Meneer Carelse had to push aside the cheering youngsters before he could get at the rolling fighters. He pulled Bobby off and held the two apart ‘What're you fighting for?” ‘He hit me first,’ Dick said, inconsequently. “Why did you hit him, Bobby?” ‘He says my sister goes with a Naytif.’ ‘It’s true,’ Dick shouted. ‘I seen them myself on Saturday by the bioscope.’ For a moment Meneer Carelse was stunned by the news. Through his mind rushed with painful vividness the picture of his proposal of marriage to Dora Randolph and the disdainful rejection she had given him, He could see again her lip curling up in contempt, He knew... he had always known, that she rejected him because of his drinking habits that were notorious in the township but he felt too deeply hurt to admit his weakness. Suddenly his own lip curled up as a malicious thought darted through his mind. “To the head you go, both of you,’ he said as he dragged them away. After Mr Phillips had taken in the whole story he sent the youngsters off, asking them to report back to him at half-past one when the school dismissed. He told Meneer Carelse to wait a moment as he wanted to talk to him. ‘Meneer,’ began the head with a pained expression in his eyes, ‘it is our duty to hush up the whole cruel affair. You know, we could handle the youngsters, and the matter need not go further than this school “But... but. “Yes?” ‘But, I think we owe it to the gir!’s family to tell them of the danger their daughter is putting them in.’ Meneer Carelse was most sanctimonious. Mr Phillips stared at the lean man before him long and hard before he spoke. ‘Of course, our interest is just for the good and safety of the family. ‘We do not have,’ - with deep emphasis - ‘any desire to do them harm. It would not somehow mysteriously happen to be that the whole world knows of it” ‘Really, I must say!’ was all Meneer Carelse could manage. Then both men stared silently out of the window. It was a long minute before Mr Phillips could say, ‘That will be all, Meneer.’ <- “>= ~C® But it did somehow mysteriously happen that the whole world came to know of it. Dora's disgrace was on everyone's lips. To everybody, except to Dora herself, this was disaster. She decided that it was release from the long months of stolen, forbidden love. And felt a thrill in defiance. This of course gave added fuel to the wagging tongues. On the bus, within earshot of her father, one man was heard to remark, ‘Tlearn the brazen hussy doesn’t care at all. It just goes to show the government isn’t exactly wrong in all cases that it reclassifies back to kaffir’ (Old man Randolph winced. To restore some of the Randolph family honour Dora's brother, Davie, got together a few of his friends who solemnly pledged to put matters right: ‘Just wait till we catch him,’ If Michael had seen the group of young coloured lads near the doorway of the Rhythmic Cinema that Saturday he would not have suspected a thing. He had decided to take it easy with Dora since he had received her hurtiedly scribbled note that the whole thing had cracked, despite her insistence that she ‘didn’t care a damn,’ He had written her that, for some time at least, if they wanted to go to the cinema that they would have to go on separate occasions. But this was a great picture, he had read about it in the papers and just had to see it. He knew that Dora was going to be there, but he hoped she would understand. At the cinema he saw a group of African fellows gesticulating and arguing heatedly with the manager. He went up to them and found to his annoyance that the film was banned for ‘Children under twelve and Natives’! Suddenly he heard a voice shouting, ‘Aw, beat up the blurtie kaffirs!’ * As he swung round a coloured chap caught him by the shoulder and hit him on the mouth, cutting his upper lip. ‘Davie don’t!" came Dora's shriek from somewhere and Michael knew that he had had it She appeared before him and faced her brother. His eyes opened wide. ‘So this is the blurrie bastard! Hey, boys, this is Dora's kaffir!’ ‘They ignored the other Africans who scampered away in all directions, and crowded in on Michael and Dora. Dora turned to Michael and in a fierce but reassuring whisper said, ‘I’m with you in this to the end * flume kafir= Davies pronunciation o “Dooxy, a swear word: the phrase isan insdting andl derogatory eterence to Micha bing Ancan <— >= SY 2C® As they closed in, Michael pushed Dora behind him, and faced Davie. ‘Look, Davie boy,’ he said tersely,’ ‘take my advice and don’t do it. I'm not scared of being beaten up, I'm scared of what this will mean. Take my advice, and don’t do it.’ “Yefies!” said Davie, ‘what does he think he can do - nothing!” Ina flash he kicked Michael in the stomach so that he doubled up. Someone caught hold of Dora and held her fast. The others jumped upon Michael and rained blows on him in a mad fury. He made no attempt to fight back. Only instinctively he protected his face as best he could. Someone blew a police whistle and the attackers dashed into the maze of byways and alleys of Fordsburg. Michael was out cold When he came to, Dora was weeping over him. He tried to lift himself but could not. She helped him up, still crying bitterly. Together they staggered to the bus-stop, off to Sophiatown, ‘At home Michael fainted again. So Dora had to explain to his sister what had happened. She introduced herself and began to relate the events exactly as they had happened. ‘A queer look of amusement came into Salome’s face, ‘Randolph? Randolph? Randolph you say? And your brother's name is Davie? David Randolph. I’ve got an idea. You stay here and as soon as Mike is well enough, we'll go and see old Davie, ne?” For days Salome did not speak about the matter. The two women who loved Michael so much looked after him, nursed him back to health. ‘Then one Sunday morning Salome said suddenly, ‘Look, you two, I think it’s time we went to see old Davie. I want a little word with him.” ‘Aw, cut it out, [don’t want any more trouble,’ said Michael. ‘Oh, no, there won't be trouble at all. Just a little talk,’ Salome said mysteriously Dora accompanied them to her home, her heart beating wildly. ‘They found the whole family at lunch. Even Mr Van Vuuren was there philosophizing expansively. Davie went pale when he saw the threesome walk in Before they could say anything Salome took over. ‘Hello, Davie,’ she began. ‘Remember me? You beat up my brother because he is in love with your sister. Okay, now I’ve brought my brother to beat you up because you were in love with his sister. Fair enough?” “You lie!" Davie said hoarsely. ese Sony cay Veliet on excamstion expressing sirptise orwonder, probably marta sail” = >_>= SY 2C® As they closed in, Michael pushed Dora behind him, and faced Davie. ‘Look, Davie boy,’ he said tersely,’ ‘take my advice and don’t do it. I'm not scared of being beaten up, I'm scared of what this will mean. Take my advice, and don’t do it.’ “Yefies!” said Davie, ‘what does he think he can do - nothing!” Ina flash he kicked Michael in the stomach so that he doubled up. Someone caught hold of Dora and held her fast. The others jumped upon Michael and rained blows on him in a mad fury. He made no attempt to fight back. Only instinctively he protected his face as best he could. Someone blew a police whistle and the attackers dashed into the maze of byways and alleys of Fordsburg. Michael was out cold When he came to, Dora was weeping over him. He tried to lift himself but could not. She helped him up, still crying bitterly. Together they staggered to the bus-stop, off to Sophiatown, ‘At home Michael fainted again. So Dora had to explain to his sister what had happened. She introduced herself and began to relate the events exactly as they had happened. ‘A queer look of amusement came into Salome’s face, ‘Randolph? Randolph? Randolph you say? And your brother's name is Davie? David Randolph. I’ve got an idea. You stay here and as soon as Mike is well enough, we'll go and see old Davie, ne?” For days Salome did not speak about the matter. The two women who loved Michael so much looked after him, nursed him back to health. ‘Then one Sunday morning Salome said suddenly, ‘Look, you two, I think it’s time we went to see old Davie. I want a little word with him.” ‘Aw, cut it out, [don’t want any more trouble,’ said Michael. ‘Oh, no, there won't be trouble at all. Just a little talk,’ Salome said mysteriously Dora accompanied them to her home, her heart beating wildly. ‘They found the whole family at lunch. Even Mr Van Vuuren was there philosophizing expansively. Davie went pale when he saw the threesome walk in Before they could say anything Salome took over. ‘Hello, Davie,’ she began. ‘Remember me? You beat up my brother because he is in love with your sister. Okay, now I’ve brought my brother to beat you up because you were in love with his sister. Fair enough?” “You lie!" Davie said hoarsely. ese Sony cay Veliet on excamstion expressing sirptise orwonder, probably marta sail” = >_>Cae = ~C® ‘I thought you'd say that, so I brought some proof. Where do you suppose I got this handsome picture of yours, Davie? And just in case you deny that one too, I'd like your father to read these flaming letters, you once wrote to me.’ She pushed a neatly-tied bundle of letters to the old man, saying tartly, ‘And to think I treasured these letters because they came from the only man I ever loved.’ ‘The old man seemed only then to be suddenly galvanized into life. ‘Get out! Get out of my house!’ he shrieked. Salome kept cool. ‘Oh no, you don’t. If you get tough I'll take your son to court for not supporting his child for the last three years.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Mike, you've been asking me all the time who the father of my child was and I’ve been silent. I told you it’s a man I love, a man who would come into the open if he could but that his circumstances were exceptional. You thought it was a married man. Well, that is the man!’ — she pointed a trembling finger at Davie. The family was stunned. Salome was now heaving with emotion. The old man grabbed the packet of letters and said, ‘Vou can’t prove it Salome laughed out, a hard, cruel laugh. ‘There's one letter at home, the one in which your son begged me not to expose him,’ Then Dora’s mother spoke out. ‘My grandchild! I've got a grandchild! ‘My God, I must see that child.’ Something in the old lady’s voice calmed Salome. “Yes, mother,’ she said softly. Michael and Dora walked out quietly. She looked into his eyes and said: ‘Somehow I think the fear will fade away now."a ita = SY 2C® (ie 1 2 oN Questions for group discussion, or for written work. 10. Tae Why do you think the two lovers are meeting out of town, in the tall grass? @ In the opening love scenes, does the reader know which race group the two lovers belong to? a) Why do you think Themba does not reveal the race of the lovers immediately? @) What does the following quotation tell us about what Dora “wants” in the story, as well as a “problem” in the way of her desires? ‘They were at it again, Sweetie,’ she said between her teeth, ‘and what makes me mad is that | cannot fight back anymore.’ 4) Dora talks of the shame members of her family feel, and Michael talks of fear: what causes these emotions in the story? @) Identify two words in the extract below that indicate that bullying was accepted at the school: They were teasing each other in the age-old school tradition. Probably vulgar, the naughty little scamps, he thought tolerantly as his mind went back to his own school-days as a youngster. @ Describe another incident of bullying in the story. (4) What makes Dora’s mother finally speak up? @ Which character’s values do you think Themba most admires in this story? @ Describe the values of the character you mentioned in your answer to Question 9. @ Do you think bullying should be tolerated in schools? How can it best be prevented? (This question can be done in group discussion). @)oes Ex = ~C® Nadine Gordimer: A chip of glass ruby Nadine Gordimer (South Africa) was born in 1923 in Springs, and died 2014. She became a well-known writer of novels and short-stories, and won the 1991 Nobel Prize for Literature. Her writings demonstrate a strong moral and political dislike for racism, for the apartheid system, and for oppression in general. In this story the quiet and humble Mrs Bamjee embodies caring, human inclusiveness. These are the values Gordimer held dear. Her hard working husband, Mr Bamjee, focusses on his hawker business, and does not at first understand Mrs Bamjee’s involvement with politics. While he is at first narrow minded, her birthday “gift” to him is a broader, more inclusive view of things.When the duplicating machine’ was brought into the house, Bamjee said, ‘Isn't it enough that you've got the Indians’ troubles on your back?’ Mrs. Bamjee said, with a smile that showed the gap of a missing tooth but was confident all the same, ‘What's the difference, Yusuf? We've all got the same troubles.’ “Don't tell me that. We don’t have to carry passes; let the natives protest against passes on their own, there are millions of them. Let them go ahead with it The nine Bamjee and Pahad children were present at this exchange as they were always; in the small house that held them all there was no room for privacy for the discussion of matters they were too young to hear, and so they had never been too young to hear anything. Only their sister and half-sister, Girlie, was missing; she was the eldest, and married. ‘The children looked expectantly, unalarmed and interested, at Bamjee, who had neither left the dining-room nor settled down again to the task of rolling his own cigarettes which had been interrupted by the arrival of the duplicator. He looked at the thing that had come hidden in a wash- basket and conveyed in a black man’s taxi, and the children turned on it too, their black eyes surrounded by thick lashes like those still, open flowers with hairy tentacles that close on whatever touches them. ‘A fine thing to have on the dining-room table’, was all he said at last. ‘They smelled the machine among them; a smell of cold black grease. He went out, heavily on tiptoe, in his troubled wa ‘It’s going to go nicely on the sideboard!’ Mrs. Bamjee was busy making a place by removing the two pink glass vases filled with plastic carnations and the hand-painted velvet runner with the picture of the ‘Taj MahaP. After supper she began to run off leaflets on the machine. The family lived in the dining-room — the three other rooms in the house were full of beds ~ and they were all there. The older children shared a bottle of ink? while they did their homework, and the two little ones pushed a couple of empty milk bottles in and out the chair legs. The three-year-old fell asleep and was carted away by one of the girls. They all drifted off to 1 Gpicatng machine —bafore modem faxes and piters were aval, duplicating machines wate used in school fh eral buses to repreduce page or pores Ins story it bused fo reproduce legal polical Material. the Ta Asha 3 ars ula no. an elaborate mausloum, or om, Hat 8317" centry peor to ouse te remareof i tid te. ‘shared a botl of i= the use of dp-n pens, whi equred eames to havea botle nk on hand, one of ‘any Inations a the te that the sey st the mile 1900s wen apace! Feeesion was Begin ng 10 ‘Shmp down, and resstance wns becoming determines < —= SY 2® bed eventually; Bamjee himself went before the older children ~ he was, a fruit and vegetable hawker and was up at half past four every morning to get to the market by five. ‘Not long now’, said Mrs. Bamjee. The older children looked up and smiled at him. He turned his back on her. She still wore the traditional clothing of a Moslem woman, and her body, which was seraggy and unimportant as a dress on a peg when it was not host to a child, was wrapped in the trailing rags of a cheap sari‘, and her thin black plait was greased. When she was a girl, in the Transvaal town where they lived still, her mother fixed a chip of glass ruby in her nostril; but she had abandoned that adornment as too old-style, even for her, long ago. She was up until long after midnight, turning out leaflets. She did it as if she might have been pounding chillies. Bamjee did not have to ask what the leaflets were. He had read the papers. All the past week. Africans had been destroying their passes and then presenting themselves for arrest. Their leaders were jailed on charges of incitement, campaign offices were raided - someone must be helping the few minor leaders who were left to keep the campaign going without offices or equipment. What was it the leaflets would say - ‘Don’t go to work tomorrow’, ‘Day of Protest’, 'Burn Your Pass for Freedom’? He didn’t want to see. He was used to coming home and finding his wife sitting at the dining-room table deep in discussion with strangers or people whose names were familiar by repute. Some were prominent Indians, like the lawyer, Dr. Abdul Mohammed Khan, or the big businessman, Mr. Moonsamy Patel, and he was flattered, in a suspicious way, to meet them in his house. As he came home from work next day he met Dr. Khan coming out of the house, and Dr. Khan ~a highly educated man ~ said to him, ‘A wonderful woman’. But Bamjee had never caught his wife out in any presumption; she behaved properly, as any Moslem woman should, and once her business with such gentlemen was over would never, for instance, have sat down to eat with them, He found her now back in the kitchen, setting about the preparation of dinner and carrying on a conversation on several different wave lengths with the children. ‘It’s really a shame if you're tired of lentils, Jimmy, because that’s what you're getting - Amina, hurry up, get a pot of water going - don’t worry, ’Il mend that in a minute, just bring the yellow cotton, and there’s a needle in the cigarette box on the sideboard.” 1 aria lng, draped wectonal can gurment= S¥ 2® “Was that Dr. Khan leaving” said Bamjee. “Yes, there’s going to be a stay-at-home on Monday. Desai’s ill, and he’s got to get the word around by himself. Bob Jali was up all last night printing leaflets, but he’s gone to have a tooth out.’ She had always treated Bamjee as if it were only a mannerism that made him appear uninterested in politics, the way some woman will persist in interpreting, her husband's bad temper as an endearing gruffness hiding boundless goodwill, and she talked to him of these things just as she passed on to him neighbours’ or family gossip. “What for do you want to get mixed up with these killings and stonings and I don’t know what? Congress should keep out of it. Isn't it ‘enough with the Group Areas?’ She laughed. ‘Now, Yusuf, you know you don’t believe that. Look how you said the same thing when the Group Areas started in Natal. You said we should begin to worry when we get moved out of our own houses here in the Transvaal. And then your own mother lost her house in Noorddorp, and there you are; you saw that nobody's safe. Oh, Girlie was hete this afternoon, she says Ismail’s brother's engaged ~ that’s nice, isn’t it? His mother will be pleased; she was worried.’ ‘Why was she worried?” asked Jimmy, who was fifteen, and old ‘enough to patronize his mother. “Well, she wanted to see him settled. There's a party on Sunday week at Ismail’s place ~ you'd better give me your suit to give to the cleaners tomorrow, Yusuf. One of the girls presented herself at once. ‘I'll have nothing to wear, Ma.’ Mrs. Bamjee scratched her sallow face. ‘Perhaps Girlie will lend you her pink, eh? Run over to Girlie’s place now and say I say will she lend it to you.’ ‘The sound of commonplaces often does service as security, and Bamjee, going to sit in the armchair with the shiny armrests that was wedged between the dining-room table and the sideboard, lapsed into an unthinking doze that, like all times of dreamlike ordinariness during those weeks, was filled with uneasy jerks and starts back into reality. The next morning, as soon as he got to market, he heard that Dr. Khan had been arrested. But that night Mrs. Bamjee sat up making a new dress for her daughter; the sight disarmed Bamjee, reassured him again, against his will, so that the resentment he had been making ready all day faded into a morose and accusing silence. Heaven knew, of course, who came and went in the house during the day. Twice in that week of riots, raids, < — WVeee = ~C® and arrests, he found black women in the house when he came home: plain ordinary native women in doeks, drinking tea. This was not a thing other Indian women would have in their homes, he thought bitterly; but then his wife was not like other people, in a way he could not put his finger on, except to say what it was not: not scandalous, not punishable, not rebellious. It was, like the attraction that had led him to marry her, Pahad’s widow with five children, something he could not see clearly. When the Special Branch knocked steadily on the door in the small hours of Thursday morning, he did not wake up, for his return to consciousness was always set in his mind to half past four, and that was more than an hour away. Mrs. Bamjee got up herself, struggled into Jimmy's raincoat, which was hanging over a chair, and went to the front door. The clock on the wall — a wedding present when she married Paha — showed three o'clock when she snapped on the light, and she knew at once who it was on the other side of the door. Although she was not surprised, her hands shook like a very old person’s as she undid the locks and the complicated catch on the wire burglar-proofing. And then she opened the door and they were there ~ two coloured policemen in plain clothes. ‘Zanip Bamjee?’ Yes’ As they talked, Bamjee woke up in the sudden terror of having overslept. Then he became conscious of voices. He heaved himself out of bed in the dark and went to the window, which, like the front door, was covered with a heavy mesh of thick wire against intruders from the dingy lane it looked upon. Bewildered, he appeared in the dining-room, where the policemen were searching through a soapbox of papers beside the duplicating machine. ‘Yusuf, it’s for me’, Mrs. Bamjee said. At once, the snap of a trap, realization came. He stood there in an old shirt before the two policemen, and the woman was going off to prison because of the natives. ‘There you are!’ he shouted, standing away from her. ‘That's what you've got for it. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I? That's the end of it now, That's the finish. That's what it's come to.’ She listened with her head at the slightest tilt to one side, as if to ward off a blow, or in compassion. Jimmy, Pahad'’s son, appeared at the door with a suitcase; two or three of the girls were behind him. ‘Here, Ma, you take my green jersey.’ I've found your clean blouse.’ Bamjee had to keep moving out of their way as they helped their mother to make ready. It was like the preparation for one of the family festivals his wife made such a fuss over; wherever he= S¥ 2® put himself, they bumped into him, Even the two policemen mumbled, ‘Excuse me’, and pushed past into the rest of the house to continue their search, They took with them a tome that Nehru had written in prison; it had been bought from a persevering travelling salesman and kept, for years, on the mantelpiece. ‘Oh, don’t take that, please,’ Mrs. Bamjee said suddenly, clinging to the arm of the man who had picked it up. ‘The man held it away from her. “What does it matter, Ma?’ It was true that no one in the house had ever read it; but she said, ‘It’s for my children. ‘Ma, leave it.’ Jimmy, who was squat and plump, looked like a merchant advising a client against a roll of silk she had set her heart on. She went into the bedroom and got dressed. When she came out in her old yellow sari with a brown coat over it, the faces of the children were behind her like faces on the platform at a railway station. They kissed her good-bye, The policemen did not hurry her, but she seemed to be in a hurry just the same “What am I going to do?’ Bamjee accused them all. The policemen looked away patiently. ‘v'll be all right. Girlie will help. The big children can manage. And Yusuf—’ The children crowded in around her; two of the younger ones had awakened and appeared, asking shrill questions ‘Come on,’ said the policemen. ‘I want to speak to my husband.’ She broke away and came back to him, and the movement of her sari hid them from the rest of the room for a moment. His face hardened in suspicious anticipation against the request to give some message to the next fool who would take up her pamphleteering until he, too, was artested. ‘On Sunday,’ she said. “Take them on Sunday.’ He did not know what she was talking about. ‘The ‘engagement party,’ she whispered, low and urgent. ‘They shouldn’t miss it. Ismail will be offended.’ They listened to the car drive away. Jimmy bolted and barred the front door, and then at once opened it again; he put on the raincoat that his mother had taken off. ‘Going to tell Girlie,’ he said. The children went back to bed. Their father did not say a word to any of them; their talk, the crying of the younger ones and the argumentative voices of the older, went on in the bedrooms. He found himself alone; he felt the night all around him. And then he happened to meet the clock face and saw with a terrible sense of unfamiliarity that this was not the secret night but an hour he should have recognized: the time he always got up. < —= SY 2® He pulled on his trousers and his dirty white hawker’s coat and wound his grey muffler up to the stubble on his chin and went to work. The duplicating machine was gone from the sideboard. The policemen had taken it with them, along with the pamphlets and the conference reports and the stack of old newspapers that had collected on top of the wardrobe in the bedroom ~ not the thick dailies of the white men, but the thin, impermanent-looking papers that spoke up, sometimes interrupted by suppression or lack of money, for the rest. It was all gone. When he had married her and moved in with her and her five children, into what had been the Pahad and became the Bamjee house, he had not recognized the humble, harmless, and apparently useless routine tasks ~ the minutes of meetings being written up on the dining-room table at night, the government blue books that were read while the latest baby was suckled, the employment of the fingers of the older children in the fashioning of crinkle-paper Congress* rosettes — as, activity intended to move mountains. For years and years he had not noticed it, and now it was gone. The house was quiet. The children kept to their lairs, crowded on the beds with the doors shut. He sat and looked at the sideboard, where the plastic carnations and the mat with the picture of the Taj Mahal were in place. For the first few weeks he never spoke of her. There was the feeling, in the house, that he had wept and raged at her, that boulders of reproach had thundered down upon her absence, and yet he had said not one word. He had not been to inquire where she was; Jimmy and Girlie had gone to Mohammed Ebrahim, the lawyer, and when he found cout that their mother had been taken — when she was arrested, at least ~ toa prison in the next town, they had stood about outside the big prison door for hours while they waited to be told where she had been moved from there. At last they had discovered that she was fifty miles away, in Pretoria. Jimmy asked Bamjec for five shillings to help Girlie pay the train fare to Pretoria, once she had been interviewed by the police and had been given a permit to visit her mother; he put three two-shilling pieces on the table for Jimmy to pick up, and the boy, looking at him keenly, did not know whether the extra shilling meant anything, or whether it was merely that Bamjee had no change It was only when relations and neighbours came to the house that Bamjee would suddenly begin to talk. He had never been so expansive in his life as he was in the company of these visitors, many of them come Congress the South Alcan indian Congress was involved dettnce ampoigns during the sugges against spans forming an lle th otber movement = >= S¥ 2® on a polite call rather in the nature of a visit of condolence. ‘Ah, yes, yes, you can see how I am - you see what has been done to me. Nine children, and | am on the cart all day. I get home at seven or eight. What are you to do? What can people like us do?” “Poot Mis. Bamjee. Such a kind lady. “Well, you see for yourself. They walk in here in the middle of the night and leave a houseful of children. I’m out on the cart all day, I've got a living to earn.’ Standing about in his shirt sleeves, he became quite animated; he would call for the girls to bring fruit drinks for the visitors. When they were gone, it was as if he, who was orthodox if not devout and never drank liquor, had been drunk and abruptly sobered up; he looked dazed and could not have gone over in his mind what he had been saying. And as he cooled, the lump of resentment and wrongedness stopped his throat again. Bamjee found one of the little boys the centre of a self-important group of championing brothers and sisters in the dining-room one evening. ‘They've been cruel to Ahmed.’ “What has he done?’ said the father. ‘Nothing! Nothing !’ The little girl stood twisting her handkerchief excitedly. An older one, thin as her mother, took over, silencing the others with a gesture of her skinny hand. ‘They did it at school today. They made an example of him.’ “What is an example” said Bamjee impatiently ‘The teacher made him come up and stand in front of the whole class, and he told them, "You see this boy? His mother's in jail because she likes the natives so much. She wants the Indians to be the same as natives.”" ‘It’s terrible,’ he said. His hands fell to his sides. ‘Did she ever think of this?’ “That’s why Ma's there,’ said Jimmy, putting aside his comic and emptying out his schoolbooks upon the table. ‘That's all the kids need to know. Ma’s there because things like this happen, Petersen’s a coloured teacher, and it’s his black blood that’s brought him trouble all his life, I suppose. He hates anyone who says everybody's the same, because that takes away from him his bit of whiteness that’s all he’s got. What d’you expect? it’s nothing to make too much fuss about.” ‘Of course, you are fifteen and you know everything,’ Bamjee mumbled at him. “I don't say that. But I know Ma, anyway. The boy laughed. < >