Nadine Gordimer - A Guest of Honour

“And the railway link is on the Number One list,” Semstu said, saying “Number One” in English. They all laughed a little, Bray as well. Semstu said, “I think the Number One list is a very long one. I would like to know where the railway is, on that list.”

“And was that the cause of the trouble,” Bray said. There had been a strike at the brickfields the previous month. There was a second’s pause of indecision: the implication that this was not a matter to be spoken of with an outsider. But Semstu had known Bray before he had known any of the others. “People were told either wages must stay the same, or some men must be put off work. The union said that. Then when trouble started, the government sent someone down from here to tell them: the new brickfields are losing, until the railway comes, they ought to put off men anyway. But they will keep them on in the meantime if they don’t ask for more pay.”

“But from what I read in the papers, the union itself was already negotiating for a wage increase when the trouble started?”

“Yes, yes — first the union was asking the company for a wage increase, then the union turned round, you see, turned round again — and told the men at the new brickfields they would be put off if the men at the old brickfields went on asking for increase—”

Bray nodded vehemently; none of the men looked at each other. The man who had spoken before identified himself as the one whose eyes were being avoided. “What else could we do. After we started talking with the company”—the brickfields were a subsidiary of the gold — mining consortium— “we got called up to the Ministry of Labour’s place, we were told by the Secretary there, look here, boys

If someone could tell Mweta,” old Semstu pressed. “If we could get the railway. When you are talking to him perhaps you can tell him, next time?”

Bray had seen working towards expression the realization that he was someone who might be able to be used. The old man said, “Of course you see him.”

“Yes, I see him. But as you said, he’s a very busy man. Everybody wants something.”

Semstu considered, but his face remained closed to any attempt to put him off. He settled his old hat back on his head; he dressed still in the reverend’s or schoolmaster’s black suit with a watch chain looped across the stomach, the early robes and insignia of literacy. “Letters are no good. They are written on the machine by someone.” His arthritic hand, holding the pipe, flourished a signature at the bottom.

The others were looking at Bray and him with eyes screwed up against the light. The union man jutted his bottom lip and blew a lung — full of cigarette smoke before his own face. Bray said to him, “Your union will have to press UTUC to bring up the business of the railway with the Development Plan people.”

The man grimaced up the side of his face, as at one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He shook his head and laughed, wary to commit himself, even to a fool.

“But of course you’ve done that already.”

“And then?” the man said.

Bray smiled. “Well, you tell me.”

“UTUC doesn’t say what we want, it tells us what the Company wants.”

Silence. A deep inhalation of smoke drew both in together — company, development plan, all the same.

Now that the exact moment had presented itself, Bray almost took his opening as a casual question to the man he was already in conversation with, but turned in time to Semstu. “Well, I’m sorry to hear things are not going so well in your district, Mukwayi, my old friend — What do you think, anyway, of this idea of the S.-G., of the United Congress of Trade Unions being appointed instead of elected? It’s a very important post — I mean, so far as troubles like yours are concerned, the S.-G., if he’s the right man, he’s the one to get the government to see—”

“Oh but it’s Mweta who’ll say who it is.”

“We were just saying — Mweta’s got so many decisions to make. Mweta has so many things to think about.”

The old man said, “Mweta’s not going to choose a fool or a bad one.”

“No, of course not. But as we were saying, he can’t keep in touch with what everybody thinks these days. He would have to take advice from someone, now, don’t you think—”

“Yes, yes. But who?” The old man implied that it could only be the members of Mweta’s own cabinet, people of his own choosing.

“People from the Ministry of Labour. Perhaps the Planning and Development people.” Bray added, to the union man, “The ones you ran up against.”

“And who can know better than Mweta which is the right man?”

The other men left the car and began to draw nearer, cautiously. Bray appealed to them all, simply, openly— “Well, I’d say the workers themselves. They must know whom they want to speak for them. That’s what trade unions are for.”

“The Secretary — General should go on being elected.” The old man set out the statement in order to consider it.

“It’s always been like that until now,” Bray said. “Since Shinza and Mweta started the unions and got the colonial administration to recognize that the workers had rights. Ever since then.”

The old man suddenly pulled back against the direction of the talk. He seemed to be warning himself. “Ah, now we have Independence. Mweta knows what to do. If he decides to choose the man, he knows why he wants to do that.”

After a moment he cocked his head sideways under his hat at Bray, a man unsure of his hearing, and pointed the pipe at Bray’s middle. “But you are a clever man. You went with Mweta and Shinza to get us Independence. We don’t forget you. People will remember you as they remember our fathers. You are not saying it, but what you are saying now is that you don’t think Mweta is right.”

“I’m saying that whoever Mweta chooses, it’s not right that he should choose. UTUC must elect its own Secretary — General.”

“Yes, that too; but you are saying Mweta is wrong.”

“Yes, I am saying Mweta is making a mistake. And I will tell him. Because he is a great man I always tell him when I think he is wrong.”

The old man liked that; grinned. “Oh I see you are still strong. — When the British made him go away, we said here they will have to tie him down to their ship like a bull—” but the younger men were not interested in these legends of colonial times.

“I hear that Shinza wants to be the Secretary — General.” Instinct told him to be bold; for the first time in his life he did not seem to have much else to go by.

He could not tell whether or not they knew about Shinza all along, whether it was the factor they balked at inwardly. “Shinza, eh?” the old man said. “And do you agree with that?”

Bray said offhand, “He was S.-G. before. If UTUC wants him. Nobody knows trade union work better than Shinza.”

“I want to talk to you about something.” The old man looked round at the others. They drifted off in a group, taking their time about it, holding their smart jackets over their shoulders. Bray and the old man got into the back seat of the car; although the doors were open it was no cooler than standing outside. There was a vase of wax roses in a holder beside the rear mirror. Semstu said, “Will it not be a bad thing …”

He might mean that it was bad to cross Mweta’s will, or he might mean he did not like the idea of Shinza in office at this time. It would have made sense to have found out a bit more, from Shinza, about his more recent relations with the old man. “You want to know what I think? I think Mweta needs Shinza in a position like that. He needs Shinza”—Bray made a measuring gesture—” ‘up there.’ Shinza has become too far away.”