Nadine Gordimer: No Time Like the Present

When the baby was born, there was a different result of political overturn. Of course, both sets of parents had grandchildren from their other offspring but this grandchild Sindiswa was the first infant progeny of a new age, for them. There’s a whole population who share the subtle skin colour toned by her mixed blood, and nature’s arbitrary intriguing decisions to pick this bone structure or that, which nose which flesh-line of lips to perpetuate from this or that different progenitor. Once she was there, alive, with Jabu and Steve in what was no longer a clandestine Glengrove Place but nevertheless was the origin, the place of her conception, the grandchild already had brought about a different relationship between her parents and grandparents. Occasional Sundays Steve and Jabu took her to visit the Reed parents — he had to be reminded by Jabu that this was necessary. Whether this means Jabu was closer to her family — cliché sentimental concession of whites to compensate for depredation of blacks’ other characteristics — was not remarked by him, or claimed by her as a reproach to him; reminder of a son’s duty was enough. When the baby was a few months old there was the visit to KwaZulu where the women carried her away, daughter Jabulile’s first-born, once the infant had been presented to the grandfather. No one, particularly Jabulile’s Baba, showed any expected reaction to the light-skinned face and clutch of miniature hands. A baby born to one of their own, the extended family, is in itself a rejoicing of them all, their being.

Moving to a house is more than arranging furniture. There’s the child, however small and young, now in possession of a room of her own. There’s the planting of the gift hibiscus in a private garden; the acknowledgement that there is a neighbour, neighbours, not only comrades Isa and Jake, the Mkizes. The gay commune, all moving to a middle class of a kind. It involves something Steve is not sure about — subscription to a communal security patrol. — They’re almost certainly former impimpis , bastards who betrayed and murdered comrades. Who needs to be protected by traitors?—

Jabu teases. — I’ll pay the fee.—

A house. It implies home, not a shelter wherever you can find one. Home is an institution of family, his come to visit now — lost touch with when it was better for them not to be known as relatives of political activists, exposed to police questioning. But their Reed children are Sindiswa’s cousins. She squeals with excitement when they play with her. Son Steve brother Steve, his wife and child, are expected more often than they would like, to arrive at the obligatory Sunday meal at one or other family home. It would have been nicer to drive out somewhere into the veld and picnic alone, Sindi playing with her toys on a rug and the Sunday papers handed between them. Jabu seemed to mind the obligations less than he did. He doesn’t know or doesn’t want to know that the family, his family, intend to show they accept (for some must swallow hard the prescription, non-racial democracy) that Steve’s wife is black. One sister-in-law, wife of Steve’s brother Jonathan, rather overdoes it; Brenda flings her arms round Jabu, kisses, rocks their bodies together, pulls back her face to look at Jabu as in delighted discovery. This with every arrival and departure from a gathering.

There is continued avoidance of any discussion of politics out of consideration of people’s feelings on both sides. It is salutary for the comrade-husband, comrade-wife to see how social relations can imply this; despite all that has happened to everyone, if differently. Occasionally the invitation is for an evening with one or other of the couples who comprise his siblings. The gay one, Alan, takes them with his current lover to an African restaurant, new venture in the city, offering traditional mopani worm snacks, tripe and usu with beans. — Is this because of me? — Jabu opens the uninhibited mood of the evening. — No, we like this place, exotic for us whites, nê .—Alan’s manner is flirtatious but brother Steve doesn’t have to worry because (so far as he knows?) this sibling is not bisexual in his desires, which are obviously centred on the lover. Brother Alan, in family congenital variation of physique and face, looks a more manly man than Steve, which, without vanity, Alan amusingly concedes himself. — How’d a guy like you manage to kidnap this girl, what’d you cook up in your paint lab to spike her drinks.—

— He was cooking up fireworks to blow up pylons. — She can speak this out aloud now, in certain company, it’s a qualification of honour.

— She loves me for myself. — Steve enjoys the banter.

But here with Alan politics are not to be considerately avoided. The lover, Tertius (what a name — only Afrikaners would lumber a kid with it) is a journalist regarded by many of his family as a traitor to the volk . Whatever his paper will publish of his gleeful post-mortem of his people’s past as a hangover in the present — in the case of reconciliation the press must be prudent with the truth — brings punching denial from readers.

Alan himself took no part, neither in the Struggle nor safe liberal ones signing protests, those times. As he once told his brother in the handy dismissive style that invoked their secrets of shared childhood — It’s a Struggle to deal with gay-bashing. Enough, enough shit already. — Yet Steve knows he shared revulsion against the regime that denied human reality in the time and place to which by birth both belonged. Steve could go, once when he had to disappear quickly, to Alan, confident there was somewhere to be concealed for a few days. Alan was not afraid. This was not brought up now to claim comradeship with Steve and his woman.

— What do you two in-the-know think of the heir apparent so far?—

Steve claims. — Mbeki’s keeping up, so far. Except for what’s unbelievable — that he takes it on himself not to believe AIDS is a virus. He appoints a Minister of Health who prescribes African potatoes and — what is it — garlic and olive oil as a cure. Mandela had to deal with the morning-after when we all woke up from the party, FREE-DOM FREE-DOM FREE-DOM. But the hype was there, the thrilling possibilities the — how d’you say — absolute reassurance of Mandela in person while he was leading, making the changes — the immediate ones that could be brought off. Now it’s a different story…Government has to pick up the spade and tackle where we bulldozed apartheid. How long are whites going to dominate the economy? Who out of the handful of blacks who managed to gain the knowledge, know-how that qualifies, will really be able get into that powerful old boys’ cartel? Who’s going to change the hierarchy of the mine bosses — from the top. The goose that makes the country rich — blacks, they’re the ones who continue to deliver the golden eggs, the whites, grace of Anglo-American and Co. make the profit on the stock exchange.—

— Blacks are becoming shift bosses and mine captains, used to be only whites. — Jabu in the habit of their arguing enlightenment together, rather than interrupting.

— Underground! Kilometres down! Mine managers? No Radibes or Sitholes sitting in the manager’s chair, my girl. — She’s a Gumede or was until she became partner in the postbox identification at Glengrove Place, Mr and Mrs S. Reed. Twitch of a smile, eyes of others not following, meant for her. — I’m not looking at promotion at shaft levels, there’ll be no real change until there are black chairmen of the boards of directors. Black owners! Minister of Industries has to work on that. Trade unions have to work on him .—

— State ownership of mines, that’ll be coming up. Ask the unions—