Nadine Gordimer - No Time Like the Present

— You can see how happy Gary Elias is! Doesn’t ever want to come to say goodbye to his Babamkhulu. Too busy-busy with the boys. Hai! I never see him here like with them, they are best friends to him — and they make a fuss for him, eish! — Wethu entertains in Zulu and in English, because Steve only half-understands the Zulu tongue. Wethu has by now made her transformation to the country the government tells the people is in the process of becoming. Eish —we are all South Africans. She comes back from the home village to her converted chicken run in the Suburb, at home in both.

Migrants Sought to Stimulate Economy

He had attended — that’s the inadequate word for action of a kind not relevant to his life — their life — a free seminar. Migrants sought to stimulate economy. The flattering inference, for those wanting to leave their country for another, that they would not be immigrants simply received charitably but would indeed be serving the needs of that grateful country. The Australian consultancy was particularly interested in — first of a list of desirables — people with degrees. He had in fact sat through the process as if secretly — clandestine form self-awareness: what are you doing here? There was among the attentive gathering in a conference room of one of the five-star chain hotels a single face recognised while looking to typify the attendants by class, the crude tape-measure, businessmen in suits and ties, others in informal outfits declaring their difference — someone from a faculty of the university. Unknown by name, but seen about, as he himself must have been recognised by the individual. Brothers under the academic gown invisible over their shoulders, no acknowledgement called for. One black man only. Difficult to read in classification because while wearing an elegant dashiki, not the cheap ones for sale in the passage at the Methodist Church, his crossed legs were in pinstripe trousers, his briefcase unscuffed fine leather. Why be so surprised? If there were some millions of black men invading South Africa out of poverty at home, why should there not be a bourgeois black man for his own reasons wanting to emigrate. Over there. Down Under. Some have already gone to the West, doctors opting for higher pay and better working conditions in hospitals.

One of the unimagined circumstances in the clandestine possibilities of what he had not abandoned was that you still had no one to talk to about it; an inhibition. Not even her.

The Australian representatives conducting proceedings were unpompous and friendly in their speech-making, even when warning the proviso ‘conditions apply’, and affable in exchange with those who asked complex questions, from educational policy to health insurance, income tax. Nobody asked about crime; whatever the safety situation might be, must be better than the one prospective emigrants would leave behind. Flee. Wasn’t that a morally acceptable reason, against betrayal of patriotism.

An immigration lawyer, registration number supplied, would be available for any one-on-one consultation. ‘Cost applies.’

Peter and Blessing play a tooted phrase twice in greeting whenever they drop Gary Elias after fetching him with their Njabulo from the chosen school. It was Wednesday, rugby training (that English game) after classes, so late afternoon.

— Comrade Steve home yet? — Peter calling from the car.

She was on the terrace helping Sindiswa with some research for homework — hoping to win the argument that the child should go to the encyclopaedia instead of, as second nature to her, Internet to save the trouble of turning all those pages.

Through the house to show herself at the front door. — He’s not back. But come in.—

— No, won’t disturb you, Jabu.—

— I’m pleased to be let off Sindi’s homework — you’re welcome, nafika kahle! —

A slamming of car doors, Njabulo and Gary Elias immediately disappear about their own affairs, the regular thump of the oval ball panting through the house. The three embrace cheek-about-cheek as comrades signal one another. Wave a hand — there’s Sindi at the computer on Internet…Exchange parents’ tussles with their children’s ideas of education, laughing critically; Blessing’s proud and jealous. — They can learn anything, we were stuck in our little books.—

The precious books decoded in detention. Without them how ever would Jabu have become a lawyer. There’s a swerving crunch over gravel in the yard and he’s arrived, Steve. It’s often a reminder — how attractive, to her, he sometimes is, other times you don’t really notice each other; today it’s as if he’s gone away and then come anew, there again, in everyday.

He carries radio batteries she asked him to remember, along with his university stuff, and an early edition of the evening paper under his arm although it’s delivered every evening. It drops on the cane and glass table (survivor of Glengrove Place) beside Peter, as if for him. — News of what the principal’s doing about it? — no need to identify as the head of that other university.

— They’re going to ‘deal’ with it in the university before a disciplinary committee. How does that sound to you.—

— Oh it’s just a student prank . — Peter’s lips twist and work. He makes the word a foreign one.

— Oh sure, high spirits, a jol that went a bit over the top.—

Across whatever Jabu is beginning to say. — They’re not going to expel them? — Blessing’s high voice cuts in — Not even the guy who — A gesture will do.

Steve reaches for the newspaper. It’s one that just gives the facts. — The disciplinary committee will decide on ‘appropriate action’.—With his files of student work brought home to mark he has another newspaper, less cautious in producing what’s coming before the disciplinary committee, board, whatever. It’s a press that is attacked as a rag by politicians who don’t want to see in print some of the things they’ve said or done. Open it and here’s again the picture taken from the video one of the students kept as a souvenir, trophy? — didn’t have the sense to destroy. Gloating grinning faces applauding the stream of urine going into the potjiekos from one whose back’s to camera. Legs sturdily planted apart.

— I don’t want to see. — Blessing’s hand up to her eyes.

Peter with a laugh bursting as a rude noise. — I don’t know why you’re all in such a state — man, isn’t it what you’d expect? Having what’s for them a good time. — But turning seriously on himself — So if the principal expels a couple of them, which ones? And divide the rest up, some of the guys sent to this hostel, some to that? Punish them by having to live with students who see them as rubbish? Must be some in that place who know what that is, even in the Free State University . But what’ll they care, the rubbish. They should be kicked out. Not accepted at any university.—

So. Anger. Revulsion to be satisfied by in-house punishment rap-over-the-knuckles of the ‘rubbish’. The law, justice as she learnt early on in an LLB correspondence course, is founded on the principle of perpetrator and victim. — None of us — not the newspapers he’s brought — is talking about the cleaners, the lowest at the bottom of our pile. Who’s thinking about the men and the women invited to the ‘party’? Who’s asking if the university Convocation, their academic justice is justice for these people? There’s the law, redress under our Constitution. That’s the only justice. — The comrades (surely he) ought to see that. She’s donned authority like a black gown worn in court. — A university committee, senate, convocation — go as high as you like — they cannot send down a decision in terms of the Declaration of Human Rights. The students must come to account. A criminal indictment against them. Charged. Nothing else. Nothing less.—