Nadine Gordimer - No Time Like the Present

He and she — they sit on an unsteady swing couch. Hand within hand while these are not touching, not held.

— ANC’ll have to dig the wax out of ears before the elections come in 2014, that squalling prodigy Malema rallied his generation Brothers to vote first time Zuma Zuma Zuma, Zuma’d better start worrying whether they’ll dance with him all the way knee-high next time. Isn’t Malema lifting his to lead the dance himself? If not this time…after. One day. Soon. The five hundred thousand jobs Zuma promised as President? So where are they? The multi-million election victory celebration. The four hundred thousand he spent on a birthday bash for his daughter, and what about his nineteen or so other offspring and by-blows, will they all have birthday bashes at our tax expense? How many houses could have been built for three-generation families slumming in those abandoned downtown buildings, how many roofs could go up from the bill for French champagne gone down and pissed out by government ministers—

— There’ve been about two million houses. Eish . That’s nothing… — Peter is talking over Jake not defiantly but dismissively as if compensating for some congenital circumstance Jake himself — comrade — cannot be aware. — I’m the lucky one I have a house (spread hand waves to encompass the Suburb) I’ve got not just a job — it’s what we call a position, my wife has a business of her own, yes. But I — black, all of us, the beggar and big boss — I can walk where I like, move about my country, live in any place, city, get on any bus come in any door, send my kids to any school. That’s not nothing.—

Jake accepts — flinging right arm to catch his left below the shoulder — what a white cannot experience. But there’s no stalling him. — Strikes, they’re the employer these months, telecommunications, transport, electricity, every public servant from dustmen up, they’re taking over the country with blackouts and no-go streets they’re the worker-boss as full-time marcher to the headquarters of this commission and that. And NOW — the army, army —who can blame them, the ones it’s counted upon to do the head-bashing on workers if it comes to that. The army. Yesterday didn’t you see, the South African National Defence Force, three thousand rampaging under their banner at the Union Buildings, that’s boss government itself. Those supposed to protect us are the lowest paid government employees—

Blessing laughs out — So that’s the place to go! When there’s a strike I’m without my two cooks, although they share our profits, they want to show solidarity with other workers, their husbands from the municipality, one son with a bus company…—

— Since when do they have a union? — Eric of the Dolphin pool was in the apartheid army, remembers what doesn’t change with any regime. — Soldiers never have the right to strike. Jesus! Haven’t you heard call-in programmes, people saying the guys should be thrown out of the army in disgrace. Who cares if our ‘military force’ earns peanuts while we can send them off to earn us kudos, Congo and anywhere UN organisations are trying to prop up peace against oppressors — who those are and aren’t—

— Who’s for peace—

— Who’s doing the oppressing—

— ESCOM’s strike’s suspended anyway, going to be ‘allowed negotiations’ of the sticky issue, housing allowance — so we don’t risk rolling blackouts — for the time being, maybe.—

— What we ought to be worrying about is the mines, my man, platinum, the output’s about three thousand ounces a day, that’s worth fifty-eight million to the economy…—

— Wage settlement agreed today, strike continues tomorrow, tomorrow, all the tomorrows…—

— Tomorrow, tomorrow, Zuma’s connection with the arms deal’s gone away, e-eh — never brought to his day in court.—

— Three thousand ounces…The mining industry’s going to cut production, labour, avoid paying nearly fifty times more to its compensation fund for miners who’ve contracted silicosis TB over years. Some of them never saw a cent: went home to die. The owners got away with slow murder during apartheid. And after. Now, it’s part of our transformation: owners expect some compensation could close their record on exploitation if they paid up. Even if you can’t give men their lungs back.—

Jake’s drumming fingers are against the chest of all — ARMS. Hear me! Our free country at peace, we sell arms to countries with human rights records like Libya, Iran, Zimbabwe. Deals ‘allegedly’ approved by our National Arms Control. Right, Jabu? You’ve got it all in the Centre’s files for sure.—

(Cuttings come upon, dusting.) — The global village is too involved in arms trafficking to make laws against it. — Probably no one hears Jabu; Jake is the voice from the mountain, he’s thrusting a new bottle of wine round at each glass, potion all must imbibe from him in unspoken farewell toast: Australia. — Where are we. For once when he’s not in a tantrum Malema blames the old race of government ministers: whites. An accusation. But it’s a race whose characteristics have been adopted smartly by apt blacks in their ministry seats.—

— At least women’re recognised even though they’re white — Gill Marcus Reserve Bank Governor, Barbara Hogan Public Enterprises — and she’s a Struggle veteran.—

— Are these powers given to display the regime’s above revenge, in reverse for traditional white condescension that African — black — wasn’t capable of directing such portfolios? Or is it to woo the white voter for next time, 2014?—

— Marc, no prizes — but who is it who defends the ‘minority appointees’ white, Indian, too-pale-to-be-black? The SACP Communists say while they’re opposed to ugly ‘chauvinistic’ attitudes which persist in some places, a country’s narrow African chauvinism simply reproduces what does he call it, its counterpart. — Jake is lifting this phenomenon with his wine glass. — But our Zuma he opposes Lindiswe Sisulu, head of our ANC’s Social Transformation Unit, over her proposal to debate this kind of — symbol is it? — of race transformation. We pride ourselves on being a multiracial organisation, she says, and Zuma comes with ‘the debate will take the country backwards’.—

Ragged chorus — Don’t let’s talk about race — It’ll go away — Isa fondly removes from Jabu the burden of the glass of wine she’s not drinking.

Jabu and Steve are an example of those for whom it has all gone away. Away.

— Where’s Albert? — Dolphin Eric notices — no, Albert isn’t here, these days he’s present at any gatherings on the Reed family terrace but perhaps he knows he’d still be a stranger on the terraces of others although soon to be part of the Dolphin household; how he’ll fit in with a way of life not only his refugee status but a gender one he’s going to find unfamiliar…cleaning a pool was sharing a job not the intimacies of everyday.

— His wife was to come and be with him today. — Jabu’s locks shaking from the pinnacle of her fine head. — There’s no response from the cell phone, he doesn’t know what’s happening with this new violence. Trouble. As far as Steve and I can find out, it’s not in that place yet. But we had to stop him from going back there to see — if he hasn’t gone away after we left—

— Who knows how many Zims are in South Africa. Three million the government said — three years ago? What’s that new count, the other day? — Peter expects Jabu to be the most accurate with the figure.

Her way of running finger and thumb down an earlobe to the earring. — Nine-point-eight-four million. Twenty per cent of our population. Unlikely? Other officials’ and business organisations’ count is meant to be reassuringly lower.—