Cry, the Beloved Country Read online

  KLOOF An Afrikaans word now as fully English. Pronounced as written. Means “ravine” or even a valley if the sides are steep. But it would not be used of a great valley like the Umzimkulu.

  KRAAL An Afrikaans word now as fully English. Pronounced in English “crawl”. An enclosure for cattle, where they come for milking, or where in the early days they were kept for protection. But it may also mean a number of huts together, under the rule of the head of the family, who is of course subject to the chief.

  KUMÁLO “U” as “oo” as in “book”, “a” as in “father”. The “o” midway between “o” in “pot” and “o” in “born”.

  LITHÉBE Pronounced “ditebe”, “e” approximately as in “bed”.

  MSIMÁNGU The word is pronounced with the lips initially closed. Therefore no vowel precedes the “M”. Pronounced approximately as written.

  NDOTSHÉNI Approximately “Indotsheni”. “O” midway between “o” in “pot” and “o” in “born”, “e” almost as “a” in “pane”, “i” as “ee”. Last vowel hardly sounded.

  NKOSI SIKELÉL’ iAFRIKA Means “God bless Africa”, though in the book it is taken to mean “God save Africa”. This lovely hymn is rapidly becoming accepted as the national anthem of the black people. At any mixed meeting therefore, where goodwill prevails, three such anthems are sung at the conclusion, “God Save the King”, “Die Stem Van Suid-Afrika”, and “Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika”. This is co-operative, but very wearing. But such meetings are rare. Pronunciation, “Nkosi” almost as “Inkosi”, “sikelele” with “k” as hard “g”, and “e” approximately as in “bed”, “iAfrika” with “a” as in “father”, “i” as shortened “ee”.

  ODENDAALSRÚST Pronounced by English-speaking people as written.

  PIETERMÁRITZBURG Pronounced by English-speaking people as written. A city founded by the Voortrekkers Piet Retief and Gert Maritz. Capital of the Province of Natal.

  PRETÓRIA Pronounced by English-speaking people as written. A city named after the Voortrekker Pretorius. Capital of the Union of South Africa.

  SIYÁFA “I” as “ee”, “a” as in “father”. Means “we die”.

  TITIHÓYA A plover-like bird. The name is onomatopoeic.

  TÍXO I rejected the Zulu word for the Great Spirit as too long and difficult. This is the Xosa word. It is also difficult to pronounce, but may be pronounced “Teeko”, the “o” being midway the “o” in “pot” and the “o” of “born”.

  UMFÚNDISI The last “i” is hardly sounded. Pronounce approximately “oomfóondees”, the “oo” being as in “book”, and the “ees” as “eace” in the word “peace”. Means “parson”, but is also a title and used with respect.

  UMNÚMZANA Pronounced “oomnóomzaan”. Means “sir”.

  UMZIMKÚLU Pronounced by English-speaking people as “umzimkóoloo”, but the “oo” is very long as in “coo”.

  VELD An Afrikaans word now as fully English. Pronounced in both languages as “felt”. Means open grass country. Or it may mean the grass itself, as when a farmer looks down at his feet, and says, this veld is poor.

  XÓSA The pronunciation is difficult. English-speaking people pronounce it “Kosa”, “o” midway between “o” in “pot” and “o” in “born”, “a” almost as “u” in “much”. A native tribe of the Eastern Cape.

  ZÚLU The great tribe of Zululand, which overflowed into Natal and other parts. Both “u”’s are long as in “coo”.

  In all cases where such words as umfundisi, umnumzana, are used as forms of address, the initial vowel is dropped. But I thought it wise to omit this complication.

  Book I

  1

  THERE IS A lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa. About you there is grass and bracken and you may hear the forlorn crying of the titihoya, one of the birds of the veld. Below you is the valley of the Umzimkulu, on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea; and beyond and behind the river, great hill after great hill; and beyond and behind them, the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand.

  The grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. It holds the rain and the mist, and they seep into the ground, feeding the streams in every kloof. It is well-tended, and not too many cattle feed upon it; not too many fires burn it, laying bare the soil. Stand unshod upon it, for the ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is destroyed. Where you stand the grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. But the rich green hills break down. They fall to the valley below, and falling, change their nature. For they grow red and bare; they cannot hold the rain and mist, and the streams are dry in the kloofs. Too many cattle feed upon the grass, and too many fires have burned it. Stand shod upon it, for it is coarse and sharp, and the stones cut under the feet. It is not kept, or guarded, or cared for, it no longer keeps men, guards men, cares for men. The titihoya does not cry here any more.

  The great red hills stand desolate, and the earth has torn away like flesh. The lightning flashes over them, the clouds pour down upon them, the dead streams come to life, full of the red blood of the earth. Down in the valleys women scratch the soil that is left, and the maize hardly reaches the height of a man. They are valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away, the young men and the girls are away. The soil cannot keep them any more.

  2

  THE SMALL CHILD ran importantly to the wood-and-iron church with the letter in her hand. Next to the church was a house and she knocked timidly on the door. The Reverend Stephen Kumalo looked up from the table where he was writing, and he called, Come in.

  The small child opened the door, carefully like one who is afraid to open carelessly the door of so important a house, and stepped timidly in. I bring a letter, umfundisi.

  A letter, eh? Where did you get it, my child?

  From the store, umfundisi. The white man asked me to bring it to you.

  That was good of you. Go well, small one.

  But she did not go at once. She rubbed one bare foot against the other, she rubbed one finger along the edge of the umfundisi’s table.

  Perhaps you might be hungry, small one.

  Not very hungry, umfundisi.

  Perhaps a little hungry.

  Yes, a little hungry, umfundisi.

  Go to the mother then. Perhaps she has some food.

  I thank you, umfundisi.

  She walked delicately, as though her feet might do harm in so great a house, a house with tables and chairs, and a clock, and a plant in a pot, and many books, more even than the books at the school.

  Kumalo looked at his letter. It was dirty, especially about the stamp. It had been in many hands, no doubt. It came from Johannesburg; now there in Johannesburg were many of his own people. His brother John, who was a carpenter, had gone there, and had a business of his own in Sophiatown, Johannesburg. His sister Gertrude, twenty-five years younger than he, and the child of his parents age, had gone there with her small son to look for the husband who had never come back from the mines. His only child Absalom had gone there, to look for his aunt Gertrude, and he had never returned. And indeed many other relatives were there, though none so near as these. It was hard to say from whom this letter came, for it was so long since any of these had written, that one did not well remember their writing.

  He turned the letter over, but there was nothing to show from whom it came. He was reluctant to open it, for once such a thing is opened, it cannot be shut again.

  He called to his wife, has the child gone?

  She is eating, Stephen.

  Let her eat then. She brought a letter. Do you know anything about a letter?

  How should I know, Stephen?

  No, t
hat I do not know. Look at it.

  She took the letter and she felt it. But there was nothing in the touch of it to tell from whom it might be. She read out the address slowly and carefully:

  Rev. Stephen Kumalo,

  St. Mark’s Church.

  Ndotsheni.

  NATAL.

  She mustered up her courage, and said, it is not from our son.

  No, he said. And he sighed. It is not from our son.

  Perhaps it concerns him, she said.

  Yes, he said. That may be so.

  It is not from Gertrude, she said.

  Perhaps it is my brother John.

  It is not from John, she said.

  They were silent, and she said, How we desire such a letter, and when it comes, we fear to open it.

  Who is afraid, he said. Open it.

  She opened it, slowly and carefully, for she did not open so many letters. She spread it out open, and read it slowly and carefully, so that he did not hear all that she said. Read it aloud, he said.

  She read it aloud, reading as a Zulu who reads English.

  The Mission House,

  Sophiatown,

  Johannesburg.

  25/9/46.

  My Dear Brother in Christ,

  I have had the experience of meeting a young woman here in Johannesburg. Her name is Gertrude Kumalo, and I understand she is the sister of the Rev. Stephen Kumalo, St. Mark’s Church, Ndotsheni. This young woman is very sick, and therefore I ask you to come quickly to Johannesburg. Come to the Rev. Theophilus Msimangu, the Mission House, Sophiatown, and there I shall give you some advices. I shall also find accommodation for you, where the expenditure will not be very serious.

  I am, dear brother in Christ,

  Yours faithfully,

  Theophilus Msimangu.

  There were both silent till at long last she spoke.

  Well, my husband?

  Yes, what is it?

  This letter, Stephen. You have heard it now.

  Yes, I have heard it. It is not an easy letter.

  It is not an easy letter. What will you do?

  Has the child eaten?

  She went to the kitchen and came back with the child.

  Have you eaten, my child?

  Yes, umfundisi.

  Then go well, my child. And thank you for bringing the letter. And will you take my thanks to the white man at the store?

  Yes, umfundisi.

  Then go well, my child.

  Stay well, umfundisi.

  Stay well, mother.

  Go well, my child.

  So the child went delicately to the door, and shut it behind her gently, letting the handle turn slowly like one who fears to let it turn fast. When the child was gone, she said to him, what will you do, Stephen?

  About what, my wife?

  She said patiently to him, about this letter, Stephen?

  He sighed. Bring me the St. Chad’s money, he said. She went out, and came back with a tin, of the kind in which they sell coffee or cocoa, and this she gave to him. He held it in his hand, studying it, as though there might be some answer in it, till at last she said, it must be done, Stephen.

  How can I use it? he said. This money was to send Absalom to St. Chad s.

  Absalom will never go now to St. Chad s.

  How can you say that? he said sharply. How can you say such a thing?

  He is in Johannesburg, she said wearily. When people go to Johannesburg, they do not come back.

  You have said it, he said. It is said now. This money which was saved for that purpose will never be used for it. You have opened a door, and because you have opened it, we must go through. And Tixo alone knows where we shall go.

  It was not I who opened it, she said, hurt by his accusation. It has a long time been open, but you would not see.

  We had a son, he said harshly. Zulus have many children, but we had only one son. He went to Johannesburg, and as you said when people go to Johannesburg, they do not come back. They do not even write any more. They do not go to St. Chad’s to learn that knowledge without which no black man can live. They go to Johannesburg, and there they are lost, and no one hears of them at all. And this money…

  But she had no words for it, so he said, it is here in my hand. And again she did not speak, so he said again, it is here in my hand.

  You are hurting yourself, she said.

  Hurting myself? Hurting myself? I do not hurt myself, it is they who are hurting me. My own son, my own sister, my own brother. They go away and they do not write any more. Perhaps it does not seem to them that we suffer. Perhaps they do not care for it.

  His voice rose into loud and angry words. Go up and ask the white man, he said. Perhaps there are letters. Perhaps they have fallen under the counter, or been hidden amongst the food. Look there in the trees, perhaps they have been blown there by the wind.

  She cried out at him, You are hurting me also.

  He came to himself and said to her humbly, that I may not do.

  He held out the tin to her. Open it, he said.

  With trembling hands she took the tin and opened it. She emptied it out over the table, some old and dirty notes, and a flood of silver and copper.

  Count it, he said.

  She counted it laboriously, turning over the notes and the coins to make sure what they were. Twelve pounds, five shillings and seven pence. I shall take, he said, I shall take eight pounds, and the shillings and pence. Take it all, Stephen. There may be doctors, hospitals, other troubles. Take it all. And take the Post Office Book there is ten pounds in it you must take that also. I have been saving that for your stove, he said. That cannot be helped, she said. And that other money, though we saved it for St. Chad s, I had meant it for your new black clothes, and a new black hat, and new white collars. That cannot be helped either. Let me see, I shall go ¦. Tomorrow, she said. From Carisbrooke. I shall write to the Bishop now, and tell him I do not know how long I shall be gone.

  He rose heavily to his feet, and went and stood before her. I am sorry I hurt you, he said. I shall go and pray in the church.

  He went out of the door, and she watched him through the little window, walking slowly to the door of the church. Then she sat down at his table, and put her head on it, and was silent, with the patient suffering of black women, with the suffering of oxen, with the suffering of any that are mute. All roads lead to Johannesburg. Through the long nights the trains pass to Johannesburg. The lights of the swaying coach fall on the cutting-sides, on the grass and the stones of a country that sleeps. Happy the eyes that can close.

  3

  THE SMALL TOY train climbs up on its narrow gauge from the Umzimkulu valley into the hills. It climbs up to Carisbrooke, and when it stops there, you may get out for a moment and look down on the great valley from which you have come. It is not likely the train will leave you, for there are few people here, and every one will know who you are. And even if it did leave you, it would not much matter; for unless you are a cripple, or very old, you could run after it and catch it for yourself.

  If there is mist here, you will see nothing of the great valley. The mist will swirl about and below you, and the train and the people make a small world of their own. Some people do not like it, and find it cold and gloomy. But others like it, and find in it mystery and fascination, and prelude to adventure, and an intimation of the unknown. The train passes through a world of fancy, and you can look through the misty panes at green shadowy banks of grass and bracken. Here in their season grow the blue agapanthus, the wild watsonia, and the red-hot poker, and now and then it happens that one may glimpse an arum in a dell. And always behind them the dim wall of the wattles, like ghosts in the mist.

  It is interesting to wait for the train at Carisbrooke, while it climbs up out of the great valley. Those who know can tell you with each whistle where it is, at what road, what farm, what river. But though Stephen Kumalo has been there a full hour before he need, he does not listen to these
things. This is a long way to go, and a lot of money to pay. And who knows how sick his sister may be, and what money that may cost? And if he has to bring her back, what will that cost too? And Johannesburg is a great city, with so many streets they say that a man can spend his days going up one and down another, and never the same one twice. One must catch buses too, but not as here, where the only bus that comes is the right bus. For there there is a multitude of buses, and only one bus in ten, one bus in twenty maybe, is the right bus. If you take the wrong bus, you may travel to quite some other place. And they say it is danger to cross the street, yet one must needs cross it. For there the wife of Mpanza of Ndotsheni, who had gone there when Mpanza was dying, saw her son Michael killed in the street. Twelve years and moved by excitement, he stepped out into danger, but she was hesitant and stayed at the curb. And under her eyes the great lorry crushed the life out of her son.

  And the great fear too the greatest fear since it was so seldom spoken. Where was their son? Why did he not write any more?

  There is a last whistle and the train is near at last. The parson turns to his companion. Friend, I thank you for your help. Umfundisi, I was glad to help you. You could not have done it alone. This bag is heavy.

  The train is nearer, it will soon be in. Umfundisi. My friend. Umfundisi, I have a favour to ask. Ask it then. You know Sibeko? Yes.

  Well, Sibeko’s daughter worked here for the white man uSmith in Ixopo. And when the daughter of uSmith married, she went to Johannesburg, and Sibeko’s daughter went with them to work. The address is here, with the new name of this married woman. But Sibeko has heard no word of his daughter this ten, twelve months. And he asks you to inquire.