The evangelist, fired up and passionate, told his radio listeners: “When you are blind, don’t allow yourself to be led by the blind, because all of you might fall off the precipice,” he ranted. “Never be the one who, naively, will be led to the slaughter house by the blind like you,” he roared on, encouraged and inspired by his subject.
The evangelist’s sermon was part of a motivational programme broadcast nationally and was always top of the charts in the religious and motivation sections. Everyone who understood his language scrambled to hear his daily messages. These messages also reached the people high on the mountains of the Drakensburg on the border between Kwa-Zulu Natal and the Free State.
There, a man lived with his family on the Free State side of the divide. His farm was of immense potential and richness, but, sadly for his aspirations, it produced barely enough for a handful of families, resulting in an income of meagre pennies.
He too, like millions of radio listeners in the republic, listened to the evangelist on his radio and he frowned, his mind wandering to the politics of the day, wondering if the evangelist meant what he, as a farmer, was thinking of.
Mohau, that was his name, was a studious man of mild manners and, up to a point, sober in his approach to the challenges that life brought upon men like him. He was aware of his place in the sun, in the world where race defined who made the laws and who dictated to the economics of life, in the world where being poor was not a choice but a stipulation, an indication of which colour, background and creed you were. If you were rich but were in the colour box of those who are supposed to be poor then all glory was bestowed on you. You would be likened to the people on their side of the line and patronised, if the situation called for it. If you were so patronised, the rich would even, sometimes, discuss the plight of your own poor people as if they were not of your own race, implying that they are heathens, lazy and always looking for hand-outs and entitlement. They will also add that you, on the other hand, have a different attitude from ‘them’, that you are ‘civilised’ and hard-working. And full of ‘understanding’.
Mohau thought about this and spat aggressively on the ground. It is an entirely disgraceful, prejudiced way of looking at things, his thoughts continued, a sick determination by the rich about the poor while practicality and application determined that you should be well-off in your own right, regardless of the colour on your skin, among other things.
He was therefore not rich because the law was not on his side. Like all farmers, he was taxed heavily if his harvest exceeded a certain number of a standard, so he made sure he did not transgress the laws of the people across the border and that of the present government although he knew, and was aware, that it was his black-led party that ruled the land, that determined the its laws, its media, how people thought and behaved and, how they should make their money. “But,” he asked himself savagely, “how do the invincible rulers on the other side of the divide think? They always think of themselves first, then their pets, then their property, then the money, then God, if they ever do remember Him at all.”
His farm was not making money because: ‘I cannot put a finger to it’, as he put it. But the fact is that it was not making money because he did not have a big clientele with big money to buy from him. He marketed well and hit the road in search of big business, but they always told him a story or two why they could not buy from him at that time. They always promised to buy ‘next time’. But he and his friends and everyone else knew the market was cleverly secured exclusively to a section of the business population.
So, after listening to the fiery evangelist, his gaze was directed on the other side of the world, in KwaZulu-Natal, where a farming neighbour, a new man on the horizon, from overseas he heard, more affluent than him he believed, led a successful story. His eyes watered when he looked at his paltry livestock grazing along the river while on the other side of it, at the foot of the momentous mountain; he saw a large herd of cows, goats and sheep of his counterpart grazing lazily, as if assured of the peace of the land.
“He bought the farm not so long ago,” farmers in his circle whispered as they discussed the land and who should own it. “He did not have trouble buying it,” they pointed that out to him. “He has money, you see. And obviously big connections,” they sneered.
“That is not the point,”Mohau interjected, “the issue is: Who sold him the land? Who betrayed us?”
So his gaze across the river was with much more than mere interest. It was laden with so much disgust than it was with admiration. He was appalled in the way the new man nonchalantly moved around with so much arrogance as he shepherded his animals across the lush grazing lands. He was angry that, in his case, he acquired land after Pretoria took ages to grant it to him. Government officials were persistent and looked at so many of the sections of the constitution, they consulted with many other officials and so much debate was held and so many questions asked and yet again. His business plan was also one document which needed so much scrutiny. And, along the lines, his applications were rejected because, invariably, a fault would be found in his business plan. Nobody bothered, at times, to marvel at his knowledge of the farming industry. It was knowledge he gained from working for white farmers when he was a labourer. The rich, the opulent people, the people who ask many questions about his business plan, did not bother to ask him about his vast farming experience. What they are only interested in is to ask him about his five-year projections and about his political affiliations. And how much will he sell the farm for.
Then, suddenly without warning, he heard a man call out of the silence of the farm. The call came from across the river. His eyes, once more, rose to look up across the divide. The caller was the new, affluent man, attracting his attention. Mohau stiffened, and he felt bile rise from inside his guts and into his mouth and the bitterness riled his senses. So, absentmindedly, without intention, he snubbed the man. As a fellow farmer, and a human being, he wanted to acknowledge the man, but the issues that surrounded the land clouded his mind, and he instantly changed direction and turned his back to him, angry at the man and angry at himself.
Silence enveloped him, except for the usual sounds of the farmland; cows mellowing, sheep bleating and buzzing insects irritant.
He wants a chit chat, Mohau thought. He wants a chirpy, happy small talk as if things were on the equal, he mumbled. But everyone knows that things are not on the level. There is no equality at all. Even the president, who has a farm full of rich, magnificent Ankola cows, knows that. He knows, but he keeps talking as if we are forcing the unreasonable on these people, as if we are out of our minds, as if we are not eager, like these people, to feed our country from the womb of our African soil. We do, just like my neighbour does, his thoughts continued. Apart from the president, on the other hand, a young man in parliament, known as the firebrand, or the commander-in-chief, fuels the land fire but owns no fire extinguisher or a wind pipe to fan the rains to bring sanity to the saga.
So Mohau, although he knows that he needs more than the land to feed the nation, wonders what would happen should the man known as The fire brand succeed in his quest to deliver the promised land. “I have no money to buy expensive machinery,” he grumbles out loud to himself. It takes forever for the Ankola man’s people to work on a paper, let alone papers. “When it is time to look at your papers the first thing they want to look at is the dreaded business plan,” he remembers angrily.
And suddenly, rudely, he was shaken out of his thoughts when he realised a shadow falling along with that of his own and he hesitated, but kept his presence. He became aware that he was no longer alone. He was conscious that, at that time of the day his workers and every body else were away from his dwelling and his kraals, busy with tasks in the fields. So there was supposed to be no one nearby. And there was the situation with crime. It was a disturbing factor in the area, if not the land, so he thought that he was about to be hijacked, or robbed.
He spun around and was immediately stunned. The man from across the river was standing next to him. And, Mohau’s dogs, which were running playfully around him all along in a merry-go-around, were now fawning up to the white man. Anger brew in his marrows and swelled in his muscles. He jerked around and confronted the farmer, but the latter merely grinned and extended his right hand for a greeting. But Mohau ignored the man’s hand. The first thing that came into his mind was to tell the white farmer to leave him and his farm alone, but the glint in the man’s eye blunted his fury.
Grinning happily, the man said, “Hi mate, I am Henry.” So this confirms it, Mohau thought as the man spoke in his distinct foreign accent. “He is a foreigner, a European,” he mumbled to himself, “our former colonisers.”
“So?” he asked out loud, indignant.
“We are neighbours, aren’t we mate?” Henry asked him. The way in which the white man spoke reminded Mohau of how the rich treat those they deem inferior to them. He refused to fawn to the man in the way his dogs were.
“So?” he repeated his question, steadfast to stand his ground. He owned the land on which the white man stood and this was his country. He fought for it. He took part in countless marches to free it. He was involved in the struggle.
“I came to say hi,” Henry said. “I am new here and I am keen to know my neighbours and all things local.”
“But you can do that with your people on your side of the divide,”Mohau said, still distant, still looking straight into the man’ eyes. “Your people,” he said and pointed to the other side.
But Henry was undeterred by Mohau’s angry stance. He replied simply, “You are my people, you are a fellow farmer.”
“So because of that we are friends?”
“Maybe not, but we are in the same boat, so to speak mate.”
Mohau looked away for a moment while he thought about this, then, without saying anything further, he shook his head.
Henry, with an easy smile on his face, stood waiting, his head tilted to the side. When
Mohau said nothing Henry shifted his feet and sauntered to one of the three tree stumps nearby and sat on it, crossing his legs, while Mohau’s dogs played around him. Henry said: “Let us forget about the hullabaloo and talk about us.”
“What hullabaloo?”
“Yes, let’s forget about the noise about the land for a while,” Henry said firmly.
Mohau was baffled. How dare this man come onto my property to tell me to forget about the land? He has a nerve, or he is blind? But seeing the other man lolling on the tree stump and looking up at him, Mohau suddenly felt naked and forlorn standing up there like a bean pole. He slowly looked around him as if unsure of things then, hiding his confusion, deliberately slowed his movements as he sat down on one of the tree stumps.
“Are you not going to offer me a drink, Mohau?” Henry asked him with a bishop’s benign smile on his face.
“There is no time for tea. The land is much more important than the luxury of small talk and tea,” Mohau said as he looked intently at Henry, trying to make up his mind about him.
“Aw, come on mate. Leave the politicians alone as they go about trying to look smart on the land debate. It is you and I who will make this thing right.”
“How so?” Mohau asked, anxious. “You people are sure defaulting on the land you stole,” he continued, pointing at Henry. He was a smouldering furnace, waiting for an excuse to explode.
But Henry was all serenity and sure of himself. “Let us be blind to all the negative talk about hate and about white and black and be farmers for while,” he said in his easy manner. “Let us farm together. You need the prestige. I need the money. It can’t be more practical than that. If we work things out as farmers we will reap the harvest. I need to secure a big contract from a supermarket chain. To secure it I need you in the same way in which you need me.”
For a minute or so Mohau said nothing as he looked out into the distance, his eyes narrowed while he pondered what Henry said. It was true that his farm was not performing to its potential, and it needed a boost. He also wanted to assure government officials that he can make it work and to prove to the world that black farmers knew what they were doing. And the money will come in handy too.
Henry continued in his easy stance and demeanour, and waited.
“How do you I know this is for real?” Mohau finally asked.
“Trust me,” Henry assured him. “Do you think I can cross the line just to play marbles with you? I haven’t the time to waste here. I want money, you want prestige.”
Mohau seemed to think about this for a while and in the process some of his anger dissipated. “I see,” he sighed, and then the silence continued. He thought about all that money to be made and what it will do for him. His thoughts wandered to the respect he will carry when he was considered successful and his farm doing well in the market. He urged himself on, accept that I am on the road to success, he said to himself.
Then Henry, seemingly having decided that Mohau actually agrees to his offer, got up and offered his hand. This time Mohau extended his hand and the two men shook their hands, unsurely and hesitatingly at first, but with Mohau showing a hint of a smile, the hand shake became firm and reassuring.
“I will come by with my lawyer tomorrow morning,” Henry told Mohau. “It is not about the land,” he said seriously, with an edge to his voice. “It is about being blind to the politicians and their hangers-on. It is about your prestige, and about the money.”
No comments:
Post a Comment