Walls of Lilliput

By Ben Wright

“The relationship between religion and politics is often perceived as that of water and oil. Compassionately, yet courageously, the author allows the characters in the book to show us the Walls of Lilliput - the Beautiful Lies behind politics, and the Ugly Truths behind religion. The yearning of the characters for Politics and Religion to once more be made Beautiful and Truthful, is a compelling spiritual vision throughout the book. The reader is invited into this world and becomes a character interpreting our past and reimaging the future in the present. Ben masterfully uses everyday language, humour, ordinary places, names and people to gently, yet authentically welcome the reader into a place of vulnerability, self-confrontation, and self-examination. This is a risky place, yet necessary for self-healing and transformation.
This book should be read by everyone serious about contributing to the change we wish to see in our homes, communities, and country.
The invaluable role of the Church as an agent of healing and transformation, is highlighted throughout this book.”
- Rev Dr H Leon Klein
DpEd; DpTh; BA Hons(Theo); MA,PhD (Fam Therapy.); University Lecturer; Ordained Minister; Head of National Counselling Centre Development Ministry (NCCDM), Motivational Speaker; Writer.

About the author
Ben Wright: Social and Education Activist, Teacher; Pastoral and Spiritual Counsellor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Wright
• Release date: Mar 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005936808

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The blue bottle circled above the heads of the people standing in the hot sun. Basil Williams was watching the insect as it made its, directionless pattern. A face before him suddenly caught his attention. It was John Matthews, one of the schoolteachers, making his way towards the back, his pimply face only worsening his red-rimmed eyes.

‘No matter what everybody says,’ he was wailing in a thin voice. ‘I still say he was the best principal we ever had.’

He snorted and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘Rock of ages, cleft for me.

Let me hide myself in Theeeeee!!!!’

The strands of the hymn hung heavily in the air. The clothes on his body felt sticky and uncomfortable.

‘A man we can all respect,’ Matthews was muttering as he passed Basil, leaving a whiff of sour liquor fumes in his wake.

Basil’s eyes came to rest instinctively on Milly Sanders’ face. The way her head was tilted on her slender neck singled her out in this crowd.

‘For the wages of the sin is death!’ the pastor was shouting.

Basil hurriedly shouted: ‘AMEN.’

He felt he could bite off his tongue. He turned his head in Milly’s direction and felt the full force of her gaze as their eyes locked. My God, was there a mocking smile on her face? That girl could drain his confidence and faith in a split second and the thought flashed through his mind that she could read him like an open book.

‘Wonder who he is now trying to please?’

Basil did not say a word, but turned away from John and looked straight ahead. He felt uncomfortable. Since returning to Vaalvlei, John had been one of his most persistent opponents. His dislike for Basil had its roots in the rivalry that had divided the small community for ages: the two points of view the people had about the education system. Mr Losper believed the government’s system was the right one, but Mr Harold wanted to establish a new school where the Cambridge Senior Certificate exams would be written.

Basil looked over the congregation’s heads as they sang and, from across the crowd, caught Moira van Zyl looking at him. The blue eyes that were her ticket to open doors in this world glow at him.

‘Please Lord, keep me from temptation,’ he prayed earnestly although his eyes remained locked with Moira’s. A flicker of a smile appeared on her face.

Wrenching away his gaze, he focused on the hole into which the coffin had disappeared.

He walked home after the funeral, avoiding the traditional meal with fellow mourners, and found his mother standing in the doorway dividing the kitchen cubicle from the next room. She was still wearing her lilac dress. Countless people had told him his mother was a beautiful woman, but he honestly could not tell. She had a calmness and self-possession that forced people to speak quietly in her presence.

‘Hello,’ she said looking at him.

‘Is the king back?’

His father stood in the bedroom doorway, hair dishevelled, big eyes red-rimmed and face heavily creased.

‘You’re back from your fancy friends? Did you decide to come back to us?’ he sneered.

Basil turned to his mother for guidance, but as usual, her face only carried the smile of secret knowledge. Without answering his father, he walked out the back door - the deep depression again settling on his soul. He remembered the lonely times in Cape Town. Images jumped into his mind before the paralysis followed draining his strength. He walked aimlessly, barely focusing on his surroundings. Suddenly his heart jerked. She was of slender build, but it was her graceful neck that intrigued him.

‘Hello Milly.’ He tried to keep his voice neutral.

‘Oh, hello Basil,’ she said, looking up, offering him her beautiful, spontaneous smile.

‘How are you?’ Basil knew that she was seventeen years old, but her eyes reflected a depth of maturity and knowledge that belied her years.

‘I’m fine, thank you. You?’

She swung back and forth on the gate; a beautiful movement she performed so naturally.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ he answered before an awkward silence settled into which he had no appropriate words to pour.

‘Oh, hello Neil.’ Milly waved to the young man approaching.

Basil observed the squat body affixed with a simple grin and was overcome by the instinct to kick Neil.

‘Hello Milly,’ Neil grinned and Basil could not help but notice the devotion dancing across his face.

‘Hello Neil.’ Basil tried adding a hint of warmth into his tone.

Neil momentarily looked at Basil, acknowledging the greeting before returning to Milly. As Basil watched their easy banter, he felt the anger surge from deep within him.

‘Weren’t you two at the funeral?’

His voice sounded louder than he intended and they both stared at him. She had done it again! Made him angry, but he was already past caring.

‘Have you no respect for the dead? Mr Losper was a respected man.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Pardon me.’ Milly’s voice had an edge to it. ‘No disrespect Basil, we were just talking about what happened.’

‘It’s not and you know it. You were laughing at a time when people should be serious,’ Basil retorted, his voice becoming louder.

‘You are being unfair.’ Milly’s chin had lifted. ‘We’re enjoying a joke.’

‘Besides,’ added Neil in a voice tinged with laughter. ‘Mr Losper cannot hear us. I wish he could, because he would maybe laugh a little more than he did in life, but he can’t.’

‘How dare you speak like that of a man who served his community with such loyalty?’

‘What did he do? Cause the death of a good man? Mr Harold was a far better man than Losper ever was.’ Neil’s tone had switched to bitterness.

‘What do you know? You’re nothing but a farm boy!’ Basil blazed.

‘Please you two, stop shouting.’ Milly’s voice was quiet but decisive. ‘Let’s go inside and stop this senseless arguing.’

Yet, even as she said this, she was looking at Neil as if regarding him the reasonable one.

Smiling at Milly, Neil opened the gate. ‘Okay. Have you got that LP of Peaches and Herbs?’

Milly nodded.

‘Let’s listen.’

Neil ran down the path to the door leaving Basil and Milly momentarily staring at each other. A puzzled frown appeared on Milly’s face. Then her expression turned to one of hurt. She shook her head, turned away and walked towards the house. Basil hesitated, wanting to call her, but the words escaped him and he could only watch as she continued walking while he remained anchored to his place beside the gate fighting off the temptation to pound it.

—

What a waste, Basil thought walking past the expansive community hall – the town’s centre of entertainment and cultural activity. It resembled a stranded ship amid the sand and grass and was a place where hordes of youth had lost their innocence. It was a place he avoided. He walked on. The house before which he was standing was just another pea in the pod. It was flanked by virtually identical homes and, like most of the houses in the neighbourhood, stood naked in the brown sand. This was a newly developed area and the currently forlorn appearance was more starkly contrasted by the approaching darkness.

Basil knocked and waited. A faint light shone through the windows, sending out a sliver of light on to the dark street. After a while, the door was opened and a round chubby face appeared framed by the backlit candlelight. For a moment saucer-large eyes peered suspiciously into the dark before a smile flickered.

‘Come in. Why are you walking about?’ The voice was high pitched with controlled excitement, but then Hendrick Verwey always displayed a state of excitement.

Basil entered the house. The large room was sparsely furnished and the smell of wet cement clung to the air.

‘Come man! Sit down.’

Hendrick pointed to the chair standing in the corner. ‘We were wondering where you were. You seem to have forgotten your old friends now you are in with the high bucks.’ He snorted to remove the sting from his words, but Basil saw the flicker of enquiry in his eyes.

‘No Hen. You know I’ll never forget you and Nancy.’

The chair felt hard underneath him.

‘That’s just what he’s saying, Hendrick. He’s getting too important to visit us.’

‘Oh Nan, how can you say such a thing?’ Basil rose and touched her hand, prompting her short laugh as she pulled away.

‘Well Hendrick is right. It has been a long time since you have been here. We don’t see you in church anymore.’

Basil turned to Hendrick. ‘I saw you at the funeral,’ he said as something to change the conversation.

‘Yes. It was quite a big funeral.’ Hendrick’s voice was non-committal.

‘He was quite a respected man.’

A frown drew between Hendrick’s eyes. He was sitting at the table playing with the candlewick. Nancy walked to the kitchen.

‘I don’t know. There are quite a number of people who would not think so.’

Hendrick focused his gaze on the ceiling, the restlessness of his fingers increasing.

‘I have been teaching with him for six months and know he was quite well-liked in the community. People thought well of him.’

‘I don’t doubt some people thought highly of him, especially those whose parents knew him well and for whom he secured bursaries.’ Hendrick’s voice was a note higher than before.

‘He secured my college bursary, but that had nothing to do with it.’

‘You know I was not talking about you. We’re brothers in the Lord you and me. I was talking of his family and the people hanging around Oom Jan Fester.’

There it was. Out in the open. The cancer in our society.

‘Hendrick is just irritated with Oom Jan again.’ Nancy spoke quickly as she entered the room carrying two cups brimming with fresh coffee.

‘Sorry, no tray,’ she said, placing the cups on the table next to her husband.

‘Who wouldn’t be with things the way they are in this place?’

Hendrick scowled at the candle as Nancy returned to the kitchen without responding. Basil too was quiet.

‘Tell Basil what scares you,’ Nancy said, re-entering the room and setting down a plate of bread next to the coffees.

‘Hendrick!’ Nancy started, an edge to her voice, while her husband remained quiet.

‘Too much has happened in Vaalvlei since you went to college. People are out to destroy each other for money business and politics.’ Nancy spat out the last word angrily. ‘They’re not thinking of the Lord’s Word anymore.’

‘Nancy does not understand,’ Hendrick responded, moving his chair to face Basil. ‘She does not realise certain people control everything here only because they have the in with the rich farmers. Oom Jan has all the farm contracts. He practically employs everybody. And where do the contracts come from?’ Hendrick’s eyes were glued to Basil.

‘I suppose the rich farmers?’ Basil’s voice was cautious.

‘Exactly,’ snorted Hendrick triumphantly. ‘Then there is the municipality. They hand out jobs to white contractors who subcontract to Oom Jan.’

There was an angry tone in Hendrick’s voice.

‘But surely the jobs are open for anyone who can offer their labour?’

‘It just shows how little you know.’ Hendrick spat out the words. ‘Oom Jan has the inside information on tenders by virtue of his position as the management committee chairman. He then tenders cheaper than the competition.’

‘Wouldn’t he be losing on the deal if he does that?’

Hendrick burst out laughing, the bitter sound ricocheting off the cement walls. ‘If he paid his workers honest money, then one would expect him to lose, but not Oom Jan Fester! It is difficult to get a job in Vaalvlei.’

‘Come you two. The coffee is getting cold.’

Nancy pushed the coffee towards Basil and handed him the plate of bread. Hendrick was already chewing humps off his bread.

‘You’re right,’ Hendrick said, speaking around the bread he was chewing and slurping gulps of coffee. ‘The other thing is that den of evil opposite the hall he owns. Our kind Oom Jan is so generous he supplies his workers with liquor on credit. They can drink as much as they want on the book. However, when it comes to month-end, they must know it’s pay-up time – and the money is taken directly from their pay. Only Oom Jan and his bookkeeper know how much the poor slobs owe, but that’s not all!’

Hendrick took another bite of bread and chewed vigorously as he shifted slightly in his chair to better look at Basil before resuming his soliloquy. ‘That shop of his! The workers can get things on credit and the debt is obviously taken from their salary. There is no paying off in instalments.’

‘Hendrick, can’t you leave this subject alone?’ Nancy sounded tired and irritated.

‘The Lord will deal with him!’ Hendrick snorted, causing Nancy to frown at him.

A little later Basil mumbled his excuse and left.

CHAPTER 2

It was month-end and the streets appeared fuller and the cars passed louder and more swiftly. The pavements were cluttered with people including a small group of white children and he heard a girl giggling as he approached.

‘Where are you going to Outa?’ There was a faint smile on one of the boy’s face.

‘You’re blocking my way. Please move.’

‘What is he saying?’ asked somebody near the back.

‘He says we’re in his way.’

Wild laughter came from the group.

Fear whelmed up in Basil and he wanted to run, but it was too late. A group had already gathered to watch the spectacle unfold.

Good Lord, what was he going to do? He moved forward.

‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’

A warning voice told him to turn back and run away, but the rising tide of anger was stronger.

‘You can beat me up, but you are still in my way and this pavement does not belong to you.‘

‘Let me get him. You’re playing with the fool!’ A well built young man was forcing his way from the back.

‘Go for him, Piet. He’s oorlams,’ shouted a voice from behind the back of the youngster standing in the front of Basil.

‘What do you want Outa?’ the youngster asked, his voice gruff.

‘Just to go on my way.’

‘There’s your way.’ He pointed to the street before pushing Basil’s chest.

In frustration Basil lunged. The first blow blinded him as it caught the bridge of his nose. Then he felt the others thud on him. He was lying on the ground, but the blows kept on raining. Lord, will it never stop?

Then there was nothing more to feel.

—

How do you explain a letter like this? He stared at the letter in hands seemingly detached from his body. It had been written on a Department of Coloured Affairs letterhead and his heart lurched as he reread its contents. The unreasonable dread you feel for the legal system – the government. What was he to do? He did not know how to treat the letter and the feeling of weakness crawled in the pit of his stomach.

When he had appeared in court, he had searched for any friendly face, but everyone’s eyes were carefully averted. Nobody was honest enough to acknowledge knowing him and finally, he had been told he was fortunate to receive a suspended sentence. My God, a suspended sentence for being beaten up and nobody did anything about it!

Now this! He picked up the letter to reread it.

Dear Mr Williams.

After careful consideration, the Vaalvlei Secondary School Committee has decided to investigate the matter of your recent ill behaviour towards certain respectable people in town. Please attend a meeting on 11 May at the residence of Mr J Fester.

He had been summonsed. And the way in which it had been done already indicated the outcome. He knew he had been judged guilty. He had seen that in Oom Jan’s attitude. The humiliation of that day still burned. He had gone to Oom Jan’s Bar in desperation to speak with Oom Jan to no avail. He had entered the building late that evening. Nobody had greeted him as he walked down the long passage leading to the main lounge. The stale liquor stench had hit him in the pit of the stomach. He had knocked on the door of the little office before entering and saw Reverend Daries, John Matthews and Oom Jan in deep conversation; the latter’s face initially registering surprise then irritation.

‘What do you want here?’ he boomed, the threat ominous.

‘I’ve come to see you Oom Jan,’ Basil croaked, caught off-guard by his sudden fear of and awe for this man.

‘What do you want from me?’

Oom Jan’s strong voice dominated the room and Basil noticed his eyes were red-rimmed and fixed.

‘Please Oom Jan I need your help. I don’t know what to do. They are accusing me of starting a fight in town and I have no money for an attorney.’

‘Help. Huh?!’ This derisive remark came from John.

‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘Please Oom Jan. You know I didn’t do it. I didn’t start the fight. They did. I need help now. I am not guilty. Please help me.’

Basil realised he was begging, but was beyond caring.

‘You’re putting me in a difficult position, Basil,’ Oom Jan said, easing his bulk in the chair. ‘I have many friends who look after my people.’

He stopped and looked at Reverend Daries who nodded. ‘You can ask the Reverend and Mr Matthews here.’

The pair nodded their agreement.

‘I know Oom Jan. We all know that,’ Basil responded through a mouth akin to having chewed bitter cork. ‘But you know what happened and it wasn’t my fault.’

His voice sounded louder than he had intended.

‘That’s what Oom Jan means,’ Reverend Daries interjected, frowning.

What is a minister of God doing in this place of evil? Basil thought.

‘That’s what Oom Jan means. You do not listen. You have a little or no respect for your elders.’

Basil kept quiet. Deep inside the sense of helplessness he knew so well was creeping up on him. He was slipping deeper into something over which he had no control. Why was everybody against him?

‘Oom Jan, please. I don’t want trouble, but I’ve landed in something I didn’t want.’

‘Listen son. Let me tell you something tonight.’ Oom Jan’s tone was confidential while being equally wicked and his bulging eyes held Basil captive.

‘When I came from the war, I had nothing but the shirt on my back. We were given a bicycle as a reward. Now just look around,’ continued Oom Jan. ‘I have what I have today because I’ve learnt how to work with people in power. By means of assimilation we can one day become part of their group and can then be one race.’

Basil looked at him in disbelief. He had never thought it would be explained so callously.

‘Now can you see why it’s so important we don’t anger people with power and money? Can you see why we need them? Can you see how important it is for our future? You just don’t understand boy,’ Oom Jan said, his voice tinged with sarcastic sadness.

Basil remained quiet.

‘We want you to admit to being responsible for the disturbance in town,’ Oom Jan said, the words spoken so casually Basil could not comprehend their meaning.

‘Excuse me? What did you say?’

‘You heard me. You must admit you were responsible for the fighting in town the other day.’

‘But what about my job? How will it affect my teaching?’

Oom Jan waved his hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry about that. It will be taken care of. The biggest problem is finding a solution to the fighting in the interests of peace and goodwill between us and our white brothers. Simply acknowledge you made a small mistake and the whole thing will be over.’

There was a long silence in the room before Oom Jan again addressed the group.

‘What do you say? Remember, we paid for your teaching anyway and part of your bursary came from the town council.’

Basil knew he was in a tight corner and his insides churned with anger and panic. Then his vision cleared, his decision obvious. ‘Oom Jan, I don’t care what will happen to me, but you and your rich friends and everybody else with you can go to hell, you hear me? Go to hell!’

Turning on his heels, Basil heard the Reverend’s voice: ‘Don’t be a fool!’.

Then followed a chuckle from John, the eternal clown. Basil continued walking past the noise and the stink into the soul-reviving fresh air.

—

‘Are you coming to eat, Basil?’

His mother stood in the door. Basil looked at her tired eyes and wondered what she had managed to conjure up for supper this time. It remained a miracle how she always conjured up something to put on the table each day. Basil had been fortunate to secure a small amount of credit from Abie Samuels’ new store, but was not sure how long that shop would last long. The shelves were already displaying more patches than goods – competing against Jan Fester was not easy in this town!

‘Coming, Mom,’ he said, returning the letter to his pocket.

He saw her eyes follow his hand and a pained expression came over her face. They had never needed words; their communication was predominantly visual. Basil entered the small lounge that served as the dining room. Mosiapo was already seated with Basil’s siblings Fiona and Graham. Basil’s father was out.

Basil still remembered the day he had been introduced to Mosiapo; he had been ten years old.

‘No mister, no uncle, just Mosiapo.’

Sitting ramrod straight at the kitchen table when Basil had arrived home was a bald-headed man with a narrow, almost chiselled, face. A tight mouth underneath his slightly flaring nostrils made him seem invulnerable.

‘Basil, please meet my father,’ his mother had said.

For a moment Basil had looked speechlessly at the black man. Later, when the shock had worn off, the embarrassment had set in. To him Mosiapo was nothing but an embarrassment. People had begun whispering when he had first come to visit, and his mother had been awkward. She could see her carefully prepared background was slipping and the people in their small town were treating her with less respect as Mosiapo’s identity was uncovered.

However, Mosiapo had persisted in visiting his daughter. After watching them for a few visits, Basil could not understand why he came as he would sit quietly on his chair staring into space. He was always smartly dressed and perfectly well behaved. Yet he conversed little with his daughter and, when he did, she answered in monosyllables. She was never uncivil, always treating him with respect, but it was as if they were poles apart and had nothing to say.

‘Good day, Basil.’ The voice was soft and caressing, his teeth large and even in the late afternoon light.

Basil mumbled his response, mentally preparing for the monthly ordeal. From his chair the old man watched him with a slightly amused expression. His eyes had a sparkle of humour and he remained motionless, his back slightly tilted against the chair. Basil felt his mother’s eyes and stepped forward, extending his hand. For a long spell, the old man looked at him before a slow, knowing smile spread across his face as he matched Basil’s greeting. His clasp was warm and strong and fora moment, shame flooded over Basil. As he turned his head and sat down, his mother stepped forward to place a plate of food before Mosiapo and then Basil.

Basil fixed his eyes on his plate and dipped his bread in the soup. He chewed slowly and noticed Mosiapo doing the same. There was the scratch of wood as Mosiapo moved his chair. Basil fully fixed his gaze on him again wondering why he visited so regularly – or even at all. He knew how painstakingly his mother was striving to remove any traces of African accent from her speech. It was her attempt to assimilate into the community; one that did not accept a person of a certain colour. As a person Mosiapo was a fine man, but as a grandfather in a coloured community? Basil rose. His mother stretched out her hand as if to stop him.

‘Let him go Betty.’ Mosiapo spoke softly as he shook his head. ‘Your children are coloureds. They do not want to be seen with me.’

There was no accusation in the old man’s dark eyes as he looked directly at Basil, his body relaxed.

‘It’s not that Mosiapo,’ Basil said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

‘You don’t have to explain. Your mother has always felt because her