The Coloured Curtain

By Oliver T. Spedding

The time is the early 1970's and the country is South Africa. John Matlala, a young black man aged nineteen, leaves the citrus farm where he has spent his entire life and sets out to seek his fortune in a country where the government is determined to stifle the development of its black citizens. His journey to the city of Johannesburg is fraught with the fear of arrest for contravening the racial laws of the time and the distrust of the white population that dominate his people. By the time he reaches Johannesburg he has learnt to distrust all his fellow men, although he still retains the naivety that his farm life instilled in him. John settles in the Johannesburg suburb of Hillbrow where he meets Jimson, a streetwise petty criminal who persuades him to join him in his criminal endeavours. The two men proceed to steal and trick people out of their possessions using non-violent means but eventually violence becomes a necessity. Herman Malan is a wealthy white South African who has inherited his father's engineering business, but prefers the good life and cares little for business affairs. One of Herman's responsibilities is to collect the factory worker's wages on a Friday afternoon. John and Jimson learn about Herman's routine and set out to rob him. This leads to a sequence of events that include violent death, rape in a men's hostel in the black city of Soweto, the love that develops between John and a young Sowetan girl Susan, John's flight from Soweto and a strange coincidence that ultimately threatens the lives of Herman's parents and John. Woven into the tale are the ever-present shameful and disgraceful discriminatory laws of apartheid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver Spedding
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223199717

Oliver T. Spedding

I'm a freelance writer and book illustrator.

Book preview

There you are Mister Stone. One hundred and five Rand. the blonde bank teller said as she handed the banknotes to the old man. He took the tender, folded them carefully and tucked them into his old, brown leather wallet. His hand shook as he slowly reached down and put the billfold in his back trouser pocket.

Thank you, miss.

The old man trudged slowly out through the doorway of the bank and onto the crowded sidewalk. His baggy, grey suit with black leather patches at the elbows badly needed cleaning and pressing. The frayed collar and cuffs of his white shirt told of years and years of wear and his dark blue tie sported spots and marks caused by careless eating habits. It was years since his scruffy, black shoes had seen any polish.

Justin Stone’s small blue eyes glared out at the world from beneath bushy, white eyebrows and the ring of white hair around his head gave the impression that it had formed into a line of defense in a last-ditch effort to stave off his ever-spreading baldness. His mouth sagged at the corners and heavy wrinkles ran from the sides of his hawkish nose, past the edges of his bitter mouth and down to his receding chin. The maze of red and blue veins that spread across his nose and cheeks told of regular and sustained stints of imbibing strong liquor.

After taking early retirement as a bookkeeper at a small clothing manufacturer in downtown Johannesburg, South Africa, Justin’s financial status had deteriorated rapidly as the ravages of inflation had not been something that he given much thought to. While still working he had played bowls twice a week and gone to the movies every Saturday night. The small monthly gratuity that he now received from the company pension fund had put paid to his club membership several years back and he hadn’t seen a movie for nearly ten years.

After buying his meager weekly food ration and paying his rent there was just enough money left to buy a bottle or two of cheap whisky. This depended very much on whether or not he was able to get to the stores offering reductions on this item. The distance that he could walk without having to rest had diminished more and more in the past few years but without the help of the strong drink that he imbibed each evening he doubted that he would be able to cope with the miserable existence that he was destined to endure for the rest of his life. His regrets about the past and his fear of the future were effectively blotted out by the harsh spirit and enabled him to live in a fantasy world until he sobered up again the following morning. Reality was then exacerbated by the pain and depression of a severe hangover, the result of the poor quality of the harsh, cheap stimulant of the previous night.

The single room that Justin lived in had a solitary window that looked over a rubbish-strewn service alley. The dim light that filtered in from this casement during the day enabled him to save on electricity by only using the single electric light in the centre of the room at night. The communal toilet and bathroom were at the far end of the corridor forcing him to use a small enamel jug to urinate into during the long, cold winter nights. His meals consisted of white bread and cheap cans of beans and occasionally he ate tinned dog food that he warmed on the small hotplate that stood on the tiny table in the corner of the cubicle.

After leaving the bank Justin walked painfully towards the nearby liquor store that advertised a new cheap whisky at a reduced price. As he shambled to his destination he mentally calculated whether or not the money he had just drawn would be sufficient for the coming week. The previous week’s money had run out earlier than he'd expected and so he hadn’t eaten for two days. Fortunately the whisky had lasted but he felt lethargic and weak from drinking on an empty stomach. His whole body was bathed a film of cold sweat.

Justin didn’t notice the two young black men walking behind him and keeping a constant distance from him. The two men, one neatly dressed in expensive clothing including a pair of shiny red leather shoes and the other in cheap frayed clothes and bare-footed, continually watched the people around them. Justin also didn't see the smartly dressed man nod to his companion. Quickly they increased their pace until they were almost level with Justin. The barefooted man stumbled and put his hand on Justin’s shoulder for support. The other man moved closer.

Wha...? Justin said as he turned towards the stranger who had stumbled, his heart beginning to race with fear. The close proximity of the black man frightened him even more. He raised his right hand as if to protect himself. He didn't notice the smartly dressed black man behind him lift the back of his jacket and deftly lift the old leather wallet out of his back pocket. He also didn't notice the man quickly walk away.

Sorry, baas. I stumbled on the uneven pavement. the black man who had stumbled said with a smile and walked away.

Justin nodded his head, too frightened to speak. He shuffled on trying to recover from the shock and fear shaking his body. Not ten paces from where he had been accosted, Justin Stone stopped, blinking his eyelids rapidly. His hand moved quickly down to his back trouser pocket. The blood drained from his face as he realized what had happened. His wallet was gone! He leant against the rough brick wall next to him and, oblivious to the people hurrying by, began to cry.

***

John and Jimson sat with their backs against the wall in a narrow alley behind the liquor store. A large pile of rubbish hid them from the people walking past on the pavement. Jimson held out the old leather wallet.

That’s how easy it is. he said, laughing.

How much did we get? John asked.

Jimson had been watching the old white man for several weeks and had noticed the routine that the man followed, first drawing money at the bank and then going to a liquor store. As there were many alleys in the Johannesburg suburb of Hillbrow it was a simple matter to stage an attack on the old man near one of them, steal his wallet, and then duck into it to hide.

He had discussed his observations with John and demonstrated to him how the two of them could distract the victim and then steal the wallet that the old man always carried in his right back trouser pocket. They had decided that John should distract the victim and Jimson would do the rest. For the first few jobs they agreed that Jimson would get two thirds of the spoils and John one third. They had practiced their moves several times to ensure good coordination and then put the plan into action.

Jimson opened the wallet with a dramatic flourish. He extracted the banknotes and counted them.

How’s that? he exclaimed. One hundred and five Rand! We made one hundred and five Rand during our lunch break!

John stared at the money and held out his hand.

Let me hold it. he asked. I’ve never held so much money in my whole life!

Jimson laughed and handed the notes to John who gazed at them while slowly shaking his head before returning them to his partner.

Jimson divided the stolen money between them. John stared at the thirty five Rand in his hand.

This is more that I earn at Mannie’s in a whole week! he said.

Jimson tossed the old wallet onto the pile of rubbish and stood up.

Let’s go and get some food. he said. Making money always makes me hungry!

Following their initial success John pressed Jimson to find another victim but the tall black man cautioned against overdoing their enterprise. If it came to the attention of the authorities that petty crime was increasing in the area the police would set traps to catch the culprits. Officialdom considered a certain number of crimes to be normal in a crowded suburb like Hillbrow but anything above that number required that the police act. He suggested that they move their operation to the more up market suburb of Berea. John nodded enthusiastically.

CHAPTER 2

John Matlala stood motionless in the murky grey light, numbed by the startling sound that had just shattered the early morning hush. He held his steel shovel tightly in his calloused hands, waiting for the next sound. The eastern sky showed a pinkish tinge and the rows of silent citrus trees that surrounded him were ghostly black smudges in the dim light. The gentle gurgle of cool water bubbling along the earthen irrigation furrow at his bare feet was the only sound in the hot, stagnant air. The sweet fragrance of orange blossoms permeated the diminishing darkness and mingled with the musty smell of recently sodden soil.

The sound that had caused John and the other black men working in the orchards to stop attending to the daily irrigation of the orange trees and stand silently, tense with anticipation, had been the sharp smack of a large, flat hand striking another man's face.

A loud, hard voice filled with hatred and anger shattered the silence.

You bloody stupid fool! Look at what you’ve done! John! Petrus! Patrick! Come here, quickly!

The heavily accented voice belonged to Jan Burger, the owner of the citrus farm, Riverside, where John and his father and mother worked and lived. The farm, situated in the Northern Transvaal Province of South Africa and less than a hundred miles from the country's border with its Northern neighbor, Rhodesia, also produced mangoes, litchis and avocado pears and covered an area of four hundred hectares.

The victim of the white farmer's anger and aggression was John’s father, Isaiah, the farm worker's leader or boss-boy and who had lived on the farm all his life.

With a shovel-full of dry sand John quickly closed the thin earthen channel leading water from the main water furrow to the bowl around the citrus tree. He hurried towards the source of the anger and violence. As he moved through the early morning gloom he felt the familiar emotions of anger and desperation that dominated his life and the lives of his fellow-workers on the farm, well up in his chest. Realizing the futility of these emotions, took a deep breath to quell them.

John knew that, in the presence of their white masters, black people who displayed any emotions apart from regret and humility usually found themselves subjected to abuse, ridicule and even violence. Anger, belligerence, arrogance and opposition to their white employers' instructions usually led to instant dismissal or heavy monetary penalties. Subservience assured survival in this land of racial discrimination.

In the periphery of his vision John became aware of the other two black workers who worked in this particular orchard, Petrus and Patrick, hurrying through the semi-darkness towards their angry employer.

Jan Burger, a big rough Afrikaner with graying black hair and bulging pale blue eyes, a thin pencil moustache, a thin-lipped mouth and a prominent chin exuded the arrogance and aggression so common to his race. He wore khaki shorts and a khaki short sleeved shirt, long khaki socks and brown leather boots. In the early morning light he towered over the man he had just struck.

As John approached his employer he saw the reason for Burger’s anger. An ever-widening pool of precious water poured through a breach in the earthen wall of the irrigation channel that was Isaiah’s responsibility. The breach was far too wide for one worker to repair without help.

John! Petrus! the farmer shouted. Help this stupid bastard close the broken wall! Patrick! Go to the top of the channel and close off the main stream! Hurry, man!

John, Petrus and Isaiah frantically shoveled dry sand into the breach while Patrick hurried away. As fast as the three men threw sand into the breach the cascading water washed it away. Dust and sweat stung their eyes as they toiled unsuccessfully to stem the escaping water. In the early morning gloom John glanced up quickly and saw Patrick reach the top of the main channel and close off the water supply. Gradually the flow of water eased and then stopped. The three men repaired the breach and stood back uncertainly, breathing heavily and waiting for instructions from their employer.

Okay, Patrick! Burger shouted to the man waiting to reopen the valve at the end of the water pipe that brought the precious fluid from the large irrigation dam at the top end of the farm. You can open the main stream again! He turned to the three sweating black men. Don’t just stand there, you bloody idiots! Get back to where you were working! And Isaiah, you’d better fucking wake up! One more fuck-up and I’ll demote you! Do you understand me?

Yes, baas. Isaiah replied, staring down at the red soil in front of him.

John glanced at his father. The older man stood humiliated, his thin shoulders drooping as he stared at the ground in front of him. His heart went out to the man he so admired and who now stood helpless and humiliated in front of his employer.

The big white farmer walked away and John hurried back to his section of the orchard. Using his spade he carefully breached the wall of the main water canal and watched the clear liquid gurgle down the smaller channel and into the bowl surrounding the base of the citrus tree. As soon as the water had filled the bowl John closed the breach with dry sand and moved to the next tree where he repeated the process.

The work, together with the soothing sound of the flowing water, helped to ease John’s tension. The sun rose above the horizon and transformed the warm morning air into an uncomfortable sticky heat. Cicada bugs began their monotonous shrieking from the thick bush surrounding the cultivated land. Occasionally John surreptitiously glanced around the orchard before stepping into the flowing water to cool his feet before continuing with his work.

As John worked, his mind dwelt on the earlier incident between Jan Burger and Isaiah. What right did the big white man have to strike his workers? Everyone made mistakes at one time or another and then a stern reprimand was justified. But to shout at a worker and then assault him was unacceptable. And on top of it all, the man had insulted Isaiah by calling him a fool.

Isaiah’s humiliation in front of the other workers had been exacerbated by the fact that they looked up to him as the leader of the irrigation team on the farm and valued his leadership qualities highly. He spoke up for them whenever he could and was always ready to defend them when their misdemeanors angered their employer. His ability to make decisions quickly because of his vast knowledge of the workings of the farm was appreciated by all the other workers.

Isaiah's leadership qualities and quick mind had attracted the attention of the Jan Burger while the black man was still a teenager and the white farmer had promoted him to his present position when the previous leader had died eight years ago when and Isaiah was thirty five.

Born in 1953, the year of Queen Elizabeth II's inauguration, John looked younger than his nineteen years. Tall and slim his skin was particularly dark and his clean-shaven features shone in the bright morning sunlight. He had dull black knobbly hair and large protruding ears, a wide flat nose and his thick lips spread easily when he smiled, exposing large, white teeth. His eyes were dark brown and widely spaced. His heavily calloused hands were large and strong and the ingrained dirt in his large feet was the result of him seldom wearing shoes. Their thick calloused soles were impervious to the sharp stones and thorns that littered the ground where he walked.

All the workers on the citrus farm, together with their families, lived in one large compound on the farm premises, well away from Jan Burger's large sprawling house with its beautiful gardens, tennis court and swimming pool. The lawns in front of the house sloped smoothly down to the river that flowed serenely along the northern boundary of the farm and provided the precious water that the enterprise depended on for its existence. The white-painted house had a blue tiled roof and a wide veranda facing the river. Sprinklers at regular intervals kept the grass green and lush and several black gardeners tended to the flowerbeds and kept the water in the swimming pool crystal clear.

The compound had been built by Burger so that he could control almost every facet of his worker's lives. If a worker did not show up for work Burger could go to the compound to see that the worker really was ill and also decide whether the worker’s condition warranted his absence from the orchards. No black man who declined Burger's offer of shelter in the compound was allowed to work on the farm, regardless of his skill or dedication. The farm's entire black staff of twenty eight and their families lived in the compound and, once the compound had been built, all the traditional huts that they had originally lived in had been destroyed by Burger. Many of the families had lived in these traditional huts for generations and their strong cultural and ancestral ties with the land had died with this forced relocation.

They’re just a bunch of savages. What do they know about culture and history? Burger had told the other white farmers at the time and they had all readily agreed and proceeded to build compounds of their own for the workers and their families on their farms.

The worker's compound on van Burger’s farm consisted of twelve separate rooms built of grey cinder blocks with asbestos roofs and concrete floors and arranged in a rough oval with each room's doorway facing the courtyard in the centre. The rooms stood two yards apart and were joined at the back by an seven-foot-high boundary wall. A rusty steel gate protected the entrance to the enclosure. The compound had no electricity and each room had a small black coal stove with a steel chimney leading out through a hole in the roof. A large asbestos water tank raised on four cinder block pillars, provided water for the small community.

In the centre of the compound stood a long fireplace made of cinder blocks and topped by a steel grid on which the womenfolk did their cooking. Every six months Burger inspected the compound for damage to the structures and to see that the place was neat and tidy. He also made random inspections to prevent illicit liquor being brewed by the workers. Because the workers lived on the farm in accommodation that belonged to their employer they depended on him completely, making it easier for him to control and manipulate them.

***

As John worked in the orange orchard the involuntary conditions under which his people lived tormented him. Somehow, their poverty and the subordinate existence that they endured had to end he told himself. Although he and his fellow workers and their families had a place to live and work they had nothing else. Even the iron beds that they slept on belonged to Burger. They worked from just before sunrise to sunset with an hour for lunch and they earned a pittance.

John and his father and mother earned just enough money to buy basic foodstuffs and second hand clothing and their meager savings wouldn’t last them more than three months if they ever left the farm. Their destiny was to remain on the farm for the rest of their lives. With no right to own land, with virtually no education available to them, no opportunities to improve themselves and confined to work in the areas where they had been born, his people were trapped.

The laws of the country decreed that a black person could only work and live in the area of his or her birth and to travel beyond the borders of this area required an official permit valid for a very short period of time. If any of the women on the farm wished to work, they either worked in the farmer’s house as domestic workers or did work in the orchards that required them to climb into the orange trees and break off the small dry twigs that damaged the skin of the fruit when the wind blew or to remove weeds from around the bases of the fruit trees.

John new that his father and mother were resigned to their fate and that they knew virtually nothing about the outside world. Once a month they traveled to the nearby town on the back of one of the farm’s trucks and there they wandered along the pavements of the town, staring wide-eyed at the beautiful clothes and furniture in the shop windows and in the supermarket they gazed in awe at the variety of foods that they would never get to