Читать книгу Bending the Rules - Rafique Gangat - Страница 13

Music without boundaries

The Edendale Lay Centre was a community hall for the residents of the black township that provided labour to the city of Pietermaritzburg – generally considered the last British outpost. The building itself was a simple structure of concrete blocks and a corrugated-iron roof, but it was a place where all sorts of social activities took place, especially on weekends.

I was a regular there on weekdays, as I taught English literature on a voluntary basis to a class of matric students – with special focus on William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. For me, in reaching out to non-English speaking students, the challenge was to help them understand and appreciate a language and style so alien to them. It helped enormously that I spoke isiZulu fluently and had studied it at university. In addition, as the student revolts that gained momentum in the 1980s had begun, I was able to draw comparisons between the themes in Macbeth and the apartheid regime under Prime Minister John Vorster.

I had a great relationship with my students, whom I saw at least three afternoons a week. I made an impassioned effort to help them pass their exams in English literature – a syllabus imposed on them by the government. In a way, it was also my own way of non-violent contribution to our joint struggle for freedom from the inferior black education system, which was designed to perpetuate a steady supply of labourers for the white man.

It was at the same Edendale Lay Centre in 1981, during a strike by the workers in the sugar industry, that students from my university arranged a music concert to raise money for the affected families. They were subjected to the condition of “no work, no pay” during the course of the strike, and it had reached a stalemate.

Among the many artists lined up were Roger Lucy, a popular white folk singer, who sang mild protest songs, the Malopoets, a black African jazz-fusion ensemble from Johannesburg, a local Christian band from the university, fronted by Mark Manley, and another band from out of town.

The event was well publicised on campus and in town. I was looking forward to the music, as I was personally involved in the industry as manager of a rock band named Betus, which consisted of a group of friends. The night before the event, I received a phone call from Mark; one of the bands had cancelled and he was desperate for a replacement. We were only too glad to assist – firstly, because we believed in the cause, and secondly, it provided an opportunity to play a gig.

It was a Saturday evening and the township was buzzing with activity, as was the norm on weekends. We drove to the centre, offloaded our musical equipment backstage and then waited as the crowd began to trickle in. I was interested to see who would attend a concert of this nature, particularly as it was being hosted in a black township.

I leant against a pole in the entrance area and blended into the scenery. From this vantage point I could observe the entire audience. The black fans were mainly professionals such as teachers, doctors, nurses and civil servants who could afford to be there and wished to contribute from their meagre incomes to a cause they believed in. The sprinkling of whites were mostly university students with left-wing political leanings, and there was a handful of Indians and coloureds.

As I remained standing against the pole for some time, I became almost invisible. I, however, took particular note of a group of tsotsis who, I was sure, were at the venue expressly to con unsuspecting patrons (and get a kick out of doing it). I watched as the leader of the group placed regular pipe tobacco in a special clay pipe that was usually used to smoke dagga. In isiZulu, he explained to the others how he was going to con whites with the pipe.

Just then two young and unsuspecting white guys came by. I couldn’t help but observe how they had made a great effort to disguise their whiteness – through their shabby clothes, unkempt hair and general demeanour. Though they tried really hard to blend in, the tsotsis homed in on them; they were ripe for the picking.

The two white boys had been drinking a cheap wine, packaged in a box, presumably to buck up some courage. I couldn’t help admiring them for making an attempt to cross the black-white divide into uncharted territory. But I could see they had no idea what they were walking into and what was in store for them.

They were soon met by the group of tsotsis who welcomed them and offered them their dagga pipe to smoke from – a universally understood act of friendship. One young man looked at the other and, more out of fear and a need for acceptance than a desire to smoke the dagga, they reluctantly agreed to do so.

As the guy holding the box of wine took the clay pipe, the head of the tsotsis relieved him of the box and took a long swig before passing it on to his excited mates. Meanwhile, the poor white guy was choking and coughing from inhaling the tobacco. Then it was the turn of his mate, who tried to alert him to the fact that the box was rapidly being emptied of its contents. Being outnumbered and in strange territory, all the young man could do was take his turn at smoking the pipe and choking on the tobacco while yearning to get his hands back on the box of wine.

When the box finally found its way back, it was empty. The two victims, blue in the face from choking, managed to produce contrived smiles as they moved meekly on to the entrance of the venue. It was my guess that they had no idea they’d been conned, as they had probably not smoked dagga before and knew no better.

As the tsotsis laughed and enjoyed their success, the leader caught my eye and I said, “Ucabanga uhlakaniphile?” This loaded rhetorical question made him realise I’d observed their entire con and, via the tone of my question, I expressed my reservations.

He smiled like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and walked away with his mates to seek another victim, out of my range.

I then went backstage with our band and enjoyed the concert from that vantage point.

Betus was scheduled to follow the Malopoets, and the guys were ready and waiting. Meanwhile, along with the entire audience, we were truly enjoying the African rhythms of the Malopoets and we soon found ourselves foot-stomping in the wings.

Graeme, the drummer in our band, always made sure he had a bottle of water next to his drum set while he was playing. He didn’t drink alcohol, but the only container he’d been able to find for his water was a large empty beer bottle, which he had next to him, ready to take on stage.

I was mildly surprised to see the leader of the tsotsis appear suddenly. The beer bottle immediately caught his eye. Acting as if he was just being friendly, he danced alongside Graeme – all the while sidling up to the bottle.

Each time the tsotsi got closer to the “beer”, he monitored Graeme’s reaction. But the drummer was oblivious to this scheming and, finally, the tsotsi decided it was time to make his move.

He knew he had one shot and had to make the best of it. He danced as close as possible to the beer bottle, bent down and in one fluid movement grabbed it and glugged down as much as he could.

At that moment he caught my eye once more, and the look on his face said it all. He had (unintentionally) been conned.

As he beat a hasty retreat, I smiled to myself and thought: karma!