In Black and White

Everyone noticed him as they walked into the chapel. He sat six rows from the front, a solitary black man, dressed in a slightly dishevelled suit, a gnarled walking stick resting on his knee, and his glasses held together by grimy pieces of Elastoplast.

The deceased’s daughter was the first to speak, “Ag, shame, man, he knew Mom when she taught here, way back when we were little kids.”

“I suppose you gave him some money?” whispered her brother, “You’re a sucker, you always have been!”

“Shame, look at him, he’s poor. It’s not his fault, man.”

“No, no, I suppose it’s all the fault of apartheid, is it!”

“You can’t ever give it a break, can you? Take your racism back to Australia. It has no place here in the new South Africa. It’s a good thing you don’t live here any more!”

“Okay, okay, let’s give it a break today. You know how Mom would have felt about this.”

“Ja, just how I feel,” she snapped, turning away.

“Ja, ja,” he mumbled under his breath.

The funeral for their mother was being held in the chapel of the most prestigious private boys’ school in Johannesburg. She had taught there for over forty years, and many of South Africa’s most distinguished citizens had benefited from her firm but fair hand. Diminutive of stature, she was one of those teachers who radiated authority and, within minutes, new boys knew that she was in command and would without exception come to love her lessons. Her searing sarcasm was never cruel and, even though they didn’t always fully understand her lessons, they were well aware that they were in the presence of a special mind and that there was something magical in the English language to which she had the key. Some of southern Africa’s foremost writers had taken this key and two of them were there that day, as were many eminent members of the establishment.

She had retired in 1994, the year in which South Africa had become free, but continued to visit the school regularly as a guest at assemblies and speech nights.

She had also tutored many boys during her retirement and revelled in every success no matter how great or small. She referred to her boys by their surnames, as was the custom, but could remember all their first names as well.

Both of her children worshipped her, and in spite of her treating them both scrupulously equally they ended up on opposite ends of the South African political spectrum.

Before the service, following the daughter’s cue, people began to furtively discuss the black man in the sixth row. As South African whites from every stratum of society had done for over three hundred years, they easily slipped into gossiping about the servants: and the nuances of the gossip reflected their position, beliefs, and how they wanted to be perceived. Some, like the writers, would have no part of the gossip, but tucked the experience away for future reference. It wouldn’t, however, have been cricket to use notebooks on such an occasion.

Like a tiny tsunami, tongues began to wag. Some, but not many, used the old derogatory terms for black people, but this had largely been conditioned out of the whites in the Rainbow Nation.

“He might have been a servant, a house boy or garden boy,” whispered one mother.

“Mom!” admonished her daughter. “Don’t call him a boy, it’s wrong. He’s a man!”

“Sorry darling, it’s an old habit.”

“Maybe he was one or her students,” said a young teenager in another group.

“No, he couldn’t have been, remember he would have been young during apartheid,” replied her father.

“But didn’t private church schools have black students, Dad?”

“Ja, but much later than when he would’ve been at school. He looks like he’s in his sixties. She was ninety-one.”

“Perhaps he was a cleaner at the school or worked in the kitchen or the garden.”

“The kids don’t know him so he couldn’t have worked for her,” chimed in another man and, in response, from two rows back, a woman with a megaphone whisper uttered, “I knew the mfazi who worked for her for yonks,” and continued, “She never employed a boy. She preferred woman!” using the singular when she meant plural, as was the southern African way. “We all did back then. We still like that.” She concluded by not using the contraction for “we are” as was also the southern African way.

“Someone might find out just now,” another woman said, meaning “not immediately, but any time later”, as was also the southern African way.

After the service there was a wake in the staff room and adjoining common room. The black man sat eating, drinking and chatting to the waiters in Tswana and Zulu. Occasionally someone would approach him and ask him how he had known the deceased. After a while they would shake hands in the African way and some would give him money for a communal taxi ride home. His shoes were dusty and he looked as if he had taken a great deal of trouble to get to the funeral.

The story that he told them all was that he had been a gardener at the school for a number of years and that the late mother had always been very kind to him. She had always spoken to him and asked after his family and even given him some books to help with his children’s education. At Christmas she had always given him a “Christmas box” and leftovers from her Christmas dinner. She had never been like some white people who treated him as if he wasn’t really there.

The daughter, as well as being the first to mention the black man, was also the first to give him some money in the chapel, though not in response to any request from him. She also talked to him at the wake but wasn’t able to elicit much information about his relationship with her mother. He seemed upset when he talked about her and seemed to prefer to listen attentively and sympathetically to what she said about herself and her mother.

When, much later, they were the only ones left in the staff room except for the headmaster, the bishop, a few heavy imbibers and the black man who was talking to one of the waitresses, the barmen started closing the shutters and switching off some lights. The black man took out two shopping bags and began stuffing them with food.

“Typical,” said the son. “Typical!”

“It’d just go to waste otherwise,” said the sister.

“Huh, affirmative redistribution from the privileged I suppose,” he snapped. “A ‘Proudhon’ no doubt!”

She missed the last reference, as most people would, but he chuckled smugly at his pun.

“Ja, ja, during apartheid taking from the oppressor wasn’t considered theft,” she continued.

“Oh, yea, yea, how could I have been so blind for so long,” he responded sarcastically as if clinching one of his arguments in court. “Oh to be Bartimaeus.”

A few minutes later, speaking to the bishop of Johannesburg who had conducted the service and had also been one of his mother’s distinguished pupils, the son couldn’t resist raising the matter.

“Do you know that mdala over there?” he asked.

“Oh, that old fellow, I’ve seen him at many funerals,” said the bishop. “It’s a good little earner.”

“Well, he didn’t do too well today!” trumpeted the son triumphantly.

“No, but he did get some revenge!” hissed his sister through clenched teeth. “And his family will eat well tonight.”

As they left the wake, the daughter saw the black man drop a piece of neatly folded paper. She picked it up and handed it to him with two hands.

“Baba, your paper.”

He held up his hand saying, “No thanks, Mama. I don’t need it any more.”

He turned and his stride quickened, no longer needing the gnarled walking stick which clattered to the floor. The daughter unfolded the paper. Sticky-taped to the A4 page was a circled funeral notice and an obituary of her mother, both highlighted in green and gold.

She crumpled it up and threw it into a bin, making sure that her brother hadn’t seen.

Stopped at the traffic lights, a bit later, the son saw the black man alongside him, his mouth like a piano keyboard, smiling. He gave him a thumbs-up, flashing an onyx ring which hadn’t been there earlier and sped off in a BMW, a brand-new pair of gold-rimmed spectacles glinting in the Gauteng afternoon sun.