fuse wire as if to memorise its length.
A week later, Sipho became a trammer.
On his first day of work, he entered the mine lift with thirty other new recruits, all wide-eyed. A few were hyperventilating. The lift dropped deep into the earth’s crust, and travelled for nearly twenty minutes to reach the level where he would work. He had expected to be afraid, but, when the lift opened, he stepped calmly out into a thick, woolly blackness, although the heat made his head ache. The lamp on his helmet made a small pool of light: Sipho could see where to put his feet, but nothing else unless he lifted his head. He spent the day loading loose rocks on to a tram, which he had to push to the mine shaft and then back, filling it again and again. He was so tired at the end of the ten-hour shift that he fell deeply asleep as soon as he dropped onto the concrete bunk.
The heat, the dark and the dust underground were grim, but Sipho thought he could get used to that.
I won’t ever get used to the izinduna taunting us with their sjamboks, he thought, or the food that is sour, or the dirty rooms we sleep in. A whole year of this before I can get home?
The explosions terrified him, so he always made sure he was well away from the fuse wires when they were lit, and he counted the seconds before the dynamite exploded. The blast seemed to suck the air out of his lungs, and dust filled them when he breathed again.
Some of the mineworkers spent their Sundays drinking sorghum beer in the shacks behind the mine. Sipho heard piano music and a woman singing in English, a song about a train. As the months passed, Sipho thought of joining them; it might make life feel easier.
“Oh no, not me!” Job told him. “Those guys will have to come back next year because their money will be gone. Stick it out, Sipho, and save your money to buy your cows! The cows will be your bank.”
The next week Job returned to work at the dynamite factory, translating for the trainer. One night he spoke quietly to Sipho.
“I’ve met quite a woman, Sipho!” he said dreamily. “There, at the dynamite factory. She works in the office. Zanele … ” Job seemed to savour the sound of her name. “Her family comes from a valley near ours. She is clever and beautiful, and she has a lovely laugh. I think she likes me. But the lobola! They will want a lot of cows for the bride price … ”
5
General Smuts makes a promise
“Still not enough for lobola, Sipho.”
It was a warm Sunday afternoon a few months after Sipho had started working, and the mine was quiet. Sipho watched as Job paged through his post office book, counting up his savings. Job sat on an empty paraffin can out in the sun, while Sipho sharpened a long-handled razor.
“Cut it short. I like the parting on the left,” Job instructed.
Sipho carefully shaved a straight, narrow parting through Job’s hair, thinking while he did so that he had never known Job to trouble himself so much over a woman.
“Anyone would think you had somewhere special to go … like a dynamite factory,” Sipho said.
Job smiled but kept his head still while Sipho trimmed the edges.
Many of the miners had gone to a dance competition and their buses were shortly due to return, so Sipho and Job did not look up when they heard the rumble of a large motor vehicle coming into the compound. They did look up when, instead of loud laughter and talking, they heard quiet murmuring.
Three men in khaki uniforms climbed out of an army lorry. They set up a table and three folding chairs, and were already sitting at the table when the buses did return.
“Gather around!” one of the men called through the megaphone as the miners milled around. “We have news that will interest you all,” he said.
The man told them their country needed them to join the army to fight Hitler.
“We have contracts with the mine!” one of the miners shouted. “You’re wasting your time. We aren’t allowed to leave the mine till our contracts are up. And anyway, what has our country done for us black men?” he asked.
“Your country will help you now. You will be trained. You will be taught new skills, to drive lorries or ambulances, and to fix them, or to be medical orderlies. And you will be well paid, better than here,” the man in uniform replied. And as an afterthought: “The mine is not allowed to keep anyone who wants to join the army. The Italian army is helping Germany. They have invaded countries in East Africa and they are threatening to take over the Union of South Africa. Our army is fighting with the Allies to stop them. Join the army now, and you will travel to interesting places! You will see the world! You will have wonderful stories to tell your children and your grandchildren!”
Many of the men drifted away, muttering about risking their lives for a country that did not care about them. Job stepped closer to where a group of miners had gathered around the table.
“How much will you pay?” he asked the army officers.
The man in uniform gave him a leaflet with the pay rates. “We’ll be back next Sunday,” the man told him as he folded his chair.
*
“Buy a few good clothes and save the rest.” Sipho reflected on Job’s advice as he sat in the sun-drenched compound the following Sunday. “Don’t spend yet! Wait a bit before you have fun, till you’ve saved enough money.”
Piano notes floated from somewhere over the wall, and the thrum of a double bass.
Sipho was torn. His didn’t have enough money yet to buy a cow, but life in the compound was grim. Beyond the wall he could hear people laughing, and he was about to go and look for the piano when a large car drove, spluttering, into the compound.
The driver left the engine running as he climbed out and lifted the bonnet, and Sipho wandered over to watch. The driver took out a screwdriver and fiddled with something, and the engine raced loudly. He worked under the bonnet some more, until it hummed sweetly.
To Sipho, it seemed to sing. And he knew instantly that he would save his money, but that he would not use it to buy cows – this is what he wanted, a motor car.
Job was suddenly in front of him, flapping a newspaper.
“Sipho! News! Two bits of news! Here’s the first, on the front page of The Star.” Job pointed to a photograph of Jan Smuts.
Sipho nodded. “The Prime Minister.”
Job sat down next to Sipho as other miners looked up. “See what he said … ” Job started reading from the newspaper headline. “At the Premier Mine Training Camp yesterday General Smuts told trainee soldiers they would be fighting for freedom.”
A couple more men came over and peered at the photograph.
Job continued, “ … we now go forth … to fight for freedom itself, the freedom of the human spirit, the free choice of the human individual to shape his own life … The world cause of freedom is also our cause and we shall wage this war for human freedom … ”
“Heybo! Promises, promises!” said one man as some others laughed. “You think the abelungu will keep their promises?
