Going Home - Doris May Lessing [54]
‘But baas, there is only my wife when I’ve gone to work. And how can a woman all by herself put the cattle into a house and get all the food they need all through the winter? Why can’t the cattle graze as they have always grazed?’
‘Thomas, you do not understand this business.’
‘No, baas, I do not understand. Explain it to me, baas.’
‘Your soil on the Reserve is no good.’
‘Ah, baas, that is so. Very bad land on the Reserve, not good land like you have, baas.’
‘Yes, but the land is bad land because there are too many cattle on it.’
‘Ah, baas! And how can there be too many cattle when the Government has made me sell my cattle so now I have only three cattle?’
‘But, Thomas, the Government has made you sell your cattle so that there won’t be too many cattle on your land.’
‘Then why cannot they graze as they always did?’
‘Thomas, it is like this.’ And my friend takes his foot off the running board, stands up, and raises his finger in admonition. ‘And now listen well, Thomas, for now I will explain the Government to you.’
‘Thank you, baas. I am listening well.’
‘When you let your cattle run all over the veld in winter looking for grass they cut the land into dust, and the cattle and the grass both get thin and no good.’
‘Yes, baas?’
‘Now you put your cattle into a house, you cut grass for them and you carry the grass to the cattle, and they do not make the soil into dust.’
‘But baas, the soil is no good, not like your soil.’
‘It is because you do not shut up your cattle.’
‘But baas, the Mkiwa do not shut up the cattle, they let the cattle run.’ (Mkiwa—the white men.)
‘The farmers that are good farmers, they shut up their cattle and feed them in the winter when the grass is no good.’
‘But if the Mkiwa do not wish to be good farmers, then they can let their cattle run, because they have plenty of land.’
‘But, Thomas, you are not using your head.’
‘Yes, baas, I am using my head well.’
‘Now, Thomas, you must do what the Government says.’
‘Yes, baas, that I understand. But the Government is shupaing me. For how can my wife, who is a woman by herself, do all the work?’
‘Then you must leave your work for Mkiwa and help your wife, otherwise the Government will say you are not a good farmer and take your land.’
‘Ah, baas. And how can that be?’
‘Because now the Government says all the natives must farm well.’
‘But how can I and my wife and my small children eat if I do not earn money from Mkiwa?’
‘The Government says this, Thomas—now listen well. It is a new law.’
‘I am listening well, baas.’
And now my friend stands on one foot in the dust of the road and says: ‘Now, Thomas, this one foot of mine, it is in the Reserve.’
‘Yes, baas?’
And he plants down his other foot and says: ‘Now this other foot of mine, it is in Mkiwa.’
‘Yes, baas?’
‘Now the Government says the natives must either be Reserve or they must be Mkiwa,’ and he lifts up his feet alternately, and with vigour, so that puffs of glistening pinkish dust go off into the hot sunlight. ‘Either one thing or the other. But not both Mkiwa and the Reserve.’
Thomas says nothing. Then: ‘That is not a good law.’
‘Yes, Thomas, it is a good law, because now you must either be a good farmer, on your land, or you must work for Mkiwa. But if you work for Mkiwa and just go home at week-ends, then you will be a bad farmer and the Government will take your land.’
‘Ah, baas!’
‘Yes, Thomas, it is so. That is the new law. It is the Native Land Husbandry Act.’
‘Thank you for explaining it to me, baas.’
The two men stood facing each other for a while. I see that there is something more to be said. After a pause, however, Thomas says: ‘May things go well with you, baas.’ And moves off.
My friend stands looking after him.
‘That’s the only boy,’ he said, ‘that I’ve ever known who can cut a hedge straight. But I sacked him for smoking dagga.* I wish I could get him to come back.’ A pause while Thomas, a straight, thin old man, retreats along the pavement. ‘I suppose he can cut a hedge straight because he was in the army for so long during