swamps and fever lagoons along the great zambesi, from among the palm groves fringing the indian ocean, out of these simmering plains that the bushmen called 'the big dry,' down from the mountains of basutoland and the grass lands of swaziland and zululand they gathered the bantu, the men themselves completing the first fifty or sixty miles of the journey on foot. individuals meeting on a footpath to become pairs, arriving at a little general dealer's store in the bleak scrub desert to find three or four others already waiting, the arrival of the recruiting truck with a dozen men and their luggage aboard, the long bumping grinding progress through the bush. the stops at which more men scrambled aboard, until a full truck load of fifty or sixty disembarked at a railway siding in the wilderness.
here the tiny trickle of humanity joined a stream, and at the first major centre they trans-shipped and became part of the great flood that washed towards 'goldi.'
however, once they had reached johannesburg and been allocated to one of the sixty major gold mines, the agency's obligations towards its recruits were not yet discharged.
between them the employing mine and the agency must provide each man with employment, training, advice and comfort, maintain contact between him and his family, for very few of them could write, reassure him when he worried that his goats were sick or his wife unfaithful. they must provide a banking and savings service with a personal involvement unknown to any commercial banking institute. they had, in short, to make certain that a man taken from an environment that had not changed in a thousand years and deposited into the midst of a sophisticated and technological society would retain his health, happiness and sanity, so that at the end of his contract he would return to the place from which he had come and tell them all how wonderful it was at 'goldi'. he would show them his hard helmet, and his new suitcase crammed with clothes, his transistor radio and the little blue book with its printed figures, inflaming them also with the desire to make the pilgrimage, and keep the flood washing towards'goldi'.
big king completed his business transactions and went in through the gates of the hostel. he was going to take advantage of the fact -that he had missed the shift and would be among the first at the ablutions and dining-hall.
he went down across the lawns to his block. despite the size of an establishment that housed 6,000 men, the company had tried to make it as attractive as possible. the result was an unusual design, halfway between a motel and an advanced penitentiary. as a senior boss , big king rated a room of his own.
an ordinary labourer would share with five others.
carefully big king brushed down his suit and hung it in the built-in cupboard, wiped down his glossy shoes and racked them, then with a towel around his waist he set off for the ablution block and was irritated to find it already filled with new recruits up from the acclimatization centre.
big king ran an appraising eye over their naked bodies and judged that this batch must be nearing the completion -age of their eight-day acclimatization. they were sleek and shiny, the muscle definition showing clearly through the skin.
you could not take a man straight out of his village, probably suffering from malnutrition, and put him down a gold mine to lash and bar and drill in a dry bulb heat of 91' fahrenheit and 84% relative humidity, without running a serious risk of killing him with heat stroke or exhaustion.
every recruit judged medically fit to work underground went into acclimatization. for eight days, eight hours a day, he and hundreds of others stood with only a loin cloth about his middle in a vast barn-like hall stepping up onto and down from a platform. the height of the platform was carefully matched to the man's height and body weight, the speed of his movements was regulated by a flashing panel of lights, the temperature and humidity were controlled at 91' and 84%, every ten minutes he was given water and his body temperature was registered by the half dozen trained medical assistants in charge of the room.
at the end of the eighth day he emerged as fit as an olympic athlete, and quite able to perform heavy physical labour in conditions of high temperature and humidity without discomfort or danger.
'gwedeni!' growled big king, and the nearest recruit, still white with soap suds, hurriedly vacated his shower with a respectful 'keshle!' in deference to big king's rank and standing. big king removed his towel and stepped under the shower, revelling as always in the rush of hot water over his skin, flexing the great muscles of his arms and chest.
the messenger found him there.
'king nkulu, i have word for thee.' the man used shangaan, not the bastard fanikalo.
'speak' big king invited, soaping his belly and buttocks.
'the induna bids you call at his house after you have eaten the evening meal.'
'tell him i will attend his wishes,' said big king and held his face up into the rush of steaming water.
dressed in a white open-necked shirt and blue slacks, big king sauntered down to the kitchens. again the recruits were ahead of him, queueing with bowls in hand outside the serving hatches. big king walked past them through the door marked 'no admittance staff only.'
the kitchens were cavernous, glistening with white porcelain tiles and stainless steel cookers and bins that could serve 18,000 hot meals a day.
when big king entered a room, even one as large as this, no one was unaware of his presence. one of the assistant cooks snatched up a bowl not much smaller than a baby's bath, and hurried across to the nearest stainless steel bin. he opened the lid and looked expectantly at big king. big king , nodded and the cook ladled about two litres of steaming sugar beans into the bowl, before passing on to the next bin where he again looked for and obtained big king's approval. he added an equal quantity of mixed vegetables to the bowl, slammed down the lid and scampered across to where a second assistant waited with a spade beside yet another bin.
the spade was the same as those used for lashing gold reef underground, but the blade of this one had been polished to gleaming cleanliness.
the second cook dug into the bin and came up with a spadeful of white maize porridge, cooked as stif as cake, the smell of it as saliva-making as the smell of new bread. this was the staple of bantu diet. he deposited the spadeful in the bowl.
'i am hungry.' big king spoke for the first time, and the second cook dug out another spadeful and added it to the bowl. they passed on to the end of the kitchens and at their approach another cook lifted the lid on a pressure cooker the size of a washing machine. from it arose a cloud of fragrant steam. damp. apologetically the cook held out his hand and big king produced his meat ticket. meat was the only food that was rationed. each man was limited to one pound of meat a day; the company had long ago discovered to its astonishment and cost that a bantu, offered unlimited supplies of fresh meat, was quite capable of eating his own weight of it monthly.
having ascertained that big king was entitled to his daily pound, the cook proceeded to ladle at least five pounds of it into the bowl.
'you are my brother,' big king thanked him, and the little procession moved on to where yet another cook was filling a half-gallon jug of thick, gruel-like, mildly alcoholic bantu beer from one of the multiple spiggots beneath the thousand-gallon tank.
the bowl and jug were ceremonially handed to big king and he went out onto the covered terraces where benches and tables were set out for alfresco dining in mild weather.
while he ate, the terrace began to fill, for the shift was out of the mine now. every man who passed his table greeted big king, but only a few privileged persons took the liberty of seating themselves at the same table. one of them was joseph m'kati, the little old sweeper from 100 level.
'it has been a good week, king nkulu.'
'you say so.' big king was non-committal. 'i go now to a meeting with the old one. then we shall see.' the old one, the shangaan induna, lived in a company house. a self-contained residence with lounge and dining room, kitchen and bathroom. he was handsomely paid by the company, provided with servants, food, furniture and all the other appurtenances of his rank and station.
he was the head of the shangaan community on the sander ditch. a chief of the blood, a greybeard and member of the tribal councils. in similar houses and with the same privileges and in equal style lived the indunas of the other tribal groups that made up the labour force of the sander ditch. they were the paternal figureheads, the tribal jurists, ruling and judging within the framework of law and custom.
the company could not hope to maintain harmony and order without the assistance of these men.
'babo!' big king greeted his induna from the doorway of his house, touching the forehead in respect not only for the man but also for what he represented.
'my son.' the induna smiled his greeting. 'come and sit by me.' he gestured for his servants to leave the room, and big king went to squat at the feet of the old man. 'is it true you go now to work with the mad one?' that was Johnny delange's nickname.
they talked, the induna questioning him on fifty matters that affected the welfare of his people. for big king this was a comforting and nostalgic experience, for the induna stood in the place of his father.
at last, satisfied, the induna went on to other matters.
'there is a parcel ready tonight. crooked leg waits for you. 'i shall go for it.'
'go in peace then, my
