CAN THEMBA

Themba sprang to prominence with the publication of his prize-winning story, “Mob Passion”, in the April 1953 edition of Drum. The judges for this competition

(announced in Drum in October 1951) were none other than Alan Paton, R.R.R. Dhlomo and Peter Abrahams, and over 1000 stories were submitted from all over Africa. This suggests the presence of a modernising, urban audience eager to read stories in English that in some way reflect their situation. It also creates an

opportunity for a number of aspiring writers eager to contribute their stories and establish a name for themselves. It is Drum’s distinction that it provided an outlet and an audience for these stories, and in doing so it contradicts Newell’s contention that African popular literature necessarily circulates “within a narrow geographical radius determined by the publisher’s or author’s mobility and marketing ability”

(“Introduction” 1). Her remarks do, however, provide a useful context for the

consideration of those stories of Themba’s which most obviously appeal to a popular audience and reproduce some of the generic features of popular fiction. The most interesting of these stories, which often follow the “popular romance” formula, is “Mob Passion” (the story which, along with “The Suit”, has attracted the most critical commentary).

The opening paragraph introduces us to a recurring situation in South African short fiction by black writers, the difficulty and danger of commuting by train. The protagonist, Linga, is identified as a “young student who was ever inwardly protesting about some wrong or other” (Drum Decade 33); his girlfriend Mapula, is a nurse in training. This immediately suggests a familiar typology, and one which Drum readers would have readily understood and identified with – the idealistic young student, eager to change the world, and the supportive female partner whose career choice (nursing) makes her an appropriate partner. Linga and Mapula are, potentially, an ideal, modern couple, ready to take up the challenges and responsibilities of finding their way in urban society. When Linga confides his hopes and fears to Mapula, the discourse he adopts is that of African nationalism in its first, most idealistic phase (the key terms are “brotherhood”, “nation”, “vision”, “destiny” (34)). He closely

protagonist of Achebe’s No Longer at Ease (written a few years after Themba’s story, but clearly reflecting the optimism and idealism of the period immediately preceding African independence).

Mapula is apparently content to play a supportive role: she wants nothing more than to be a home-maker and offer support and love to her idealistic (and rather fragile) partner: “I dream about the home we are going to have . . . . You taught me that woman’s greatest contribution to civilisation so far has been to furnish homes where great men and great ideas are developed” (34). Clearly she has internalised the prevailing masculinist norms of both her traditional culture and black petit-bourgeois society; she leaves politics (the realm of “ideas”) to her would-be husband.

The two young lovers find a shady spot by a stream and “[flee] into each other’s arms. . . . These two daring hearts were lost to eachother. The world, too . . . was forgotten in the glorious flux of their souls meeting and mingling” (33). Themba deliberately deploys the clichés of pulp fiction – evidence (if any were needed) of his conscious adaptation of the conventions of popular romance. This private, rural idyll is then juxtaposed against the violence of the public world, which irrupts in the form of a lynch mob of “Russians”.26 The story presents a pair of star-crossed lovers whose romantic interlude is threatened by the feuding between, in this case, two rival ethnic groups (the “Russians” and the “Letebeles”). Themba was thoroughly conversant with Shakespeare, and no doubt had Romeo and Juliet in mind as prototype.27

The conflict between feuding, ethnically defined groups is presented in terms which echo familiar racist stereotypes;

Everywhere there were white policemen, heavily armed. The situation was “under control”, but everyone knew that in the soul of almost every being in this area raved a seething madness, wild and passionate, with the causes lying deep. . . . These jovial faces could change without warning into masks of bloodlust and destruction, without warning, with the smallest provocation. . . . Each evening [these people] would return to a devil’s party, uncontrollably drawn into hideous orgies. (33) This seems to reflect the representations to be found in the pages of colonialist fiction, with its primitivist resort to racial stereotyping and innate savagery as an explanation

26

The “Russians” were Basotho mine workers or migrants who banded together, partly in self-defence, and resorted to vigilante-type actions across the townships on the Reef. Their headquarters was Newclare, the epicentre of the violence which is described in Themba’s story.

27

This is suggested by the reference to love which “in its mysterious, often ill-starred ways had flung them together” (33).

for “black-on-black” violence. If Themba is satirising these conventions and this style of writing, this is not evident in the text. One cannot help but wonder whether

Themba’s treatment of his subject-matter may have been influenced by the reporting of “Mau Mau rebellion” in Kenya, which broke out in October 1952 and played into colonialist fears and perceptions of “the dark continent”.28 An extraordinary feature of the passage is the positioning of policemen, identified as “white”, as upholders of law and order and keepers of the peace. If Themba were consciously attempting a

rationalisation for apartheid, he could hardly have done better!29 Themba’s most sympathetic critics are disconcerted by such passages. Chapman notes that Themba’s writing “frequently presents this problem”, and remarks that “white society has always been eager to see so-called black-on-black violence as non-sociological and evidence of innate African savagery” (“Drum and its Significance” 208). Does Themba intend the reader to take this description at face value? Is he yielding to the temptation to sensationalise his material, in the process drawing on current racist discourse? Can he have internalised the racist assumptions that seem to be present at various points in the story? Is he attempting to distance himself from ordinary working-class township dwellers who may have been more susceptible to ethnic manipulation?

As a reporter Themba was clearly aware of the sociological and political factors underlying these outbreaks of inter-ethnic or gang-related violence. In “Terror on the Trains” Themba explores the causes of violence in the Dube area (of Soweto), where “prop-eared Zulus” formed gangs to defend themselves from “train robbers, and tsotsis in general” (“Terror” 114). He goes on to ask, “What caused this sudden, violent explosion?” and attributes it to “the policy of ethnic grouping, which has led the more tribal among us to think of other tribes as foreigners, enemies” (“Terror” 115). However, even here we find socio-political information juxtaposed with the kind of sensational language that occurs in “Mob Passion”:

The police were kept busy day and night keeping the blood-mad warriors from each other . . . . The two sides are threatening to go on fighting until

Christmas, which will become the Devil’s Dance in this bloody affair. They

must be stopped! (“Terror” 115)

28

Maughan-Brown refers to this possibility in his review article, “The Anthology as Reliquary?” (9).

29

One should of course recognize that it would hardly have been possible for Drum to position itself in opposition to the police, ostensibly there to maintain law and order, however problematic this claim may be.

Similarly, “Inside Dube Hostel” gives a first-hand account to the factors that had brought about “riots” and “fear”. These include the deliberately provocative behaviour of the “tsotsis” who disguise themselves as both Zulus and “Russians” in order to foment violence. Underlying this, we are told, is the policy of ethnic grouping: “The tribes must be kept apart” (117). (Both Zulu and Xhosa-speakers would have been included in the pejorative term “Letebele”, employed in “Mob Passion”.) Towards the end of this article Themba quotes the words of a hostel resident who calls for the abolition of the hostel system, and identifies the socio-economic problems it fosters:

“We can’t have on our doorstep a cage with people who live in herds, who don’t live with women, who cook hit-and-run meals and have only a beer-yard for their nightly entertainment. Something had to break in a big way. Dube must go!”

(“Terror” 119)

In “Mob Passion” this more sober analysis is largely absent: Themba seems to deliberately exploit the sensational possibilities offered by his material. This also serves his thematic purpose, which is to contrast the unthinking behaviour of people swept up by “mob passion” with the calmer reflection which takes place when all passion is spent and people are again able to feel and think as individuals - and become conscious of the horrifying consequences of their actions (Linga is dead, a victim of mob violence, and Mapula has buried an axe in the neck of “Uncle

Alpheus”). The implicit plea is for a recognition of our common humanity – only this, it seems, will enable one to overcome the fear, ignorance and suspicion engendered by apartheid. The story provides evidence of Themba’s underlying humanism, but also of his propensity to sensationalise the events which form the core of his narrative.

In one respect, the story effectively subverts prevailing essentialist beliefs.30 Linga sees a group of “Russians” approaching him, intent on revenging the wrongs that (they believe) have been done to them. In order to avert what seems to be an imminent attack, Linga, who speaks fluent Sesotho, ties a white handkerchief around his head and successfully passes himself off as a “Russian”. The irony here is that the “horde” of Russians cannot tell the difference: they identify him as “a child of [their]

30

The prevalence of ethnic thinking is illustrated by the popular song which Themba reproduces in his article “Inside Dube Hostel”: “You give birth to a Mosotho,/ Then you give birth to a spy./ You give birth to a Zulu,/ Then you give birth to a watchman./ You give birth to a coloured,/ Then you give birth to a drunk./ You give birth to a Xhosa, Then you give birth to a thief’ (118).

home” and offer their help (“Mob Passion” 37). By implication, what separates them from Linga is more imaginary than the real. Tragically, Mapula’s efforts to protect Linga lead directly to his death. However naïve or even retrogressive the implied racial and gender politics of the story may seem, we need, as Chapman suggests,31 to recognise the force of Themba’s humanism, especially given the context of the 1950s.

Critics differ in their estimation of Themba’s stories. Nkosi accuses Themba of being “annoyingly shiftless, throwing off cheap potboilers when magazines demanded them” (Home and Exile 138). According to Mphahlele, “Can Themba is basically Drum: romantic imagery, theatrical characters, Hollywood, with a lace of poetic justice” (“Black and White” 343). Themba’s projection of the romance formula onto the South African situation does, however, show some kind of engagement with social and political realities. In his Drum stories the obstacles to the lovers’ union arise from traditional attitudes to marriage (“Passionate Stranger”), race prejudice (“Forbidden Love”), or the ethnic divisions fostered by apartheid (“Mob Passion”). On these grounds Van Dyk claims that “Passionate Stranger” is “progressive in its vision” (80). Rabkin, on the other hand, finds it difficult to take this story seriously (115). His response is understandable, given the story’s cliché-ridden diction and the obvious exploitation of the stereotypes and conventions of popular romance. Here is Reggie’s declaration of love to Ellen:

Ellen, I am in love. I needed to escape the smoke and filth, the misery and degradation of Johannesburg to discover that something fresh and sweet is still possible in womanhood. . . . Love is on the wing, and whether I will it or no, I must love you. Destiny itself has guided my wanderings to this far place, that I may lay my troubles in your bosom.

(World of Can Themba 41-42) It is difficult to believe that Themba did not have his tongue firmly in his cheek while writing this!

What makes an informed assessment of these stories difficult is our awareness of the intellectual and social distance between the author and the Drum readers for whom he was writing. The popular writer in Africa is usually not too far removed from his (or her) readers in terms of education and sophistication. One of the best- known examples of popular literature in Africa is Onitsha Market Literature, which

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“fed the voracious book hunger of young urban Nigerians who had recently left school after acquiring a primary school education” (Newell 2). Much of this literature deals with issues of morality and conduct – the very issues which their readers would be grappling with in their own lives. As such, these stories have an obvious

informative and didactic function. Obiechina notes the popularity of marriage as a theme in Onitsha market pamphlets, and observes that the impulse which leads the pamphlet authors to champion Western marriage practices also “propels them towards an undisguised acceptance and promotion of notions of romantic love” (18). This should caution us against dismissing too easily a story like “Passionate Stranger”, dealing as it does with the issues of generational conflict and arranged marriages. At the end of the story Ellen stands up and refuses the marriage which her father and the tribal elders are in the process of arranging. The popular romance genre rests on the assumption of individuality and freedom of choice; in its own way, Themba’s story pits modernity against the traditions customs of the tribe. Nixon’s point, that Drum “advocated Western romantic love as a prestigious marker of modernity,” seems apposite here (20).

If Themba’s literary output were to be judged simply on the basis of this group of stories, then there may be some grounds for the dismissive attitude of various critics. In fact, his writing has considerable range and variety. In “Marta”, published in Drum in July 1956, we see Themba moving from popular romance to realism as he explores the shebeen culture in which he was himself immersed. Unlike “The Nice Time Girl” (May 1954), “Marta” is a more serious exploration of the costs of this life- style, and develops some understanding for the situation of Martha.32 Her marriage to Jackson is represented in stark but convincing terms: both are victims of “the tawdry, vulgar, violent recklessness of their lives” (122); Martha’s drinking and his adulteries are part of the problem. When he assaults her, concern for Marta and her child is mixed in with his anger and frustration.

The story turns on the developing relationship between Marta and a young man she meets in the shebeen. She dances to the jazz solo which he improvises on a

Significance” 208).

32

“Marta” was described by Drum as “D. Can Themba’s first story of life in the racy shebeens of Sophiatown” (July 1956; the quote is taken from Stephen Gray’s note on the story, Requiem for

drum set.

The others chanted out for her. Marta’s arms went out before her, her legs spread, her knees sagged, her eyes drooped, her mouth opened a little, and she moved forwards in a shuffle like a creature drawn irresistibly, half-consciously, to its doom. (The Drum Decade 123)

At moments like this the distance between Themba and the previous generation of black writers (one thinks particularly of Dhlomo) is not as great a one might imagine. As Titlestad points out, “contrary to his own philosophy of enlightening transgression, those of his protagonists who lapse into carnivalesque are destined only for depravity and eventual ruin” (44). For whatever reason, Themba “reiterates the moral scheme that places jazz on the side of excess, desirous abandon and, consequently, suffering” (44). Somewhat improbably, perhaps, the young man in this story has a shy, innocent quality which Marta recognises and respects: “Somehow, she felt this boy should not be dragged into their company” (124). She gets him to promise that he won’t drink or “go rough” (125). When Jackson arrives back he assumes she has been unfaithful to him and kills the young man. The popular verdict is “No case at all” (i.e. Jackson had every right to kill him). Marta (like Mapula in “Mob Passion”) has unwittingly

brought about the young man’s death. The story explores in a non-sensational manner the attraction and the devastation which can result from the abandonment of restraint and the urge to live life to the full – “sweetly or bitterly – but always intensely” (122). If anything, “Marta” implicitly critiques the conventions and stereotypes of popular romance.

Themba’s most carefully considered short story is probably “The Suit”, published not in Drum but in the The Classic, the literary magazine edited by Nat Nakasa, in 1963.33 The story provides a striking contrast with the more rudimentary “Marta”: it is essentially a psychological study of a young husband’s response to the discovery of his wife’s infidelity. The story presents us with what seems to be a model couple who enjoy a modern marriage characterised by mutual love, respect and

consideration. In stark contrast to the couple in “Marta”, they have managed to construct this ideal marriage amidst the privation and squalor of Sophiatown (their lean-to is situated in yard which they share with twenty or thirty families). The

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It is, according to Gray, “perhaps the most reproduced piece of fiction of his generation” (“Notes on Sources” xiii).

husband, Philemon, cheerfully goes about his household chores, and takes pleasure in bringing his wife breakfast in bed, in what seems a deliberate reversal of traditional roles: “He denied that he was one of those who believed in putting your wife in her place even if she was a good wife” (The World of Can Themba 85).

Philemon’s response to the revelation of his wife’s infidelity suggests how fragile or precarious his equilibrium actually is: “It was more like the critical breakdown in an infinitely delicate piece of mechanism” (87). His world has been turned upside down: “The bus ride home was a torture of numb dread and suffocating despair” (87). He catches his wife in flagrante; the visitor manages to escape via the bedroom window, but leaves his suit behind. This suit becomes the instrument of a