The Innocence of Roast Chicken Page 20

  ‘So, Joe,’ says Peter quietly from behind us, as we negotiate the passage single-file. I can see he finds the silence uncomfortable, but he’s clearly determined not to get into discussion over the merits of their leaving. I don’t think he feels the same compulsion to justify their decision. He wants to get out of here. The darkies are taking over, affirmative action rules, his kids will have to fight to get into university. That’s that. But that’s the last thing he wants to have to admit to us.

  ‘So, Joe, how’re the talks going? Haven’t you been sitting in with your union guys in their newest round of negotiations?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say they’re talking. What more can I say?’

  ‘As bad as that, hey? Well I must say, it just underlines our decision …’ He says this with some satisfaction. He clears his throat and stops, his hand on the front door. Glancing warily at me he turns back to Joe: ‘You know, it makes me feel we must be doing the right thing when someone as optimistic as you can’t bring himself … I mean, no longer feels excited enough to give us the blow-by-blow on what’s happening in the country.’

  Joe doesn’t speak. What’s the matter with him? He just stands there, his hands hanging at his sides, waiting for Peter to open the door.

  ‘Well anyway,’ says Peter, also looking curiously at Joe as he leads us through the door and down the drive, ‘I’m sorry the women seem to be so uptight with each other. But I’m sure they’ll get over it. I hope we see you before we leave. Nice having you, Joe. And you, Kate.’

  He removes his hand from Joe’s shoulder to manipulate the remote control button which will open the electric gate. Then he waves, backing swiftly up the drive to the house.

  ‘Well,’ I say to Joe as he starts the car, ‘you were remarkably quiet about their leaving. You who’ve always had such a lot to say about people fleeing on the verge of change!’

  ‘Ag, Kate,’ he says on a sigh, ‘somehow I don’t feel quite easy any more about criticising people for becoming disillusioned.’

  ‘Not so long ago you would’ve been at their throats all day like a terrier, Mr Black-and-White. Mr Principle. Anyway, don’t fool yourself. They aren’t the types to be affected by your current attitude of disillusionment.’

  ‘Why? You can’t blame people for being disillusioned.’

  ‘Oh Joe, don’t be so naïve. Louise never had the idealistic fervour of your brand of liberalism. She was a Stalinist. She was of the omelette-and-breaking-eggs persuasion, the end justifies the means and all that. I just find it all helluva amusing that, just as the supposed great change is about to happen, just as the people are really about to govern – and without even the upheaval of her much-vaunted true revolution – she’s up and leaving.’

  ‘Well, you don’t know what’s really going on with them. You’re not in the same position as they are, so it’s hard to appreciate how they must really feel.’

  ‘Oh yes, and now it’s for the kids, always the kids, the new lefty excuse. You know what I find so particularly startling about this whole thing? Louise always shouted everyone down, even back in varsity days. She always told everyone what they should believe. And now, now that she’s done the amazing turnaround, does she recant? No, now she still believes she’s right. She just thinks she’s mellowed a bit – she can’t even see that she’s turned her back on her principles. And she’s still telling us what to think. Now she’s saying people with kids who aren’t leaving the country are selfish bastards who put ideology above morals!’

  ‘Ja well, now you’ve had your little rave, maybe you’ll feel better.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, what’s happening to me? I sound almost like you. This is your fault, Joe. I’m having an identity crisis because you’ve forgotten your role in life. You’re the one who’s supposed to be raving about the principles of the thing. I’m the one who’s supposed to snort and ask what you really expected of cheap rat lefties, who gnaw and chew at the fabric of things and then leave the sinking state.’

  I’m making him smile. At least that’s something. He hasn’t smiled in weeks. But why do I care? Jesus, I really am teetering. He’s forcing me out of my glass jar through sheer despair. And now he’s setting out to build his own glass jar. I can see all the signs. I should know – I’m the expert glass jar builder.

  But I can’t allow him to. This just can’t go on. As things stand, life can still continue with me safe in my own jar. But I need the balance, the support he’s always afforded me. We can’t both sit silent and unreachable in the back of our separate glass cages. I have to get him out of it somehow, he’s making me feel quite unsteady. Kind of panicky.

  ‘It’s clear to me,’ I continue, ‘that I’m being forced to play some of your part because you’ve forgotten your script. Buck up, Joe, I depend on you for my role, to prompt me, feed me my lines. I can’t go on being your understudy ad nauseam.’

  Joe gives a slight chortle, but subsides again into that sagging silence I’ve been living with for weeks. It makes me decidedly uneasy. We park the car and unlock the house without a word. I head for the fridge. I could do with some nice cold wine, after that lukewarm stuff we’ve been drinking all afternoon. Joe makes for the answering machine and presses the replay button.

  ‘Hey, Com Joe,’ the message crackles into the kitchen, forcing Joe to bend lower to catch the words. ‘It looks like a few more breakaway scabs are intending to go back to work tomorrow. But management shouldn’t be allowed to use that to intimidate us in talks. Can we come see you early tomorrow? We need to talk about how we can convince them we intend to intensify the strike.’ Click, be-eep.

  Joe sighs, his expression unchanged. He pages through his Filofax and, with his left index finger marking the spot, dials. He stands there for a long time, staring at the bright calendar on the wall. I’m about to go over and click my fingers in front of his staring eyes when he gives a small shake of his head and replaces the receiver.

  ‘Not there, hey?’

  ‘No, but that’s usually the case. They leave me some urgent message about something that I’m going to have to prepare right away, and then they’re not there to give me instructions.’

  ‘So, Joe, you’ve been remarkably quiet lately about how this new round of talks is going. Surely there must be some progress? A few weeks ago, no thrust or parry would have gone undescribed to anyone who was willing to lend you even half an ear.’

  ‘Ja, and no mocking jibe would’ve gone unexpressed by you.’

  I sigh and unfold the Sunday Star, which lies still unread on the kitchen table. My eyes travel listlessly over the stories of hope and optimism and impending releases, and fix halfway down the front page on the headline:

  FOUR BURNT TO DEATH

  IN FOOD STRIKE VIOLENCE

  Labour Reporter

  Witbank – Four people have been burnt to death this week in the violence which has flared up over the Eastern Transvaal food factory strike.

  One man, found ‘necklaced’ not far from the factory gate, is not yet formally identified, but is believed to be one of the hundreds of non-union employees who kept working during the past few weeks of industrial unrest.

  The other three victims of violence – including a child – were not involved in the strike. One of these was Mr Bernard Mhlangu, who ran a trading store near Bronkhorstspruit and sold staple foods to the local community.

  Neighbours and family believe he was killed for not adhering to the boycott of staple foods produced by the South African Multi-Products Company (SAMPCO).

  The boycott was announced recently by factory strikers, whose industrial action has so far achieved little in terms of compromise. No breakthrough appears to be in sight in deadlocked talks with management.

  Mrs Mhlangu shouted at reporters: ‘He died for what? For providing bread for his family? For selling food to the people? What was he supposed to do? Join the factory boycott and let us
all starve?’ she wept. ‘Why must he die?’

  Mr George Thembali, shopkeeper of Volksrust, said: ‘My wife and child have been murdered for no reason at all. These tsotsis must pay for what they did. My life is also hard. If I sold no SAMPCO foods, my family would starve. And now they are dead anyway – burnt in my home.’

  SAMPCO management said they would issue a statement as soon as they had details of the deaths at the retail outlets.

  A union leader told this newspaper: ‘We cannot stop the violence if it is not our members who are creating violence. This is just a strategy to discredit us in the community.’

  Asked about plans to end the strike, he said: ‘Any strike is a life and death affair for workers, who depend solely on selling their labour. The strike goes on … what other options have we?’

  Observers, however, see signs of crumbling in union ranks. More workers, desperate for pay and mindful of Christmas bonuses and the need for jobs next year, are expected to join the trickle back to work which began last week.

  Despite this the violence escalates. Last night the scenes of horror at the factory and in nearby communities were described as …

  ‘Shit Joe, did you know about this thing on the front page? What does this take the death toll to now – fifteen?’

  ‘You know very well it is. Why bother to ask me?’

  He gives a small barking laugh, devoid of humour. ‘I don’t trust you, Kate. I know you’re trying to tempt me into confiding in you so you can laugh and sneer at my past pretensions and my idealistic stupidity. But don’t worry. I may be a late learner, but I’m coming around to your way of thinking. You always believed in the “All people are pigs” principle, didn’t you? Well, I’m getting there, fast.’

  ‘Ag Joe, I’m just trying to find out from you what’s really going on. And you have to admit, I haven’t said one word to you about the violence in the last couple of weeks. It’s been hard, I’ll admit, but I’ve taken a deep breath and held it. Not one snotty word have you heard from me. Not once have I reminded you of past conversations, liberally scattered with “moral higher ground” or “disciplined membership”.’

  ‘Gee, thanks for your deep consideration, Kate. I’m sure I can appreciate it. Particularly when I can see it in your face – that amusement as you stick your tongue in your cheek and raise your eyebrows. Gee, you’re so kind.’

  ‘No but seriously, Joe. There’s a cross-refer here to the leader page. D’you want to hear what the guy says?’

  He doesn’t reply, but I read it aloud anyway. What the hell. He should know what’s being written.

  STRIKE VIOLENCE:

  WHO’S TO BLAME?

  By Derek Davis

  Labour Correspondent

  There is irony as well as stark tragedy in the confrontation between the South African Multi-Products Company (SAMPCO) and its unionised employees.

  The ‘necklacing’ of a young man, thought by strikers to be a scab worker, and the ‘torching’ of at least four trading stores and shopkeepers’ homes (the reports of violence from the Eastern Transvaal are still coming in) cast a bloody and black pall over burgeoning negotiating systems in this country. The strike at SAMPCO is only one of many which have suddenly erupted. But this one is terrorising an entire community. The death and violence must not be allowed to obscure the facts.

  The facts are:

  - The union has been regarded as one of the most enlightened to come forward since the Wiehahn reforms of impossibly harsh labour laws some years ago.

  - SAMPCO has been a pioneer in the painful process of recognising – some say yielding to – the new unions.

  - SAMPCO has a virtual monopoly in the manufacture and distribution of three staple foods in the rural areas from Witbank to the Natal coast and from Vereeniging to Lesotho. (But they claim that they dominate a regional market only because, by dispensing with advertising and packaging and unnecessary overheads, they supply basic foods to the poorest market more cheaply than anyone else. They allege that excessive demands for increased wages will raise food prices in these poor communities.)

  But the welfare of innocent people seems furthest from everybody’s mind as wary cooperation between management and the union turns to disillusion and bitterness.

  The hitherto pragmatic union is now saying that SAMPCO is ‘an all-white capitalistic, monopolistic commercial conglomerate which exploits the workers and “the people”.’

  Setting aside the emotive factors in these labels, there remains some truth in their accusations. SAMPCO is white-controlled, capitalistic and a semi-monopoly. It is part of a major conglomerate. It is a financially healthy concern, and this is reflected in its remarkably buoyant share price.

  Why does the company not pay its workers more?

  Joint MDs Dennis Johnson and Johan du Preez have argued all along that its wage offer – which would bring the basic minimum to R5,45 an hour – is fair. They have claimed the strike to be contrived, aimed at recapturing the limelight from the released ANC leaders who were hailed as ‘the people’s’ heroes at a mass rally recently. They claim they are paying higher wages than any similar commercial organisation.

  On the other hand, the union can be forgiven for becoming covetous in the light of pre-tax profits of R200 million for the last half-year, and a 25 per cent increase in dividends.

  ‘The workers’ wages are small while the company’s profits are big,’ says union secretary-general Terence Semani. He claims that his hard negotiating with senior management over the past five years has resulted in the boast now made by Messrs Johnson and du Preez that they pay higher wages than any other factory in the Eastern Transvaal.

  The union also accuses middle management of being ruthless in singling out and victimising shop stewards as ‘troublemakers’. It claims that its members work in unhealthy conditions, and that their hours are abnormal because of the demands of this sector of the food industry.

  On the contrary, say the joint MDs. The company has for years paid higher wages than its competitors and has done so out of a sense of fairness as well as good business. ‘Our market is the one from which our employees are drawn. We know where our bread is buttered. We are intent on being enlightened employers. But when we offer a 15 per cent increase – the increase itself being the highest in the industry – the union rejects it out of hand and demands a ridiculous 35 per cent!’

  But why this level of vicious and bloody violence?

  The answers are too complex to canvas in detail here, but some observers believe the basic cause is the union’s frustration and anger. Frustration at being constantly and patronisingly outmanoeuvred by management. The union, in this strike, is pitted against a powerful, determined and sophisticated adversary.

  Food distribution has suffered, but carefully laid contingency plans – involving stockpiling and the use of temporary labour – has meant production has remained largely unaffected. Some observers believe there can be no doubt that worker frustration at continued SAMPCO output is behind much of the violence which has marred this strike.

  The cards have also been stacked against workers in their second-line strategy of a product boycott. SAMPCO’s virtual monopoly in certain areas, and the fact that many black people depend on SAMPCO food sales for a living, have been potent obstacles.

  On the other hand, the union claims it is not responsible for the violence at SAMPCO and in the Witbank community. It hints darkly that the factory is trying to turn the community against the union by assaulting and murdering innocent people. That’s why masks and balaclavas have been seen on the killers.

  But some of the neighbours and families of the victims say that it is union gangs who are creating terror by death.

  The rights and wrongs, and the historical injustices involved in this vicious dispute, fade into insignificance once you look past the rhetoric and see the plight of the poor who live in the Witban
k district. Whoever is killing and destroying, the fact is that the people who have had their homes burnt down and their loved ones murdered are innocent victims. Their plight is heart-rending. Yet even as the test of power seems to be ending, and workers trickle back to the factory, the violence escalates. If the union is not involved in the violence, then it ought to get involved in stopping it.

  The same of course applies to SAMPCO, which must accept responsibility for the actions of even the lowliest in its (white) management ranks.

  The red and black pall that hangs over Witbank tonight is something the whole nation should condemn. If it is caused by uncontrolled violence, then both sides should help to end it. If the violence is indeed orchestrated – orchestrated by some power clique in the union or in middle management using a would-be rival union – then it must be rooted out, now, before its poison infects our whole society.

  When a breadwinner is kicked to death and incinerated in a ring of petrol; when a child is burnt to death by someone trying to make a political point, all of us are brutalised.

  I clear my dry throat, and take a gulp of wine.

  ‘What do you think of his analysis?’ I ask of Joe’s hunched back, watching it slowly move as he turns towards me. ‘Is he talking shit or sense? … Don’t look at me like that, Joe. I’m interested. I may like to mock you a bit but that’s because I’ve never had the same unrealistic expectations about people that you have. I’d just like to know what you think the union’s role is in all this necklacing and stuff.’

  ‘Ja well, the matter of violence came up on the first day of talks. I suppose I wasn’t really even that surprised or shocked by the two attitudes – union’s and management’s – after the line everyone took in the interdict proceedings …’ His voice trails away and he wanders listlessly over to the fridge. He opens the door and stares into it.