Chapter 17

PETER RANG THROUGH to Mthetho’s office. Three o’clock in the afternoon and no one answered. What a country. A taxi had collided with a bus on the road to Bhisho and they blocked all traffic for nearly half an hour. Peter wanted to tell the Deputy Minister he’d be late. He was still twenty minutes from Bhisho.

He tried the phone again as a sea of almost modern-looking buildings came into view. This was his first visit to the former capital of the Ciskei. It looked like an industrial park plunked down in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Why would anyone put a capital in a desolate place like this when the Eastern Cape had some of the most beautiful coastline in the world?

Apartheid planning rarely made sense.

When Peter finally pulled up to the Social Services building that housed Mthetho’s department, a picket line blocked the driveway. Peter got as far as the entrance to the car park before two young male strikers stood in his way. Hooting the horn brought no reaction.

‘I have a meeting with the Deputy Minister,’ Peter shouted out the window. ‘I’m already late.’

‘We are on strike,’ said one of the men. He approached the car window and handed Peter a leaflet. ‘We Demand a Living Wage,’ the heading read.

‘You’re expecting a raise?’ said Peter.

‘It’s obvious,’ the young man replied. ‘We’ve been suffering for too long.’

The young man didn’t look so underpaid to Peter. He wore a nicely pressed blue shirt and a matching tie. ‘We are asking for 40 per cent over three years,’ the striker said.

‘Forty per cent? You’re out of your mind,’ said Peter. ‘Your province is broke. Read your financials. It’s not a pretty picture.’

‘Government can find the money,’ said the young man.

‘Who are you people?’

‘We are from COSATU,’ he said. ‘This is not America, my friend. Here workers have rights.’

Peter threw the leaflet on the passenger seat and jammed the car into reverse. Driving through the picket line would create unnecessary ripples. One of the strikers might break a window. The young man walked alongside the car as Peter reversed.

‘You need to reduce your workforce,’ Peter said. ‘Try working instead of striking.’

‘Hiring and firing is not the business of the union,’ the young man replied.

‘Je-sus,’ said Peter. ‘You people landed on the wrong planet.’

He found a parking space three blocks away. He tried Mthetho’s office phone again. The answering machine replied. Peter ducked through the picket line and finally tracked down Mthetho on the fourth floor. The Deputy Minister was alone in his office.

‘Where the hell’s your secretary?’ Peter asked. ‘I’ve been phoning.’ He sat down in an old Dralon armchair.

‘Good afternoon, my brother,’ said Mthetho. ‘You must relax. Remember, you are in Africa, not New York. Here we greet one another.’

‘I was telling those strikers that if they don’t reduce the workforce, there’ll be no money for anyone,’ Peter replied. ‘It’s like talking to a brick wall.’

‘My secretary is with them,’ Mthetho said. ‘Probably leading the chants of “Down with the bosses”.’

Peter opened up his laptop and searched for the consultant’s report on the Eastern Cape.

‘You must clean house,’ said Peter. ‘No government can function spending 65 per cent of its budget on salaries. That’s way beyond the international standard.’ He clicked to the consultant’s footnote. It said that anything beyond 55 per cent was in the danger zone. ‘And you’ve got thousands of ghost workers,’ he added.

Mthetho walked to the corner of the room and switched on the kettle. He took a minute to find the tea bags. The long-life milk was almost empty. He left his black.

‘It will take time to calm the situation,’ said Mthetho. ‘We have our own unique history.’

‘You haven’t got the time.’

‘We will find the time. We are not in such a hurry in Africa.’ He emptied the milk into Peter’s tea.

Peter closed his laptop. If only a sense of urgency could accompany all this political goodwill. He looked at the picture of Mandela above Mthetho’s desk. How could a man who spent twenty-seven years in prison not feel that urgency, the desire to make up for lost time? He couldn’t blame Mandela, though; the man was a saint.

‘The municipal workers are the biggest problem,’ said Mthetho. ‘Many of them reject the ANC because we are not socialist.’

‘This is the Wild West,’ said Peter. He stirred his tea a few times, trying to dissolve the curdled milk.

‘The union’s only concern is to get more members and keep their own jobs,’ said Mthetho. ‘What happens to the province or the local authorities is not their problem.’

‘You have to be ruthless,’ said Peter. ‘These people are obstructing progress.’

Mthetho launched into one of those silences that told Peter he had overstepped his boundaries again. South Africans could be so sensitive. He wanted to shake Mthetho, warn him of the stakes. At Pellmar they’d seen first-hand the disasters of state-run economies in Eastern Europe. All initiative stifled, consumers waiting in line for hours to buy a loaf of bread. The people of South Africa deserved so much better. They were a beacon of hope for the world.

‘To make matters worse,’ said Mthetho, ‘our people are accustomed to not paying.’

‘Force them.’

‘They will refuse.’

‘You have to cut their services until they pay. Otherwise, the debt just grows.’

‘If we cut people off,’ said Mthetho, ‘they will march to the municipality. Things can happen. You’ve heard of the necklace?’

‘You are in power now,’ said Peter. ‘Use that power.’

Mthetho was making excuses for not acting. Weak excuses. Peter hoped other people in government had more spine. Mandela had the courage, but tough love against your own people required a different toughness from enduring decades in prison.

At least there was the Finance Minister, Trevor Manuel, a perfect role model for South African leaders. He had those stand-up qualities. Competitiveness was in his blood. He was sticking by this GEAR, calling it ‘non-negotiable’. Manuel understood that a leader must lead. Then there was Susan, another shining example of someone ready for plunging South Africa into a globalising world.

Peter hadn’t given up on Mthetho. But if his friend didn’t change soon, he’d be taking his province down a dismal road. The joy of overthrowing apartheid couldn’t sustain this country forever.

Peter stayed with Mthetho for another hour, promising him that Pellmar would put the Eastern Cape on the map if the province could start to run a tighter ship. The Deputy Minister seemed to offer only more excuses about the problems of the past.

‘You should visit Bulgaria,’ said Peter as he left. ‘No workers there can hold the government to ransom. You need to think about that.’

Mthetho didn’t reply to that comment but told Peter that when his secretary got back he’d have her let him know when he’d be in Joburg again.

‘There’s still lots to talk about,’ said Mthetho. ‘You must be patient.’

Peter waved to Mthetho and started running down the hallway. His plane for Joburg left in an hour. If there weren’t any more taxis smashing into people he could make it.

By the evening Peter was safely tucked away with Susan in a corner table at Romero’s, a quiet little family restaurant in Kensington. They were feasting on prawns. Susan preferred hers Portuguese style – lots of butter and garlic, with a smattering of peri-peri and lemon. She was on her second glass of port.

‘Our movement operated on consensus,’ said Susan. ‘Individuals didn’t take decisions without a mandate from their organisations, even if you were the leader.’

Peter could see that wistful look in her eye. Such nostalgia could be dangerous. That’s why he tried to put Joanna and his own activist days behind him. This was a new era. Everyone should have grown up by now. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘How did you get anything done?’

‘I can’t explain it,’ said Susan. ‘Everyone was equal, from the cleaner to the general secretary. We accepted that.’

‘We did that sort of thing when I was a student but you can’t run a country that way,’ said Peter. ‘Not even a baseball team.’

‘We’re learning that,’ she said, ‘but not everyone agrees. The unions and community structures want to be part of every decision. It’s just not practical.’ She shook a little bit of hot sauce onto her plate. ‘I wish they’d put the peri-peri right in the butter,’ she said. ‘It actually brings out the garlic.’

‘You can’t wait for everyone to agree,’ said Peter. ‘The world will leave you behind.’

A flan followed the prawns. A bit too rich for Peter, but Susan said it was her favourite. She asked for a little heavy cream to mix with the caramel sauce.

‘Today is an anniversary for me,’ she said as she scooped the rest of Peter’s flan onto her plate.

‘Anniversary?’

‘Maybe that’s the wrong word. Twelve years ago today my good friend Graeme Temple died in detention. He was twenty-four.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter. ‘You were close?’ He hoped she wouldn’t think he was prying. This was obviously a sensitive issue. He was amazed she was sharing it with him.

‘You could call him my mentor,’ said Susan. ‘Politically, I mean.’

Susan had never mentioned any previous relationships to him. Maybe Graeme was the reason. Peter could understand that it was hard to talk about someone you loved if they’d died like that. The only experience he’d had with death was at his grandmother’s bedside when she passed away. He still didn’t like to think about her hand just going limp on the bed and the nurse pulling grandma’s eyelids down.

‘The police claimed he had a heart attack,’ Susan said. Peter tried to think of the perfect reply. Her opening up like this was a breakthrough in their relationship. He had to capitalise on it, show he was sensitive to her grief.

‘It must have been so painful,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t know if I could cope with anything like that.’

‘You find a way,’ she said.

She put down her fork and fumbled for something in her bag, finally pulling out a pack of cigarettes and setting them on the table.

‘I shouldn’t eat so much flan,’ she said. ‘I’m putting on weight.’ She patted her stomach.

‘Still looks as flat as the top of Table Mountain,’ said Peter. She lit up a cigarette, then ordered an espresso and two cognacs. He reached out and grasped her hand. She squeezed his fingers and he got chills all over.

‘When did you start smoking?’ he asked. As soon as the words came out, he realised he’d spoiled the mood. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Let’s drink a toast to Graeme. That is, if it would be appropriate.’

‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I appreciate that you’re trying to understand. It means a lot.’ She squeezed his hand again.

They hoisted the snifters but took meagre sips. Cognac was awkward for toasting a fallen martyr. Peter waved away the cigarette smoke with his hand.

‘I wonder what Graeme would think of all this,’ said Susan.

‘He’d have to be as shocked as everyone else,’ said Peter. ‘No one dreamed apartheid would fall so soon, so peacefully.’

‘I think he’d be frustrated,’ she said. ‘He was a man of ideas.’

‘We all were back then,’ said Peter.

‘A movement must have a long-term vision, he used to say, a dream.’

‘What a tragedy that he didn’t get to see his dream come true,’ said Peter.

‘It’s one of the saddest things about our democracy,’ she said, ‘that so many wonderful people never got to see it become a reality.’ She took another drag on her cigarette, then slid her hand away from his.

‘I hope this isn’t going to become a regular habit,’ said Peter.

‘Talking about Graeme?’

‘No, smoking.’

‘I have one a year,’ she said. She looked like she was about to have a teary meltdown. He’d never seen her do that before. He hoped he could handle it. When Joanna used to cry Peter never knew what to do. He’d usually hold her until the tears stopped, but it never quite felt right. But that was Joanna.

Susan put the cigarette out in the ashtray.

‘Ag, man, enough of that,’ she said and ate the last of the flan.