February, 1957
One Saturday afternoon Henry Nxumalo, the News Editor of Golden City Post, set out to Sophiatown to look for me. He didn't find me in. He came three times, but still didn't find me in; curse my roving ways! Then he went to see another reporter friend, Bloke Modisane, and chatted with him into the early evening. Bloke thought that it was getting late, what with the boys outside getting so knife-happy these days, and he urged Henry to go home early, or to stay for the night. But Henry explained that he had a job to do in Newclare, and proposed to go and sleep at his cousin Percy Hlubi's house in Western Township. So at about 7 o'clock in the evening, Henry left the ‘Sunset Boulevard’—Bloke's home in Sophiatown, and went to Western Township, across the rails.
He must have felt disgracefully dry, because those days just after Christmas were arid and desert-like in the Western Areas. A man just couldn't find a drop. Henry got to Percy's house, and explained to Percy and his wife that he would like to pass the night there. However, he would first like to go to Newclare where he had a job to do. He would return later to sleep. Meanwhile, the men sat talking, whilst the woman prepared a bed for Henry. Before she turned in for the night, she told Henry that when he came back he would probably find them asleep; he shouldn't bother to knock; just open the door and go to bed.
Percy looked at the time and noticed that it was close on 11 o'clock. He told Henry to postpone his trip to Newclare for the following day. It was so awfully late. ‘Never put off for tomorrow what you can do today,’ Henry back-fired, grinning. Then he rose and walked out into the warm night. He never came back to the bed prepared for him.
The following morning, Mrs Hlubi rose early to go to work in Krugersdorp. She was a nurse there and she normally took her train at Westbury Station. She set out for work at about a quarter past five that Sunday morning. When she got to the spot where Malotane Street flowed out of Ballenden Avenue like a tributary, she noticed a body lying on the green grass, one shoe off, one arm twisted behind, the head pressed against the ground, the eyes glazed in sightless death. There were bloody wounds all over the head and body. Good heavens, it was Henry Nxumalo! In hysterical frenzy she rushed back home to tell her husband. Percy went to the scene and saw the battered body of his cousin. He got his friend, Mr Vil-Nkomo, to inform Henry's employer. He contacted the police. He chartered a car to go and tell Henry's wife—most cheerless of tasks. Then he got someone to go round and tell all the Drum boys.
The way I got the news was through the wife of Benjamin Gwigwi Mrwebi. Gwigwi himself was away in Durban with his combo, the Jazz Dazzlers. So Salome, his wife, took it upon herself to inform those of us who were around. She found me still in bed lazing luxuriously after 8 o'clock, and she broke the news to me. Stunned, I crawled out of bed and went with her to the spot marked X. There was already a little crowd gathered and from all the streets flowing into Ballenden people were streaming to the spot.
There he lay, the great, gallant Henry Nxumalo, who had fought bravely to bare cruelty, injustice, and narrow-mindedness; there he lay in the broiling sun, covered by two flimsy rags.
He who had accepted the challenge of life and dedicated himself against the wrongs of mankind, now lay on the roadside, his last battlefield the gutter, his last enemies arrant knaves for whom even Henry had raised his trumpet call. And there was a staggered trail of bloody footsteps that told the graphic story of that night's drama.
The unknowing still ask, who was this Henry Nxumalo? Henry was born thirty-nine years ago in Port Shepstone, the eldest of seven children.
Because their parents died when they were still young, they more or less had to look after themselves. This one fact accounts for the independent spirit in Henry and his surviving brothers. Henry went to school at St Francis, Mariannhill, and did his Junior Certificate, but while he was doing Matric, his father died and he had to abandon school. He took up a job as a kitchen boy in Durban, but left it because he didn't like it. He came to Johannesburg and found a job in a boilermaker's shop. In his spare time he wrote poetry for the Bantu World.
Later he got a job with the Bantu World as a messenger and hung on for three years until he became sports editor. When the war came he joined up and became a sergeant. He went up North and made various friends. The world beyond showed him how other people thought and lived and when he came back he was a frustrated man. He came back to the Bantu World and made extra money by writing for a Negro paper, the Pittsburgh Courier. In 1946 he married a young nurse called Florence. He then left to work on a gold mine, later doing welfare work for the British Empire Service League, while still freelancing for European papers. In 1951 he joined Drum.
It was in 1952 that the fabulous character of ‘Mr Drum’ was created. First the idea was a stunt whereby Mr Drum would disguise himself and walk through the locations. The first person who could identify him with a copy of Drum won a £5-note. Up to his death many people were still trying to earn a fiver off Henry.
But the idea of a ‘Mr Drum’ had tremendous possibilities. The first opportunity came with the famous Bethal story. Farmers were rumoured to be ill-treating their labourers in the Bethal district and Henry was sent over as a labourer himself to investigate. He came back with a story that shook the whole country. ‘Mr Drum Goes to Bethal’ was the first Mr Drum exposure. And from there Henry had set Drum on the map.
Henry got himself arrested on the slight offence of not having a night pass, and he went to jail. His experiences in jail made a chilling story that caused an international sensation. Just about this time a friend of mine reading the story in Drum said to me, ‘This Mr Drum fellow is going bang into history.’
He regarded himself as a contemporary social historian.
Why the bloody hell did they have to choose him to murder? I cannot hide my bitterness at all. But, dear Henry, Mr Drum is not dead. Indeed, even while you lived, others were practising the game of Mr Drum. Now, we shall take over where you left off. We want you, as you look down on us from among the angels, to mutter, ‘The boys sure make a good job of that game, and looks like they might get the world a little cleaner from what I left it.’ Bye now.