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Down Second Avenue
Ezekiel Mphahlele
(First published 1950)
Because we were so many in the family, there was only one bedstead - a three-quarter institution occupied by Grandmother and Aunt Dora's children. The wooden floor of the room we slept in had two large holes. There was always a sharp young draught coming up from underneath the floor. Coupled with this, our heads were a playground for mice, which also did havoc on food and clothing.
Sometimes I stole cooked meat and put it in my pocket. I forgot all about it until I was reminded by a large hole in the pocket where our night visitors had celebrated their jubilee. Early winter mornings a large cold drop of water fell on your cheek or into your ear from the iron roof and you woke up with a start. The only window there was misty because it had been shut all night. You heard the sharp whistle of the regular steam train passing, from Pietersburg. You heard the coal-black Nyasa police corporal yell his drill commands on the police station premises in First Avenue. You also heard his whistle. Soon, you knew, they'd be marching with heavy-booted strides up Barber Street, past our house. Then they'd stop and disperse to yet another yell, and go each to his own beat on the row of Indian and Chinese shops facing the location. They hardly ever entered the location on their regular beats. If all this happened while you were in bed you knew you were late in getting out of the blankets and the rest of the morning was going to be a headlong rush to the accompaniment of Grandmother's mumblings and moanings. You soon learned that it was never wise to leave a window open in Marabastad, even on thick mothy summer nights. We were always scared of burglars and what Grandmother called 'wicked night prowlers who've no respect for creatures made in the image of God'. These were witches. There was also the rain to keep out. Summer and autumn bring heavy rains over Pretoria.
I can never remember Marabastad in the rainy summer months. It always comes back to me with its winters. And then I cannot remember ever feeling warm except when I was at the fire or in the sun.
I was cycling one Monday morning from Waterkloof suburb with a large bundle of washing on the handlebars. It was such a cold mid-winter morning that I was shivering all over. I had on a very light, frayed and torn blazer. Nose, lips, ears, toes and fingers felt like some fat objects detached from the rest of the body, but so much part of me that the cold burnt into my nerve ends.
I came to a circle. Instead of turning to my right I didn't. I couldn't. The handlebars of the bicycle couldn't turn owing to the pressure of the bundle. From the opposite direction of handful of white boys came cycling towards me. They took their bend, but it was just when my bicycle was heading for the sidewalk of the bend. They were riding abreast. For some reason or other I did not apply my brakes. Perhaps my mind was preoccupied with the very easy yet not so very easy task of turning the handlebars. I ran into the first boy in the row, who fell on to the next, and their row was disorganized. The vehicle I was riding went to hit against the kerb, and I was down on the ground almost in a split second.
'Bastard!' shouted the boy who had fallen first.
His friends came to me and about three of them each gave me a hard kick on my backside and thighs. And they cursed and cursed and then rode away, leaving me with the cold, the pain, the numbness, and a punctured and bent front wheel.
I picked up the bundle and dragged myself on to the sidewalk and leant against a tree. At first I was too bewildered to think. I started off again and limped six miles home. My aunt and grandmother groused and groused before they had Oompie's vehicle fixed.
'Say it again,' said China from the lower end of Second Avenue. I related the story of my collision again.
'You country sheep!' said Moloi, the boy next door, laughing.
'What d'you think this is - Pietersburg forests?' was Ratau's sarcasm.
It was a joke to all but Ratau. He was a grave-looking boy. Little Links looked indifferent. Even when he said, 'That's the first lesson, you've got to go about town with your eyes open.'
I stopped worrying over being called 'skapie' - sheep - I was told that's the label they stuck on to anybody fresh from the country.
