Purple Rain

Purple Rain

As teargas smoke wafted through the air, students began to run in all directions.  It was like a movie being played in slow motion.  The pungent smell literally got into their eyes and made them cry.  Each one wanted to get as far away from the soldiers as they possibly could.  The snarling German shepherd dogs barked ferociously, their teeth glistening in the African sun as saliva dribbled down the sides of their wet, pink and charcoal-black cheeks.  The noises that could be heard in those slowly dragging minutes were enough to inspire terror in even the hardest of students who could not even stand the sight of a so-called ‘white man’ let alone a soldier in his brown and camouflage green fatigues.

            Earlier, the line of soldiers advanced like a well drilled Spartan army.  They had obviously been drilling.  Stones put on a brave face and tried to hide his fear by muttering something funny to his buddies who were defiantly standing by, waiting for the other sides’ next move.  ‘Stones’ was not his actual name.  His buddies had given him this nickname as they endeared themselves to him on account of his likeable personality.  It was like a great stand-off as either side looked to their leaders for instruction on the next course of action.   The soldiers had all the firepower – R1 rifles, teargas canisters, hippos, water cannons and even tanks parked not far behind. 

The majority of students had on their one of two pairs of versatile jeans, never washed except on Saturdays, and fresh clean t-shirts.  In their hearts pumped young, fresh and innocent blood.  In their minds swirled thoughts of the great heroes of yore, men like Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr, Nelson Mandela and their own home-grown heroes Naidoo and Govender.  All were great men and stalwarts of the struggle for liberation and equality.  The male students as if putting on a show for the female students began to sing a struggle song.  Not all of them were fully conversant in the language of the song, it being in the IsiZulu language.  Their only exposure to it had been at the University where they were now in a stand-off on the quadrangle with the army and secret service police.  The few Zulu students who had managed to get into the University through its newly open policy of affirmative action led the singing and tried to inspire the crowd.

Stones tried to sing as best as he could but the words failed him.  For a long time had had a mental blockage to learning the Zulu language.  It was not that he was dumb or anything like that.  There were several factors that impeded his progress in that regard.  Among those that were distractions to him was the fact that for the first time at University, he could use clothes of his own choosing and not the same dreary uniform of his British inspired school.  He was no longer another person because he had now come of age.  He could now meet and develop friendships with people like him from all parts of the province (state), which he did.  They would use any opportunity to find time to be together, going to the mall or singing songs about their faith and socializing.  Sometimes, they even skipped classes.  For the first time in his cramped and constricted existence did he feel free, and he could not get enough of it.

Even earlier, the students as if suddenly hit by a lightning bolt of information began to congregate around one of the student leaders and their lackeys who were always nearby on hand to provide further direction to those that had missed the directions or were simply clueless.  Yet, all of them were eager for some form of distraction.  Being at University, one was afforded the luxury of skipping classes, having as much fun as one could have or even go to one of the regular protest meetings where they would sing and shout and raise the roof about anything popular or that tickled their fancy.

It was an opportunity to show among other things their camaraderie, their putting it out there that ‘I’m not racist’ by show of action without saying a word even though some of them harbored feelings of resentment towards the members of the Zulu tribe.  Now this paradox of emotions had its roots as they suckled at their mothers’ breasts.  For many decades, the race groups in South Africa had been forcibly separated by the Group Areas Act of 1950.  This act stipulated that each major race group had to live in their own designated area.  Upon pain of injury that was liberally inflicted by the special police and their ‘Blackjacks’, people could not afford to be found outside of their assigned geographical areas.

Similar to the hiss of an angry snake and equally painful though with less fatal consequences, the Blackjacks’ sjamboks (plastic/rubber whip of about 4-5 feet in length with a tapered end) cut through the air.  Everybody knew that getting whipped by one of these things was a ‘no – no’.  The welts would run about half to one and a half feet in length.  The pain on contact was felt right through to the marrow.  It was also liberating in a way – it liberated many a hapless individual or unlucky slowpoke of their bowel contents.  The pain would shoot down the body from the top of the neck to the base of the coccyx as though the whole spinal cord was now a lightning rod that conducted the pain from the back or arms to the ass and down both, now jellified legs.  Subsequently, urine would pour out of the body cathartically as though to alleviate the pain.

The people that Stones knew, told of how they didn’t notice that they had pissed or crapped themselves until much later when they could notice the dwindling pain far away from the crowds and in the safety and sanctity of their homes.  With a resolute vow, they promised themselves never again but that too was a remote possibility.  The crowd would make the final decision and then it would be back to square one again.  Different race groups were allowed to go into different race group areas to look for work but they had better be gone before seven at night or there would be %*&#@ to pay.  Everybody knew that and none were willing to take the chance of walking alone down the street close to curfew time.  Some, who had a close enough relationship with their employers would sleep in the garage on the floor or in the shithouses that were usually outside.  The city council had built these homes like matchboxes lined up on a hill.  Most were one bedroomed with a kitchen, outside bathroom and a small yard.  They being nearer to the affluent and plush suburbs of the cities had to be less of an eyesore than the houses that were further away.

The oft drunk blackjacks were on the prowl.  They would let people know of their presence though their screeching tires and loud hooting.  One could never get the image of a light brown almost beige Toyota van with its tin sealed canopy and a single lever locked gate at the back into which many a sorry individual was thrown like a sack of potatoes.  If the blackjack policeman was smaller than the ‘criminal’ then two of them would grab the luckless person by his belt or shirt or pants and with a heave-ho, in he would go.  There was no concern for whether his skull would be cracked in the process or his skin torn by the sharp metal everywhere.  Everyone knew of the blood, urine and feces stains that liberally coated the roof and walls of this veritable wagon from hell.  As it often tore around the corners, its speed belied its appearance.  Its chassis and engine threatened to leave its whole body behind but somehow by the power that the state had vested in this piece of metal, everything stayed intact.

With no seatbelts in the back, anyone found there would be thrown from side to side like a floating astronaut without a tether inside his space capsule though with more violence and absolute gravity.  The driver was always a man in his late twenties or early thirties.  It seemed that he enjoyed driving his government issued toy at breakneck speed without fear of an accident or recrimination should something inadvertently go wrong.  These often beat up little trucks would be everywhere, keeping the ‘peace’ and enforcing the ‘goodwill’ of the government on its citizens.  Nobody in their right minds messed with them.

In addition to the blackjack and the numerous police stations that dotted the residential neighborhoods, the army paid regular visits to the townships to let the people know that their government was strong.  Everybody stayed in their own place and lived contentedly among their own. 

On a Saturday, the Indians would buy their live chickens that often had their heads separated from their bodies on the spot.  At the crack of dawn, they would go to their nearest market in the city of Durban.  It was called the Indian morning market because that is exactly what it was.  At the time (during the 1970’s and early 1980’s) Indians and a few brave souls of other races would buy their weekly victuals from this rowdy place.  Even rowdier was the fish market right next door.  A lot of fish was sold, much of it stale.  The place stank and was always full of flies.  They buzzed around the market undisturbed and often settled on the fish until they were chased away by the deft flap of an old towel or filthy rag that the fishmonger had been using.  Smart customers would look at the eyes on the fish.  If the eyes looked sunken, it was a clear sign that the fish was not fresh.  Smarter mongers, knowing this not audibly spoken about secret, chopped off the fish heads.  Many an unsuspecting customer fell for this hoax.

By the evening, there was a pot simmering on the paraffin stove or the fire that glowed in the approaching darkness of night.  As the smell of strong spices and chilies wafted through the air, screams and shouts could be heard.  Some of the men who had been drinking their sugar cane distilled alcohol now began to pick little fights with their close siblings and friends.  All had the express goal of getting numbingly drunk and judicially sober with the potent concoction that their wives and mothers had been working on all day long.  As they stirred the food in their imported India pots and banged the metal spoons on the edges, they couldn’t help but feel contentment and self-satisfaction.  ‘Nobody calls it mother-in-law’s tongue curry powder for nothing’ they said as they wiped tears from their eyes.

Everybody lived separately and happily but no one was equal.  Some were more equal than others.  As they sipped their martinis, brandy or vodka on neatly manicured garden lawns in the sunset under rondavels (thatched roof gazebos) and on deckchairs the other race group was also content.  Their ‘boys’ (older black men who regularly half-kowtowed in the presence of white folk) had cleaned the garden the whole week.  Their maids had washed all the clothes and cleaned all the rooms.  Some of them had given the ‘baas’ (Afrikaans term for white man/boss) a little extra on the side because he demanded it.  From the distance, they could see the lights of the city flickering and not far away they could hear the foghorns booming.

Then the Indians in their area and the Whites in their area and the Colored in their area and the Zulus in their area began to talk.  They talked long into the night.  Sitting around the fire that crackled and glowed as it burned, they began to talk about the other side.  All the Indians agreed that the white man and the black man was evil and to be feared.   All of the Indians agreed that the Colored man was likely carrying a knife.  All of the coloreds, when they could get away from their drunken brawls and beating on their wives and girlfriends and cussing out their neighbors, agreed that the white man and the black man and the Indian man were evil.  The Coloreds, actually the majority of them thought that they were white and therefore superior to the Zulu and Indian man.  Additionally, the Coloreds thought that the Indian man was likely to rob them by giving them the wrong amount of change when they entered his store.  The white man thought that the Colored man and the Black man Zulu were a nuisance if only they were not needed for their labor.  All of the white men thought that the black man should be thrown into the sea.  The Coloreds and Indians, had they been privy to this idea would actually have agreed only this once with the white man because then there would be more of everything for them.  All the Zulu men gathered around their fires in their neighborhoods and began to drink their homemade brew named uTshwala.  It looked milky and foamy and smelled of yeast and something sour.  One could not taste alcohol proper but the effects were the same.  It was a genius combination of alcohol and hallucinogen made at home.  The recipe being handed down for hundreds of years.  It looked and tasted like milk gone bad.

As the drink took effect, the Zulus began to talk.  One told of how an Indian had underpaid him.  A maid who was serving the men meat that was cooked on the fire piped in by saying ‘Yebo (yes) my Indian baas grabbed me in my privates.’  All the men expressed horror and cussed at the Indian man and the white man who kicked his worker and called him a ‘dummy’.  They were mad at the Colored men because they had decided to negotiate with the white man for the vote and they, the indigenous Africans were not even considered for political favor.  Three more men told of how they walked the whole day through the other groups’ areas without finding jobs because they looked like they were up to no good.

As the suspicions rose and fell like the tides their collective consciences was now colored with schizophrenic thoughts about the worst that could happen at the hands of the other race.  Children perpetuated the culture.  In voicing their hatred of the other groups they were actually giving utterance to the inner voices whose sounds had nurtured them.  They were therefore only ‘safe’ among their own. 

Every gathering at the University had one of two central themes: “The white government is evil and must be replaced and, we must reconcile.”  The replacement of the government was a given.  Reconciliation was a nice word that rolled off the tongue and tickled the mouth.  Students loved that word because it now meant that they were brothers and sisters; Zulu and Indian and White and Colored and everybody else.  What a great feeling!  It was even better to say in the Afrikaans language ‘versoening’ because the word implied a kissing type of closeness.  The thought was great but the actual practice was painfully difficult to implement.  Weekend camps and barbeques of various groups helped to get the ball rolling.  The ball stopped rolling as soon as the ‘newly changed’ student returned to the reality of their homes.  The culture and ethos was so hard to break. 

Earlier, one of the leaders’ nephews whom not many knew and who clearly was a few cups short of a tea set began handing out crisp new boxes of matches in the basement of the university main hall.  With amazing alacrity and incredulousness, he said “When the police come, we will burn the place down.”  Stones was puzzled.  Clearly, this fool had not done the math.  This, being the basement, had only one service entrance namely the huge double garage door.  On all three sides was solid brick which held the whole edifice in its place.  If the police came, then there was going to be no place to run to but straight through them.

Everyone knew that this was not on the cards for the rubber bullets would whistle through the air and take out an eye or teeth or tear into muscle tissue and leave lifelong scars.  Pop! Pop! Pop!  was the sound that could be heard like a full on Diwali celebration.  Searing pain ensued.  If not the rubber bullets, it was the teargas, water cannons and an abundance of overeager German shepherd dogs.  Worst of all were the trigger happy police and special branch soldiers who seemed to have been convinced that it was ‘open season’ on those of darker skin color than themselves.

Somebody passed the message ‘The police and army are coming’.  Quick, rational thinking decided that the hall basement was not the best place for a standoff with the police and army.  The students relocated to the quadrangle that was a huge open space between their lecture rooms and the oft full cafeteria.  Should there be a need to go into Usain Bolt mode, there was plenty of options on the table.  They could run East, West or North if the army and police appeared in the South.  If they appeared in the West, then they could run East, North and South and hope that they were the lucky ones not to have the dogs let loose on them.  Either way, there was more option to escape than in the basement of the main hall.  If it came down to a fight, then the paving bricks that had not long ago replaced the worn concrete slabs could be used to at least do some damage.  The students were spurred.

Some thought of Machiavelli and others thought of Mussolini as rebellion burned within their puerile breasts.  Most thought about Karl Marx and his idealistic but unrealistic philosophies.  They did not have the foresight to see that a utopian society was a dream and not reality because at the end of the day, human personality and greed rules.

As the army and police line advanced, the students peered over their shoulders and could see the water cannons in the rear.  ‘Cool’ they thought.  ‘We’re getting a free shower.’  Not bad considering all of their other worse fears that overwhelmed them.   The soldiers dropped to their knees.  The commander spoke through the loud hailer with a thick Afrikaans accent.  “Julle het twee minute om te disperse.”  Somehow he couldn’t under the stressful circumstances, find the appropriate Afrikaans word for ‘disperse’.  Everyone understood what he said “You have two minutes to get out of here.”  Nobody complied.

At the end of two minutes, where the seconds seemed to synchronize with the sound and motion of a woodsman chopping firewood the dreaded word ‘skiet’ was uttered.  ‘Shoot’.  Loud whispers could still be heard and random screams from some of the less brave female students. ‘Runnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,’ was the cry from one of the more vocal student leaders.  The revving of the engines powering the compressors on the water cannons could be distinctly heard ascending from a low roar to a loud growl.  Being taken quite off guard, some of the students became discombobulated.  Expecting water, they were taken aback when out spewed gallons and gallons of purple colored spray.

Stones did not know what to make of this.  Had the army come to throw the students a Halloween party?  From a distance, the water cannons did not really hurt.  The students enjoyed getting messed.  It was cathartic and euphoric.  Often, when they returned to the University from a weekend camp or seminar, they would celebrate its end with an unwilling swim when pushed into the duckpoop diluted and algae filled water of the green pond adjacent to the lecture halls and the cafeteria.  More often than not, they would use eggs, toothpaste and shampoo to ‘mess’ each other up good before parents would come to transport them home.  They enjoyed the eggs on their heads because it made their hair feel extra silky.

On impulse, the students began to run because others were running.  The soldiers sprayed them liberally.  Students who ran in different directions left their flip-flops or a single shoe or a backpack on the paved floor of the quadrangle.  The walls of the physics and chemistry building looked like the work of a drunken graffiti artist who had unlimited purple paint.  The liquid gathered into puddles and drained towards the green waters of the duck pond.  The students closest to the soldiers were drenched in purple.  It soaked through their clothes and onto their skin.  When some of them could steal a moment, they thought ‘it’ll wash out.’

When nobody could be seen in the open spaces, the students slunk out of their hiding places.  ‘Are they gone?’  Many whispered, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.  As they began to reassemble in the quadrangle, many had faces full of dejection.  As quickly as the soldiers and police appeared, they disappeared.  Some of them who had been more liberally sprayed than the others, walked silently to the nearest restroom that had about twelve washbasins in a line.  They started washing their hands and clothes to try and make the color look less conspicuous but soon realized that the color would not come off.

They had been sprayed with a potent concoction of purple dye.  At home they realized with greater anxiety that the color would not come off at all no matter how hard they scrubbed.  Their clothes and backpacks were ruined.  They could not go out in public for the next two or three weeks.  The only way for the color to completely disappear was to let the body's skin naturally exfoliate itself.

Like Macbeth who could see blood on his hands even though he had washed himself several times, the students and Stones suffered long afterwards.  The pain of that day lingered in his memory.  Even after he had exfoliated all the color from his skin, he could not forget that eventful day.  It was not a day of triumph for him or even the students whom he knew and loved.  It was a day that made him understand that for Prince (a famous pop musician and singer) ‘Purple Rain’ was life-changing and trendsetting but for him it was a grim reminder that no matter how much he washed himself, he could not get rid of the ‘diabolical’ brown color he was born with.  He resolved to love himself as he was, to look in the mirror and walk away not forgetting who he was.