FOCUS
some whites in Joburg, but it wasn’t
easy. If you’re black you have to be
out of town by 6 or 7 every night because of the pass laws. You can’t go
most places with whites, so you have
to meet at their place, which is OK
unless the neighbors see you too
often and complain, or get suspicious and call the police.
Can’t they come out to the locations where the blacks live
and visit you there? Yes, sometimes. They’re supposed to
have a pass, but the police usually don’t care. He laughed.
Sometime later an old Bedford flatbed stopped. The
driver leaned his arm and his head out the window and
waved.
“Where are you going?”
“Cape Town.”
“That’s where I’m going. Hop in.”
“Could you take my friend here, too?” The driver
looked at Joshua. “He’s only going to Hopetown,” I said.
The driver stared at me. “He can ride in back,” I added.
For a moment he said nothing. He
sat up in his seat and glared down
the road. Then, without turning
again, he jerked his thumb over his
shoulder toward the back of the
truck. Joshua climbed up, and I got
in the cab.
“I don’t like kaffirs. I don’t pick ’em up, usually,” he said
after we got going. But that only reminded him of the good
old days in the Congo. I didn’t ask his name.
I didn’t say much after he started talking. I would have
been more comfortable in back, but I had to sit in the cab.
Hell, it’s a ride, I told myself. Joshua’s going home, and I’m
going to Cape Town. It’s only a lousy ride.
After a while we were getting close to Hopetown. The
Orange River was directly ahead of us. We crossed the steel
bridge and went up the hill. Hopetown was at the top, a
bunch of shacks on the hill overlooking the river.
Joshua was off the truck before it stopped rolling. I got
out to shake his hand. He was trembling with excitement.
You had to keep to your side
of the line. You were one
thing, or you were the other.
