KAFFIR PRESS.

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXIV, Issue 18823, 11 March 1931, Page 7

KAFFIR PRESS.

A SOUTH AFRICAN SKETCH. “I am very sorry, Baas,’ said the native reporter who squatted in the sun at the entrance to the corrugated iron offices of the “Weekly Indaba of the Bantu People,” but the Editor is preaching just now.” Looking down the dusty African city street of single-storeyed tenement yards for coloured folk, the woollymoustached Zulu in the blue serge suit took one of his numerous fountain pens from a vest pocket and pointed at a distant church built of tin.

“The morning service will not last long,” he continued in careful, slow English: “perhaps you will come to sit inside till Mr Rakalatse returns.” And sweeping his big eyes proudly over the nameboard that surmounted the lowly frontage of the newspaper premises, the native led me into a dark entrance curtained with an old kaross.

A certain dense stuffiness straightway told that the Bantu race was supreme within this building. Pasted to the walls of the lobby one could read old contents bills, many-lettered words in the Zulu language about the conviction of a headman for the murder of twins, a tightening-up of the pass laws, and a split in the Bantu Believers’ Congregation. On the floor sat an elderly Kaffir who scribbled attentively in a reporter’s notebook.

“It was a great fight at the Golden Hope Compound,” he remarked to my companion. “I will write the story well, for I myself joined in the battle. See here” —and the journalist turned to let the light from the doorway fall upon a reddish gash across his forehead. “It is time the M’chops were shown what slimy snakes they are,” answered the other native. “If they were my tribe ” Here an open-mouthed picannin in a torn suit of linen, looked out of the door. “Hau!” I heard him shout, “a white man has come to see the Big Quill.” whereupon, to show his importance, he carried a bunch of long printer’s proofs into an office lettered bilingually: “Usumulu—Editor.” The Editor’s Room. It was a very small room, with a large inky packing case by the window and a kraal-made stool, carved of a single block of wood, for the “Big Quill” to sit on. Many copies of rival journals lay about the desk. “Imvo” from Kingwilliamstown. “Umtelli Wa Bantu” from Johannesburg, “Naledi Ea Lesotha” from Basutuland, the “Mochochono” or “Comet,” and a dozen other majestically named little journals run by the black African himself. Inviting me to help myself from the snuff-bowl which, in accordance with Bantu hospitality, stood upon the table, the journalist displayed Mr Rakalatse's framed matriculation certificate and offered me the latest copy of the "Weekly Indaba of the Bantu People. “Perhaps,” he remarked timidly as I turned over the pages with their offers of ‘sigaretis’ (cigarettes), ‘belankets’ (blankets), ‘pepulumentes’ (pepperment), and ‘keramofons’ (gramophones), “you would see our paper printed.” “Of course I would.” The Zulu reporter flashed a smile with his large white teeth. “We also print the programmes for the war dances on the mines,” he remarked, “and the dinner-parties at the Mimosa Eating House. We have a stomach-full of work to do. We do English printing, too.” As a specimen he held up a pink bill reading as follows: Come all you LADIES AND GENTS, To Mr P. GEO. MATSU BELA’S SELECT JOY MAKERS Who will be performing a record choir singing contest at the Heavenly Sunshine Hall before midnight next SABBETH. Just then the little black devil entered the Editor’s room. “My father,” he respectfully exclaimed in Zulu, “a man from the Goovamunt has brought an advetmunt.” “The Place of Wheels.” “Good luck, good luck!” called my friend. Before he ran out to attend to the waiting coloured messenger the journalist bade the piccanin take the “White Baas” through “the place of wheels.” So the boy very solemnly guided me down the passage, past a half-closed door whence came a queer hissing noise. “Who works there?” I asked. In answer the lad pushed the knob and displayed the black reporter of tribal fights cooking kaffir-corn in a tin over a spirit stove, and a native girl, evidently a book-keeper, making a calculation on a bead frame. Upon a table next to this fashionably dressed maiden stood an old typewriter littered with paper. The diner and the accountant rose on seeing the European, and without a word accompanied him to “one place of wheels,” a big lean-to of planks where a couple of Bantu compositors, the traditional white aprons of their craft in striking contrast with their complexions, set up reading matter for the native public. Out of the dusty boxes of type one man slowly pieced together the report of a football match between the "Invincible Leopards” and “The Yellow Cactus” teams, on a field lately provided by the city for its black populace. At his side an instalment of the everpopular “Pilgrim's Progress” by “Iyohani Bunyan” was being prepared. A report of a wedding, “according to strictly Christian rites” (as the manuscript had it), of Chief Kwatemba to Miss Rachel Mamogale occupied the attention of Compositor No. 3.