Chapter 1: Road Rage

“Come on, come on, you blerrie lazy kaffir… Don’t just lay there! Get up on your bloody dirty feet. You’re messing up the street. Where do you want the cars to ride?” The young white teenager lunged forward and violently kicked the black man repeatedly in his groin. The woven black leather horsewhip (sjambok) raised sky-high came screeching down hard, again and again, across the face of the old man, who kept cowering, moaning, and sobbing in intense agony. Blood gushed from yet another fresh laceration across his swollen cheeks.

The growing crowd stood transfixed, fascinated by the pointless, unprovoked drama so reminiscent of the massacres in the Pantheon of Ancient Greece.

On one side of 5^th Avenue stood the reveling white spectators, obviously delighted and invigorated by the merciless spectacle of punishment inflicted on the innocent black man, probably no older (or younger) than most of their fathers.

Across the road that marked the boundary separating Albertskroon (the white suburb of North Johannesburg) from Albertsville (home of the Cape-Colored, mixed-race people), almost equal numbers of people with varying shades of brown skin tone were gathering.

The busy traffic rushed by from the northern edge of Johannesburg, the ‘City of Gold’ on the way to Pretoria, the legislative capital of South Africa.

“Oh, shame! What did the poor nigger do?” ventured one of the colored spectators.

“The pig saw me coming…” Another vicious stroke of the whip. “He refused to make way for my lorry. He saw me coming. That bike he was riding was likely stolen… The bloody devil likely does not even have his pass,” came the answer from the sweating gladiator, punctuating more lashes from the whip.

“Please, Baas. Please, my Basie, don’t hit me again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I… I won’t do it again!”

He writhed in pain as he rolled over to get away from his executioner, wiping the blood away from his eyes with dirty bare hands.

“I help you… I can work. I work well. Tell me what I do for you. I come to your house… gardening, painting, garbage… anything! I’m a good work boy. Please don’t beat me anymore…please!”

“It’s a damn disgrace! Didn’t someone call the cops….?” came a question from the colored side of the street. Almost everyone knew that calling the police would be useless. In fact, the police were known to be among the perpetrators of violence against non-whites. “Somebody should stop him! He’s going to kill the poor man.”

“Aw, shut up! It’s not necessary! Our police are already too busy. They have better things to do than waste their time on minor street incidents like this! And now, especially with all the new riots.” The answer came from the white side. “Besides, someone will probably call them later to pick up the black bastard. He will likely need to be arrested anyway for the Pass Law Violation. Come, let’s go!”

You must be wondering who I am and why I am sharing this heart-wrenching tale with you. Well, I am Ralph David Harris. Sadly, I was one of the spectators in the colored crowd that had gathered around the poor black guy being beaten to death. That day is etched in my mind. It was a day seared just as vividly into my brain as the sun shone, hidden behind the folding, fleeting white clouds that served as a shelter for all those living under it.