can [picks up a letter]: Wait a minute, here's a letter addressed to me.

A letter from the Transvaal Department of Education? They must be responding to the submission of the results of my teacher's diploma. Let's see if they’ll finally recognise me as a fully fledged teacher.

I can't believe this! They don't … [He stammers, and throws his hands up as he walks up and down.] This is despicable! Can you believe it? What's wrong with these people? Listen to this.

Dear Mr Themba,

Thank you for sending us your results for the temporary teacher's diploma certificate which you submitted to the Department. However, we regret to inform you that for as long as you do not have the certificate, the Transvaal Department of Education cannot recognise you as a fully fledged teacher. In the meantime, we have written to Rhodes University asking them to furnish us with the details of your diploma: the date of attainment as well as the conditions attached to the University Education Diploma that you claim to have done. We therefore encourage you to wait for the graduation ceremony before approaching us again.

What a load of bull! Don't these people know how universities operate? Actually, what did I expect from high-office illiterates who thrive on unearned privileges on the basis of their skin colour?

The relationship between Fort Hare and Rhodes University complicates things even further. I enrolled for the University Education Diploma, which is offered at Rhodes, but because my kind was not allowed there, I had to be stationed at Fort Hare as a native college. Now I cannot go to Rhodes and tell them to give me the certificate for my diploma. I have to communicate with them through Fort Hare in order to get my certificate. If I ever get it.

The phone rings. can gets up and answers it. The lights come on in full glow.

CAN: Can Themba speaking, how may I help you? Hallo! [Pause.] Stompie, how many times must I tell you that working from home is not an invitation for you to invade my space any time you want? I have this phone so that I can be contactable when there are hot stories. What's this? [Pause.] Who said I want a regmakertjie? When I want a regmakertjie, I go to Thirty-Nine Steps, my favourite shebeen, and get it. I’m working right now. [Pause.] Maybe you should attend the opening of my abode this evening. It will be happening. You’ll drink as much as your liver can stand. [Pause.] Oh, Bloke told you? Feel free to tag along, then. See you later!

Stompie is my excuse for a friend. I prefer to consider him as a convenient acquaintance. He's actually great fodder for my stories, while also serving as my life insurance on the streets. You see, Sophiatown gangsters are always eager to take a man's life. Unless they know you, they can kill you just for looking at them. I have fallen victim to the knife-happy gangsters before, and they forced me to recite sonnets. They said to me, ‘Ek sê, Englishman, why don't you say those lovely Shakespeare poems for us?’ I feigned amnesia, claiming that I hadn't recited recently. They brandished a three-star okapi at my throat, and suddenly words flew out of my mouth:

African jazz starts playing. can turns around and goes to his wardrobe. He takes out his black-and-gold-striped University College of Fort Hare blazer, puts it on and drapes an academic gown over it. He is in a jolly mood, whistling as he arranges the chairs. He turns to the audience as the music fades away.

CAN: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my abode, where nothing but the truth is uttered. Here, the truth shall reign supreme. We shall have candid debates. Discussions without fear or favour. Straight talk guaranteed. No beating around the bush. No pretence. No bull.

They say the truth shall set you free. We say, you must be free and the truth will flow. If you need wine to induce the truth – as the Italians put it, in vino veritas – wine you shall get. We have no time for half-truths or untruths.

To start the proceedings of the evening, please open your hearts and ears to the melodious voice of one of the greatest musicians, film stars and cover girls in the whole of Africa – Dolly Rathebe!

Thank you, thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Dolly understands the significance of this event. She knows the centrality of truth in our lives. Without it, we are hollow shells floundering on this cursed earth in search of our souls.

You may be wondering why I decided to put on my academic garb for this occasion. This is a big moment for me, and I believe that it should hold a greater significance for the nation at large.

In addition to my degree, I have written some award-winning stories and poems. You would think that with these achievements, only the sky is the limit. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The government has no business with certificates of achievement as long as you are a black man.

Present-day dispossession

At the centre of this account is coal, South Africa's main source ofenergy. Its invasive extraction and burning ranks the country 12thof the highest emitters of greenhouse gases. It degrades theenvironment and contributes to climate change. Another dark side ofcoal and capitalism is illuminated in this book, revealing thedispossession of African communities. Consequently, coal extractionimpels the resuscitation of dispossession as an experiencehistorically related to the colonial and apartheid periods in SouthAfrica. Dispossession during both periods describes the loss of landthrough legislative interventions and processes that led to the ofproletarianisation and de-agrarianisation of African communities.The motive for creating this system is important, but so are theintricate ways in which people were removed. The mechanisms ofdispossession linger, but in more sophisticated ways – more oftenthan not facilitated by gaps in the reformed laws and involve, atbest, indirect coercion and, at worst, violence and death.

In this book, I discuss accounts of dispossession on privateagricultural farmland, mined by Glencore colliery mine inMpumalanga, and customary land in KwaZulu-Natal, where Tendelemining company currently operates. Private agricultural farmland inSouth African history is synonymous with dispossession. Its violentmaking is the foundation of land reform in the post-transitionalperiod. As a space, it offered insight into the fluid constructionand unmaking of home through work, sweat and blood, but also throughancestral connections to the land, generally speaking – and not onlythe farmland that labour tenants were assigned. Their struggles,however, are not different from those of the chiefs’ subjects oncustomary land. Both labour tenant families and communities oncommunal land hold informal land rights and precarious tenuresecurity and are consequently susceptible to dispossession. Thismakes the experience of the loss of homes, land and ancestral gravesin both areas equally grievous.

For example, in both case studies, there were no adequateconsultations about mining and the relocations. Glencore reached itsagreement with the farm owners in Tweefontein and other farms,whereas Tendele concluded its plans with the Mpukunyoni TribalAuthority in Somkhele. But what is the role of traditional authorityin South Africa if the system does not represent the interests ofcommunities in rural areas and does not negotiate and facilitate thebeneficiation of mining in local communities?

Blues music is playing in the background. We see langston sitting at his desk, busy typing. He puts the letter in an envelope and goes upstage centre and deposits it. He walks back to the desk empty-handed. He looks anxiously at his desk, searches for new mail, but there is none. He sits down to write again and sends the post, but still he is not finding any mail. The screen shows a calendar, moving from June 1962 until 23 November 1962; then the light changes and focuses on bloke, who is sitting at his desk writing.

BLOKE: Dear Langston,

I don't even feel I have the right to ask you to forgive me for neglecting to write to you; but pardon it, sir, as you are a gentleman.

I was kicked out of my flat with no money to move into another and I’ve since been living in the good offices of a friend who's allowed me to sleep in his living room. I broke off completely with your cast because they bought me a meal and drinks all the time; I couldn't face it, so I just got lost, perhaps some day you might explain to Alex.

Anyway, I’m writing my book, and if I didn't have to dedicate it to my mother, it would have been for you. I’m frightfully proud to know you. Just keep believing in me, maybe someday I’ll justify it.

Keep swinging,

Bloke.

LANGSTON: Dear Bloke,

I have been talking with the United Negro College Fund here and with AMSAC – American Society of African Culture – about the possibility of bringing you to the USA for lectures. It looks promising, and I hope you will be hearing from them soon.

Pula!

It is semi-darkness. The lights are off and the phone rings. The light comes on and it is langston's home, but he is neither at his desk nor in the lounge. He appears from behind the curtain downstage right and is wearing a gown. He walks over to answer the phone, seemingly still sleepy.

LANGSTON: Hallo!

BLOKE: Hey, my American Bantu! Wake up, Bloke is blowing into town!

LANGSTON: Huh?

BLOKE: You did it, man! I’m coming to the States. AMSAC contacted me. They sent me flight confirmation and the itinerary already. I’ll be delivering a series of public lectures in various universities across the US from the beginning of March. This is great news, man!

LANGSTON: That's wonderful. Do you know where they booked your accommodation?

BLOKE: Yes, it's at the Tudor. I think it's a midtown hotel.

LANGSTON: Good, you have the option of staying with me in my house if you’d like to be my guest. Harlem is only ten minutes from the heart of town and the AMSAC office.

BLOKE: Tell you what, I won't say no to their accommodation, but I’d be staying with you most of the time. Thanks for your kind offer. I’ll only sleep at the hotel on those nights when the liver has had excessive whisky assault and I have to be speaking the following morning.

LANGSTON: Please don't forget that it's extremely cold over here, so bring your warm things. But there's plenty of heat in our house, and some spirits too.

BLOKE: Anything you want me to bring you from London?

LANGSTON: Nothing I can think of at the moment, I am just fascinated by the King Kong record. Man, I love that record. You and I will be singing ‘Chosoloza’.

can gets up and refills his glass with brandy.

CAN: All I want is an opportunity to sit down face to face with Prime Minister JG Strijdom over a glass of brandy and talk to him man to man. Cheers! [can raises his glass to the audience.]

I know he is supposed to be the ‘lion of the north’, but there must be a human being somewhere in the crevices of his troubled soul. It may very well be that after the umpteenth drink, he might start reasoning like a human. We all have it in ourselves. All you need is just a little inspiration, and the true you emerges from beneath the mask that you put on every day.

As a matter of fact, I’m writing a little poem for Strijdom and his cohorts. The trouble is, I’ve started from the end. I have the last two stanzas, I’m not sure how it's gonna start. My brain functions that way sometimes. Do you wanna hear the poem? What did I do with that notebook? [can looks around his desk.] Here it is. I call it ‘They Counsel’.

And if the price be the blood-drops

Of my loved ones – so let it be

Is it not blood that buys freedom

For all those who dare to be free?

They counsel smugly from pulpits

Joy to seek after my last breath.

Hell, they ought to counsel themselves

‘In the midst of life we’re in death.’

What do you think? Wait, wait, wait! I know it doesn't make much sense at the moment. I have something that will interest you, though. It's a letter from the Department. It's been sitting here for days now. For some reason I lack the inclination to open it. Quite frankly, waiting in anticipation of letters has drained the last drop of energy out of me. I am losing zest for life. I am getting numb. I will soon run out of feelings altogether.

Coal-mining relocations from agricultural farmland to Makausetownship, 2012–2016

After Mr Thankga recalled his experience, everyone in the roommurmured in agreement, then it was immediately silent, as if eachperson was recalling their own experience. He then explained thatsoon after his relocation, his livestock was transported about threekilometres away from Makause (the new residential site). As aresult, some of it was stolen, while some died. Sombrely, he asked,‘Manje ngiphile ngani?’ (Now, howmust I survive?). The silence in the room continued. At this point,I looked down to wipe a tear away. It was the old man's sadness andhis tone of disappointment that choked my voice as I asked follow-upquestions. My emotions completely disregarded an unspoken rule thatan ethical and objective researcher should not display her feelingsand that crying during interviews is an offence. I became worriedthat the participants may, from that point onwards, select what theydisclosed to me, considering my expression of empathy. However, theycontinued to share their experiences as if it was therapeutic.

The men and women of multiple generations who sat in the intervieware part of the 120 families who were relocated from neighbouringfarms in Ogies, located south-west of eMalahleni (formerly Witbank),by what was then called Xstrata PLC, for the TweefonteinOptimisation open-cast mining project.

langston is excited to receive a gift from bloke. It's an African beadwork bracelet, and he keeps holding it aloft to admire it. He puts it on his wrist and walks around looking at it excitedly. He picks up the phone and calls bloke. The phone rings unanswered. He gets frustrated and decides to go back to his typewriter. He reads what he is writing.

LANGSTON: Dear Bloke, ole boy:

Our letters must have crossed in transit! I posted mine on the weekend and yours arrived on Monday morning. And your beautiful gift right after. Delighted to have both – as I’d gotten worried about you, not hearing from you for so long. So this is just to let you know I’m glad you are still living! I have a deadline to meet tomorrow (otherwise would write more) on Randy Weston's jazz salute to African freedom – so am playing the tapes right now. It's an LP in four tracks. The third movement is called BANTU – perhaps in honour of you. Anyhow, when it comes out, I’ll send you a disc.

More anon!

Sincerely,

LANGSTON: Langston speaking, hullo!

BLOKE: My American Bantu!

LANGSTON: Hey, Blokie! How are you, my favourite Bantu?

BLOKE: Man, I’m just overwhelmed by the things you do for me; what with the record, the books and others. I ought to send you something that will match your gifts.

LANGSTON: Don't worry about that, man. I’m sending these things to you because you deserve them – you are my favourite Bantu, remember? How is good old London?

BLOKE: Man, it gets awful lonely here, like screaming, screaming down a dream alley, screaming of blues like none can hear. But I know you can hear me clear and loud, like it's for you I scream.

can: Do these people even understand that this is no longer about me? Do they realise that no black child will see value in education, for as long as the educated seem to be more miserable than the thugs out there? I worked hard to get myself a house. I even called it the House of Truth, in honest belief that one day there would be justice in this land. For all I know, the House of Truth will be razed to the ground tomorrow. Where is the justice in that?

My sleep is equivalent to a blink these days. I am haunted by my reality, my own existence and the happenings around me. I’ve got to intoxicate myself in order to get a little sleep. My ulcers are getting worse. I start every morning with a little regmakertjie, just to numb my ulcerous stomach.

Right now I feel a sickly despair that even the most potent bottle of brandy cannot wash away. I have been thinking lately; the luxury of a mild flood of conscience swept over me. I looked at Stompie, Kid, Stan and other young men around me. They all at one time or another had visions: to escape their environment; to overcome their context.

Lord, it struck me, what a treasury of talent I have here in front of me. Must they bury their lives along with mine, under a load of Sophiatown bottles? Isn't that exactly what the apartheid regime wants us to do? I say it was conscience that struck me because I know many of them look up to me, my way of life; they repeat my despair and its defences behind my back.

It seems like getting drunk is a purposeful destruction of the deep pain of our lives. You wake up sober the next day, only to realise that the horror of being black in South Africa is still there.

The screen shows the months of April, May and June 1963 on a calendar. langston is sitting at his desk busy typing. He reads the letter as he types.

LANGSTON: Dear Blokie:

We miss you! Did you get home okay and have a nice flight? We have all been concerned about you these past few weeks because we have not heard from you. Have you found any trace of Dr ACL Jordan? I hope to leave for Europe in about two weeks. Shall I keep your boxes here until I come back, or what? Okay in any case. Still nothing but a workhorse around here, so I’ll be glad to go away. I refuse to be an author in my next reincarnation!

Pula!

BLOKE: Dumela, Lang:

As usual I have to sort of delay until the last moment and discover myself in a position where I have to say sorry: I really ought to have my head examined, and that very soon.

Things are really looking up. My book, Blame Me on History, has now been published and the reviews have been good, by which I suppose I mean favourable. It has taken me twelve years to become an overnight success, and today I’m lauded in the best literary circles.

What I find intriguing is the parallel drawn between me and James Baldwin; our books are even displayed side by side in the bookshops. This is only my first book, for goodness sake! By the way, the bookshops not displaying my book in the shop can be counted.

In the meantime Blame Me has earned me seven figures in sterling, which I have not got because although contracts are concluded, I will not see the dough until such time as they pay. Please be patient a little longer, when I shall join the ranks of the wealthy.

Pula, Bloke!

The screen shows the London Tower Bridge, and bloke enters with the same packages that langston sent. He puts them on his desk and opens the box with palpable curiosity and excitement. He takes out the suit, takes off his clothes and puts on the new suit. He is clearly elated. He looks at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that, trying different poses, puts on a hat and spins. The phone rings. He leaves the mirror to answer the phone.

BLOKE: Bloke Modisane speaking, how may I help you?

LANGSTON: Bloke, it's Langston, I’ve been worried about you!

BLOKE: My American Bantu, how are you? Guess what I’m wearing?

LANGSTON: What is it?

BLOKE: The suit you sent me. I received the package today. It's marvellous, man.

LANGSTON: That's wonderful. Do the rest of the clothes fit?

BLOKE: Of course they do. You know me very well. Thank you so much for your kindness.

LANGSTON: I’m glad. How are things now? Have you made that big breakthrough yet?

BLOKE: Man, you got to get me out of this place. I’ve got to come to the US because the way I see it, we still have a long drinking date.

LANGSTON: You’ve got to come here, Bloke. I’m sure the US hasn't seen anything like you.

BLOKE: I’m just developing my fins so I can make the long swim across the Atlantic.

LANGSTON: Don't try swimming! I’ll see what can be done this side. I miss you a lot, man.

BLOKE: I miss you too, Lang. No kidding, I think of you every time I call ‘whisky’!

LANGSTON: There's plenty of it in Harlem, my friend.

BLOKE: Man, being an exile in the country of your former colonial master is no reprieve from apartheid. You are still made to feel like a pariah. I might soon not have a place to stay. I really need to get out of this country.

LANGSTON: My favourite Bantu can't be homeless in cold London. I think we must work together in developing your wings so you can fly across the Atlantic. I will call as soon as there is something substantial.

The screen shows the Statue of Liberty. bloke walks in from the audience, looking around for numbers on the door. He knocks on one door, and langston comes to open it. He is surprised to see bloke.

LANGSTON: There you are! How did you get here?

BLOKE: I’m a Bantu from Africa, my animal instincts are still intact. I can sniff and follow the trail of an American Bantu whenever there is one in town.

LANGSTON: How are you? I’m so glad to finally meet you. You are looking good, man.

BLOKE: They don't call me Debonair for nothing. [bloke swings stylishly, touching the collar of his jacket with both hands.] Why are you firing a barrage of questions instead of offering me a drink? This behaviour is not what I was told about folk from Harlem. Did the English affect your morals already?

LANGSTON: Never! I have a martini here for you. I was worried that since I changed hotels and I didn't have your number, you would not know how to find me.

BLOKE: Trust Bloke to find a Bantu even in a forest. [They both laugh.] I had to come and thank you personally for publishing my story. It means a great deal to me.

LANGSTON: Thank you for supporting the project, man, it's very special to me. You know, I’ve been trying to put this publication together since 1954. To finally have writers from across the African continent in a single publication is beyond serendipity. This is a very personal treasury to me.

BLOKE: We are all honoured to be published by you, Langston. Many of us in Johannesburg have been following your work since we were young. It was our greatest honour when you joined the judging panel for the Drum short story competition in 1954.

LANGSTON: The pleasure was all mine to be exposed to the kaleidoscope of exciting South African writers. And thanks for sharing your story with me. ‘Why I Ran Away’ really touched me and opened my eyes. It's a good motivation for people around the world to form solidarity with those fighting for freedom in South Africa. I think the world needs to hear more of your voice.

The screen shows a sign: ‘J.F. Kennedy International Airport’. langston is standing anxiously. He keeps glancing at his watch and looking around. He is holding a signboard over his head that reads ‘Welcome, Bloke! My Favorite Bantu’. bloke appears from backstage, holding two suitcases. All of a sudden, a smile spreads across langston's face.

LANGSTON: There you are. The greatest Bantu has landed!

BLOKE: I’m finally here in the flesh. [They embrace.]

LANGSTON: Welcome to the Big Apple. How was your first flight across the Atlantic?

BLOKE: Man, I barely slept. I was thinking about my speech at the AMSAC reception this evening.

LANGSTON: Yes, they told me you are the guest speaker. What will you be speaking on?

BLOKE: They said something about me giving a talk about ‘some phase of South African literature’, so I chose ‘Short Story Writing in Black South Africa’.

LANGSTON: Great choice. You can speak on that topic even with your eyes closed. Let's drive straight to AMSAC because the Authors’ Reception is about to start.

LANGSTON/JOHN DAVIS: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is John Davis, I am the president of the American Society of African Culture. I take this moment to welcome all our guests: authors from different parts of the world, particularly the African continent and the rest of the diaspora. We are proud to host this reception in honour of all the participating authors in this very important conference. Without further ado, allow me to call on stage our guest speaker this evening. He is a South African writer, journalist, actor and political activist, now exiled in England. Ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to Mr William Bloke Modisane!

In contrast to private farmland, where the land is exchanged betweenfarm owners and the mining companies, chiefs in mined rural land areagents of dispossession. Somkhele is one of many mining-affectedcommunities in which mining rights and compensation were concludedwith the facilitation of traditional leaders, who are notorious forentering into agreements with multinational corporations in theextractive industry without the full consent of theirconstituencies. For example, a court record in which Tendele CoalMining (Pty) Ltd (Tendele) sought to force resisting families torelocate in 2021 illustrates that the Mpukunyoni Traditional Counciland the Mpukunyoni Traditional Authority, under the late ChiefMkhwanazi, which is comprised of 30 headmen, representing 30villages, signed the relocations protocol before the beginning ofthe relocations in Somkhele. Families were, thereafter, informedabout the relocations as a mere bureaucratic exercise. What, then,is the role of traditional authorities after 1994 if they do notrepresent and safeguard the interests of their followers? Is thechief still chief of the people? This chapter describes themechanisms of dispossession on tribal land in KwaZulu-Natalprovince. As in chapter 2, it illustrates that communities on triballand were inadequately consulted, promised jobs and development andthat contracts after phase 1 mining were used performatively oncemore as a tick-box exercise. In reality, these were poorly draftedand did not address the intangible aspects of loss in an event ofdispossession.

Traditional leaders enjoy being positioned at the centre of localeconomies because of their historical role as administrators of theland. This role was solidified by colonial laws such as the NativeAdministration Act 38 of 1927 and the Native Trust and Land Act 18of 1936. Moreover, tribal trust property, ‘a form of propertyownership in which land was historically purchased by Africansthrough a variety of routes, and subsequently registered to a stateofficial “in trust” for a recognised “chief and his tribe”, in termsof the distinctive property laws that emerged in the colonialTransvaal during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries’,also bestowed chiefs with land administrative powers. However,after1994, no legislative framework has directly articulated theland administrative powers of traditional leaders. In cases wherethe state made attempts to do so, rural communities, civil societyand academics have challenged this.

can takes off his jacket and places it in the wardrobe as he finishes the song. Then he turns and something on his desk attracts his attention.

CAN: Wait a minute! It looks like I have new correspondence. [He picks up and opens the envelope.] It's from Fort Hare! I hope it's what I think it is. Let's hear. [He reads aloud.]

Dear Mr Themba

I acknowledge receipt of your letter dated 23 March. Curiously enough, your Provisional University Diploma arrived from Rhodes by the same post. [A wide smile spreads across can's face.] The certificate is herewith enclosed. We are very proud of your achievements as one of our former students. We wish you all the best in your future endeavours, especially your writing and teaching careers.

Yours sincerely

The Registrar

Isn't that brilliant? Finally, I’ll get a full teacher's salary, Annie. We’ll extend the House of Truth, and fill it with lots and lots of babies. Okay, I know you don't really like that last bit. You are not planning to have more than two kids. You want to be loved in marriage and not be seen as a manufacturing machine.

By the way, I promised to read a poem that I have dedicated to her. How I wish she was here to celebrate this moment with me. I want to read her the poem. I want to see her face blush with embarrassment. I want to see her lips gently spreading wide, and dimples appearing on her cheeks, and love shining through her eyes. I call it ‘Dedication’.

To you I find my heart forever bound

My entire world to you I dedicate

That so the ends Fate and I contemplate

Must flutter to this vision which I found

To you the powers that God has lodged in me

That so I find my strength to grow in love

In worship of your Maker here above

To you I read this vast eternity

To you, to you my love –