Honorary White by E. R. Braithwaite Read Free Book Online

others to grill me. His wife sat on a divan with her sons, silent, observing.
    â€œMakes no difference, man,” Obie interposed. “The things you say in your books remain. I read Reluctant Neighbors. No white man is going to love you for that one and no South African White would forgive you for even thinking such things. So we want to know if the ban was lifted after you applied for a visa.”
    â€œNo. I saw the notice of the lifting of the ban and then inquired about the visa.”
    â€œDid you have any trouble getting it?”
    â€œI wouldn’t call it trouble. When I learned that the ban was lifted I spoke with the South African Consul General in New York. He suggested that I formally apply for a visa to test the lifting of the ban on my books. I waited about five months after applying, then I learned that the visa was granted.”
    â€œAs easy as that? No restrictions, no limitations?” Obie was slim, in a neat dark suit, and soft spoken with an easy, intellectual air. He chose his words carefully, as if weighing each one to insure its fullest impact. His heavy-lidded eyes always seemed half closed.
    â€œWhen the visa came through, I arranged to see the Consul General and asked whether, if I visited his country, I would be allowed to move about freely and talk with persons black and white. He assured me that I’d have no difficulty in either respect. After giving the matter considerable thought, I decided to make the visit and here I was.”
    â€œAs easy as that?” from Obie again.
    â€œAs easy as that,” I answered.
    â€œDoesn’t it tell you anything, man?” Molefe asked. “Your books were banned. The film of the first one was first banned, then released but restricted to White-only bijous* * . They ban the works of people they consider dangerous, or they consider the works dangerous, whatever way you look at it. They go to all that trouble against you and then hand you a visa. Doesn’t it tell you anything?”
    â€œThey’re using you, man,” the deep, resonant voice of Kebo intervened. He was big, his bulk further emphasized by the bulge of his belly under the loose-fitting, short-sleeved caftan. A tiny golden earring fitted snugly into the lobe of his left ear. A large, handsome man, I could imagine him a fierce Othello.
    â€œI don’t agree.” They were getting to me, stirring up resentments I didn’t imagine I’d feel against fellow Blacks. Did they think I was some kind of cretin? In New York, I’d asked myself all these questions and more. Not only about the banned books, but about my United Nations speeches and statements as well. These men were suggesting that the lifting of the ban on my books was a deliberate ploy to entice me into visiting South Africa! By implication they were crediting the South African Government not only with the highest intelligence, but with prescience as well. I didn’t buy that.
    â€œThink about it,” he went on. “They ban your books and your film. Okay. Now they lift the ban and give you a visa. No restrictions. Ergo, South Africa is pursuing more liberal policies, see? They let you in, a black man with an international reputation as a critic of racist and discriminatory policies. That means something, man. It’s like Arthur Ashe playing in their tennis tournament and Bob Foster fighting their lily-white champion. Liberal South Africa.” He made a brushing gesture with his large hand as if to erase an unwelcome vision.
    â€œI’m here because I wanted to come here,” I said. “If your Government so cleverly anticipated my moves, so what? I’m still in charge of my own eyes and ears. I’m still in control of my own mind.”
    â€œHappy to hear it,” said Obie.
    â€œFamous last words,” from Molefe, a sly grin pulling down one side of his mouth. Okay, if these bastards were playing some game, I’d had enough of it. I looked