The Next Generation

New Literature – Re-Write


This is a rewrite of a novel “Cry, the beloved country” by Alan Paton. Paton is a South African author and the novel was first published in 1948. The protagonist is a black priest in a small village, Stephen Kumalo. He is distressed that the young ones are leaving the village to go to Johannesburg and his community is falling apart. He travels to Johannesburg to search for his sister and his son who had also left. The security is deteriorating in the big city by crimes committed by natives. The priest finds his son but he had killed a white man and was tried and sentenced to be hanged. The victim was the only child of the priest’s neighbour, James Jarvis. The priest returns to his village with his son’s newly married wife who is expecting their child.

The rewrite is from the eyes of the unborn child named Peter as per his father’s wish before he was executed and the son of the murdered man, Arthur Jarvis Jr. Both had gone through the Apartheid and seen it end. Time has past and Peter is telling a story to his grandchild.



The Next Generation

As any proud grandparent would tell you, nothing in the whole wide world could be better than watching your grandchild grow. Day by day, week by week. The first step, the first cackle, the first crying outburst. As if he was the centre of the universe, the innocence this child radiates into Peter’s heart was at the best of times exhilarating, but other times, suffocating.

At the dusk of his life, he sat content in his comfortable deckchair, watching his young man play. Nothing seemed to worry the little man. He is slightly smaller than the boys of similar age. Maybe it was inherited. Just like his father, and his father. But he is bright. And mischievous. Every time he argues, you can see a gap in his front teeth. His infant tooth will all be replaced with a permanent set in no time; he will no longer be treated as a baby. And Peter feels nostalgia.

The little boy will soon grow up to be a real man and leave his home. Independence is in his blood. Will he go narrow and straight? Or will he choose a wrong kind of friends who will lead him into temptation and seek an easy life despite being brought up by a hard working, honest family? The old man fears. That is what he does and has been doing all his life. He fears for the child, he fears for the family, he fears the sun may never come up and he fears it is too good to be true to pass peacefully.

“Child, I cannot understand why you speak like that.”

What do you mean, Pop?

“You argue and confront and do all the things that I would dare, in my wildest dreams, say or do to my elders. You have no fear. Where do you find such confidence and lack of respect to others?”

But Pop, my Dad always tells me to speak my mind.

“Speak your mind? Is that right? Everything that is in your mind come out of your mouth, is that right? When I was your age, I would say, ‘I understand you, grandfather’ or ‘I hear you, mother.’”

Pop, are you telling your stories again?

“Child, you will hear it as many times as your father did.”

Dad says, it all happened a long, long time ago and it doesn’t have any substance any more. It happened long before and you shouldn’t have to worry anymore.

“No substance, did he say? Is that right? I wonder where I went wrong. I am the son of the man who made his father weep. I am the son of the man who broke his father’s heart. How could this be, is it the curse?”

What do you mean, Pop?

“Nothing, Child. I am old. And I am fearful.”

Don’t be afraid, Pop. People are coming to South Africa from all over the world for the soccer games soon. It’s the World Cup. A once in a lifetime thing. We’re going to show the whole world that South Africa is a great country. And they’re going to say, South Africa is a great country.

“Yes, we have come a long way, Child. There is no reason to be fearful. But I cannot help it. For every time the aromas of my beautiful land quiver my nostril and make me think who I am, it reminds me of my father and my grandfather. I cannot help but be fearful.”



Arthur Jr.’s story (Peter 15, Arthur Jr. 25 years old) 1963

Do you speak Zulu, Peter?

“Yes, Inkosi.”

Who taught you, Peter?

“My wise grandfather did, Inkosi. He taught me to speak with respect and he would expect nothing less.”

He was a good man, Peter. He taught me Zulu before you were born. I was ten years old. I came after your grandfather’s funeral. Do you remember me?

“Yes, Inkosi. I also remember you sent beautiful flowers on the day of his funeral. Why would you do such a thing?”


When my grandmother died, your grandfather and the people of the village sent beautiful flowers to my grandfather. He was deeply touched. He said, ‘I can feel his pain also.’ I didn’t understand at the time but I missed my Zulu teacher all the same. How old are you now, Peter?

“I’m 15 years old, Inkosi.”

Your grandfather called me Inkosana, little inkosi, little master. Do you think about your father, Peter?

“No, I don’t know him and my mother would not speak about him. But I know what he did to your father. And I know that he wanted to name the baby Peter if it was a boy.”

You have grown up to be a fine young man, Peter. I’m sure your grandfather is very proud of you. After my father died, Grandpa came to live with us in Johannesburg. I was sad that Dad wasn’t with us anymore but happy to have Grandpa in the same house, I liked him very much. Grandpa saw the good of his son only after Dad was killed by your father. He finally understood that his beloved son was not a show off or selling of his people but that he loved his country and her people very much.

It was a blessing in disguise that Grandpa and Dad finally reconciled. But the abuse and disrespect for Grandpa when he took over Dad’s work to lift the lives and spirits of the natives was enormous. The whole family was ostracised.

“For all the hard work that our forefathers put in so we could have a better life and prosper the land, this is how you repay the good deed!?”

“You think you can single-handedly undo their effort of building a country we now call home? How could you be so selfish? “

“Please think about what really happened. Your only son was brutally murdered by a savage!”

“Arrogance.”

“He must’ve gone mad with grief. Poor soul.”

“Native sympathiser.” “May God have mercy and spare us from this man’s sin. Forgive us for we have done nothing wrong. And punish him for the wrongs he is committing.”

I could feel the hatred and fear of the white people attacking Grandpa. His name was shamed, his cars were vandalised, his house smeared with racial slurs and the taunting of derogative remarks were continuous. His whole being was disgraced by the yelling on the street wherever he went. And they didn’t like it one bit that Grandpa wasn’t repentant. He was an old bugger.

Stubborn to the core. He could have lived a comfortable life with the so-called friends and friends of a friend begging for his love and money and attention. People used to shower him with gifts, with some worldly fine and expensive stuff, you know? Spitting out sickening sweet praises like a child wanting to become someone’s favourite pet.

“Mr Jarvis, you are indeed a model citizen. We couldn’t have been more honoured to have you.”

All of that vanished with a blink of an eye. Our security disappeared over night. It was like a dream. A not so pleasant one, though. But I saw them. Women screaming her head of chanting what I never imagined a woman, for the sake of God, would ever say if she wanted her place in the sanctuary of the sky above. But they were all there, all bare in front of me.

“You villain!“ “Traitor!”

And the most unforgiveable, unfavourable one it was according to the leader of the pack. I didn’t understand. Mum was crying. She begged Grandpa not to become a martyr but Grandpa didn’t say anything. 　

I don’t think Grandpa was happy with Dad before he died. Grandpa said all sorts of things about him but Dad said he was fighting for justice, not for the natives. Our fathers’ path crossed on that fateful day, Peter. I believe that your father never meant to kill. Your grandfather was distressed and very afraid throughout the whole ordeal.

Many white men as well as black people supported your grandfather. There was a lawyer and a priest. There was the reformatory officer and even my uncle. They were white men, good men. But they were all tagged, beaten and stomped on the head. Most left the country in despair not long after the trial and not long after your father’s execution.

After Grandpa died, I made a vow to stay with my mother. I know she’s quite capable of looking after herself. She had been my fierce protector since my father’s death and she remains a staunch matriarch. I admire her strength, head held high, her undeniable faith and I’m going to be her loyal companion, on behalf of my father. I intend to stay in South Africa. I don’t know about you Peter, but I think I’ll stay in my country, because I am her subject.”



Peter’s story (Peter 47, Peter’s son 25 years old) 1995