Outside these white, glaring patches, the earth was bare. It was kept permanently free of weeds by the thousands of feet that tramped there hopelessly each day. Along the perimeter of the grounds was a high fence, and beyond that a pavement with a little grass, where men and women sat out the lunch hours with packets of chips bought from an Indian shop across the road, waiting for the offices to open and another adventure in the intricacies of Native Administration.

The grass was a dry burnt brown around Walter Boston Nguza, sitting on his suitcases, and there were white patches of frost from the previous evening.

The man strolled up and sat on the grass beside him. He was short, stockily built, with humour in his eyes. They exchanged a few pleasantries before the stranger said: ‘I see by your glasses that you are a reading man.’ Boston nodded. The other one thereupon handed him a slip of paper he had in his hand: ‘What does that say?’ he asked.

Boston read it. ‘It says you can’t work at Natty Outfitters because your last employer did not sign your book.’

Johnboy Lethetwa took back the paper and nodded his head. ‘That’s what I thought.’

‘What’s it mean?’

‘They’ll pick me up. Ja.’

‘Why didn’t he sign it?’ Boston asked.

‘I was in jail,’ Johnboy said.

‘Why?’

‘For not having a previous employer.’

‘Let me see your pass.’

Johnboy gave it to him. This was the sort of problem that had always put him head of his class. Words on paper. He read it carefully, the instructions, then taking out a pen he signed his name, with appropriate date, then time. He handed it back to Johnboy.

‘There. You’ve got a previous employer,’ he said.

‘Is that a fact,’ murmured the other. He examined it carefully before putting it away. He stood up and walked away into the crowd.

Thinking he had seen the last of him, Boston considered his problem again and decided it would be best if he found his relative to enquire about work. If the man was a gentleman he himself would suggest food. Boston stood up, and was on the point of leaving when he saw Johnboy. He was walking slowly towards him, kicking a few stones and practising soccer passes. He sat down in the same position, looked around very carefully, then took four passbooks out of his pocket and handed them to Boston.

‘Previous employers,’ he said.

Boston took the passbooks, but hesitated. In the meantime Johnboy had taken four ten-shilling notes out of another pocket. He separated two and gave them quietly to Boston.

‘Fifty-fifty,’ he said.

Boston took the passes and signed them all.

The next time Johnboy brought seven, then four, finally two.

‘I think we’d better stop now,’ Johnboy said. ‘They’re beginning to look at me. Let’s go and eat.’

It was twelve o’clock and Boston had over four pounds in his pocket. Johnboy picked up one of his suitcases and started walking. Boston took the other and followed him.