On my side of the colour line, the easiest thing to do is to sink into despair. This country has laid on all the facilities for that sort of thing. In my case, I could do it by disappearing into oblivion quietly, cheerfully.

I could stop writing for newspapers and find a comfortable job somewhere in the northern suburbs. I’m sure some ‘madam’ would declare me intelligent and give me one of those incredible ‘kitchen-boy’ suits – the ones with pants that never fit anyone. I would like mine white, with scarlet stripes around the neck and knees – below the knees really for, as I say, it is impossible to find one that fits.

The madam wouldn’t have to worry about shoes for me. The shoes I use for playing tennis now could become my everyday footwear. They are still neat and white. In them, and inside my white and scarlet suit, I could bathe poodles and take fox terriers for walks in white suburbia. Nobody would know me.

If for any reason I failed to find a job like this, I could join the mines or anything. I could become a ‘pipe boy’, like the man I met this week. He and I drank some concoction together out of a gallon tin which once contained paint or paraffin. The man told me he was from Mozambique. His black face had a touch of blue in it. He had beautiful, healthy teeth, like most Africans I have met from Mozambique or the Rhodesias.

He said, smiling proudly: ‘I am a pipe-boy at the mine … I come from Lourenço Marques … I have a family at home, a wife and child … My daughter doesn’t go to school yet, she’s only two years old … She doesn’t know me because I left home for the mines when she was one month old ….’

For a moment I envied this man. He seemed to be at peace with the world. When I asked after his educational background he answered simply, without bitterness: ‘I left school before I could write my name.’

I could become anonymous like this man. He reminded me of an evening I spent arguing with a friend who holds an executive position in one of the mining houses of Johannesburg.

We talked into the early hours of the morning and he convinced me that Africans on the mine were a happy lot. His point was that, regardless of what African miners earned or should earn, they were at peace with the world. They wore clothes with bright colours and played guitars and concertinas during their leisure time.

I remembered this when I spoke to the man from Mozambique. There was a sense of security and confidence about the man. He looked forward to the day when he would arrive in Lourenco Marques and be introduced to his daughter who would say ‘papa’ to him for the first time.

The man from Lourenco Marques is not in the files of the Security Branch. He is not likely to be raided as some impertinent journalists may be. I doubt whether he will ever be involved with hire-purchase, passport applications, or job reservation.

His job as a pipe-boy is reserved for him. I’m sure there is one for me too, somewhere. For South Africa is a powerful country with a booming economy. If you haven’t got airs, if you know your station in life as a black man, you need not be without a job.

Several of the boys I grew up with found their way into the mines. I nearly went that way myself when, on leaving school, I set out to look for a job. But I was turned away at the gates of the recruiting depot. The recruiting officer told me I was still a ‘piccanin’.

I could go back there now and get a job. After all, I am no longer a piccanin.

That would be sinking to the depths of despair on my part. But then I am trying to show just how easy it is for a black man to do so in this country. Besides, it happens to be true that my experiences in this country are steadily dragging me into the darkness of despair.

Those of my friends who are white, those of them who have felt as I do now, have been able to do something about it. Some went to the Israeli kibbutzim. Others hitch-hiked up Africa to the Mediterranean and Europe. Like me today, they felt disillusioned and sick at heart. They were bored with conversation about Apartheid. But being white, they found no difficulty in getting away from it all. The facilities were laid on for them to quit.

For me, the facilities laid on are of a different kind. They are designed to lead me into despair. To that extent, the powers that be have won a battle over me.