of little education and failing health, will achieve greatness in his life. He will become a figure of world stature. He will become a symbol of the defeated working man abandoned by the wealthy. He will galvanize the downtrodden in countries developed and developing, of skins black and white, although, it must be conceded, Mr. Corbett is not generally recognized in Canada as bearing such potential. Watch for his name in future reports by This Author in Winnipeg!
Respectfully Yours,
Hassane Moustafa Yoyo Ali
La Voix de Yaoundé , the Cameroonian paper to which Yoyo filed weekly reports, ran the story on the front page. It sparked thirty-five letters to the editor. Most expressed disbelief. A white man? In dire poverty?
PART TWO
“Braver to slay a charging lion than a sleeping cow.” Mahatma Grafton reread his horoscope. What the hell did that mean? The horoscope got him thinking again about his stories on the judge. Chuck Maxwell assured him he was bound for stardom. “Sniff out more ethnic stories,” Chuck told him. “They’ll land you on page one for sure.” Don Betts also showed his delight. “Got any more dirt on the judge?” he asked. The stories had been picked up by all the Winnipeg media. Mahatma heard his second story on the judge read almost verbatim on CFRL Radio. And Edward Slade at The Winnipeg Star came up with a scoop of his own by obtaining transcripts of Melvyn Hill’s recent court hearings and quoting the judge’s most outlandish comments.
The judge took no calls and granted no interviews. The media coverage made him look idiotic. But the more foolish the judge looked, the more uneasy Mahatma felt. And his discomfort was heightened by the behaviour of his father, who had barely spoken to him in days.
Mahatma finally asked, “Something wrong, Dad?”
“Not a thing.”
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“How about Melvyn Hill? He says he knows you.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Since I wrote about him, you’ve barely spoken to me.”
“Do you know that Melvyn used to be a railway porter?”
“So that’s how the fool started out.”
“Mahatma Grafton! Is that how you speak of your own people?”
“Who can deny that he’s a fool?”
“He is not a fool!” Ben barked. “It’s because of men like him that doors are open for you today. At one time, portering was the only job he could get. It was the only job most blacks could get. But he went on. He kicked and scratched and got himself a legal training.”
Mahatma grumbled, “Legal training or not, the man’s a fool.”
Ben clenched Mahatma’s wrist. “Tell me what’s more foolish, leaving the railway to become a Provincial Court judge, or wasting a university education by taking pot shots at easy targets?” Mahatma gaped at his father, but Ben continued. “Don’t you have anything more important to do than expose the silly habits of an old black judge?”
“Silly habits? He jailed a man for three weeks because he was black!”
“Dig enough and you’ll turn up dirty laundry on anybody. I dare you to do the same number on the chief judge of the province. I dare you to go out and try to make him look like an idiot. But no, you can’t do that. So you pick on someone who can’t fight back.”
“He seems to like the attention.”
“You’re still ridiculing him.” When Mahatma said nothing, Ben added, “You think you’ve got Melvyn Hill figured out. But you don’t know a thing about him.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re ready to listen!”
It is one of Mahatma’s earliest memories. He is playing in front of his Lipton Street house. Girls are skipping. He tows a friend in his wagon. Elms form an endless tunnel over the street when he looks south, past Westminister and Wolseley avenues. He is towing his friend Albert down the street, into the tree tunnel, toward the banks of the Assiniboine River. They’re halfway down the street when his father
Respectfully Yours,
Hassane Moustafa Yoyo Ali
La Voix de Yaoundé , the Cameroonian paper to which Yoyo filed weekly reports, ran the story on the front page. It sparked thirty-five letters to the editor. Most expressed disbelief. A white man? In dire poverty?
PART TWO
“Braver to slay a charging lion than a sleeping cow.” Mahatma Grafton reread his horoscope. What the hell did that mean? The horoscope got him thinking again about his stories on the judge. Chuck Maxwell assured him he was bound for stardom. “Sniff out more ethnic stories,” Chuck told him. “They’ll land you on page one for sure.” Don Betts also showed his delight. “Got any more dirt on the judge?” he asked. The stories had been picked up by all the Winnipeg media. Mahatma heard his second story on the judge read almost verbatim on CFRL Radio. And Edward Slade at The Winnipeg Star came up with a scoop of his own by obtaining transcripts of Melvyn Hill’s recent court hearings and quoting the judge’s most outlandish comments.
The judge took no calls and granted no interviews. The media coverage made him look idiotic. But the more foolish the judge looked, the more uneasy Mahatma felt. And his discomfort was heightened by the behaviour of his father, who had barely spoken to him in days.
Mahatma finally asked, “Something wrong, Dad?”
“Not a thing.”
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“How about Melvyn Hill? He says he knows you.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Since I wrote about him, you’ve barely spoken to me.”
“Do you know that Melvyn used to be a railway porter?”
“So that’s how the fool started out.”
“Mahatma Grafton! Is that how you speak of your own people?”
“Who can deny that he’s a fool?”
“He is not a fool!” Ben barked. “It’s because of men like him that doors are open for you today. At one time, portering was the only job he could get. It was the only job most blacks could get. But he went on. He kicked and scratched and got himself a legal training.”
Mahatma grumbled, “Legal training or not, the man’s a fool.”
Ben clenched Mahatma’s wrist. “Tell me what’s more foolish, leaving the railway to become a Provincial Court judge, or wasting a university education by taking pot shots at easy targets?” Mahatma gaped at his father, but Ben continued. “Don’t you have anything more important to do than expose the silly habits of an old black judge?”
“Silly habits? He jailed a man for three weeks because he was black!”
“Dig enough and you’ll turn up dirty laundry on anybody. I dare you to do the same number on the chief judge of the province. I dare you to go out and try to make him look like an idiot. But no, you can’t do that. So you pick on someone who can’t fight back.”
“He seems to like the attention.”
“You’re still ridiculing him.” When Mahatma said nothing, Ben added, “You think you’ve got Melvyn Hill figured out. But you don’t know a thing about him.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re ready to listen!”
It is one of Mahatma’s earliest memories. He is playing in front of his Lipton Street house. Girls are skipping. He tows a friend in his wagon. Elms form an endless tunnel over the street when he looks south, past Westminister and Wolseley avenues. He is towing his friend Albert down the street, into the tree tunnel, toward the banks of the Assiniboine River. They’re halfway down the street when his father
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