Black Butterflies

"I am with those who abuse sex

because individual doesn't count,

with those who get drunk

against the abyss of the brain,

against the garden parties

of pretense,

against the silence beating

at the temples,

with those who,

poor and old,

compete against death,

the atom bomb of days.

With those numbed in institutions,

shocked with electric currents

through the cataracts of nerves.

With those colored africans dispossessed.

With those how kill

because every death

confirms anew the lie of life.

And please forget...about justice...

...it doesn't exist...

...about Brotherhood...

...it's a fraud...

...about love...it has no right."

What have you got there?

Ingrid.

Ingrid?

Grandma won't wake up.

Thank you.

- Where are your shoes?

- We don't have.

What shall we call you?

Just call me "Pa."

BLACK BUTTERFLIES

CAPE TOWN, 1960.

Help.

Help.

Help me!

Help.

You can't swim against the current.

You need to swim out of it.

Who do I thank?

Jack Cope.

How do you do?

The writer?

- I've only written one novel.

- I read "The fair house" five times.

- You liked it that much?

- No.

I was at a guest farm in the Karoo,

and it was the only South African

novel I could lay my hands on.

So you didn't like it.

What's so funny?

Just that I should be saved

by a writer...

...of all people.

Don't worry, I liked it.

- Being saved by a writer?

- No, you fool.

- Your novel.

- Ingrid!

Ingrid, I've been looking

all over for you.

Pa's here.

- Where?

- He brought Pieter with him...

- ...back from Johannesburg.

- He did what?

- Where's Simone?

- She's with Pieter at the flat.

Oh, No!

I'm sorry about this.

- Ingrid, come on!

- Write me a poem, Jack.

I'll write one for you.

Ingrid Jonker, the poet!

Why are you doing this, Pa?

He asked me for a lift.

How could I refuse him?

I can't keep going through this.

It's driving me crazy!

- He's a good man, Ingrid.

- Pa, we have nothing in common.

You married him.

-...one...

- What are you doing here?

- Just visiting my daughter.

- You're not staying here. That's for sure.

- Then where am I going to stay?

- Anywhere but here.

Please Ingrid,

I can't live without you.

And I can't live with you.

Anna Jonker, Hello.

- God, why do you make me so cruel?

- Ingrid, it's for you.

Hi.

How did you get this number?

Yeah, I'd love to come.

Where do you live?

Hhm, see you there, then.

Ingrid, please.

Just give me a second chance.

Jack.

You made it.

Great.

Um...

This is my housemate and friend,

Uys Krige.

- Uys, Ingrid Jonker.

- Ah, The poet caught in the current.

Why are you so short?

What kind of a question is that?

Nkosi Skosana's outside

on the beach.

He, um, needs a ride to the location.

Sh*t.

Excuse me.

I was...

quite absorbed by your little book poems.

And you're also a bit short.

I'm not short.

You are short of technical finesse.

But otherwise, not bad.

Coming from me,

that is a big compliment.

Nkosi?

- Kunja ne, Jack.

- I heard about your book. I'm really sorry.

Never mind they banned it.

Cops raided the printer's last night

and confiscated the bloody original.

four Years' worth gone

just like that.

I can't keep this up, Jack.

I'm leaving.

- And where will you go?

- London, New York. Who cares?

- No! Please leave me alone!

- Come Back here. Come Back here.

Any chance of rescuing me again?

- Who is this?

- My husband.

I've left him,

but he hasn't fully grasped it yet.

I'll be back in minute.

- Do you trust her?

- Hmm?

You know her father heads

up the censorship board.

He's the one who banned my book.

Apparently, she and her father

don't see eye to eye.

What's your favorite poem, Nkosi?

"The Lord shook his fist,

and the dice fell

horribly wrong on us."

What's it called?

It's called Apartheid.

Oh, damn.

What's this kaffir doing

in the back of your car?

I was driving him home.

Do you have permission

to be in white area?

He's our garden boy.

We're taking him home because

there were no more buses.

This time of night?

Where's your pass?

I was working late,

and my wife doesn't drive.

- Did you get him back safely?

- Just.

Through here.

Um, I'm not sure if you know it,

But I'm going through...

...a rather messy divorce

at the moment.

- Do you have children?

- Two boys.

- I'll leave you to it.

- No, No, Stay here.

Come sit here.

Pass me my bag, Please?

It's your poem.

This is beautiful.

You must run towards the light, Jack,

not away from it.

I...

can't believe you wrote a poem for me.

Well, you saved my life.

If there's a reason for learning

afrikaans, marjorie,

It's this book,

Eugene Maritz's latest novel.

Isn't Maritz a newspaper man?

Oh. He's the chief editor

I wonder where he finds the time

to write a novel.

Perhaps he didn't waste time having

picnic on the beach with his friends.

That's because there are no

But there are mountains,

and he is climbing them.

Mark my words,

Eugene Maritz will be one

of the saviors of africa's literature.

- Hell of a statement, Uys.

- Read the book,

and you might be in a position

to doubt me.

I think I will.

I'm completely in love with you.

I've had bad luck with men.

Why did you marry Pieter?

- Truth?

- Hmm.

To get out of my father's house.

Well, I want you to move in with me,

you and Simone, into the Bungalow.

You think it's bad idea?

Love's not an idea.

Am I too old for you?

I see you as young, Jack.

"I repeat you, without beginning or end,

repeat your body.

The day has a thin shadow,

the night yellow crosses.

The landscape has no distinction

and the people a row of candles

While I repeat you

with my breasts, which imitate

the hollows of your hands."

Hello.

Hello, Ingrid.

I recognize you from the newspapers.

Uys Kriger.

And you must be Jack Cope,

the writer.

How do you do?

Oh, come in.

Come in.

Your father's on the phone.

My goodness,

but Simone has gotten big.

Even on sundays,

they bother him now.

He barely has time to write

his novels anymore.

Pa writes books, Lulu,

not novels.

I heard that.

Sorry to keep you all.

Uys Kriger, I'm an admirer

of your plays.

- You're quite prolific.

- Pleased to meet you, Dr. Jonker.

- Jack Cope.

- how do you do?

For some reason, I thought

you'd be younger.

Pa!

-Where's Anna?

- She has a migraine,

- But she sends her love.

- All right.

Come this way.

Please.

Maria, you're spoiling us.

When I heard you was coming,

I put in extra roast potatoes,

just the way you like them.

Ah, and this little peach,

she's looking more and more

like her grandmother.

That's all, Maria.

Thank you.

Mr. Cope, I just read your

story, the one called "Power."

- Hhm

- It's good, don't you think, Pa?

I thought it was quite manipulative,

a black man coming to the

rescue of a white boy.

Well, he comes to the rescue

of the bird, not just the boy.

The beauty in the story

is the allegory of the bird.

It represents freedom.

- What kind of freedom?

- Political freedom.

Fortunately for us,

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