Sharpeville's Dead Eyed Men

A Story by Bordeaux-Paris

An eyewitnesses' recollection of the tragic events at Sharpville

The Dead Eye Men

I don’t know why he told me about it.

It was that quiet time. The work was done. The gangs had left the sections and were on their way to the crush. We were waiting for the miners to bring their shift reports to the office.

Kas was chatting with me. He didn’t often chat with me. Maybe because we did not share a first language. Perhaps it was because there was thirty years between us.

What struck me as odd was the way he told the story. As if the first person in the tale was not him, but it was clear that it was. I do not believe he was trying to shock or impress. It was just something he told me.

It was a Saturday night and he was at the cinema. They were all at the cinema, it was the only place open. He said that they were wearing their browns. There was nothing to get dressed for. Just wear brown and wait to go home was how he described.

The lights came on in the cinema and the sergeant was there to read out the list. Those on the list had to go out. They were not told why, but the men knew who the names on the list were. The dead eye men he called them. Then he tried a better translation for me: the good shots. He was a good shot.

He had climbed in to one of the trucks when his pal told him where they were going; Sharpeville. He didn’t tell me any more.