The Sun Rises Tomorrow (short story)

In 1957, I traveled to Durban city in South Africa. I was one of the finest writers for the largest news press in Britain. Being a great patriot expressing myself through countless articles, I earned myself several National Laureates and the Queen knighted me “Sir” in 1955. That particular year I went to Durban for I was asked to conduct a meeting with a group of journalist who were starting another branch of our news press. Durban was a beautiful city.
I took off in the morning reaching Durban in the late evening. My desire was to finish my work as soon as I could and get back to Britain for I knew that I was not very welcomed in this land. The apartheid was the hot-buttoned issue in South Africa during those years. Any white man like me would never like to stay too long there.
The next day, I conducted the meeting and it ended in the afternoon. I was relieved that I had finished my job. My colleague, Robert, kindly brought me to a coffee house to try out the famous Durban Black Tea. As I was entering the coffee house, I could see a small sign by the door, it read “No dogs and coloured skin.”
I sat down in the shop and took a good sip of fragrant tea. Through the glass of the window I could see a man, a black man in his thirties, carrying a stake of paper trying to paste them on the wall. I thought he was probably one of the protestant. These people were constantly trying to create reformation, at the same time removing segregation and discrimination. Deep in my heart, I sympathised them for how they were being treated, though I was a white man myself.
I walked out of the coffee house and moved towards him. Before I could get near him, he turned his head to me and said “What do you want?”
I stopped immediately and kindly asked him “Can I have a piece of your article, like you, I am also a writer.”
“Do you know how to spell the word ‘liberation’?” The man replied my question with another.
“I do, believe me I do, would you like to have a cup of tea with me.” I asked
“I am not allowed to enter the shop.” The man replied.
I walked towards him, put my hand on his shoulder, and said “No man would dare to stop you as long as you are with me, Sir Jack of England”.
I sat down with him in the coffee house and dismissed Robert from the table. I took one of his papers and on it was an article entitled “Do not judge us by our skin, but our heart…” He told me that his name was Olujah. He was indeed a protestant actively fighting the apartheid across the nation. He also shared to me how his father went to jail and was murdered for being a strong critic who produced many articles against the discriminations in society. It had been his life long ambition, hoping that through writing, he could make a difference in his country. Before we ended our conversation. He took out his pen and said “Sir Jack, look at this pen, I believe that my pen is sharper than any two-edged sword, and with it, I shall make a difference for my people who are suffering, even if I have to die for it like my father did. I shall see you again Sir”. After that, he left.
That night, I took a flight back to Britain. When I was in the plane, the conversation I had earlier on with my new friend Olujah filled my mind. To make a difference, isn’t that what all writers write for?
Four years later in 1961, I traveled back to the same city. It was the same place at a different time. Nothing much had changed there. I walked to the same street heading to the same coffee house. I could still remember the friend I met when I last came to Durban. But I did not meet Olujah this time. After a drink in the coffee house, I decided to return to my hotel. When I walked out of the door, I noticed that the sign I saw years ago was not there anymore. I turned back and asked the owner, “Where is the sign that you used to put by the entrance?”
The owner replied “Oh, we removed it. It was stained with blood. The other day a black man was shot when he was trying to paste his articles on the wall near the door.”
“Do you know who it was?” I eagerly asked
“I think his name is Olujah.” The owner answered
My heart sank when I heard the name Olujah. I was moved grieved and shouted to the owner “You shall never put another sign like you used to again, or else, you will suffer the same fate as Olujah.”
I stared at the wall for a very long time. A piece of article was pasted on the wall. The article read “The sun rises tomorrow, the darkness will soon be gone, my brothers, let us take our stand and continue our fight for justice…”
I took the article down and published it in the newspaper across Britain the next day…the sun rises tomorrow.