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

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