When you finish the story, you realize that Can Themba never really wrote about trains. He wrote about resilience. He wrote about how a people, stripped of everything except each other, turned a rickety carriage into a kingdom. He wrote about the truth that as long as the train runs, the spirit survives. “The Dube Train” is widely available in anthologies of South African short stories, including The Oxford Book of South African Short Stories and the collected works of Can Themba, often titled The Will to Die (though check modern reprints). For the full effect, try to read it while listening to a 1950s jazz record—Dollar Brand or Hugh Masekela—and imagine the slow, rattling journey home to Dube. In summary: Can Themba’s “The Dube Train” transforms a mundane daily commute into a dramatic, comic, and tragic symphony of apartheid-era life. It is a story of survival, proving that even inside the belly of the beast—a crowded, broken train—human beings will find a way to dance.
Consider his description of the crowd: "The human sea heaves, surges, and subsides. Hands clutch at straps, at shoulders, at anything. A baby wails its protest against the world, and a toothless old man mutters curses at the generations." Dube Train Short Story By Can Themba
In the pantheon of South African literature, few voices crackle with the raw, sardonic energy of Can Themba. A key figure of the legendary Drum magazine generation of the 1950s, Themba was a master of the short story, capturing the absurdities, indignities, and fleeting joys of Black life under apartheid. While his story "The Suit" remains his most anthologized work, there is a grittier, more visceral piece that serves as the perfect entry point to his genius: “The Dube Train.” When you finish the story, you realize that
Themba was a teacher before he was a journalist, and his vocabulary is precise, but he never loses the vernacular flair. He uses hyperbole masterfully. When describing the heat of a packed carriage, he writes that it is "hotter than the hinges of Hades." He anthropomorphizes the train, calling it a "reluctant dragon" that belches smoke and groans under the weight of history. 1. Ubuntu vs. Survival The central philosophical tension of the story is between the traditional African concept of ubuntu ("I am because we are") and the brutal individualism required to survive the city. In the morning, everyone is selfish. By evening, they remember they are neighbors. Themba suggests that apartheid tried to kill ubuntu, but the Dube train—a place of enforced intimacy—accidentally preserved it. 2. The Performance of Identity The story explores how people "dress" their personalities for different audiences. The quiet clerk in the morning is the dancing fool in the evening. The aggressive tsotsi is the man who gives his seat to an elderly grandma on the way home. The train is a liminal space—not the workplace, not the home—where people are free to be their most authentic, chaotic selves. 3. The Politics of Discomfort Themba famously refused to write "protest literature" in the obvious sense. He rarely features white characters directly. Instead, he shows the effects of the system. The decrepit train, the exhaustion, the desperation—these are the protests. By showing a society forced to live its social life in a moving vehicle because there are no safe public squares in the townships, Themba indicts apartheid more effectively than any pamphlet could. Why This Story Still Matters Published in the 1950s in Drum magazine, “The Dube Train” is shockingly contemporary. The trains in South Africa today (the modern "Meteor" or "Mphela" trains) are still overcrowded, still late, and still the site of vibrant, dangerous social interaction. He wrote about the truth that as long
Furthermore, in a world of remote work and digital isolation, "The Dube Train" reminds us of the lost value of physical proximity. Themba found poetry in the crush of bodies, the smell of cheap perfume and coal smoke, the sound of a harmonica over the screech of brakes. Can Themba did not have a happy ending. His defiance of the apartheid regime (specifically the Immorality Act, which banned interracial relationships) led to his banning, his exile to Swaziland, and his death from alcohol-related illness in 1968. He was only 43.
But beyond the local relevance, the story is a universal metaphor for the commute. Anyone who has ever taken the 7:00 AM subway in New York, the tube in London, or the local train in Mumbai will recognize the truth of Themba’s observation: the commute is a daily death and resurrection. You die to your private self in the morning; you are reborn in the evening.
In these morning carriages, the tone is resigned. People read old newspapers. They stare at the floor. The proximity of bodies does not breed community; it breeds resentment. You are acutely aware of the thief picking your pocket, the man stepping on your foot, the woman elbowing for space. Themba’s prose is journalistic here—sharp, unforgiving, documenting the dehumanizing grind. As the sun sets over the gold mines of the Reef, the Dube train undergoes a metamorphosis. This is where Themba’s genius shines. The evening commute is louder, rowdier, and infinitely more alive. The shackles of the workday are off. Men loosen their ties; women peel off their white domestic uniforms.