Johannesburg seemed strangely deserted in the bright Monday morning sun. Gone were the hordes of African delivery boys on bicycles that normally clog Commissioner Street. Gone were the black gas-station attendants, the elevator operators and the shop sweepers. That morning the boss made his own tea in the office, and the white housewife lugged her own parcels to the car after a round of shopping. For 95% of Johannesburg's Africans sat obstinately at home, mourning for the 68 hapless blacks cut down by the withering hail of police bullets in the Sharpeville...
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