Dancing the Death Drill

by Fred Khumalo

  One night, after one of the officers’ fights, Captain Portsmouth joined the others for a drink.

  ‘The boxing seems to have raised the morale of our men,’ one officer observed.

  ‘Of course, boxing is good for them,’ another said. ‘You see, these brown races, that’s all they are good at – physical exertion. They can’t handle the bigger things in life – civilised governance, industrial innovation. It was ridiculous to even suggest that they should be joining us on the front lines. They know nothing about war, real war.’

  ‘Yeah, good at monkey games. They want to draw blood, they want to see the next person suffer,’ said the ruddy-faced officer who answered to the name of Haig. ‘They shrink away from things that are cerebral, things involving proper strategy, am I right or wrong?’

  ‘Speaking of strategy,’ Captain Portsmouth broke in, ‘primitive as they are in their methods, don’t you think we have a thing or two to learn from them in terms of war strategy?’

  All eyes turned to him.

  ‘How did we lose the Battle of Isandlwana? They beat us purely on strategy. We had the technology, we had the international experience. But we were rigid in our strategy. My father told me in detail what happened there … it’s not something I read in books. They used the bull-horn strategy. Simple yet very effective.’

  The bull-horn or buffalo-horn strategy was a time-tested military maneouvre where the attacking army would face the enemy in front, on both flanks and in the rear. The ‘horns’ – the right- and left-flank elements – would encircle and pin the enemy before the ‘chest’, or the central main force, would charge forward to deliver the coup de grâce.

  ‘Who’s your father, then?’ asked Officer Haig, pulling at his flame-red beard.

  ‘Sir William Portsmouth.’

  ‘By golly! The Portsmouth?’ another officer said. ‘I thought your name was Plymouth. So it’s Portsmouth. Every military man worth his salt has heard of him. How did we miss that? We’ve been thinking how odd you look for a soldier. Now we know you are old Bull Face’s son. But I’ve heard only good things about the man. And we all know the Zulu victory at Isandlwana was a fluke.’

  Portsmouth said, ‘I can lay you down my last pound: in due course the European armies will be using the bull-horn strategy.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Officer Haig insisted, ‘these Africans of yours are not ready for modern warfare. It’s a good thing they won’t be given guns in Europe.’

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Land-ho! Land! I can see the white man’s land on the horizon!’ a man shouted from the upper deck early one morning. Soon the deck was overflowing with the crew. Their glad eyes beheld a smudge of land and vegetation in the distance. A flock of birds that they couldn’t identify hovered just above them, occasionally swooping and touching the surface of the water with their wings.

  While they were still in the grip of excitement, the ship was lifted high on a gigantic swell. A cold, salty spray rose high into the air, showering the men’s faces. Some men cried out, others hit the deck.

  Another towering wall of water rose ominously just ahead of them. Again, the vessel was lifted high, and crash! It bounced into a hollow. More cries and rushed prayers were hurled at the morning air.

  After a while, the sea calmed down again. A light breeze rose, touching the skins of the sea-weary men. After a long, tense silence, they rediscovered their voices. They emerged as if from a trance, shook salty cobwebs from their eyes and listened to the wind whispering the secrets of the land they were approaching.

  ‘We’ve done it. We’ll get a drink or two as soon as we plant our feet firmly on the ground,’ a man said excitedly.

  They started singing, dancing and ululating. The ship was moving too slowly for the excited passengers. They couldn’t wait to pick up a handful of sea sand and let it trickle slowly between their fingers onto the ground. They wanted to consort with the crabs moving up and down the beach, to drink fresh water from a tap or a stream nearby. To caress, with their eyes at least, the contours of women’s bodies – the legs, the thighs, the flat stomachs, the jutting breasts. Ah, land!

  ‘But the captain said the journey would take us more than a month.’

  ‘We seem to have sailed faster.’

  The excited chatter finally died down when Captain Yardley came up to the deck to announce that they were now approaching a country called Nigeria. The men listened attentively, without interrupting him.

  As soon as he had disappeared, there was an explosion of excited chatter again.

  ‘Is this Nigeria part of the white man’s land?’ one man asked.

  ‘No, Nigeria is in Africa,’ said Pitso.

  ‘But when we left home we were sailing across the seas. Why have we gone back home to Africa? Is the white man lost?’

  ‘No, brother, this is West Africa. It’s on the other side of our own continent,’ Pitso explained patiently. Many of these men were, after all, straight from the bush: no education, no exposure to the world apart from their own villages and the villages they grew up fighting against. Even those who had worked in the mines did not have a full appreciation of the vastness of the African continent. ‘We have to dock, so we can fetch some fresh supplies of water, food and—’

  ‘Well, we should have taken a train to Nigeria, then. From there, we could then have boarded the ship that would take us straight to the land of the white man. That would have saved us all these days and hours on the ship, don’t you think? The train is faster than the ship. Plus you don’t get sick on the train. Those two men wouldn’t have died on the train. The sea is bad news. It’s haunted by the spirits of men who died when their ships sank – men who never had proper burials, men whose spirits will never know peace until the end of time.’

  Pitso gave up.

  The ship was abuzz with arguments and complaints.

  By noon, the equatorial sun was hammering down. Drenched in sweat, the men had stripped down to their pants. Moving restlessly on the deck, they looked like beached seals.

  Late afternoon, the Mendi arrived in Lagos, along with the other ships in the convoy, the Orsova, the Medic, the Berrima and the Port Lyttelton. There was a near stampede as the men jostled for positions to get a better view of the city unfolding before them. They had to be called to order. The men, who had practised the boat drill and fire drill regularly, knew the formation they had to take before disembarking the ship.

  Resplendent in their uniforms, the eight hundred black troops stood to attention as they were inspected by the officers, before marching in an orderly manner down the gangway. Once on terra firma, they were counted and divided into smaller groups. A white officer took charge of each group. At the harbour, the men were met and addressed by Sir Frederick Lugard, the Governor General of the Protectorate of Nigeria.

  After his speech, Sir Frederick left with his entourage. The South African contingent allowed a respectable interval after the departure of the Governor General before they were guided into town by the officers, who showed them the sights. The men were highly impressed by the modernity of Lagos, how black people like themselves dressed in western clothes and wore shoes during the week. Back home suits and ties were only for rich, educated natives. Even then, the black native would wear such an outfit on occasions: special visits to the church, high-class weddings and the like.

  ‘One day, our country will be like this,’ Ngqavini said. ‘One day, black people like us will walk about in suit and tie during the week, in broad daylight.’

  ‘Look at that!’ someone shouted. Heads turned. The men beheld a bridal party dressed in white dresses and frock coats, with the bride arriving in a smart horse-drawn cart – just as rich white people would do back home in South Africa. Mind you, not just any white people, but rich white people. Pitso, who had taken with a pinch of salt the stories he’d read about highly educated black people in Nigeria living like white people, was impressed. Here, at last, was proof of the value of reading. The things unfolding before
his eyes did not seem entirely new – they were just confirmation of what he already knew.

  While the men were walking, admiring the sights, they in turn were being hailed and admired by the locals who, through the local newspapers, had heard about a group of black troops from South Africa who would be passing through town on their way to fight the German Kaiser in Europe.

  After the short walk about town, the officers guided the tour back towards the harbour. There the troops lined up for their early supper, which they ate from benches, the sea breeze cooling them after an oppressively hot day.

  By this time, Pitso, Ngqavini and Tlali had become friends – but only after Tlali had sat the other two men down and asked them to find it in their hearts to put their differences aside. ‘This is clearly a long journey that we are on,’ Tlali had said, ‘and we need each other. So you, gentlemen, find your humility. And at least show each other some respect.’ It had taken Pitso and Ngqavini a while even to greet each other when they saw each other on deck or inside the engine room. However, because of Tlali’s insistence, they finally got down to shaking hands. And they gradually began to listen to each other’s stories and laugh at each other’s jokes, which was not easy, for both men were proud and headstrong.

  Now, as they sat next to each other, enjoying their meal, Ngqavini said, ‘My friends, do you see what I’m seeing?’ The two followed his gaze, which was directed at the two benches occupied by the chief of the Pondos and his subjects. Everyone was eating, except for one young man. His food was in front of him, but it remained untouched. He was visibly hungry, stealing glances at the food and swallowing his saliva.

  Tlali explained, ‘Oh, that young man is always the last one to eat. Sometimes they take his food away and give it to the chief, if the chief’s belly is not full yet. Is it something we should worry about? Maybe it’s one of those Pondo or Xhosa things that do not make sense to the rest of us.’

  Pitso said, frowning, ‘We have to put a stop to that nonsense.’

  Ngqavini put his plate down, and started towards the chief’s bench. Pitso got up and pulled him back to his place. ‘Not in front of the officers. Let’s do it in our own time. But, first, let’s establish the facts.’

  They watched in amazement as the young man took his own plate of food and gave it to the chief. The chief started eating his second helping. When he was halfway through this plate, he dropped it on the floor. The young man attacked the plate like a starving mongrel dog. Finished with the plate, he then ate the leftovers from the other men in the Pondo circle.

  ‘That makes me sick,’ Pitso hissed.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with that?’ Tlali asked. ‘He is the chief, and he can do as he pleases with his subjects.’

  ‘You just don’t get it,’ said Ngqavini.

  ‘What is it that I don’t get? The man is the chief, he can do as he pleases. Same as the white man in our own lives: he can do as he pleases, because he’s in charge.’

  Ngqavini and Pitso looked at each other. There was some sense in what Tlali was saying, but …

  The troops were instructed to clean up and get ready to get back on the ship.

  Supplies of coal and stores, including coconuts, were loaded onto the ship. One of the officers did the roll call: ‘Paraffin Makilitshi, Majuta Makoba, Transvaal Masilo, Picennin Matlala, Thousand Matupu, Albert Nkomempunga Mbata …’

  Two days later, they were in Sierra Leone. This time, the troops did not leave the harbour. Some of the staff helped transfer the consignment of five million pounds’ worth of gold bullion to the HMS Cornwall, which was part of the convoy to Britain. Altogether, the Mendi spent three days in Sierra Leone, during which time the whole crew performed exercises at the boat stations on board. Forever conscious of the safety of the men, Captain Yardley ordered that the boats be lowered into the water, where they were found to be tight and in order. In addition, a couple of rafts were thrown into the water and found to float satisfactorily.

  The Mendi had seven lifeboats capable of carrying a total of two hundred and ninety-eight persons. She also carried forty-six life rafts, each fitted with lifelines round the structure and intended to support about twenty people in the water, holding on to these lines. The rafts consisted of airtight copper tanks enclosed in a wooden grating, on average six feet square, with a total capacity of about nine hundred and twenty persons. Further, the Mendi had fifteen lifebuoys placed round the rails and a total of 1319 lifebelts. All troops had to carry their lifebelts with them at all times. The black troops mostly used them as pillows at night.

  With all the exercises completed, and all the new stores having been taken on board, the Mendi left Sierra Leone. While the troops stood on deck, waving at the locals, Ngqavini found the opportunity to sidle up to the young man whose food had been eaten by the Pondo chief.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Milkota. Milkota Nyawuza,’ the young man replied, his eyes shifting to avoid Ngqavini’s gaze.

  ‘Can I talk to you in private?’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My chief won’t allow it.’

  ‘Relax, I won’t get you in trouble. We’ll be discreet. When you’ve done your cleaning duties tomorrow morning, come to the engine room downstairs.’

  ‘But I’m scared.’

  ‘Listen,’ Ngqavini growled. ‘I need to speak to you, even if it means beating up your chief. Tomorrow morning, in the engine room.’

  CHAPTER 26

  To look at Milkota, you would think he was trying very hard to be a black version of Charlie Chaplin. His height and his jerky, uncertain gait were reminiscent of the comedian, as was the moustache. Not to mention his ability to twist his neck almost a hundred and eighty degrees to look over his shoulder – which he did a lot, as he was such a nervous fellow. If you happened to suddenly materialise at his side, he would almost jump out of his skin. His voice was squeaky and quarrelsome. And, also like Chaplin, he could be a melancholy figure – his face perpetually downcast, as if he would break down into tears any moment.

  The morning he went down to the engine room for his rendezvous with Ngqavini, he cried out when he was startled by two rats noisily mating on the steps. It had been a difficult decision to make: come and meet Ngqavini, thus risking the wrath of his chief and the rest of his tribe? Or defy Ngqavini, and thus risk being beaten up by the man?

  ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,’ said Ngqavini in greeting. ‘Pull yourself together. Here, have a drink.’ Milkota accepted a jug of mahewu with his two hands. He put it down on the floor, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and squatted on the floor, making a huge ceremony of it. He drank noisily, slurping like a hungry dog. Ngqavini, Pitso and Tlali watched him sympathetically.

  ‘That evil chief of yours is surely starving you, boy,’ Pitso said above the roar of the engine.

  ‘Men,’ Ngqavini shouted. ‘I think it’s rather too noisy here. Let’s go up on the deck and chat for a few minutes. I’ll get some boys to relieve us here in the engine room.’

  ‘But, Brother Ngqavini, with due respect,’ Milkota said, ‘we can’t be seen together. The chief will not like it.’

  ‘“The chief will not like it, the chief will not like it,”’ Pitso mimicked him. ‘What is wrong with you? Does your chief own you? He isn’t God. While you’re on this ship, your God is the King of England, or the captain of this ship.’

  ‘But,’ Ngqavini spoke quietly, ‘I could also be your God. I have owned people before – I’ve been in charge of their souls. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it again. In any case, I’m going to deal with your chief once and for all. Today if need be.’

  All three looked at him sharply.

  ‘Let’s go up there and get some sun,’ said Ngqavini cheerfully, ignoring his fellow men’s stares.

  The deck was flooded with the bright gold of the morning, the sun just coming up. Some men were exercising, stretching their limbs, others sitting and enjoying th
eir morning mahewu, still chatting about what they’d seen in Nigeria.

  Milkota spotted his chief and his acolytes in a remote corner. His eyes met those of one of the chief’s lieutenants, who then said something to the men in his circle. They all turned their eyes towards the young man.

  ‘Hey!’ Pitso shouted at the Pondo men. ‘Have you lost your manners? Why don’t you greet before you start gossiping?’

  One of Pondo men walked hastily towards him, his hands balled into fists. Pitso decided to meet him halfway.

  ‘The chief wants that boy,’ the man said.

  Tlali finally found his mouth. ‘Tell your chief we are still speaking to the boy.’

  The man retreated to his tribe’s corner and whispered something into the chief’s ear. The chief scowled and spewed a brown jet of saliva onto the floor.

  ‘So,’ Ngqavini said, ‘why is it that you are donating your own food to the chief? Look at you. You are skin and bones already.’

  ‘From here on, gentlemen,’ said Milkota, ‘I will be at your mercy. Not only will my chief officially disown me, but his men will try their best to make my life miserable, or even kill me. They are ruthless bastards, I know them.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question,’ Pitso said. ‘Why do you allow them to take your food from you?’

  ‘I don’t deserve to eat my portion, until the chief is nice and sated. You see, I am not a full man. So I have to do everything I can to please the chief, to apologise for the fact that I am not a full, complete man.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean you are not a full man?’ Ngqavini said. ‘You don’t have breasts that I can see. You have a moustache. Speak some sense, man, before I lose my patience.’

  ‘Gentlemen, what I mean to say is that, in our Pondo and Xhosa tradition, you can’t be a man until you’ve been to the mountain where you get circumcised and get yourself immersed in the sacred secrets of our culture—’

  Pitso jumped at him, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt. ‘Are you calling me a woman, then? Are you calling all of us women just because we haven’t done your stupid, backward, superstitious bush circumcision?’