by Zakes Mda
Like most of the amaxhoba Malangana is not paying much attention to the theological debates. His concentration, however, is not on the food. His eyes are scrutinising every woman in the crowd, paying particular attention to those of small stature. What if one of them is Mthwakazi? How is he going to know her after twenty years? He knows that he has changed quite a bit, but he doubts if Mthwakazi could have undergone that drastic a transformation. In any event her mkhondo is very much alive in these environs. It is bound to be even stronger in her presence.
As soon as the bearded man gets tired of the pointless debate and silences it with a dismissive wave of the hand a group of women pounce on Malangana.
‘Come here, I have food for you,’ says one.
‘Oh no, I saw him first, follow me. I have very nice food for you,’ says another.
He is helpless as one takes his crutches and tries to pull him one way while the other is pulling him another way. He is shaken out of his wits.
‘They feed amaxhoba for good fortune,’ explains an old woman helpfully. ‘You are new here so they are all fighting for your blessings.’
‘I’m not here for food,’ says a breathless Malangana. ‘I’m looking for Mthwakazi.’
‘Look, you are scaring the poor man to death. You’re going to be responsible if he has a heart attack.’ That’s the man with the white beard to the rescue.
They all let Malangana go at once and he falls on the ground. They apologise and try to help him up and give him back his crutches. The man with the white beard helps him to a rock where Malangana sits down. He points at one of the women who were fighting over Malangana and says, ‘You, feed him.’ Others mumble their disgruntlement: Yhu! Uyakhetha. Uyamkhetha ngoba ngumolokazana wakho. Oh, you’re not fair. You choose her because she is your daughter-in-law.
As Malangana drinks amasi with sorghum bread he answers their questions about the woman he is looking for. He does not know her name. Only that she is Mthwakazi. He does not want to give them the whole history of who they once were at the Great Place of King Mhlontlo. After all, this was King Mditshwa’s territory. He does not know where these people stand on old disputes. Nor does he even know if they are all amaMpondomise. The land has been overrun by all sorts of people, many of whom are here as a reward for fighting on the side of the English.
abaThwa people keep to themselves out there in the wilderness and do not mix with other people, says one man as if explaining to a child or a stranger. Except once in a while there are those who come peddling ostrich eggs or crude handiwork to ward off famine. It would be impossible for the community of Tsolo to know the whereabouts of one nameless Bushwoman. The man then breaks out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.
‘Except one,’ says a woman. ‘There’s one who doesn’t live in the wilderness; we often see her here.’
‘Yes, there was a Mthwakazi here yesterday,’ adds another woman. ‘The one who wears golden earrings.’
The other women chuckle. They know exactly who she is talking about. There must be something funny they remember about her.
‘She must be the one,’ says Malangana hardly hiding his excitement. He has heard this thing about golden earrings once or twice before since he started his search.
‘Oh, the one who never shuts her mouth?’ says another woman. ‘Akapheli apha with her funny stories.’ She comes here quite often.
‘She left yesterday afternoon. We haven’t seen her today.’
Friday October 22, 1880
Three men were sitting on the adobe stoep outside Mahlangeni’s Great House enjoying gourds of sorghum beer. The host’s face was beaming with pride for he was the new father of a baby boy. His two guests were Malangana and Nzuze. This was not a formal ceremony. He had invited them so early in the morning to share with them his excitement. At dawn his baby was visited by inkwakhwa, the brown mole snake.
The baby was very new, so new that his inkaba, umbilical cord, had only recently dried and fallen, and the ritual of burying it, connecting him with the land and the ancestors, was done the day before. The most important ceremony, the imbeleko, had not yet been performed to introduce the baby to the community, inducting him into the clan’s membership by slaughtering a goat and making him wear a part of its skin on his wrists and neck. It was therefore unusual that the snake had already visited him even before he was made a fully fledged clansman. It meant that there was something very special about this child, hence Mahlangeni’s beaming face.
The tradition of the snake had started with Qengebe almost two hundred years before. After his father, Mhle, died and was buried at Lothana in the Qumbu area, he moved the Great Place of the amaMpondomise Kingdom to Mzimvubu, the area that is known as Kokstad today, and there he married a woman from one of the clans. She became pregnant. Nine months later the midwives gathered at the Great House when the queen began to feel the pains of birth. As they were assisting the process of parturition the midwives screamed and ran away. A brown mole snake was slithering out of the queen’s passage of life. The queen had given birth to inkwakhwa. The shamans, diviners and healers declared that it was sacred and could not be killed. A few minutes later the queen gave birth to a baby boy. He was named Majola, the name he shared with the snake. The snake regularly visited the boy. When the baby prince was sick the snake came and coiled itself next to him; the next day the baby would be up and about, laughing, playing and crying for food.
Majola grew up to be a wise king of the amaMpondomise people. When he died he was buried in a lake in Mzimvubu and was succeeded by his son, Ngwanya, who was followed by Phahlo, and then by Mamani, about whom we have already spoken, the woman who married another woman. Mamani, as we have said, was succeeded by Ngcambe, and then by Myeki, and by Matiwane, and finally by the present king, Mhlontlo – not counting any of the regents between some of the royal heirs. And since King Majola, all these descendants and their relatives were often visited by Majola the snake. When that happened, it augured well. The Majola snake did not only visit babies. It might visit the king, for instance when he was facing some dire problems. Such a visit meant that there would be a positive outcome.
‘You know, of course, that the good fortune brought by Majola this morning does not only belong to the baby alone,’ said Nzuze.
‘It had better not,’ said Mahlangeni, with a broad smile.
He scooped more beer from the clay pot with a gourd and handed it to Nzuze who gulped it greedily.
‘He shares it with the whole household,’ added Malangana.
‘The little imp cannot hoard it all to himself,’ said Mahlangeni. ‘It’s mine too. Things will turn out well.’
Mahlangeni handed another foaming gourd to Malangana.
‘We are going to war in a faraway country against the fierce Basotho and you promise us things will turn out well?’
‘We are going to war only if Gxumisa leads the army,’ said Nzuze. ‘Magistrate Hope is stubborn. There is a stand-off, but we’re not giving in on that.’
‘We are going to war, but it might not be the war you think,’ said Mahlangeni breaking into a wicked laugh.
Despite all the talk about war, things were looking good. Even the earth bore witness to that. Verdure was returning to the veld, to the shrubs, bushes and trees. The eyes of men no longer wept involuntarily at the sore sight of parched grass and wilted leaves in the middle of what passed for spring. For the past two days it had rained after months of drought. And the three men couldn’t help but occasionally sniff into their nostrils the thrilling smell of wet soil.
The men did not believe that anything could spoil their high spirits until a messenger came from the Great Place. Gxumisa was giving them two options: either they convince their mate Malangana to return forthwith Mthwakazi’s drum which she alleged he had stolen, or if Malangana denied the theft they should all repair to the inkundla so that the said Malangana could answer before his peers to charges of theft laid by the aforementioned Mthwakazi.
Malangana broke out lau
ghing.
‘This is no laughing matter,’ said Mahlangeni. A cloud had descended on his brow.
‘I’m laughing because I didn’t steal anyone’s drum,’ said Malangana.
‘We are in the middle of a stand-off with Hamilton Hope and here you are playing games with a Bushman girl,’ said Nzuze.
The messenger’s eyes darted from one man to the next expectantly.
‘These are the problems of socialising with a bachelor,’ said Mahlangeni.
‘He is playing with our time,’ said Nzuze. ‘Today of all days.’
‘Why are you angry with me? What wrong have I done?’
The messenger said, ‘So what should I tell uTat’uGxumisa? He says if uMkhuluwa uMalangana denies any knowledge of the drum . . .’
‘I am not denying knowledge of the drum,’ said Malangana. ‘I’m denying knowledge of the theft.’
In which case, the messenger explained, the men should all assemble at inkundla for a trial. The matter had to be disposed of immediately because the king was expecting iindwendwe – guests – in the afternoon. The Bushman girl was insisting that her sacred drum had been stolen by Malangana. She was also insisting that King Mhlontlo was her witness because he was present when her drum was stolen. At this Mahlangeni and Nzuze glared at Malangana, one with widening eyes, the other only baring his teeth, while Malangana giggled as if he was enjoying the whole thing. The girl was obviously dragging the name of the king into this matter in order to shame the elders into immediate action. That was why Gxumisa wanted Malangana to deal with it straightaway, either to give back the sacred drum if it was true it was in his possession, or to face an immediate trial at the inkundla. The nation had more important things to deal with today.
‘Tell Uncle Gxumisa that there is no need for a trial,’ said Malangana. ‘I have the drum in my possession. I did not steal it, though. I was with the king when I picked it up at ebaleni of his Great House where the girl had abandoned it. I will give it back to her today before those visitors get here. I must not be rushed though. I’m still rejoicing with my older brother here whose family has been visited by the snake. Uncle Gxumisa must not panic. The world shall not be made to stand still by the tantrums of a Bushman girl.’
The three men sat quietly for some time watching the messenger’s galloping horse disappear in the distance.
‘The impudence of it all,’ said Mahlangeni, shaking his head.
‘They treat her as something special because she was the queen’s nursemaid. I guess they think she has strong medicine,’ said Nzuze.
‘If her medicine was strong the queen would be alive,’ said Mahlangeni.
‘Sukani apha, elder brothers, you can’t put that one on her head,’ said Malangana. ‘She was not even the main doctor of the queen. She was merely an assistant.’
‘She is impudent still,’ said Nzuze, shaking his head, his jaws clenched.
Perhaps it was because she was an inzalwamhlaba – an autochthon; a person not born of humans but emerged from the earth like a sorghum seedling. That was why she had scant respect for the authority of men. She did not know any differently. While the men – the two men, that is, for Malangana did not seem to be bothered by the bad behaviour of the Bushman girl – were muttering and moaning their outrage, Tsitwa came limping and muttering to himself. He was swishing his itshoba – the medicine man’s staff with tassels of an oxtail.
‘Why are you people still here?’ he asked, staring at his son Mahlangeni.
‘We thought we should start the day by celebrating the snake, father.’
‘Majola is not your business,’ said Tsitwa. ‘He visited my grandson, not you.’
Malangana and Nzuze sniggered.
‘You just want to steal my grandson’s glory for yourself,’ added Tsitwa for good measure, relishing the effect of his humour. ‘You and I should be mixing and boiling the medicines for strengthening the soldiers. By the time iindwendwe arrive this evening our medicines should be ready for the rituals of the umguyo dances. Tomorrow we are marching to war.’
The three men looked at Tsitwa with wide eyes. They had not associated the iindwendwe with Hamilton Hope and his war machine.
‘Yes, we have no choice but to give in. The stand-off is over,’ said Tsitwa.
Nzuze was crushed. He stayed on the adobe stoep, his head buried in his hands. Malangana and Mahlangeni paced the ground, beads of sweat erupting on the former’s brow. Both were mumbling their disgust at Mhlontlo who could not stand up to Hope and was apparently now going to lead the men to war. They had been sitting there blissfully celebrating the snake, only to discover that behind the scenes the elders were conspiring to betray the nation of amaMpondomise by allowing the king to go to war while he was in mourning.
Like all the peoples of the eastern region, amaMpondomise were known for their hospitality. But these particular iindwendwe were not the most welcome guests in the history of kwaMpondomise. Everyone had been dreading their arrival from the time spies reported that they had left Qumbu with a caravan made up of one wagon loaded with five hundred Martini-Henry rifles for the thousand men that Mhlontlo had promised Hamilton Hope, a Scotch cart loaded with ammunition comprising eighteen thousand ball cartridges, two other wagons loaded with mealies and potatoes, another Scotch cart loaded with the things of the white people, and a slew of black servants – mostly amaMpondomise and amaMpondo converts and a few amaQheya or Khoikhoi. The caravan was led by the four white men on their horses, Hope, Warren, Henman and Davis.
Qumbu was only eighteen miles from Sulenkama so they had arrived the same afternoon, and had set up camp on a hill about a mile from the village. Even before they could send a messenger to Mhlontlo’s Great Place the king sent his own messenger to them, a man called Faya. The king was reiterating what he had said before; he would not lead the army to war. His army was waiting for the orders, all ready to go, and his uncle Gxumisa was ready to lead them anytime he was called upon to do so. He, Mhlontlo, King of amaMpondomise, was in mourning because his senior wife, daughter of the most revered monarch in the region, King Sarhili of amaGcaleka, also known as amaXhosa, had passed away, and according to the customs of his people he had to stay in seclusion and observe certain rituals. He could not touch weapons of war during mourning.
Of course Hamilton Hope had heard all this nonsense before. He sent Faya back to his master with a stern message: the British Empire could not be kept waiting on account of heathen customs. The war would be fought and the Pondomise warriors would be led by none other than Umhlonhlo. He, Hamilton Hope, Resident Magistrate of the District of Qumbu in the Cape Colony Government of Her Glorious Majesty Queen Victoria, was summoning the Pondomise paramount chief Umhlonhlo to come and meet him in person forthwith and take orders to march to war against the rebel Basotho chief Magwayi, failing which he would be stripped of all vestiges of chieftainship and his Pondomise tribe would be placed under chiefs of those tribes that were willing to cooperate with Her Majesty’s Government.
As Faya galloped away with the dire message, Hope fired a few shots after him to illustrate that he was serious, to the laughter of his entourage. Faya hollered all the way to the Great Place that someone should save him; the men whose ears reflected the rays of the sun – ooNdlebezikhanyilanga – were trying to kill him.
For two days Mhlontlo kept Hamilton Hope waiting. That was the stand-off that had excited the young men. At last the elders were fighting back. Finally the king was refusing to be treated like an uncircumcised boy by a couple of white people whose own penises were undoubtedly still enveloped in foreskins. In the evening they cast their eyes on the hill and saw the fires at Hamilton Hope’s camp and went on with their lives as if all was normal and the world was at peace with itself.
Of course Hope was not amused. On the second evening he sat at the camp fire with his three aides, Warren, Henman and Davis, eating bully and bread and playing cards.
‘You still doubt my premonition?’
The aides merely shoo
k their heads and continued to chew and take sips of tea from enamel mugs. Their black servants could be heard in the background singing and ribbing one another to great laughter.
Before they left Qumbu the magistrate had said to them, ‘Look, fellows, I’ll give you your choice. I have heard certain things which make me suspect that Umhlonhlo intends turning traitor. I am too much involved, besides I am an Englishman and can’t turn back. You fellows may turn back if you choose and I will think none the worse of you.’ The three men had insisted that they were Englishmen too and would not turn back.
‘I will not allow Umhlonhlo to defy me,’ said Hope. ‘That would be the end of me. I am known by my peers and by the Chief Magistrate of East Griqualand, and you can be sure even by the Governor, for my discernment and knowledge of the native character. What will happen to that reputation if Umhlonhlo defies me and gets away with it?’
‘He will get away with it unless we send a CMR column to crush him once and for all, which is what we should have done to the Basotho rebels in the first place,’ said Warren.
‘We are not at war with Mhlontlo,’ said Davis. ‘He is our ally. He is willing to supply us with a thousand men to fight. He is just not willing to lead them.’
‘The two of you are two extremes that I must bring to the sensible centre,’ said Hope. ‘Firstly, the Cape Mounted Riflemen are spread thinly already, what with the Gun War in Basutoland. With the change of Government in England and our Governor recalled, the new Government has a strict policy that no new Imperial troops will be allowed to take part. We are on our own. We have no choice but to get the natives to fight for us, which is the normal practice as you know since they are now subjects of the Crown.’
‘What we want is to crush the rebellion of Magwayi’s Basotho in Matatiele,’ said Davis. ‘We have Mhlontlo’s men. We have everything we need. His uncle Gxumisa will lead his men. I suggest we go to war.’