Little Suns

by Zakes Mda

  ‘Among my people we marry first and woo later,’ she said.

  This was not as preposterous as it sounded, she explained to an astounded Malangana. What would happen was that they would marry and then continue to live in their separate homes, she with her own parents and he with his. Every day Malangana would go out to hunt and would bring the quarry to his in-laws, particularly the mother-in-law. She would look at it and thank the son-in-law and tell him that it was good, but not enough. The husband and wife would meet during the day and the courtship and the wooing would happen at that time, but when evening came each one would return to his or her respective home. The following day Malangana would go to hunt again and bring the quarry to the mother-in-law, and then spend some time with his wife, and the courtship continued like the day before. Every day things would happen like that until the in-laws decided that they were now satisfied with the quarry, which of course is the lobolo, and the couple would now be allowed to live together. Their courtship was over and they could consummate the marriage.

  Malangana was fascinated by this and he said, ‘Yes, that’s how we should do it. I want to marry you the way of the abaThwa people.’

  ‘The problem is how to find my people,’ said Mthwakazi.

  They sat silently, the water washing their feet as it rushed on its long journey down the Gqukunqa River to join Itsitsa which would meander through valleys and mountains until it joined Tina, which then connected to the great Mzimvubu which roared for miles and miles to spew their invisible foot moults into the Great Ocean. They looked up towards the northeast, to the distant mountains. Hills, perhaps in the daytime, but at night just a blotch of black mountains. They looked at the stars that touched the top of the mountain and then spread to the rest of the heavens.

  ‘We can reach the stars,’ said Mthwakazi.

  ‘We can reach the stars?’

  ‘If we walk that way. If we walk and walk and walk and walk and walk right up to the top of that mountain.’

  ‘Yes, we can touch the stars on top of that mountain,’ said Malangana. ‘Some are practically sitting on it.’

  ‘We can climb from star to star. We can live in the stars together. There you can do all the marrying and the courting and the hunting. I must have a star-mother there who will accept the animals you have hunted.’

  This sounded like a fascinating idea to Malangana only because he would be with Mthwakazi there. Nothing else mattered.

  ‘Yes, let us go now before the sun rises and sweeps the stars away,’ he said.

  ‘It does not matter if it’s daylight. We’ll walk in the same direction and wait for the night under that mountain. And then climb to the stars.’

  Malangana jumped up. He was eager to start.

  ‘And when we are up there I will prove to you that there are many suns,’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘When we are up there you will see there is only one sun,’ said Mthwakazi, also getting to her feet.

  They were both laughing as they fell into each other’s arms. They were startled from the embrace by the neighing of horses. There was Gcazimbane leading four horsemen. As they got closer Malangana knew that something serious had happened when he identified them as the elders from Matiwane’s various Houses, ranging from the Right-hand to the Left-hand and one from Iqadi. There was Sititi, Ndukumfa, Hamza and Cesane. Gcazimbane obviously led them to him. What a traitor!

  ‘The king has been looking for you everywhere,’ said Sititi.

  ‘The king is in mourning. Why should he be looking for me?’

  Hamza did not have the time for his games. He dismounted his horse with a whip ready to attack Mthwakazi. Fortunately Cesane, the youngest of the brothers, was fast to manoeuvre his horse between him and the girl.

  ‘You are sitting here for the whole night doing amanyala with this Bushman girl while the nation is on fire?’ said Hamza. ‘And you call yourself a son of Matiwane?’

  ‘Wait, Hamza,’ said Cesane. ‘Do not take it out on the girl. She is only a girl. You know how easily they can be led astray. The one who deserves a thorough beating is Malangana.’

  ‘Not when they have been properly brought up like our amaMpondomise maidens,’ said Hamza, nevertheless turning his wrath towards Malangana.

  Ndukumfa agreed with his brothers. ‘Malangana behaves like a boy who has not even gone to the initiation school.’

  ‘Who was his principal ikhankatha? He must be held to account,’ said Sititi.

  Malangana shook his head at his conservative kin. Now they were placing the responsibility for his behaviour on his principal tutor at the initiation school. They instructed him to mount Gcazimbane forthwith and ride with them back to Sulenkama where Mhlontlo needed him urgently.

  ‘I can’t leave her here,’ said Malangana.

  ‘Mhlontlo asked us to come with you,’ said Hamza. ‘He didn’t ask us to come with anyone else.’

  ‘Then I am not going without her.’

  Mthwakazi begged him to go with the elders. She would find her way back to the village. But Malangana insisted that he would not leave without her. The elders of the House of Matiwane relented and agreed that she should ride with Malangana on Gcazimbane back to the village, although she would have to get off before they entered the public spaces of Sulenkama lest they be accused of condoning amanyala and amasikizi – shameful and scandalous behaviour.

  Various amabutho – regiments – had gathered already when Malangana and the elders arrived outside the Great Place and their songs could be heard from a distance. He walked around trying to locate the king and his council. He found them sitting with Hamilton Hope and Davis outside a tent near one of the wagons. Gxumisa was among the councillors. A Khoikhoi servant was offering Mhlontlo bread, coffee and eggs. He shook his head.

  ‘Come on, you must have breakfast,’ said Hope. And then turning to Malangana, he continued, ‘We shared a tent and he was restless the whole night. Didn’t sleep at all. He has to eat something. You can’t fight a war on an empty stomach.’

  Mhlontlo raised his head and immediately as his eyes fell on Malangana his face quivered. Before he could even utter a word Malangana begged for forgiveness. He did not know that he would be needed, he said. No one told him the esteemed visitors would be here today. The last thing he had heard was that there was a stand-off.

  Gxumisa mumbled to the king to calm down and Malangana was relieved to see the tension leaving his face.

  ‘Is it a foregone conclusion we are going to war?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s always been a foregone conclusion that we are going to war,’ said Hope after Davis translated Malangana’s question to his king.

  ‘Actually, I was asking the king,’ said Malangana. ‘As far as I know he is in mourning and is not supposed to touch weapons of war.’

  ‘We dealt with all that yesterday already,’ said Davis. ‘I don’t think Mr Hope wants to go over that again today.’

  ‘The king should not be appearing in public,’ said Malangana in English. ‘He is in mourning.’

  ‘Where does this man come from?’ asked Hope impatiently. ‘We are done with that, man. If you try to put a spanner in our works now you will taste more of my kati. Davis, remind Umhlonhlo about the loot. The war has its own rewards. When he agreed to lead his people in this war I consented, subject to Government approval of course, that all the loot he captures will be his to distribute as he chooses. You’re going to be very rich after this war, my friend.’

  He patted the king on his back as he said this; Mhlontlo coughed. Both Davis and Malangana interpreted this, the latter with a sneer for they had spoken about this promise before. Mhlontlo was indeed tempted by the booty, as any war commander would be when there was a strong prospect of victory. Booty was the main thing that was motivating the petty Basotho chiefs who had fallen in line with Hope, namely Joel, Lelingoana and Lehana. It would have been a strong incentive for Mhlontlo too. But mourning took precedence over all the greed in the world.

  Hope poured
himself brandy in a mug and asked if Mhlontlo would have some.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have some of that,’ said the king.

  The song of the amabutho was gathering momentum as more men arrived. Hope was getting excited. He told Mhlontlo the plan was surely working out well.

  ‘Magwayi will not withstand your forces,’ he said.

  ‘amaMpondomise alone? What about amaMfengu and Lehana’s people and all the others who promised to join the war?’ asked Mhlontlo. ‘amaMfengu are Government people. You cannot drag us into this war and leave them out of it.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. We trust the Fingoes. They have a long history of loyalty to the Cape Colony and they’ll be in this war. So will all the allies who attended the meeting. What I meant was that your forces are so strong under your command that even on their own they can beat Magwayi. Not that they are going to be on their own, old chap.’

  It was becoming clear to Malangana that the night he spent with Mthwakazi by the river had wrought changes in the lives of his people that could not be reversed. Decisions were made under those wagons which in his view were to the detriment of his people. And all because of a woman he had not been part of those decisions. He felt a deep anger towards Mthwakazi for capturing his spirit so mercilessly that he became derelict in his duty to his king and to his people. His brother the king had already shown himself quite weak by uttering such statements to the white magistrate as ‘where you die, I will die’. And here he was listening to revelations about the king having spent the night with this white man, in the same tent, and now they were sharing breakfast and brandy. He should have known better than to leave him to his own devices without his wise counsel to guide him.

  Although the king was not alone. He was with Gxumisa and other councillors. How could Gxumisa agree that the king should lead amabutho to war while he was in mourning? How could the other elders? How could Sititi and Ndukumfa and Cesane and Gatyeni and Hamza? Of course they were old and conservative and tended to follow the king’s word, however foolish, instead of guiding him on to the correct path. These elders of the House of Matiwane had been searching for him through the night instead of counselling their king to do the right thing and stop being clay in the hands of the white man. Where were the like-minded and hot-blooded young men like Nzuze and Mahlangeni when this decision was taken to go to war under Mhlontlo’s command?

  What convinced Malangana that Mhlontlo had decided to lead the men to war was that he was armed, though as a man in mourning he was not supposed even to touch arms of war. He had with him an assegai and a double breech-loading gun, both of which were weapons that he took out only on very special occasions.

  Malangana walked away in disgust, but Gxumisa called him back.

  ‘Where do you think you are going? The king needs you here to interpret.’

  ‘Nank’uSunduza; akaxakwa ngulomsebenzi,’ said Malangana. Here is Davis; he does not find that job difficult.

  ‘Uyay’qond’intok’ba uJola ufuna nincedisane,’ said Gxumisa, holding him back by his blanket. You know that Majola – the king’s clan name – wants you to help each other.

  Davis stayed out of the argument. He was well aware that Mhlontlo always wanted his own interpreter present to ensure that the white people were not saying things behind his back. He and the other white people had often joked about it, and the shortcomings of the said interpreter in mastering the intricacies and inconsistencies of the English language.

  The festive mood of the people belied the sombre mood of the elders surrounding the king and the four white men with them. There was plenty of laughter and song and eating and drinking. Then Tsitwa, the chief army doctor, and two soldiers came rushing to the elders and the white men and announced that the men were ready to be enrolled for the military and to be given their marching orders. He, Tsitwa, had performed his duties of doctoring them in readiness for the war.

  Hope was a bit startled when one of the soldiers caught his beard and playfully caressed it, saying, ‘You’ll see what we’re going to do to the enemy today.’

  ‘They can be like children sometimes,’ said Hope, chuckling and brushing the soldier’s hand off.

  Mhlontlo and Gxumisa gave the soldier an admonishing stare while Warren, Davis and Henman tried to hide their embarrassment with uneasy smiles.

  ‘Where is Mahlangeni?’ Malangana asked Tsitwa about his son.

  ‘He was with me when I doctored the troops. He must be somewhere here.’

  Hope turned to the other white men and said, chortling, ‘Let’s go, fellows. Carry your revolvers and carbines. I believe our throats are going to be slit today.’

  The three white men laughed nervously at his joke. Davis did not interpret it to Mhlontlo and his entourage. Nor did Malangana. Perhaps he had not heard it. His mind was too preoccupied with the betrayals that were gnawing at him.

  Mhlontlo and Gxumisa led the way, followed by Malangana. Hope limped behind on his uneven legs, followed immediately by Davis, Henman and Warren. And then the rest of the amaMpondomise elders walked gravely after them. The crowd gave way and ululated as Mhlontlo’s praise poet came forward in his regalia of jackal and leopard skins reciting genealogies of his family and the landmark deeds of some of the characters in that line.

  Malangana’s eyes were darting all over the crowd looking for the men he considered like-minded, who would hopefully put him at ease about the events of the day. And there among the maidens carrying clay pots of beer on their heads was the puny figure of Mthwakazi. His body was suddenly seized by spirits that could not be anything but evil for they transported him back to the bushes by the river and to that moment of lawlessness. He had to battle very hard to return to the present. He had to turn his gaze away from the maidens and focus on the soldiers who were dancing in their various formations. This was the beginning of the umguyo dance.

  He told himself he had no business being angry with Mthwakazi. Mthwakazi could only be Mthwakazi. And who could say if he had been there for the night he would have changed the path of history, would have dissuaded the hard-headed and cowardly elders from going along with the plans of the white man? No, it could not be Mthwakazi’s fault. Mthwakazi could continue to weave whatever magic she was weaving around him for it was gratifying. He should be strong enough to look at the maidens and be transported to the bushes by the river and bask in the pleasurable memory. But when he did look again the maidens were gone. The soldiers had danced themselves into a semicircle and there were hundreds of them. Perhaps up to a thousand or more. They were all armed with spears and shields. A few also had guns and rifles.

  A groom brought Saraband, Hope’s horse, for the magistrate was required to sit on it as he addressed the troops so as to have a view of all of them – both the inner and the outer circle – and be seen by all. Davis would stand next to him to interpret, and Warren and Henman would be seated behind.

  Hamilton Hope sat on his trusty horse and surveyed the troops swaying like waves in front of his eyes. He lit his pipe and said to Davis, ‘I may as well have another smoke before my throat is cut.’

  Davis was beginning to get worried. This was the third time the magistrate had made this silly joke. He hoped one man’s wit would not turn out to be another man’s premonition.

  The umguyo continued in earnest as the men sang their war songs and danced their war dances, closing the circle with the king and his iindwendwe inside. The whistles and the drums and the screams sent shivers down Malangana’s spine. The ululations of the women could be heard in the distance. They were now far away, for umguyo was the business of men. The time for the feasting was over. Shields thundered as they struck against each other in time with the dance steps and spears sent flashes of lightning as they also clashed in the air. Legs flew high in the air and a thousand cowhide drums boomed as feet hit the wet ground all together at the same time. The earth shook and the white men’s eyes seemed about to pop out of their sockets. The tiny figure of Hamilton Hope looked very forlorn on Saraba
nd.

  ‘If these warriors create so much fear simply by dancing can you imagine them fighting?’ Warren said to Henman. But he couldn’t hear what he was saying. He kept on saying ‘What? What?’ Warren said, ‘Never mind’ and watched the dance.

  Suddenly there was a piercing whistle that went on for a few beats. It was followed by a sudden silence. Everyone stood still. Mhlontlo’s praise poet jumped into the centre and said the king will utter a few words before the big white man on a horse, who is nevertheless very tiny, gives his orders of war. The men chuckled but immediately fell silent when Mhlontlo stepped forward.

  ‘Mampondomise amahle, amazwi am aphelile,’ said Mhlontlo. Beautiful amaMpondomise, my words are finished. ‘This is your king whose orders you are now to take.’ He pointed at Hope as he said this, and then he continued, ‘He is the one who has closed the door against amaBhaca and amaMpondo, so that you are now fat and don’t have to sleep in the veld in fear of your enemies. You all know I’m still in mourning. I am mourning for my wife, the daughter of King Sarhili, and I had asked that Gxumisa, a general tested in many wars, should lead you. Yet Hope insists that I must go to war ngenkani. I did not know that I could be forced to go to war while mourning. But Hope has forced me to go. I am now going, but be careful of your new king, Dilikintaba, the white man. We must now obey the white king. He is the king and I am no longer one. I am nothing.’

  Davis was interpreting to Hope what Mhlontlo was saying. Dilikintaba was the praise-name that amaMpondomise were giving Hope, as all kings should be greeted with one. It meant ‘the-one-who-demolishes-mountains’, not quite accurately translating the name. That would have been Dilizintaba.

  The soldiers all shouted in unison: ‘A! Dilikintaba!’ in the manner that kings were saluted. It sounded like thunder.