The Heart of Redness: A Novel

by Mda, Zakes

  “It is most likely that those Russians were commanded by my own father,” mused Twin, who had gathered enough fortitude to join the discussion even though the others seemed determined to pretend that he did not exist.

  “How can Xikixa command Russian soldiers when he has no head?” asked Nxito.

  Everyone agreed that perhaps that was why the British cut his head off, so that he would not be an effective ancestor.

  “It was two years ago when we believed in the Russians, after they had killed Cathcart,” said Twin-Twin. “For many months we posted men on the hills to look out for the arrival of the Russian ships. But they never came.”

  Chief Sigidi laughed and added, “I remember this very Mjuza, son of Nxele, telling everyone that the great prophet had not drowned escaping from Robben Island, but was leading a black army across the seas that would come and crush the British!”

  “I was not the only one,” said Mjuza defensively. “Many of us believed Mlanjeni had risen from the dead and was the war doctor of the Russian forces. I believed that my father was the leader of the Russians who had returned from the dead until I went to the Gxarha myself and saw that this Nongqawuse is nothing but a fake.”

  “The Russians may yet arrive,” said Twin. “Maybe not as the same Russians who killed Cathcart. Maybe as our ancestors who will rise from the dead after we have killed our cattle. They will emerge from the sea. Nongqawuse says so.”

  “Nongqawuse is a dreamer. That is precisely why we are gathered here, to see what we can do to save the people from her false prophecies,” responded Nxito.

  “So it is true what we have heard, Twin-Twin; your brother is a staunch Believer!” said Ned.

  “He will change soon enough,” Twin-Twin assured his friends.

  “Don’t talk for me, child of my mother. I have my own mouth. I have seen miracles at the mouth of the Gxarha River with my own eyes. Even your own nephew, Tat’uNxito, King Sarhili himself; I was with him when he saw the miracles. That is why he has issued the formal commands, the imiyolelo, that the amaXhosa nation should obey the instructions of the great prophetess.”

  Twin-Twin was fuming.

  “Who invited you here, eh?” he asked. “This is a meeting of Unbelievers. We are here because we think that King Sarhili is being misled. And you come with your nonsense!”

  “Wait, my sons,” said Nxito. “Children of a person should not fight on these matters. If we talk about things we’ll find solutions.”

  Although Twin was alone against five Unbelievers he felt very strong. He had only to think of the prophetesses Nongqawuse and Nombanda to feel inspired. He was not afraid of these Unbelievers. He was going to debate with them. He was going to convert them. It was his duty to make them see the light. Some of them might be elders of the nation. Or learned men who worked at white people’s hospitals. Or sons of great prophets. But they were lost souls. He would not keep quiet. He would not be intimidated into silence. The future of the amaXhosa nation was at stake here.

  “You cannot stop the people from believing in their own salvation!” shouted Twin. “A black race across the sea, newly resurrected from the dead, is surely coming to save us from the white man. Even the armies of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers cannot stand against it! You saw what happened to Cathcart!”

  The Man Who Named Ten Rivers was Sir George Grey, the man who had taken over as governor of the Cape Colony after Cathcart’s death. He had arrived with great enthusiasm with a mission to civilize the natives. Those amaXhosa who had become amaGqobhoka—the Christian converts, that is—believed in Grey. People like Ned who were on good terms with white people came back with stories of Grey’s greatness. He had been a governor in Australia and New Zealand, they said, where his civilizing mission did many wonderful things for the natives of those countries. Of course he had to take their land in return for civilization. Civilization is not cheap. He had written extensively about the native people of those countries, and about their plants. He had even given names to ten of their rivers, and to their mountain ranges. It did not matter that the forebears of those natives had named those rivers and mountains from time immemorial. When Ned told them about the naming of the rivers, a derisive elder had called Grey The Man Who Named Ten Rivers. And that became his name.

  “Don’t tell me about The Man Who Named Ten Rivers!” said Twin-Twin. “Like all the others he is a thief. Just as he stole the land of the people of countries across the seas, he stole the land of the amaXhosa and gave it to the amaMfengu. He stole more of our land to settle more of his people!”

  Both Ned and Mjuza were up in Grey’s defense. Grey was different from former governors, they said. Grey was a friend of the amaXhosa. Grey was a great reader of the Bible—the big book that talked about the true salvation that would come through the blood of the son of the true god. Grey believed that all men were equal—well, almost equal—as long as they adopted a civilized mode of dress and decent habits. Grey was interested in the health and education of the amaXhosa—that was why he established schools and the Native Hospital. Grey was a great lover of the amaXhosa nation, and was interested in their folk stories, in their animals and in their plants. Instead of being derisively called The Man Who Named Ten Rivers, Grey should be called The Great Benefactor of the Non-European Peoples of the World. Grey was a wonderful man whose only motive for coming to and ruling the land of the amaXhosa was to change the customs of the barbarous natives and introduce them to British civilization. The land that he had grabbed in the process was really a very small price to pay for the wonderful gift of civilization.

  “Nonsense,” said Twin-Twin, who was losing patience with his fellow Unbelievers. “The only reason your Grey came here is because the white people are full in their country. So they came here to steal our land.”

  Twin was enjoying this disagreement among the Unbelievers.

  “And these are your friends, my brother? These people who believe in the rule of the white man and in his god?” he asked mockingly.

  This made Twin-Twin very uncomfortable. His unbelief in the false prophets—beginning with Mlanjeni and now including Nongqawuse and all the others who were emerging and preaching the same cattle-killing message—had forced him to form a strange alliance with people who had deserted their own god for the god of the white man. People like Ned and Mjuza, who were descendants of amaXhosa heroes but were now followers of white ways. Nxito, however, was like him. His unbelief in Nongqawuse was not unbelief in the rites, rituals, and customs of the amaXhosa, and in the god who had been revealed by the likes of Ntsikana and Nxele. Mdalidephu. Qamata. Mvelingqangi. The one who was worshipped by his forefathers from the beginning of time. The one whose messengers were the ancestors.

  When Twin left his brother’s homestead he was a depressed man. He realized that his brother was too far gone to be saved. He was in cahoots with dangerous people who were servants of the colonial masters.

  During the weeks that followed he learned that Mjuza was sometimes seen in the company of John Dalton, the colonial army officer who had fought in the War of Mlanjeni. Dalton was often sent by the magistrates of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers to discipline those amaXhosa chiefs who did not toe the colonial line. When Dalton’s name was mentioned, Twin always saw his father’s head being tossed into a boiling pot. How could Twin-Twin associate with Mjuza, who was a lackey of the people who had rendered Xikixa headless? Was this the end of the road for their twinhood?

  It was like that in many families. Believing brothers fought against unbelieving brothers. Unbelieving spouses turned against believing spouses. Unbelieving fathers kicked believing sons out of their homesteads. Unbelieving sons plotted the demise of believing fathers. Unbelieving fathers attempted to kill believing sons. Siblings stared at each other with eyes full of blood. Many amaXhosa killed their cattle in order to facilitate the resurrection. Many others killed them unwillingly under the threat of their believing relatives.

  The amaXhosa people called the Believers amaThamba
—those whose hearts were soft and compassionate. The clever ones, whose heads caught fast. The generous ones. The Unbelievers were called amaGogotya—the hard ones. The unbending ones. The selfish and greedy men who wanted to hoard their cattle and thereby rob the entire amaXhosa nation of the sweet fruits of the resurrection.

  Whenever Twin’s spirit was beginning to flag, he went to the place of miracles with Qukezwa. And there they ate and danced until midnight. They drank sorghum beer. And early in the morning hours they saw cattle in the bushes and in the sea. Some of the people could even see their old friends and relatives who had long been dead. One morning Twin himself saw the risen heroes emerge from the sea. Some were on foot, others were on horseback, passing in a glorious but silent parade, then sinking again among the waves.

  The following day Twin and Qukezwa went home and slaughtered more of their cattle with greater vigor. At the same time they proceeded to enlarge their kraals in anticipation of the new cattle, and to renovate their houses so that the new people—the resurrected relatives—could be welcomed in newly thatched huts.

  Throughout kwaXhosa Believers were killing hundreds of cattle every day. People were not allowed to eat meat of cattle that had been killed the day before. Every day new cattle were slaughtered and the previous day’s meat was thrown away. Soon the stench of rotting meat filled the villages. The stomachs of the Believers were running from eating too much meat. And again the stench filled the villages.

  Twin and his wife went on to dig out the corn from their underground granaries and threw it into the river.

  Some Believers sold their corn and cattle to the unbelieving amaMfengu and to the markets of Kingwilliamstown and East London at a fraction of the market price.

  Twin-Twin was disturbed by all these activities. At an imbhizo at the chief’s place, when arguments were hotting up between Believers and Unbelievers, he shouted, “I say to you, Believers, bring that foolish girl Nongqawuse to me so that I may sleep her. I will give it to her so hard that she will stop spreading lies! She is telling all these lies, dreaming all these dreams, seeing all these imaginary visions, because she is starved of men!”

  It was too late for Twin and his fellow Believers to close their ears to avoid being contaminated by such blasphemy.

  Camagu tells Xoliswa Ximiya about the memory ritual of the Unbelievers. The graceful pain that captivated him. She is surprised that such a highly educated man who has lived in America for three decades is fascinated by such rubbish.

  “It is embarrassing, really,” she says. “I do not know why they do not want to forget our shameful past.”

  “I thought it was beautiful.”

  “Don’t patronize my people.”

  “Really. You don’t have to be a Romantic poet to know that sadness is essential in our lives.”

  Xoliswa Ximiya makes it clear that she would rather talk about other things. She tells him about her wish to leave Qolorha-by-Sea, to be away from the uncivilized bush and the hicks who want to preserve an outdated culture. Her friends have important posts in the government. She would like to join the civil service too. She has made many applications but all she gets in the post are letters of regret. Perhaps she should follow his example and fly to the good ol’ U.S. of A.

  Apart from her obsession with America, Camagu finds her quite attractive. The sadness in her eyes gives him a strong urge to hold her very tightly and protect her from the harsh world. But he knows that if he dared succumb to the temptation, she would not hesitate to put him in his place.

  After a glass of orange squash, and a promise that he will see her tomorrow, he takes leave of her. He wants to see more of the seashore before it gets dark.

  He is walking in Nongqawuse’s Valley when a whirlwind approaches and almost blows him off his feet as it passes by. Then it turns back and stops right in front of him. It is Qukezwa riding bareback and reinless on Gxagxa. She giggles.

  “Hello, stranger,” she says, as she dismounts and lets Gxagxa graze on his own. She takes out a panga from the sheath she is wearing and starts waving it about. He moves back in fear. She enjoys this and laughs.

  “You are scared? Don’t worry, I won’t chop your head off—at least not yet.”

  She starts chopping away at some bushes.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Qukezwa Zim.”

  “Oh, you are the girl at the shop. The girl who told me—”

  “Told you what?”

  “Come on, you know that we met at the store where you work. You actually propositioned me, naughty girl!”

  “I have never seen you before.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it. But I know that we met.”

  She continues to chop the bush.

  Maybe this girl will know NomaRussia. Camagu decides there is no harm in asking her.

  “I am looking for someone.”

  “NomaRussia? I heard.”

  “But you said you have never seen me before.”

  “This NomaRussia—you really love her, don’t you? Coming all the way from Johannesburg to look for her! Do you really know her? Did she tell you about herself? Did you taste her womanhood and then decide you were going to follow her to the end of the earth?”

  “Don’t be outrageous!”

  “Did you meet her at some drinking place where your drunken eyes saw a goddess in her?”

  “I did not meet her at a drinking place!”

  “Oh, I forgot, she was working for you and left with your passport.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Do you think I am a baby? Do you think everyone is a baby in this village?”

  “Of course not!”

  “NomaRussia never worked for you. She doesn’t work for anyone.”

  “Do you know her then? Please tell me where I can find her.”

  “No. I don’t know her. Never heard of her.”

  “Please. It is very important that I find NomaRussia.”

  “What if she is a married woman? What if she has someone?”

  He remembers that she was dressed like a newly married woman—a makoti. He had not thought of this when he drove all the way from Johannesburg. Now he fears that the villagers will not take kindly to the fact that he is busy inquiring after someone’s wife.

  “Is she married then?” he asks, dreading the answer.

  “What if she suffers from an incurable disease?”

  “Don’t toy with me, girl!”

  “What if she is the daughter-in-law of a vicious ogre who will not hesitate to castrate the first man who gives her a second look?”

  “I am sure you know her. Please—I beg you . . .”

  “No, I don’t know her. I don’t want to know her. So leave me alone about NomaRussia!”

  She chops the bush even more aggressively.

  “Do you know what I call what you are doing?” he asks sneeringly.

  “Chopping down a stupid plant, what else?”

  “Vandalism. Why are you destroying these beautiful plants that have such nice purple flowers?”

  “Nice purple flowers? They are blue as far as I am concerned.”

  “Because they are blue as far as you are concerned they deserve to die?”

  “Nice plants, eh? Nice for you, maybe. But not nice for indigenous plants. This is the inkberry. It comes from across the Kei River. It kills other plants. These flowers that you like so much will eventually become berries. Each berry is a prospective plant that will kill the plants of my forefathers. And this plant is poisonous to animals too, although its berries are not. Birds eat the berries without any harm, and spread these terrible plants with their droppings.”

  Suddenly she emits a sharp whistle, which brings Gxagxa galloping to her. She mounts the horse and rides away—brandishing her panga.

  Camagu shouts after her, “Thanks for the lesson!”

  Then under his breath: “Bloody bitch.”

  At night he becomes the river and NomaRussia its cool, crystal-clear wa
ter. He wakes up in a cold sweat when the panga-wielding girl of Nongqawuse’s Valley defiles his dream by intruding into it. She is squeezing the purple juice of the inkberries into the river, turning its water into purple slime.

  He cannot sleep again after that.

  5

  Since the rebuke of the elders, Bhonco, son of Ximiya, has changed. He now laments the sufferings of the Middle Generations. He still cries for beautiful things. But he does not believe in not grieving anymore. We cannot say he believes in grieving, for as an Unbeliever he does not believe.

  It is as it should be.

  At this public meeting he is gearing for a fight. If Chief Xikixa is so weak that he cannot put his foot down and take a sensible position on this matter of development, he will show the Believers that there are still men in the village of Qolorha-by-Sea. The chief is the kind of person who is swayed by each speaker’s argument, and at the end of the imbhizo he does not know what side to take.

  Those who like to make snide remarks are often heard saying of the chief, “How do you expect him to have a head for good reasoning or for anything else for that matter? He is named after a headless ancestor.”

  But it is difficult for many people to know which side to take. Even Camagu, with all his learning, cannot make up his mind. Every day of the two weeks he has been at this village he has spent time with Xoliswa Ximiya. Sometimes just an hour or two after school, or almost half a day during weekends. It is understandable, then, that at this imbhizo he is more sympathetic to the position of the Unbelievers.

  Xoliswa Ximiya stands unyieldingly next to him. If only his mates at Giggles could see him now, in the company of this model-type in all her clinical elegance!