by Mda, Zakes
“To me you are a child.”
“It’s because you are an old man. Old. Finished and klaar. A bag of old bones. A limp that cannot be saved even by Viagra. I don’t know what you’re doing chasing young children like NomaRussia!”
Ouch!
Camagu decides he cannot compete with this girl’s acerbic tongue. Get her on your side, he tells himself. She can be a deadly enemy. Get her on your side. She may even lead you to NomaRussia. It is obvious that she knows her.
“Listen, I don’t want to exchange insults with you,” he says. “What did I ever do to you? I don’t want to be your enemy. Let’s be friends, okay?”
“Don’t pretend to be nice to me. I can’t help you. I do not know the NomaRussia you are looking for.”
The witch!
“Did I tell you that I passed Standard Eight? I may not be an ‘Excuse Me’ from Fort Hare like your thin girlfriend, but at least I can read and write.”
“Well, congratulations!” He spits the words out, making sure that she does not miss the sarcasm in his voice.
But she is no longer paying any attention to him. She is clapping hands for a group of five women who are walking rhythmically on the sandbank, singing and ululating. Each woman has a bundle of mussels and an ulugxa, a piece of metal that they use to harvest imbhaza and imbhatyisa—as mussels and oysters are called—from the rocks when the waves have uncovered them. Some of the women are wearing gum-boots while others walk barefoot. Two of them, NoGiant and MamCirha, are also holding plastic bags that are full of oysters. They stop to talk with Qukezwa.
“Yo! This child of Zim! You have not gone to work today?” asks NoGiant.
“This child of Zim has wonders! That Dalton lets her do what she likes,” adds MamCirha.
“Hey, Qukezwa! Why don’t you ask your friend to buy our harvest?”
“There is plenty of imbhaza here to last him for many meals.”
“And imbhatyisa too. Men love imbhatyisa!”
They all giggle knowingly.
Camagu is curious. He inspects the bundles of mussels. He is not one for seafood, and was not aware that the amaXhosa of the wild coast eat the slimy creatures from the sea. Qukezwa explains that they sell the best of their harvest to the Blue Flamingo Hotel, or to individual tourists. Male tourists like to buy imbhatyisa and eat them raw on the spot. Those imbhaza and imbhatyisa that have not been bought, the women take home to their families. They fry them with onions and use them as a relish to eat with maize porridge or samp. Although this is very tasty and healthy food, children are not allowed to eat oysters because they are an aphrodisiac. They make men frisky. That is why they are called imbhatyisa—that which makes one horny.
NoGiant and MamCirha try to persuade Camagu to buy some of the oysters, seeing that now he has the attention not only of the headmistress but of Qukezwa as well. One giggles and whispers to the others, “A man needs all the strength he can get.”
They burst out laughing. Camagu appreciates the joke, although he is a bit embarrassed by it. He laughs with them.
NoGiant says, “Seriously, though, you don’t have to eat imbhatyisa raw. When you have fried it, it is such wonderful meat! Once you taste it you will never leave it again.”
But Camagu tells her that he is staying at the hotel, where all his cooking is done for him. If he bought their harvest he would have nowhere to cook it. The women bid them good-bye, and continue their boisterous and songful walk to the village.
“You could have asked your thin girlfriend to cook it for you,” says Qukezwa.
“Don’t you start with me again,” pleads Camagu.
“I doubt if she can even cook. What with her long red nails. . . like the talons of a vulture after ripping open a carcass.”
“I didn’t know you were Zim’s daughter. I would like to meet your father,” says Camagu, trying to change the subject.
“What for?”
“I would like to know why he is against progress.”
Qukezwa laughs for a long time. Then she says, “Your thin girl-friend has been feeding you lies. That’s the only thing she knows how to cook.”
“I was at the imbhizo. I heard him opposing the building of the gambling complex that will create jobs and bring money into the village.”
“Are you aware that if your gambling complex happens here I will have to pay to swim in this lagoon?”
“Why would you pay to swim in the sea?”
“Vathiswa says they made you a doctor in the land of the white man after you finished all the knowledge in the world. But you are so dumb. White man’s education has made you stupid. This whole sea will belong to tourists and their boats and their water sports. Those women will no longer harvest the sea for their own food and to sell at the Blue Flamingo. Water sports will take over our sea!”
“There will be compensation for that. The villagers will get jobs at the casino.”
“To do what? What do villagers know about working in casinos? What education do they have to do that kind of work? I heard one foolish Unbeliever say men will get jobs working in the garden. How many men? And what do they know about keeping those kinds of gardens? What do women know about using machines that clean? Well, maybe three or four women from the village may be taught to use them. Three or four women will get jobs. As for the rest of the workers, the owners of the gambling city will come with their own people who are experienced in that kind of work.”
Camagu is taken aback both by her fervor and her reasoning. She is right. The gambling city may not be the boon the Unbelievers think it will be. It occurs to him that even during its construction, few men from the village, if any, will get jobs. Construction companies come with their own workers who have the necessary experience. Of course, a small number of jobs is better than no jobs at all. But if they are at the expense of the freedom to enjoy the sea and its bountiful harvests and the woods and the birds and the monkeys. . . then those few jobs are not really worth it. There is a lot of sense in what Qukezwa is saying. He is grudgingly developing some admiration for this scatterbrained girl with a Standard Eight education who works as a cleaner at Vulindlela Trading Store.
She walks away.
He follows her unquestioningly. She does not even look back to ask why he is following her. They waddle on the sand, past the holiday cottages and below the part of the village that faces the sea. They walk silently among tall grasses that are used for thatching houses. Then they get to the rocks that are covered with mosses of various colors. Camagu is fascinated by the yellows, the browns, the greens, and the reds that have turned the rocks into works of abstract art. Down below he can see a hut of rough thatch and twigs. It looks like the nest of a lazy bird. Outside, naked abakhwetha initiates are sitting in the sun, nursing their newly circumcised penises. The white ochre that covers their bodies makes them look like ghosts. One shouts at Camagu, asking for tobacco. But he walks on, following the relentless girl.
After about thirty minutes they reach Intlambo-ka-Nongqawuse—Nongqawuse’s Valley. They are greeted by the sight of partridges and guinea fowls running among the cerise bellflowers, and among the orchids, cycads, and usundu palms.
When they reach Nongqawuse’s Pool, Qukezwa speaks for the first time, asking him to throw some coins into the pool. He finds a few two-cent pieces in his pocket and throws them into the pool.
“That is not how things are done,” she says softly. “You cannot throw brown money into the sacred pool. You need to throw silver so that your road will shine with good fortune. Your thin girlfriend should have advised you that when you came to Qolorha for the first time you ought to have come here to throw money into the sea, for that is where the ancestors are—the people that Nongqawuse spoke about.”
“She is not my girlfriend, and she is not thin!”
“And she does not believe in the ancestors! Just like all of you whose heads have been damaged by white man’s education.”
“I believe in the ancestors, dammit! Where do you get off t
elling me I don’t believe in the ancestors?” he shouts, throwing two shiny five-rand coins into the pool.
A white wild fig tree stands out among the green bushes. Camagu is lost in the antics of the birds that are eating the figs. Qukezwa pulls him by the shirtsleeve to the bank of the Gxarha River where it spews its water into the Indian Ocean. A flock of Egyptian geese takes off from the river. Camagu’s eyes follow the brown, white, and black patterns until they disappear in the distance, far away, where the sea breathlessly meets the sky.
“Those birds used to come here only in summer,” says Qukezwa. “But now they stay here all year round.”
“You know a lot about birds and plants.”
“I live with them.”
Mist rises on the sea.
They are now walking among the broad-leafed wild strelitzia.
“These look like banana plants. I didn’t know bananas grew in the Eastern Cape.”
“It’s not really a banana tree. It is called ikhamanga. White people call it wild banana. But it bears only the banana flower, never the fruit. Birds enjoy its nectar and its seeds.”
The mist thickens.
Qukezwa has a distant look in her eyes.
“We stood here with the multitudes,” she says, her voice full of nostalgia. “Visions appeared in the water. Nongqawuse herself stood here. Across the river the valley was full of ikhamanga. There were reeds too. They are no longer there. Only ikhamanga remains. And a few aloes. Aloes used to cover the whole area. Mist often covers this whole ridge right up to the lagoon where we come from. It was like that too in the days of Nongqawuse. We stood here and saw the wonders. The whole ridge was covered with people who came to see the wonders. Many things have changed. The reeds are gone. What remains now is that bush over there where Nongqawuse and Nombanda first met the Strangers. The bush. Ityholo-lika-Nongqawuse.”
Camagu is seized by a bout of madness. He fights hard against the urge to hold this girl, tightly, and kiss her all over. It is different from the urge he once had: to hold and protect Xoliswa Ximiya. This woman does not need protecting. He does. He is breathing heavily as if he has just climbed a mountain, and his palms are sweating. Every part of his body has become a stranger to him. He convinces himself that this is temporary insanity: he is merely mesmerized by the romance of the place and the girl’s passion for the prophets.
Yet his heart is pumping faster than ever!
He must run away from this siren. Away from her burning contours. After only two strides he trips over a pile of stones and falls. She helps him up, and her touch exacerbates the madness. Wonderful heat is consuming his whole body. Like the fires of hell.
She adds a stone to the pile.
“It is a cairn,” she explains. “The amaXhosa call it isivivane. People from my Khoikhoi side said these were the graves of their prophet, Heitsi Eibib, the son of Tsiqwa. They were found at many crossroads. If you want the protection of the ancestors for a safe journey, you add a stone to the pile. Come on. Add a stone. Then you’ll have a safe journey to America.”
Camagu gingerly puts a stone on the cairn.
Qukezwa added another stone and sang a song in praise of Heitsi Eibib. Twin added a few twigs of aromatic buchu herbs. He gave another twig to Heitsi, who was wrapped in a blanket on his mother’s back. She bent down so the child could put the twig on the stones. Then they continued on their way. Even though the crossroads was near their destination, they had made it a habit never to pass Heitsi Eibib’s graves without performing the ritual.
The multitudes had already gathered at Mhlakaza’s homestead. They wanted to see more miracles. They were demanding the presence of their forefathers from the spirit world. But Nongqawuse told them that the people who came from the sea were invisible. Those pilgrims who were favored by her were sent back to their homes to fetch a head of cattle each before they could be introduced to the new people.
Since Twin and Qukezwa no longer had cattle to look after, having killed all of them, they spent almost all their time at Mhlakaza’s. They went to their homestead at Ngcizele only once a week to sweep the floors of their huts and the ground outside, so that when the day of the rising of the dead came, the headless Xikixa and the other ancestors before him would be welcomed to a clean homestead.
Twin and Qukezwa had become part of the prophets’ hangers-on who were fed from the big pots of meat and samp that were steaming all day long. The daily feasting, the spirit of brotherhood and sister-hood that permeated the very air that they were breathing, the singing and dancing, the hope for the future, all made the multitudes forget about the troubles of the outside world and the lungsickness that tortured the Unbelievers. Many of those who gathered daily at the banks of the Gxarha River were like Twin and Qukezwa. They no longer had any cattle to worry about. Lungsickness was a distant nightmare.
Sometimes the new people came riding on the waves. As usual only Nongqawuse and Mhlakaza could see them. Or only those who had been given permission by the prophets were able to see shadows of the new people. Or at best silhouette images at the place where the sea met the sky.
In most cases, even the prophets themselves could not see the new people with their eyes, for they manifested themselves in the form of imilozi, the whistles that are the language of the spirits. Nongqawuse and Nombanda spoke with the new people in whistles. Then they translated their messages into the language of humans.
The fact that only Nongqawuse, Nombanda, and Mhlakaza could see or speak to the new people enhanced the prestige of the prophets. Many of those who were tempted not to believe were converted by this fact.
“The new people say that as long as there are some among you who refuse to kill their cattle, the dead will not arise,” announced Nongqawuse. “The new cattle that are free of disease will not come. As long as the amaGogotya—the Unbelievers—continue to unbelieve, the prophecies shall not be fulfilled.”
This caused a lot of anger among the people. A beautiful life awaited the amaXhosa nation. Yet there were traitors, the amaGogotya, who wanted to spoil everything for everyone. They were the enemies of the nation. Something had to be done. While Nongqawuse was leading Qukezwa and a group of visitors to the valley to listen to the lowing sounds of the new cattle in the aardvark holes and in the bush where the Strangers had first appeared, Twin gathered the men behind Mhlakaza’s solitary hut. The only topic on the agenda was the course of action that had to be taken against the Unbelievers.
“What choice do we have? Kill the amaGogotya! Destroy their crops! Kill their cattle! Burn their houses!” the men shouted.
Twin’s heart began to bleed for Twin-Twin. He had not spoken with his brother for three weeks, since the last time they had exchanged insults. Twin-Twin had walked all the way to Ngcizele to persuade his brother one more time to stop the foolishness of killing his cattle, and to stop believing in the dreams of a sex-starved girl. To his astonishment he found that Twin had already killed all his cattle. His homestead was buzzing with flies, and the stench of rotten meat assailed one a mile away.
“It is your wife,” Twin-Twin had screeched. “It is this terrible foreigner who made you do this stupid thing.”
“She is not a foreigner. She is the original owner of this land,” said Twin proudly.
“She is not an umXhosa woman. She is a prostitute.”
“You call my wife that again and you will regret that you were ever born.”
“Everyone knows that she opened her thighs for the British soldiers.”
“For your freedom. You ungrateful little man. Now go and never darken my homestead with your evil presence. I never want to see you again.”
That was the last time Twin had seen his brother. He had heard many stories about him. That he was riding around with Mjuza and Ned, in the company of no less a murderer than John Dalton. That they were denouncing the prophets and coercing people into defying the instructions of the Strangers.
“Can we trust Twin?” asked one man. “His twin brother is one of the st
aunchest Unbelievers. Will he not reveal our plans to him?”
Twin was angry at such impertinence. He stood up and addressed the man directly, pointing at him threateningly.
“Who are you, if I may ask? You only joined the Believers yesterday, long after my wife and I had been coming to the banks of the Gxarha River to commune with the new people through our humble prophets. I have on occasion even seen the new people with my own eyes. And you have the temerity to express doubts about me. Now let me assure those who may be stupid enough to listen to you. I am just as angry with the Unbelievers as everyone here. In fact, I am angrier! My twin brother is not just a passive Unbeliever. He is riding around with John Dalton, causing havoc to the Believers in the countryside. And do you know who John Dalton is? He is the man who beheaded my father. He and his comrades cooked the head of my father in a cauldron. It is the return of this headless ancestor that I am waiting for here at this spot where the Gxarha River spews its sacred waters into the sea. Do you, foolish man, still doubt me?”
The men apologized profusely, and reprimanded their colleague for speaking out of turn. They said that indeed Twin had a lot to lose if the resurrection failed due to the selfishness of the Unbelievers. The man shook Twin’s hand. He had not meant any harm, he said. He suggested Twin’s name as the leader of the secret force that would destroy the cattle and crops of the Unbelievers. And so Twin became a leader by acclamation.
He was determined to show everyone that he meant business, by leading a faid against his own brother. And although he normally shared everything with Qukezwa, he kept this plot a secret. But people talk. Soon she got to know of the plan and confronted him.
“This is terrible, Father of Heitsi! The ancestors will not like this,” she warned.
“How can they not like it? I am doing this for them. So that they should be able to come back and join us. They won’t rise from the dead if we don’t kill all the cattle living. The white people will not be swept into the sea, but will continue to rule us.”