The Heart of Redness: A Novel

by Mda, Zakes

  “Aha!” shouts Bhonco. “So I was right. You have chosen your side already. I defended you when the villagers were accusing you of taking the side of redness. When we heard of your decision to stay in this village we were happy. We said among ourselves, now here was an educated man who would see our point of view . . . who would support the introduction of civilization to our lives. You disappointed many people when you joined the side of this child of Dalton and his Believers.”

  Dalton makes a feeble attempt to explain that he is not a Believer. But Bhonco, son of Ximiya, has not finished with him yet.

  “You -shut up! I am talking to this boy from Johannesburg who I doubt is even circumcised! As for you, Dalton, you can thank God that your father is no longer alive to see this shame. He was a man of progress, your father. He would be ashamed to see you dragging this village into darkness. He used to tell us every day that we were savages who needed some enlightenment. Now that enlightenment is coming to the village you fight against it!”

  By this time a number of people who have come to the shop are surrounding the men. They heckle their agreement or disagreement with the speaker. It is clear that the majority of those assembled are on the side of civilization, as represented by the gambling resort and water-sports paradise. Dalton skulks away into the shop. Camagu thinks that this may be the opportunity to thrash out these differences. But it seems that each side wants to play to the gallery. Zim, for instance, is prancing about, mouthing invective against those hecklers who agree with Bhonco’s point of view.

  “I do not see how you people can agree with these Unbelievers,” he says. “These are the very people who consort with white businessmen from Johannesburg who want to destroy our trees,” he says.

  He has played into Bhonco’s hands. It is as if the elder was waiting for just that kind of stupid statement.

  “It is clear that the Believers are mad,” he says. “It is foolish to talk of conserving indigenous trees. After all, we can always plant civilized trees. Trees that come from across the seas. Trees that have no thorns like some of the ugly ones you want to protect. Trees like the wattle and the bluegum that grow in the forest of Nogqoloza. You know that Nogqoloza is a beautiful forest because the trees there were planted in straight lines many years ago. Although we do not like white people for causing the sufferings of the Middle Generations, we must at least thank them for planting the forest of Nogqoloza.”

  Most people agree that the Believers have gone overboard in their madness. Dalton, for instance, has been urging the chief to stop the boys from taking the eggs of birds from their nests. Whoever heard of such nonsense? Don’t all boys grow up doing that? From time immemorial? And this business of banning boys from hunting wild animals with their dogs, where does it come from? And what gives Dalton the right to change the ancient practices of the people? How dare he try to influence Chief Xikixa on such matters? And of course the headless chief is capable of bending to the slightest breeze, although in this case he has not been stupid enough to accede to Dalton’s exhortations.

  “You have heard with your own ears, my people,” says Zim, seizing the opportunity to score a point. “This son of Ximiya says the very white people who took our land are wonderful people just because they planted bluegum trees at Nogqoloza. That is why he now wants us to consort with whites who plan to turn our village into a business from which we won’t benefit. He is a tool of white people, just like his forefathers who became tools of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers.”

  “What is Zim talking about?” cries Bhonco. “Is he not the one who is working with the white man Dalton to drag our village deeper into redness?”

  “Dalton is not really white,” says Zim in the trader’s defense. “It is just an aberration of his skin. He is more of an umXhosa than most of us. He was circumcised like all amaXhosa men. He speaks isiXhosa better than most of you here.”

  The impromptu meeting degenerates into a free-for-all din. Everyone thinks he or she has something wise to share with the rest. And everyone wants to dispense this wisdom at the same time. All of a sudden Dalton and Missis rush out. Missis screams so sharply that everyone suddenly keeps quiet.

  “This is not a beer hall,” she shrieks. “You can’t hold your meeting here!”

  As he walks away, Camagu catches a glimpse of Qukezwa standing at the door with some of Dalton’s workers watching the show outside. He has not seen her since the morning she taught him how to harvest the sea, almost four months ago. He has passed Zim’s house, and has pretended to visit Dalton at his store, all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He has taken lonely walks in Nongqawuse’s Valley, and has visited sacred cairns. He has looked longingly at the great lagoon, which on a clear day he can see from his seaside cottage. But Qukezwa has been nowhere to be seen. Perhaps all for the better, he convinced himself. All for the better. She is not the type of woman he should be associating with.

  He has been too wary to ask anyone about her whereabouts, lest people question his interest in Zim’s daughter. He has continued his steady friendship with Xoliswa Ximiya, fueling further rumors in the village about the imminence of their marriage. And bringing further anxieties on Bhonco and NoPetticoat that they are going to lose their daughter to Johannesburg or America. Yet at the same time they are looking forward to a glorious wedding that will enhance their status in society and bring prestige to the rest of the Unbelievers. There is hope yet. The man has started a business with some village women. He may not take her away after all.

  And now here is Qukezwa standing at the door, laughing at Missis shooing the rowdy villagers away.

  Camagu remembers that in fact he and Zim had come to discuss the botanical garden that Dalton wanted to establish. He goes back to the store. As he enters he looks at Qukezwa and smiles. She smiles back. She actually smiles back at him!

  His mind is no longer on the botanical garden. It is wandering somewhere in the clouds. Dalton is telling him how the brilliant idea came to him one lovely day. He was at the river with the water project committee that included Bhonco and Zim, inspecting the water pump that had been constructed with money that he had raised from his business friends and from the government. The pipes were laid to draw the water up to the village. Next to the concrete embankment near the pump, Bhonco showed the committee a small piece of land surrounded by wild irises, orchids, and usundu palms. On it grew protea flowers, which was strange since they are found nowhere else in the Eastern Cape. He told his colleagues that it was his land that had been left for him by his father. Dalton suggested that they develop the land into a botanical garden where they would cultivate rare indigenous plants, especially those that were endangered.

  The next time Dalton went to inspect the water pump he found that Bhonco had planted maize on that piece of land. Apparently the elder thought that Dalton had an ulterior motive concerning his land.

  “What’s the use?” asked Dalton, laughing loudly. “Monkeys will eat those mielies!”

  But it was no laughing matter when he also discovered that a rare fig tree that he had pointed out to the committee of the water project had also been chopped down.

  “It is this son of Ximiya,” Zim had said at the time. “He came in the middle of the night and chopped the tree so that no one else could enjoy it.”

  But Bhonco denied that he had had anything to do with the destruction of the tree.

  Dalton is obviously having a good time recounting these stories. And many others about the problems the war of the Believers and Unbelievers has caused him. He goes on about his plans to develop the village, what a wonderful team he and Camagu will make, and how their “Let the Wild Coast Stay Wild” campaign will succeed if only they play their cards right. But Camagu can only hear his droning voice, as if from a distance.

  He excuses himself. He must get away from these surroundings that are haunted by Qukezwa’s aura. He must fight the demons that take hold of him at the mere thought of her smile. He must try to be in control. This wild woman ca
nnot possibly be of any good to him.

  That evening he visits Xoliswa Ximiya. She is glad to see him. After a glass of orange squash and Tennis biscuits, he suggests that they enjoy a walk in the full moon.

  Distant fires speckle the silvery night with golden orange. Shadows of lovers assume monstrous shapes. Unseen eyes follow Camagu and Xoliswa Ximiya as they are drawn slowly by the song of the silvery girls who are dancing on the village playground.

  Tomorrow more stories shall be told, seasoned as usual with inventive spices by whoever is telling the story at the time.

  Xoliswa Ximiya comments that it is shameful that the girls are frolicking about topless, wearing only traditional skirts. Camagu responds that he does not see anything to be ashamed of. The girls are from a culture that is not ashamed of breasts.

  “That brings me to this thing about Majola,” says Xoliswa Ximiya. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it for months.”

  “My totem snake, you mean. What about it?”

  “Don’t you think you are reinforcing barbarism in this village?”

  “Then I am a barbarian, because I believe in Majola, in the same way that my parents before me believed in him.”

  “You are an educated man, Camagu, all the way from America. How do you expect simple peasants to give up their superstitions and join the modern world when they see educated people like you clinging to them?”

  “I am not from America. I am an African from the amaMpondomise clan. My totem is the brown mole snake, Majola. I believe in him, not for you, not for your fellow villagers, but for myself. And by the way, I have noticed that I have gained more respect from these people you call peasants since they saw that I respect my customs.”

  “You have messed up everything. I thought we were going to have a beautiful walk in the moonlight,” says Xoliswa Ximiya, walking away from him. “You will call me when you have come back to your senses.”

  He calls after her, but she walks on. He decides it is not worth pursuing her. He should rather go home to his cottage by the sea. He does not understand why his joy at being visited by Majola so long ago should cause him so much trouble on such a silvery night. And why Xoliswa Ximiya should feel so strongly about it.

  It is like this Nongqawuse thing. Everyone seems to be ashamed of her. There is a lot of denial in this village about Nongqawuse. She is an embarrassment. Some say she never existed and that the story is a lie concocted by white people to defame blacks. Others say she existed but not in this village. She must have lived somewhere else, in Umtata or even in Cape Town. Another group says that even if she did live in these parts, she was a liar and a disgrace. They don’t want to hear or know anything about her.

  It is only the family of Believers and their few followers who take Nongqawuse seriously and are proud of her heritage. That is why there is such anger against Zim among the amaGqobhoka—the enlightened ones like Xoliswa Ximiya—that he is bringing back the shame of the past. And against Dalton, who takes tourists to Nongqawuse’s Pool in his four-wheel-drive bakkie.

  When these white tourists throw money into the pool, the Unbelievers lament, “What a waste! Why don’t they give that money to us?” To the Believers, however, it is proof of the power of Nongqawuse. White people are trying to appease her for all their sins.

  “They say when an owl of the night hoots at daytime, then we must brace ourselves for misfortune,” observes a silvery voice.

  He is startled out of his reverie. A silvery beast stands right in front of him. She is sitting on top of it, all silvery in her smug smile. As usual, she rides on Gxagxa bareback and reinless. Over her shoulder she is carrying an umrhubhe, the isiXhosa musical instrument that is made of a wooden bow and a single string. Women play the instrument by stroking and sometimes plucking the string, using their mouths as an acoustic box.

  “What do you mean?” he demands.

  “I saw old Bhonco getting the better of you. You men are useless,” she declares, with a naughty twinkle in her silvery eyes.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “It is a night not to be wasted. Come, let me give you a ride.”

  He panics.

  “Like that? Without a saddle? Without reins? Where will I hold?”

  “Don’t be scared. Climb up. Gxagxa is strong. He can carry two people.”

  She helps him up. He sits behind her, and holds tightly around her waist as Gxagxa gallops away. He must try to forget his circumstances. He must try to ignore the havoc that is being caused to his body. He must talk about something.

  “Why do white people drop money into Nongqawuse’s Pool?” he asks breathlessly. “Surely they don’t believe in her like you do.”

  “Have you heard of Gqoloma?”

  “No. What is Gqoloma?”

  “It is a snake that lives in Nongqawuse’s Pool. It lives under the water. When Gqoloma goes out of the pool it causes a great storm. When it pays a visit. . . moving from the pool at the Gxarha River to another pool at the Qolorha River . . . it causes havoc in its wake, like a tornado. It destroys houses. It uproots trees.”

  He is not sure if she has answered his question.

  Gxagxa gallops on, climbing hills and descending hillocks. He gallops on the rough silvery rocks that dot the coastline above the silvery ocean. She bursts into a song and plays her umrhubhe musical instrument. She whistles and sings all at the same time. Many voices come from her mouth. Deep sounds that echo like the night. Sounds that have the heaviness of a steamy summer night. Flaming sounds that crackle like a veld fire. Light sounds that float like flakes of snow on top of the Amathole Mountains. Hollow sounds like laughing mountains. Coming out all at once. As if a whole choir lives in her mouth. Camagu has never heard such singing before. He once read of the amaXhosa mountain women who were good at split-tone singing. He also heard that the only other people in the world who could do this were Tibetan monks. He did not expect that this girl could be the guardian of a dying tradition.

  For some time he is spellbound. Then he realizes that his pants are wet.

  It is not from sweat.

  Perhaps if he takes his mind off his dire situation, and sends it to dwell on Xoliswa Ximiya’s icy beauty, there might be some respite. She is so beautiful. Xoliswa Ximiya. So staid and reliable.

  Qukezwa is not burdened with beauty. She is therefore able to be free-spirited.

  7

  Twin and Qukezwa sat all day long on the banks of the Gxarha River near the estuary. They watched the sun as it walked across the sky, while the amorous shenanigans of the waters of the river with the tides of the sea filled the couple’s idle lives with monotonous moans. They sat like that every day, hoping the sun would turn red, and other suns would emerge from behind the mountains or from the horizon and run amok across the sky and collide and explode and their embers rain on the earth and burn the hardened souls of the Unbelievers. But every day the sun rose as it had risen in the days of their forefathers.

  Sometimes Heitsi would be with them, chasing locusts and fashioning inept flutes from grasses and reeds. He was growing up to be a handful, this Heitsi. At first he had enjoyed being with his parents all the time. But now he preferred to spend most of the day sprinkling sand on the heads of the Believers’ toddlers. If these were normal times, he would be chasing calves and lambs in the fields.

  It was the middle of October. Blossoms scented the air.

  Twin and Qukezwa sat and watched the sky. And watched the horizon. And watched the sand. He sat behind her, his arms covering her tightly. She sat ensconced between his sinewy thighs. She played the umrhubhe, the musical instrument that sounded like the lonely voice of mountain spirits. She sang of the void that the demise of Gxagxa, Twin’s brown-and-white horse, had left in their lives. She cursed the lungsickness that had taken him away. She spat at those who had brought it into the land. When she closed her eyes she saw herself riding Gxagxa on the sands of the beach, completely naked. Gxagxa began in a canter. And then gathered speed in a fiendish
gallop, raising clouds of dust. Again Twin’s thighs were around her. He was sitting behind her, while Heitsi was wrapped in her thighs at the front. Gxagxa continued his wicked gallop until they all disappeared in the clouds. Through the voice of the umrhubhe she saw the new people riding on the waves, racing back according to the prophecies, and led by none other than Gxagxa and the headless patriarch.

  The song of the umrhubhe creates a world of dreams.

  Twin and Qukezwa sat and watched the sky. Their eyes were now inured to the sharp rays. From a distance they could hear a cry that was carried by the wind from the village. The cry floated above the tidal moans. Above the song of the umrhubhe. She stopped playing and listened carefully.

  “It sounds like a war cry,” said Qukezwa.

  “It does sound like the village crier. But it cannot be war,” Twin assured her. “There cannot be a war at a sacred time like this.”

  He was wrong. It was a war cry. It came from the homestead of Pama, Nxito’s believing son who now acted as chief of Qolorha in his exiled father’s place. Men were beginning to gather from all corners of the village. When Twin’s ears had confirmed that it was indeed a war cry he ran up from the river to Pama’s Great Place and joined the men who had already gathered.

  “All men must take up arms!” shouted Pama, addressing the meeting. “We are being invaded. The Man Who Named Ten Rivers has done what he has been threatening to do all along. You all know about the letters he has been writing to our king, Sarhili, making what we thought were empty threats. The threats were not so empty after all. A ship full of his soldiers has been seen entering the mouth of the Kei River!”

  The mouth of the Kei was only a few miles from the Gxarha mouth. In no time, armed amaXhosa soldiers were at the banks of the river, watching the ship HMS Geyser sail slowly up one of the channels. More amaXhosa soldiers were arriving from other villages and chiefdoms.

  Twin started a war song, and all the men joined in a fearsome unison.