The Heart of Redness: A Novel

by Mda, Zakes

  The earth shook. And HMS Geyser stood still. The people in the ship lowered a boat to the river. But it overturned, and the men in it nearly drowned. One of the men refused to get back into the boat. He swam to the shore and ran away like a scared rabbit, to the guffaws of the amaXhosa soldiers. They did not chase him, though. They wanted him to reach East London safely, so that he could warn his masters that it was not the wisest of things to trifle with the amaXhosa people.

  There were cheers among the villagers when HMS Geyser shamefacedly sailed back without attacking.

  Twin started another song. The men joined in triumphal unison. Piercing ululation filled the air. Twin could hear a distinct howl. He knew at once that Qukezwa was among the ululants. She had never mastered the art of producing the sharp undulating wails that every umXhosa woman produced so well. He turned and looked among the women who were singing in the rear. Indeed there she was, with Heitsi at her back, singing in the peculiar manner of the Khoikhoi, now and then making her vain attempts at ululating.

  “Why did you come?” asked Twin impatiently. “You are supposed to be looking after Heitsi at Mhlakaza’s, and not running around the war front.”

  “We had to come, Father of Heitsi,” said Qukezwa sweetly. “We cannot let you fight a war alone.”

  “I am not fighting a war alone! I am with the other soldiers.”

  “Women must do their bit as well. That is why I rallied them from the village to come and ululate their men to victory.”

  “Oh, Qukezwa,” pleaded Twin, “you shouldn’t have come. Men don’t understand our relationship. They will say I am under the isikhakha skirts of my wife.”

  The victory over The Man Who Named Ten Rivers’ ship started a new frenzy of cattle-killing. It was a sure sign that the new people were powerful, and were about to show themselves according to the prophecies of Nongqawuse. The faith of those people who were beginning to waver was reinforced. A number of Unbelievers became Believers. Even those Believers who had long finished destroying their cattle, and were beginning to get hungry, gained more courage. Although Twin and Qukezwa had long finished destroying their cattle, they could not be counted among those who were hungry or lacked courage. They spent almost all their time at Mhlakaza’s, where they had all their meals. Some believing families who still had cattle and grain were taking them to Mhlakaza’s for the daily feasts.

  This new frenzy was discouraging to Chief Nxito and his counsellors. They accused The Man Who Named Ten Rivers of bad faith.

  “He pretends to be talking with us in order to resolve these matters peacefully,” said the aging chief, “yet he secretly sends his ship to attack our people. Now look what has happened! His ship was defeated and now the people are killing more of their cattle.”

  “I have always warned that you cannot trust any of these people,” said Twin-Twin. “Their word is like a rock that has been made slippery by the urine of rock-rabbits. You cannot cling to it.”

  Twin-Twin was so angry at the treachery of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers that his scars of history were itching. He had to scratch them constantly. They reminded him that prophets could not be relied upon to make sound judgments. He therefore became more steadfast in his unbelief. But some Unbelievers became Believers when they heard about the defeated ship.

  Major John Gawler, the no-nonsense magistrate, heard about the rumblings of the people he considered allies, and sent John Dalton to talk to them.

  “Sir George Grey had no intentions of attacking the amaXhosa,” explained Dalton. “He merely wanted to scare the Believers with HMS Geyser. The ship was on its regular route from Natal to the Cape Colony. Sir George decided that it should make a call at the Kei mouth to demonstrate the British naval power.”

  No one believed Dalton.

  When he had left, Twin-Twin said, “They would make excuses for their spectacular defeat at the hands of the Believers, wouldn’t they?”

  What worried Twin-Twin most was that as a result of this so-called demonstration of the queen’s sea power the Believers were becoming even more arrogant. They were once again going around attacking Unbelievers. And The Man Who Named Ten Rivers was refusing to give the victims of these attacks any assistance. When his representatives in the region, people like Gawler and other magistrates, sent urgent messages that the Unbelievers should be assisted, he responded that the British government could not send parties throughout what he called Kaffirland to defend each person who might be attacked.

  “In any case,” he added, “if we were to do that, we would be playing right into the hands of Kreli and Moshesh, who are plotting a war against the colony. That would give these diabolical chiefs an excuse to attack.”

  The only thing that could be done was to ask the unbelieving chiefs to give refuge to the seeing Unbelievers and to ensure that they were not harmed. There was nothing else that could be done, unless the problems spread to the lands that were set apart for white occupation.

  This attitude reinforced Twin-Twin’s view that The Man Who Named Ten Rivers had planned the whole cattle-killing movement. And that he had cleverly invented these prophecies and used Nongqawuse, Mhlakaza, and Nombanda to propagate them among the amaXhosa people. He wanted the amaXhosa to destroy themselves with their own hands, saving the colonial government from dirtying its hands with endless wars. This view was gaining currency among those Unbelievers who were not Christians.

  “The Strangers that Nongqawuse saw,” explained Twin-Twin, “were The Man Who Named Ten Rivers himself, maybe with Gawler and Dalton.”

  Those Unbelievers who were Christians, such as Ned and Mjuza, did not agree with this view. They echoed The Man Who Named Ten Rivers’ view that Nongqawuse’s visions were nothing more than a plot by Sarhili and his friend, Moshoeshoe of the Basotho nation, to starve the amaXhosa into rebellion against the British Empire.

  The Believers couldn’t be bothered with these debates. They had debates of their own. A new prophetess had arisen at the banks of the Mpongo River. She was Nonkosi; the eleven-year-old daughter of a well-known traditional doctor called Kulwana.

  Nonkosi’s visions began early in January. She saw Strangers who were similar to those seen by the great prophetesses of the Gxarha River. They first emerged to her when she was playing near a pool in the Mpongo River. They showed her a great number of cattle in the water and the new people that would rise if the amaXhosa destroyed all their cattle. They told her of various peoples who were going to be destroyed for not believing, and these included the Basotho, the amaMfengu, and of course the English, who would run to Kingwilliamstown and be destroyed there.

  The strange thing about the daughter of Kulwana was that she did not look confused and unkempt in the manner of great prophets. She was not waifish and malnourished. She was zestful and liked to spend the whole day playing children’s games instead of sitting with the gray-beards teaching them about the happy times that were coming with the new people from the world of the ancestors. But when she was called to order, her message was clear and resounding. It came out of her little mouth in musical peals. It made grown men cry with joy.

  Although Nonkosi’s message was similar to Nongqawuse’s, she gained a new following. Among the young Believers it became fashionable to identify oneself as Nonkosi’s follower rather than Nongqawuse’s. Whereas Nongqawuse urged her followers to wear ornaments and makeup, Nonkosi’s teachings were that ornaments should be disposed of. She further gave instructions that fires for cooking or for any other purpose should be made only of sneezewood, instead of the more popular mimosa.

  Kulwana became his daughter’s staunchest supporter. He told her followers that he too had heard the cattle lowing and bellowing from the pool.

  It seemed that there was competition between the two prophets. In reality the competition was between their followers. The prophets spoke with one voice and did not see each other as rivals. All they wanted was to save the amaXhosa nation.

  Twin and Qukezwa were curious about the new prophet. They
undertook a two-day journey to visit her at the Mpongo River banks. It was an arduous trip, for Heitsi slowed them down considerably. But they did not regret it one bit. They were energized by Nonkosi, and were filled with new hope. She led them, together with hundreds of other followers, to a pond near the river, and there they saw newly circumcised abakhwetha initiates dancing on the surface of the water. They joined in the song and danced, albeit on solid ground. They saw the horns of cattle emerging from the water, then sinking again, and heard the lowing of cows and the bellowing of bulls. In the evenings they participated in the ukurhuda rituals where the wonderful prophetess administered sacred enemas and emetics to her followers. They vomited and their stomachs ran all night long.

  Like all of Nonkosi’s followers, Twin and Qukezwa shaved off their eyebrows in order to distinguish themselves from Unbelievers.

  Although two denominations of Believers had emerged, Twin and Qukezwa decided that they would follow both prophets. When they returned to the Gxarha they introduced the fashion of shaving off the eyebrows. The Believers there happily adopted it, even though it was Nonkosi’s invention.

  Using the herbs they had brought with them from the Mpongo River, Qukezwa and Twin frequently indulged themselves with revelries of vomiting and purging.

  The problems of redness!

  Camagu is facing the irritation of Xoliswa Ximiya. And this threatens to put a damper on his housewarming party. She does not seem to care at all that she is a guest in his house. Guests, like hosts, are generally expected to be gracious. That is why the other guests—the elite of Qolorha-by-Sea such as John Dalton, the teachers of the various schools in the area, and Vathiswa, the receptionist at the Blue Flamingo Hotel—are fidgeting on their seats. Some of them may agree with Xoliswa Ximiya’s point of view, but they do not think that it is right to attack a man at his own housewarming party. And Camagu seems determined to stand his ground.

  “I say it is an insult to the people of Qolorha-by-Sea,” Xoliswa Ximiya screeches. “My people are trying to move away from redness, but you are doing your damnedest to drag them back.”

  “To you, Xoliswa, the isikhakha skirt represents backwardness,” says Camagu defensively. “But to other people it represents a beautiful artistic cultural heritage.”

  Camagu is the only one in the village who calls Xoliswa Ximiya just by her first name—besides her parents, of course. This is one of the things that have fueled rumors that something is cooking between them. This, and the fact that they argue all the time. And then there are the visits to her house in the schoolyard, which sometimes take place in the evening. Others believe that he has slept there on occasion, although no one can vouch to have seen him with their own eyes.

  “Even in magazines people wear isikhakha,” says Vathiswa. Although she is known as Xoliswa Ximiya’s lackey, she feels that this time, in the presence of all these honorable guests, she must contribute her little piece of wisdom as honestly as she can. But Xoliswa Ximiya’s glaring eyes silently reprimand her for her treachery.

  “It is true,” says Vathiswa, asserting her independence. “Even on television I saw some cabinet ministers wearing isikhakha at the opening of parliament.”

  “It does not matter if the president’s wife herself wore isikhakha,” says Xoliswa Ximiya dismissively. “It is part of our history of redness. It is a backward movement. All this nonsense about bringing back African traditions! We are civilized people. We have no time for beads and long pipes!”

  The curse of redness!

  It all started with the people of Johannesburg. When they heard that Camagu had not gone to America after all, but was hiding on the wild coast of the Eastern Cape, they sent messages that he should buy them traditional isiXhosa costumes. These were becoming very popular among the glitterati and sundry celebrities of the city of gold since the advent of the African Renaissance movement spearheaded by the president of the country.

  Camagu saw this as an opportunity for his cooperative society to expand its activities to the production of traditional isiXhosa costumes and accessories such as beaded pipes and shoulder bags, to be marketed in Johannesburg. His partners, NoGiant and MamCirha, were keen on the idea. After all, harvesting the sea for imbhaza and imbhatyisa did not earn them that much. They even invited NoManage and No-Vangeli to join the cooperative, but these cohorts of Dalton’s were too busy milking gullible tourists with their displays and performances of isiXhosa culture.

  When these activities reached the ears of Xoliswa Ximiya, she was not amused. Her lack of amusement has continued to this day, and is now showing itself at her host’s housewarming party.

  Vathiswa looks quite rueful for contradicting her mentor. After her intervention, the other guests feel free to stand with Xoliswa Ximiya and become vocal about the matter. Those whose views fall in line with Camagu’s wisely keep quiet. John Dalton knows how to tread carefully at times like these. He keeps his opinion to himself.

  “What can we say about a man who believes in a snake?” Xoliswa Ximiya sneers.

  “It is precisely because I was visited by Majola that my fortunes have changed for the better. The house . . . the business . . .”

  Camagu does not wait for Xoliswa Ximiya’s rejoinder. He excuses himself and goes outside to join the villagers who are sitting on the verandah eating meat and drinking beer. He would have liked them—especially elders like Bhonco—to sit at the table inside the house with the rest of high society. But they refused. They said the custom was that they enjoyed their feasts under the trees while the “teachers” sat in the house. The best compromise that Camagu could reach was that they should at least sit on the verandah.

  “Hey, teacher,” cries NoPetticoat. “I hear now you are sewing skirts.”

  “You can laugh as much as you like, Mam’uNoPetticoat, but you will swallow your laughter as soon as you see those women who have joined the cooperative society getting rich,” says Camagu.

  “Those women, teacher,” teases Bhonco, son of Ximiya, “do their husbands who work in the mines of Johannesburg know that they are running around with you here?”

  “Very soon those women will be earning more than their husbands in the mines,” Camagu boasts.

  “In that case you can count me in,” says NoPetticoat. “I am tired of cleaning the bottoms of the children of white people at the Blue Flamingo.”

  Everyone can see that beer has already run into NoPetticoat’s head. Not only is she unsteady, but she has become quite vociferous.

  “You, NoPetticoat? What a laugh!” says Bhonco.

  “You don’t think I can do it, Bhonco?” challenges NoPetticoat. “You don’t think I can work with beads?”

  “What would Xoliswa say?” asks Bhonco.

  Everyone agrees that Xoliswa Ximiya would not like that at all. Bhonco and NoPetticoat would not want to make Xoliswa Ximiya unhappy.

  “Especially now that she has built you that lovely ixande house,” adds Camagu, making sure that the sting of his remark is felt. He has learned that here at Qolorha-by-Sea a man who does not hit back becomes the playing ground of other men . . . and women.

  People mumble that it is unbecoming for this Camagu, son of Cesane, to direct such snide remarks at his prospective father-in-law. Some ask how Bhonco can be his prospective father-in-law when the man has not even asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

  “How do you know he has not asked?” asks a woman. “You do not know the things that happen in other people’s homesteads.”

  “We would know. We would know,” says a man. “A daughter’s hand in marriage is never asked in secret. It becomes a public occasion.”

  They all shut up when NoPetticoat glares at them disapprovingly. It is fortunate that Camagu does not hear what they are talking about from his position near the door.

  “You see, son of Cesane,” says Bhonco in a hurt voice, “not all of us are rich like you. Not all of us can afford to buy sea cottages like this one that we are warming today.”

  Cam
agu apologizes and says he did not mean to sting the elders with words. He did not buy this sea cottage because he is rich. When Dalton told him that it was for sale when the owner emigrated to Australia, he tried very hard to raise money to buy it. He went to banks from Butterworth to East London, but they all refused to give him a bond, for they said he was unemployed. He pleaded with John Dalton to stand surety for him, but he refused. “Such things spoil friendship,” he said.

  It was only after he sold his car that he had the money to put down as a deposit, and only after he showed the bank the accounts of the cooperative society that they agreed to give him a mortgage. They decided that he was self-employed rather than unemployed.

  “This son of Cesane,” says NoPetticoat, laughing mockingly, “they say he has learning that surpasses even that of our daughter. He has come after many years across the seas. But what is he doing loitering in the village? Of what use are his long letters? At least our daughter has done something for her parents. Is he able to do anything for his parents when he runs around catching imbhaza and imbhatyisa with women, and sewing skirts and beads?”

  Camagu ignores the old woman. But others will not let the matter rest. Some praise his cottage in hope that he will take out more beer. Indeed, they say, here he will live like a white man. He even has taps of water inside the house, in the kitchen and the bathroom. His toilet is inside the house, unlike the pit latrines at their homesteads.

  “Don’t even mention water,” says Bhonco. “He has all this water in every room while our communal water taps have been closed! Now our wives have to go to wells far away, or to the rivers.”

  “We should be asking you why the taps are closed, son of Ximiya,” says another old man. “You are on the water committee, are you not?”

  “Ask Dalton, not me,” says Bhonco defensively. “He and his Believers closed the water. Or ask this son of Cesane.”

  “No. Not me,” says Camagu. “I am not on the water committee. No one ever elected me there.”