The Heart of Redness: A Novel

by Mda, Zakes

  The fourth song is not izitibiri but a formal classical piece that is conducted by Xoliswa Ximiya herself. Halfway through the song the bell rings.

  “We have this man here who won’t tell us his name,” says the chairman. “He says that he is not stopping the song. After all, it is such a beautiful song by one of our greatest composers, Michael Mosoeu Moerane. He merely wants to comment on the beautiful smiles on the children’s faces as they sing with their lovely voices that sound like drops of rain. But he is not happy that the conductor herself does not have a happy smile. The conductor looks sad. He is therefore buying with his three rand that that man who is sitting in the audience, Camagu, son of Cesane, should come to the stage and tickle the conductor, Miss Xoliswa Ximiya, as she conducts this song. We have never seen Miss Xoliswa Ximiya laugh, the buyer says.”

  Xoliswa Ximiya gives both the buyer and the chairman a very stern look. Camagu is embarrassed, but laughs in the spirit of the game. He goes to the chairman’s table. The bell rings again.

  “Camagu is buying with his three rand fifty that he will not tickle Miss Xoliswa Ximiya because the buyer has neglected to mention which part of Miss Ximiya’s body he should tickle,” the chairman announces.

  People laugh. Some students shout, “On the hips! On the waist!” while others yell, “On the sole of her feet! Tickling is more effective there!”

  But the chairman rings the bell and says, “No use shouting! Only money talks at the concert! Come to the table and buy if you want to say anything.”

  Xoliswa Ximiya casts a deadly look at the buyer, and then at Camagu, as she walks to the chairman’s table. The bell rings.

  “Miss Ximiya says with her five rand that there shall be no tickling, and that is final,” announces the chairman. He looks around for the buyer, hoping that he will pay more money to have his way, and for the first time the people of Qolorha-by-Sea will see their headmistress reeling with laughter. But the buyer is not brave enough to contradict Xoliswa Ximiya.

  The choir continues with Moerane’s song until it comes to an end. Then they lunge into an energetic izitibiri song and dance. The bell rings.

  “Things are becoming hotter and hotter,” says the chair man, “Here we have Qukezwa, daughter of Zim . . .”

  Camagu’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at the mention of the name. There is Qukezwa, looking as cocky as ever, leaving the chair-man’s table and going to sit next to the buyer who bought that Xoliswa Ximiya should be tickled. This tickling business must be her idea. He wonders from which hole she has emerged after all these weeks.

  “She is buying with her five rand that every woman in the audience whose name is NomaRussia should come to the stage and parade as if in a beauty contest,” says the chairman, “and Camagu should be the judge of which NomaRussia is the most beautiful.”

  This has gone beyond a joke, thinks Camagu. He came to the concert to enjoy himself, not to be the center of so much ridicule. But the NomaRussias of Qolorha-by-Sea do not see this as ridicule. It is fun, and a moment of fame for many of them. They stream to the stage, in every shape, size, and age, about fifteen of them in all. They clown around and parade on the stage, to the great amusement and cheers of the audience.

  Camagu walks to the chairman’s table, intently looking at the NomaRussias, hoping against hope that his own NomaRussia is among them. But she is not. He buys with ten rand that he will not be the judge, and the NomaRussias must get off the stage so that the choirs can continue. He adds that the next choir to take the stage should be the hotel choir. The amount is too big for anyone to argue with.

  The bell rings.

  “Here is a group of girls. They say they are not stopping the choir. It must remain on the stage. For two rand they only want Qukezwa to come to the stage and explain the pain of their friend which Qukezwa seems to enjoy,” says the chairman. Then he adds, “I must admit I do not understand what it is exactly that the young ladies are buying. But Qukezwa must come to the stage and explain the pain.”

  Qukezwa walks to the stage. She smiles condescendingly at the girls who have bought her. It is not the first time she has had a confrontation with them. Nor will it be the last. They are the same girls who attacked her at work many moons ago. The very girls who insulted her in the presence of Camagu at the lagoon.

  “The girls want me to explain the pain of their friend,” says Qukezwa defiantly. “Well, the explanation is a very simple one. Their friend caused the pain on herself.”

  She is about to walk down the stage when the chairman stops her with his bell.

  “Another person has bought you, Qukezwa,” laughs the chairman. “You see, you started the whole thing by buying the NomaRussias. Now people are buying you. For twenty rand John Dalton is buying you to sing in your split-tone manner. He says he has heard your beautiful voice as you went about working in his store. But today you need to share it with the rest of the audience.”

  One thing Qukezwa is not ashamed of is her singing. She opens her mouth and sings in many voices. There is utter silence in the hall. Camagu remembers the silvery night when she sang him to an orgasm on top of Gxagxa.

  Qukezwa sings in such beautiful colors. Soft colors like the ochre of yellow gullies. Reassuring colors of the earth. Red. Hot colors like blazing fire. Deep blue. Deep green. Colors of the valleys and the ocean. Cool colors like the rain of summer sliding down a pair of naked bodies.

  She sings in soft pastel colors, this Qukezwa. In crude and glaring colors. And in bright glossy colors. In subdued colors of the newly turned fields. All at the same time. Once more wetness imposes itself on a hapless Camagu.

  The song ends. She surveys the audience. Utter silence ensues. It follows her as she walks down the stage and out of the door. Panic grips Camagu. She will disappear again. And if she does he will never be able to find her. He will not let her disappear from his life again. He jumps out of his seat, calling her name. The scandalized eyes of the audience follow him as he bolts out of the door.

  “Please, Qukezwa, wait for me,” he pleads. “We must talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about,” says Qukezwa, walking on, almost running.

  “We have a lot to talk about! Please don’t run away from me!”

  She breaks into a run. He cannot keep up.

  “I love you, Qukezwa! I love you!” he shouts breathlessly.

  “You know nothing about love, learned man!” she shouts back. “Go back to school and learn more about it!”

  She is gone. He stands there mortified. Why on earth did he utter such damnable words: I love you? What came over him?

  He cannot go to the concert now. He has disgraced himself. He walks slowly to his cottage at the sea. The wind bombards his eardrums with sounds that have escaped through the cracks of the school hall.

  Things remain happening in the school hall. After Camagu bolts out there is stunned silence for a while. Then Bhonco, son of Ximiya, angrily stands up and walks towards Zim.

  “This is all your work, is it not?” he fumes. “You put your daughter up to this! You used your medicine to make that poor man run after her!”

  “Why would I do that? I don’t need that demented man in my homestead!”

  “You would do it to spite me, wouldn’t you? To make a laughing-stock of the house of Ximiya! Yes, to spite us! In the same way that you influenced the abaThwa to take their dance away!”

  While the younger members of the audience find this commotion exciting, the older ones are shocked. Xoliswa Ximiya is clearly ashamed of her father’s outburst. So is NoPetticoat, who stands frozen on the stage, in the midst of her fellow choristers.

  The chairman is ringing the bell and shouting, “This is a concert, gentlemen. Money talks. If you have anything to say to anybody, you come to the table and buy. You don’t just exchange words among your-selves like that!”

  “Just tell this Bhonco to leave me alone,” says Zim. “I have nothing to do with what has happened here. I have nothing to do with the aba
Thwa taking their dance either, although it serves him right!”

  “Money talks! Not just your mouth! Not just empty words! It is money that talks at a concert!” shouts the chairman.

  At last there is calm. The concert resumes. The choir from the Blue Flamingo Hotel sings another izitibiri song.

  The bell rings. The music stops.

  “Tat’uZim is buying, ladies and gentlemen,” announces the chairman. “He says this choir from the hotel washes his heart. Its music is like the music of the angels. But there is something missing somewhere there. Ululation! Such beautiful music must be accompanied by ululation. With his ten rand he buys NoPetticoat to ululate from now right up to the end of the concert.”

  This would have been great fun if it had not come from Zim. But now no one takes kindly to it. NoPetticoat has no choice but to ululate. At first she enjoys ululating and prancing about. But by the third song she is exhausted. Bhonco goes to the table and buys with eleven rand that his wife should stop ululating. But Zim buys with twelve rand that NoPetticoat should ululate for the rest of the concert. Bhonco has run out of money, but Xoliswa Ximiya gives him some more. She is furious that her mother has been turned into a “bioscope.”

  It seems that Zim has come prepared. His rock-rabbit-skin bag is full of money. He keeps on buying NoPetticoat back on the stage whenever Bhonco buys her off the stage. The stakes have now risen to one hundred rand. The Ximiya family has run out of money and cannot buy anymore. People are exclaiming that the vindictive Zim is finishing all his nkamnkam or old-age-pension money on a concert.

  NoPetticoat ululates. Choirs come and go. NoPetticoat ululates for all of them. By the end of the concert her voice is gone. It became hoarse and then disappeared. The villagers are angry that Zim has spoiled the concert, but there is nothing they can do about it. It is only money that talks at a concert.

  This does not sit well with Bhonco, son of Ximiya. He challenges Zim to a stick fight. “Let’s see if money will buy you out of a duel,” he says. “You have made a fool of my family and you must pay for it. Uzidla ngemali—money has made you too proud!”

  But Dalton, ever the water that extinguishes wildfires, talks them out of the fight. The law has no mercy on people who engage in such foolish activities. They may find themselves in jail, he warns them.

  The following days Bhonco plans a different type of vengeance. He tells the gathering of the elders of the Unbelievers, “Since this Believer loves ululation so much, I am going to engage a group of abayiyizeli, the ululants, to ululate for him.”

  Abayiyizeli are women who take their ululation seriously. They look forward to those occasions when they are needed to ululate. When Bhonco engages them, they take to their task with gusto. They ululate outside Zim’s homestead during those serious moments when he is resting under his giant wild fig tree, in the company of his amahobohobo weaverbirds. They know that he loves to have a siesta after midday meals. They choose that very moment to pierce his eardrums with the sharpest possible ululation. At first he ignores them. He thinks they will ultimately get tired of it. But they never do. Instead they mobilize more ululants to work in shifts at all hours.

  Soon things develop to the extent that the abayiyizeli ululate every time they see Zim. They follow him through the village ululating. Even young girls who were not part of the original group of ululants ululate when they see him. Female passersby stop whatever they are doing to ululate whenever he approaches.

  Zim does not know what to do about this. He goes to Chief Xikixa, but the chief is powerless. When the ululants are summoned before him, they claim that they are innocent people who enjoy ululating along village pathways. And this is not against the law in the new and democratic South Africa.

  Finally Zim gets his revenge. He sends ing’ang’ane birds, the hadedah ibis, to laugh at Bhonco. They are drab gray, stubby-legged birds with metallic green or purple wings. Three or four birds follow him wherever he goes, emitting their rude laughter. They sit on the roof of his ixande house, and continue laughing.

  There is a feeling that things are getting out of hand. There is talk in the village that the war of the Believers and Unbelievers has advanced beyond human prowess. It is rumored that Bhonco is about to enlist the assistance of the uthekwane, the brown hammerhead bird. With its lightning it will destroy Zim’s fields, or perhaps his homestead. But some people laugh the whole matter off. They say it is an empty threat. Bhonco does not know how to talk with birds. Only Zim can talk with birds. Yet others feel that it is a shame that these elders have now stooped to the level of sending such innocent creatures as birds to battle on their behalf.

  While these battles are going on, Camagu is hiding in his sea cottage. He is ashamed to show his face in public. Days pass. He cannot even venture to Vulindlela Trading Store. He hears about the quarrel that is threatening to swallow the whole community from NoGiant and MamCirha when they come to work. They tell him of the ululation that happened at the concert, and its consequences. They beg him to go and talk with the elders, to convince them to stop destroying each other this way. The women think that the elders will listen to him. But Camagu does not think so. He believes that after his behavior at the concert he has lost their respect.

  One day he gets a surprise visit from John Dalton. He says they need to bury their differences because there are greater things at stake. The developers are coming to hold a public meeting with the villagers, to explain their plans to turn Qolorha-by-Sea into a tourist paradise. Dalton will not be able to attend this imbhizo because he is going to Ficksburg in the Free State on an urgent family matter. He has come to ask Camagu to attend the meeting because it is important that someone should be there who will be able to articulate the view of those villagers who are opposed to the tourist paradise as envisaged by the developers.

  “It is good that you want us to bury our differences,” says Camagu. “I never had any differences with you in the first place. I merely expressed a different point of view about the water project. . . after you had solicited my opinion.”

  “Okay, maybe it was childish of me to take it personally,” admits Dalton, “but let’s talk about this imbhizo. Will you be able to attend?”

  “Who will listen to me after what I did at the concert?”

  Dalton laughs.

  “I don’t know what came over you,” he says. “But this meeting is important. The whole future of the village depends on it. We cannot let your personal problems—”

  “Okay, okay, I will go.”

  The developers, two bald white men and a young black man, come early on a Saturday morning and insist that the meeting be held at the lagoon so that they can demonstrate their grand plans for the village. The young black man is introduced as Lefa Leballo, the new chief executive officer of the black empowerment company that is going to develop the village into a tourist heaven. He looks very handsome in his navy-blue suit, blue shirt, and colorful tie. The two elderly white men—both in black suits—are Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. They were chief executive and chairman of the company before they sold the majority shares to black empowerment consortia. Now they act as consultants for the company.

  Most of the villagers have gathered. When Camagu arrives they titter and point fingers him. He walks defiantly to the front, and to his consternation he finds himself standing next to the teachers of Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School. Xoliswa Ximiya just looks forward and pretends that he does not exist. The history teacher who was the chairman at the concert smiles at him. He smiles back.

  His eyes search for Bhonco, the most vocal supporter of the holiday resort project. There he is, surrounded by his supporters. The hadedah ibises have given him some respite and are no longer mocking him with their laughter. The abayiyizeli, the ululants, have also taken a break from slashing Zim’s eardrums with their razor-sharp ululation, and have assumed the role of ordinary citizens. Zim sits with his daughter and a few supporters. Both elders look tired and drained.

  After the chief has introduced
the visitors, Lefa Leballo makes a brief speech. He tells the villagers how lucky they are to be living in a new and democratic South Africa where the key word is transparency. In the bad old days such projects would be done without consulting them at all. So, in the same spirit in which the government has respected them by consulting them, they must also show respect to these important visitors, by not voicing the objections that he heard some of the villagers were having about a project of such national importance. He then gives the floor to Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Smith talks of the wonders that will happen at Qolorha-by-Sea. There will be boats and waterskiing and jetskiing. People from across the seas will ride the waves in a sport called surfing. This place will be particularly good for that because the sea is rough most of the time. Surfing will be a challenge. There will be merry-go-rounds for the children, and rides that go up to the sky. Rides that twist and turn while the riders scream in ecstatic fright.

  “Right here,” says Mr. Smith, “we shall see the biggest and most daring rides of all roller coasters in the world . . . over the rough sea. This will be the place for roller coaster enthusiasts who spend their lives traveling the world in search of the biggest and most daring rides.”

  Bhonco and his supporters applaud. Except for people like Xoliswa Ximiya, none of them have seen a roller coaster before. But it does not matter. If it is something that brings civilization, then it is good for Qolorha.

  “That is not all, my dear friends,” says Mr. Smith excitedly. “We are going to have cable cars too. Cable cars shall move across the water from one end of the lagoon to the other.”