The Heart of Redness: A Novel

by Mda, Zakes

  Education has made this girl mad, thinks Bhonco. Has she forgotten that, according to the tradition of the amaXhosa, bees are the messengers of the ancestors? When one has been stung, one has to appease the ancestors by slaughtering an ox or a goat and by brewing a lot of sorghum beer.

  “It must be that scoundrel Zim,” moans Bhonco. “He must have talked our common ancestor into sending me these bees. And the headless old man complied! Don’t they know? Bees are not for playing games of vengeance!”

  But at this moment Zim’s thoughts are drifting a distance away from schemes of vengeance. They are with NoEngland, who resides in the Otherworld. He has been thinking of NoEngland for some days now. He misses her. He thinks that things would have been different if she were here. If she had not hurried to the world of the ancestors, leaving her husband and children in a world that has been so defiled by lack of belief. NoEngland has been in his mind all the time lately, to the extent that he has not touched his food. He just lies under his giant tree. He does not even hear the ululants and the hecklers. They are becoming discouraged because they are not making a dent in his indifference. They don’t know that nothing can penetrate his mind now, for it is occupied by NoEngland.

  He does not even notice when Camagu comes and greets him. Camagu does not know what to do. He thinks that perhaps the old man is asleep. Yet his eyes are wide awake. And there is a smile on his face. He greets again. And again.

  “I have come to see Qukezwa and the baby, old one,” Camagu says aloud, so that his voice can rise above the cacophony of ululations, heckles, and amahobohobo weaverbirds. The women who are fussing over Qukezwa and Heitsi in the rondavel hear him and appear at the door.

  Ah, at last some people who might help. It is a week now since the new Heitsi was born to ululations and heckles. A week of searing loneliness for Camagu. He has been languishing alone in his cottage, pining for Qukezwa, and reflecting on what this place has done to him. It has rendered him unrecognizable to himself. He used to be a man-about-town. A regular at Giggles. But he hasn’t had a tipple since he came to Qolorha-by-Sea. He has also found himself losing interest in cigarettes. Even his famous lust has deserted him. Since coming here he has only known a woman—in the biblical sense, that is—in his messy dreams. His old self would have taken advantage of the raw talent that he encounters every day in this village. Lots of talent. Vathiswa. Even the waitresses and charwomen at the Blue Flamingo. It is all because of the effect that Qukezwa has had on him. The effect that has even cleansed NomaRussia out of his life, out of his recurrent dreams.

  He pined and pined in his cottage, until he gathered enough strength to walk to Zim’s homestead with the intention of pleading to be allowed a glimpse of the woman and her child.

  “You cannot see Qukezwa and the baby,” screeches a woman at the door.

  “Did she say so? Did she say she doesn’t want to see me?” asks Camagu.

  “Don’t you see this reed? It means that no man is allowed into this house.”

  She is pointing at a reed that is jutting out from the roof just above the door.

  “He grew up in the land of the white man. He does not know that a reed like this means there is a newborn baby in the house and no man is allowed,” observes another woman sympathetically.

  “But he is the father of the child,” says another one. “Fathers are not barred from the reed.”

  “Who says he is the father? The grandmothers said Qukezwa was a virgin.”

  More women come out of the house and join the debate, completely ignoring Camagu, who just stands there looking foolish.

  “Even if he is the father,” asserts a toothless wizened hag, “he is not married to this daughter of Zim. When the custom says a father is allowed into the reed it means a father who is married to the mother of the baby.”

  “Yes,” adds another one, “it does not mean those men who have just ejected their seed illicitly.”

  “It does not mean the eaters of stolen fruit,” shout others.

  But some disagree. A father is a father, they say. It is cruel not to let a father see his baby. A custom is a custom, says the opposing view. Men must learn not to urinate all over the place without taking responsibility for their actions by marrying the women they have urinated upon.

  “But who says this son of Cesane is the one who has spoiled this daughter of Zim?” a voice of sanity pipes up above all the din. But Camagu cannot hear it. He is drifting away from Zim’s homestead. Wandering aimlessly at first. To be as far away as possible from the jabbering women. Away to the sea. Aimfully. To his haunts with Qukezwa. To the ship at Ngcizele where he last saw her. To the Jacaranda.

  He sits on the railing where Qukezwa sat. The uxomoyi kingfisher sits on the mast and mocks him again. He laughs back at it. It did not expect this response. It flies away. He turns to the waves and conducts them as if they are a choir. They sing even louder and crash against the reefs with greater violence, creating snow-white surf. The children of Ngcizele shriek as they clamber down the rocks to the sea to swim and to draw the medicinal sea water that their parents use for drinking and douching. They wonder at the strange man who is playing on the skeleton of the ship. He beckons to them and they paddle away laughing. He creates his own Qukezwa, holds her very tightly, and dances around vigorously. The children watch in wonderment and laugh. They mimic him and dance around the ship.

  In the meantime the Qukezwa of flesh and blood is sulking at the women who are fussing over her. She heard how Camagu came to see her and was not allowed to enter the rondavel. They could at least have called her out to talk to him, she moans. If she never sees him again, she and her baby will never forgive them. Heitsi bears witness to this by bawling for the entire world to hear. He bawls all the time. The women say it is because the sacred rituals of his father’s clan have not been performed for him, since his father is not known.

  Heitsi bawled for the entire world to hear. Qukezwa sang a lullaby, hoping he would sleep. She was beginning to despair. Twin walked in front of her, humming a song about the coming salvation. He did not waver in his belief. Other Believers were disappointed in him, though. They were complaining that they had elected him by acclamation to be the leader of the secret forces that would destroy the houses, crops, and cattle of the Unbelievers. But he seemed to have lost all interest in the raids. He just wanted to sit on the hill with Qukezwa, and await salvation that would come from the Russian ships. Somehow his belief had made him lethargic.

  The staunch Believers continued their raids without him. But they were collecting less and less booty. The Unbelievers had hidden their cattle in those chiefdoms that had strong unbelieving chiefs. Twin-Twin, for instance, hid all his herds in the Amathole Mountains where his numerous sons looked after them. They had established permanent cattle-posts with protected villages deep in the gorges that were hard to reach.

  In the other villages, though, the raids continued unabated. Hordes of hungry Believers burnt down the Unbelievers’ homesteads after looting them. The Unbelievers appealed to Gawler and his master, The Man Who Named Ten Rivers, for protection. Although Gawler protected Twin-Twin personally, for the man was considered useful by the colonial government, the rest of the Unbelievers were without protection. All The Man Who Named Ten Rivers would say was that the Unbelievers should hold their ground. But he would not send his military force to defend them. He made it clear that the military would be sent only if the hordes strayed into white settlements and farms.

  The raids were not on Twin’s mind as he led Qukezwa down the hill. Even the bawling Heitsi did not get on his nerves. He was thinking only of one thing: salvation.

  “Father of Heitsi, the child is hungry,” said Qukezwa feebly.

  But Twin did not respond. He marched on, humming his hymn. Qukezwa rushed past him and stood in front of him. She threw the child into his arms.

  “What now, Qu?” he asked.

  “He is your child too, Father of Heitsi! And he is hungry!”

  �
��We’ll get something to eat at Mhlakaza’s. If you are tired of carrying the baby, I don’t mind helping you. In any case, Heitsi is old enough to walk on his own. You spoil him when you carry him on your back at this age.”

  “He can’t walk, Father of Heitsi. He is hungry. And we won’t get anything at Mhlakaza’s. We didn’t get anything there last time. Mhlakaza himself was hungry. So were the prophetesses.”

  As they approached Mhlakaza’s homestead they were welcomed by the wailing of women. The sound was subdued yet searing. Twin knew at once that there was a death in this house. He handed Heitsi back to Qukezwa and ran to Mhlakaza’s house. There were more women inside, kneeling around Mhlakaza’s skeletal corpse. Another casualty of starvation. Nombanda and her brother Nqula were there as well. They were not wailing. They just sat there and stared into nothingness. As usual they were unkempt. But Nongqawuse was nowhere to be seen. It was whispered that she had taken refuge with one of the believing chiefs.

  “He was a great man!” declared Twin. He would have cried, but his eyes no longer had tears. He just knelt down next to the dried-out corpse and whimpered softly. He lamented the demise of the robust gospel man and the effervescent guardian of the prophetesses, who was now reduced to a bundle of bones.

  “The dogs of the government are here!” screamed a woman outside.

  It was Mjuza. He was accompanied by a group of fourteen men on horseback. They were all in police uniform. Mjuza was now a member of Major Gawler’s police force.

  “We have come to arrest Mhlakaza and the girls,” announced Mjuza.

  “You will have to go to the world of the ancestors to arrest him,” said Twin triumphantly.

  “What? Is he dead?” asked a disappointed Mjuza.

  “How else do you join the ancestors?” asked Twin.

  “We are too late,” said Mjuza, addressing his men. “He has escaped justice. But we’ll take the girls with us.”

  “That is sacrilege!” shouted Twin. “You cannot touch the prophetesses.”

  “Try to stop us,” mocked Mjuza, getting down from his horse and walking into the rondavel. Two policemen followed him. The Believers watched helplessly as they walked out of the house dragging Nombanda and Nqula with them.

  “Where is Nongqawuse?” barked Mjuza.

  Nobody answered.

  “I will find her, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “If it is Mhlakaza and Nongqawuse that you want, why are you arresting Nombanda? And what has her brother Nqula done?” demanded Twin.

  “Nombanda was Mhlakaza’s prophetess as well,” said Mjuza. “She spoke as much as Nongqawuse, and was often preferred to her. And the boy Nqula, he was Mhlakaza’s messenger. He was the one who was often sent to the chiefs.”

  Twin shouted after the policemen as they rode away with the boy and girl, “You will pay for this, Mjuza! The ancestors will punish you! Your own father, our great Prophet Nxele, will twist your neck for consorting with the conquerors of his people, they who have murdered the son of their own god!”

  Mjuza only laughed at his empty words.

  People remained asking themselves what had happened to Mjuza. He was the son of Nxele, the prophet who prophesied the resurrection of the dead in 1818! He who was known far and wide as a great anti-colonial militant! He who was a war hero, who burnt down a mission station in Butterworth in 1851 and was shot in the stomach by a colonial bullet! He who had announced at the beginning of the cattle-killing movement that his father was coming back at the head of the Russian army to liberate the amaXhosa people! Here he was today, a servant of his colonial masters, a hero of the Unbelievers! Indeed burning embers gave birth to ashes!

  Meanwhile, Twin-Twin was happy to hear that the power of the prophets of Gxarha had finally been broken. He rejoiced even more when he heard later that Nongqawuse herself was finally routed out of her hiding place and arrested. And so was Nonkosi, the prophetess of the Mpongo River. They were all in the custody of Major John Gawler.

  Perhaps now the madness will come to an end in the land and families will come together, thought Twin-Twin. But after all the pain inflicted on him by the scourge of belief, he would not forgive Twin. He would not forgive his own senior wife either. She who was once identified by Mlanjeni as a witch. She on whose behalf he had suffered the humiliation of flagellation. She who had defected to the Believers. His scars itched terribly at the thought of the treacherous woman.

  The saddest thing about NoPetticoat’s defection to Camagu’s cooperative society is that no one scratches and soothes Bhonco’s scars when they itch in anger. Although the once-happy couple live in the same house, they don’t talk anymore. And Bhonco, son of Ximiya, is determined that he will not talk to her until she returns to her senses.

  She, on the other hand, is determined never to come to any senses other than those that she has at the moment. These are the senses that made her long for her beautiful isiXhosa costumes of the amahomba after seeing the work done by MamCirha and NoGiant at the cooperative society; that made her defy her husband and daughter by joining the cooperative; and that have turned her into a traitor in the eyes of the members of her family, especially now that she sees the issues of development in the village with the same eye as the Believers.

  To Bhonco this is the ultimate betrayal. The furrows on his face have become deeper and sadder. Once more the Believers have won a battle. Only a battle, not the war. The war is going to be a protracted one. The Unbelievers will win in the end, because civilization is on their side. Is it not written that victory shall be achieved over the forces of darkness? Light always overcomes darkness and banishes it away.

  This thought brings joy to his heart. But instead of crying—it is his habit to cry for beautiful things—he bursts out laughing. He just melts into laughter. He has finally found it taxing to be grave and angry all the time. He walks all over the village laughing. The hadedah ibises retreat, unable to compete with his laughter. He is disgraced among his fellow Unbelievers. The story is relayed from one mouth to another. “Did you hear the latest? Bhonco laughed!”

  The turncoat NoPetticoat is blamed for his debilitated behavior.

  Bhonco laughs all the way to Vulindlela Trading Store. Here he finds Camagu pleading with Dalton to go with him to Zim’s to ask for Qukezwa’s hand in marriage. They suddenly stop their conversation. They are alarmed to see the elder laughing.

  “I greet you, destroyers of my people!” says Bhonco cheerfully.

  “Is something wrong, Tat’uBhonco?” inquires Dalton, looking at him closely.

  “Should there be anything wrong, besides the mess you have all dragged us into?”

  Camagu and Dalton observe that the laughter is only in his voice. His eyes are sadder than ever.

  “Give me ityala, you son of my dead friend, and stop asking me stupid questions,” says Bhonco, waving his hands dismissively.

  He demands that Dalton give him credit for corned beef and pipe tobacco. He must write it in his black book, because his daughter, the school principal, will pay. His name, he says, is Bhonco, son of Ximiya. He does not depend on his wife’s nkamnkam or old-age pension. He has educated his daughter precisely so that she could look after him in his old age. As far as he is concerned—and he indicates that he is saying this for the benefit of Camagu—his wife can eat all her money with the Believers who have bewitched her into their camp.

  “Your wife joined the cooperative because she wanted to,” says Camagu, as Dalton puts the goods the elder wants on the counter in front of him. “No one enticed her there. It is for her own good and the good of her family. Soon she will be making more money than the nkamnkam she gets from the government.”

  Bhonco bursts out laughing, takes his canned beef and tobacco, and walks out of the store. The two men shake their heads pityingly.

  “Is the world coming to an end?” asks Dalton.

  “There is nothing cheerful about that laughter,” observes Camagu. “It is the laughter of sadness.”

 
“You know, what you want me to do . . . my wife will be very angry with me,” says Dalton, reverting to what they were discussing before the laughing elder walked in. “She does not understand what you see in Zim’s daughter.”

  “Your wife will never understand. I know that even my friends in Johannesburg would never understand. Sleeping with her, yes. But marrying her! They would certify me mad.”

  “This is highly irregular, Camagu,” says Dalton. “I am not your relative. Normally three of your relatives would go to ask for the woman’s hand.”

  “I don’t have a relative here, John. So you qualify.”

  Zim is sitting under his big tree with four of his male and female relatives when Dalton and Camagu arrive. The ululants and hecklers are not here today. No one knows why Bhonco has recalled them. He has been doing inexplicable things ever since he started this business of laughing.

  After greeting the elders, Dalton says, “So you got the message that we would be coming to talk about the intombi—the young woman?”

  “Are you the visitors we are expecting?” asks Zim incredulously.

  “It is us, Tat’uZim,” says Dalton.

  The relatives inspect them from head to toe. All the while they are puffing on their long pipes and ejecting jets of spittle onto the ground. It is a habit that Dalton hates, but he ignores it. He is a beggar here and he cannot dictate how people should behave. Two chairs are brought for them. The relatives are sitting on the ground. They look disappointed.

  “We are listening,” says Zim.

  “We have come to ask for the intombi,” says Dalton.

  “Has the young man already spoken with our intombi?” asks one of the relatives.

  “Please allow us to confer first,” pleads Dalton.

  The relatives look at one another in amazement.

  “Confer? This is a simple question. But we’ll allow you to confer,” says Zim.

  Dalton and Camagu walk out of the relatives’ earshot.