by Mda, Zakes
To Bhonco, all these things represent defeat. The Believers have won. He has nothing more to lose. And it is all John Dalton’s fault. He brought that despicable Camagu to this village. They both stood with the Believers against the Unbelievers. As a result he lost the abaThwa dance, he lost his wife, he lost his daughter, and he lost the respect and prestige that he enjoyed in his village. The village itself lost a glittering gambling paradise that would have changed life for everyone. Instead it got a rustic holiday camp that lacks the glamour of the gambling city.
And there is Zim. It is almost six years since he left. A new millennium has dawned. The excitement it caused has died, and people have now become used to the idea. Yet he hasn’t forgotten that damned Zim. The Zim who is now venerated as an ancestor. The Zim for whom the living slaughter animals so that he may communicate their messages to Qamata, while Bhonco languishes on earth. The Zim who is capable of telling lies about him to the other ancestors, and of influencing them to distance themselves from him.
Bhonco feels that everything has gone wrong for him. He must avenge Xikixa’s head. Somehow it must be restored. Dalton must speak with his ancestors to see to it that Xikixa’s head is restored. Only then will things come right for Bhonco and his divided homestead.
He takes his panga and knobkerrie, and casually walks to the cultural village that Dalton established a few years back in direct competition to the holiday camp. It is also a cooperative society, run by Dalton with the assistance of NoVangeli and NoManage. Although it is called a cultural village, it is not really a village. There are four mud rondavels, thatched with grass and fenced in by reeds. The outside walls of the rondavels are decorated with colorful geometric patterns. Inside there are clay pots of different sizes, which are for sale. Grass mats are strewn all over the cow-dung floor. There is nothing else. In a large clearing in front of the rondavels, village actors walk around in various isiXhosa costumes. Some are sitting on tree stumps, drinking sorghum beer. When the tourists come, the amagqiyazana, the young girls who have not yet reached puberty, are invited to dance. They are always happy for the tips they get from the visitors, who are usually guests at the Blue Flamingo.
Bhonco demands to see John Dalton. NoManage tells him that he has left for his store. Bhonco climbs the hill to Vulindlela Trading Store. He finds Dalton arranging the black credit books in readiness for the nkamnkam day tomorrow, when old-age pensioners come to cash their checks. When he sees Bhonco he assumes that the elder has come for more ityala, more credit.
“There cannot be any ityala for you today,” says Dalton.
“Who says I want ityala?” replies Bhonco.
But Dalton is not listening. He just prattles on, “I know your daughter sends you money regularly. She has a good job, that Xoliswa Ximiya. A deputy directorship in the national Department of Education is not to be sneezed at. You must be proud of her. But I will only give more credit to people after nkamnkam day.”
“I do not want ityala, Dalton,” says Bhonco calmly. “I want you to ask your forefather to restore the head of my forefather.”
“The head of your forefather? Have you gone crazy?”
“Give me the head of Xikixa, Dalton!”
Before Dalton can answer, Bhonco hits him with his knobkerrie on the head. The trader falls down, unconscious. Bhonco gives him two whacks with his panga. Blood spurts out and sprays the walls. Missis runs from her tiny office wailing. Screaming clerks and salespeople join her. Bhonco lashes out at everyone. He is foaming at the mouth as he screeches something about the head that has caused him misery. Customers and passersby finally grab him and disarm him. Dalton is unconscious on the floor. He is bleeding profusely from a gaping wound on the head and another one on the arm.
Gxagxa neighs. Qukezwa does not stop her song of many voices. She only looks up and smiles. Whenever the horse has had its fill of grazing, it comes looking for her everywhere. If she is not at the cottage, it goes to Nongqawuse’s Valley. If she is not there still, it goes to the sea, particularly to the lagoon. She is sure to be there. They love each other, Gxagxa and Qukezwa. It was her father’s favorite horse. Her father lives in this horse. She wouldn’t dare do anything shameful in its presence, nor utter words she would never have uttered in her father’s presence. She gives it the same kind of respect she gave her father.
It neighs again. She jumps out of the water, and goes to caress its neck. She tells it to go and graze some more, for she intends spending the whole day playing in the sea. She hopes that Heitsi will finally agree to follow her into the water. She will make a swimmer of Heitsi yet. Heitsi is afraid of the sea.
Qukezwa fills the valley with her many voices. She fills the wild beach with dull colors. Colors that are hazy and misty. Gray mist, not white. She sings of Qukezwa walking in the mist. She is so bony. Her eyes are bulging out of her skull. They are resting on her high cheekbones. Her hide skirt is tattered. She does not sport a single strand of beads. Beads were long since exchanged for food. She is the woman of the sea. She is a strandloper. A beach scavenger. As long as the sea yields, she and her son will not go hungry. It is high time Heitsi learned to harvest the sea. How will he survive if something happens to her? Heitsi is afraid of the sea.
She sings of prophetesses walking in the mist.
A white woman is teaching them ring-a-ring of roses. She is Mrs. Gawler. They live with her and her husband, Major John Gawler. Mrs. Gawler finds them quite amusing, although they can’t get the hang of the simplest of games. She teaches them beautiful children’s songs that celebrate death: Ring-a-ring of roses. A pocket full of posies. Atishoo! Atishoo! We all fall down!
These children. These prophets. They do not know how to fall down. They do it so artlessly. So gracelessly. So crudely. Their heads are so hard they cannot catch the simplest of games. Well, Nonkosi catches on faster. And knows how to have fun. She plays hopscotch too. Nongqawuse and Nombanda are difficult to figure out. Especially Nongqawuse. She seems confused most of the time. And unkempt.
Mrs. Gawler tries to teach them the rudiments of good grooming. They are immersed in a bathtub, and she sees to it that they scrub their sacred bodies with pebbles, and wash themselves thoroughly with soap and water. Until the layers of dirt have peeled off. She dresses them nicely in colorful dresses. Young prophets in summer dresses. She and Dr. Fitzgerald—the miracle doctor that The Man Who Named Ten Rivers brought from New Zealand—take the prophetesses to a photo-graphic studio for their portraits.
“Smile Nonkos!” she says.
Click.
“Come on, Nongause! Don’t be so sullen! Smile!”
Click.
These prophets. Not only do they not know how to fall. They do not know how to smile either.
Click! Click!
Then they all sail to Cape Town in the Alice Smith. Throughout the voyage the sacred girls are a showpiece. Everyone wants to take a good look at them. In Cape Town the prophetesses are taken to the Paupers’ Lodge, where they are incarcerated with a large number of female prisoners and transportees.
“Nongqawuse really sells the holiday camp,” Camagu tells John Dalton, who is lying in a hospital bed. “When we advertise in all the important travel magazines we use her name. Qolorha is the place of miracles. It would have been even more profitable if she had been buried there.”
Dalton groans and tries to move. The drip shakes. He groans again. He looks like a mummy with bandages all over his body. All sorts of strange contraptions lead to his body. They are taking good care of him at this very expensive private hospital in East London. The doctor has told Camagu that he is lucky to be alive. He will survive. But there is no guarantee that he will have all his faculties functioning as before.
“You will be glad to hear that Bhonco has been arrested,” says Camagu, trying to stretch the conversation to fill the time. Dalton lets out a long groan as if to say he wants to near nothing of the madman.
“You must get well soon, John,” says Camagu sincerely. “This rivalry
of ours is bad. Our feud has lasted for too many years. Five. Almost six. And for what? Nothing! There is room for both the holiday camp and the cultural village at Qolorha. We must all work together. You must come back home quickly, John. We need your business expertise at the holiday camp.”
Dalton groans his agreement. He tries to lift his heavily bandaged hand. Camagu shakes it gently.
As he drives back home he sees wattle trees along the road. Qukezwa taught him that these are enemy trees. All along the way he cannot see any of the indigenous trees that grow in abundance at Qolorha. Just the wattle and other imported trees. He feels fortunate that he lives in Qolorha. Those who want to preserve indigenous plants and birds have won the day there. At least for now. But for how long? The whole country is ruled by greed. Everyone wants to have his or her snout in the trough. Sooner or later the powers that be may decide, in the name of the people, that it is good for the people to have a gambling complex at Qolorha-by-Sea. And the gambling complex shall come into being. And of course the powers that be or their proxies—in the form of wives, sons, daughters, and cousins—shall be given equity. And so the people shall be empowered.
Qukezwa sings in soft pastel colors and looks at Heitsi. Qukezwa swallows a mouthful of fresh oysters and looks at Heitsi.
Oh, this Heitsi! He is afraid of the sea. How will he survive without the sea? How will he carry out the business of saving his people? Qukezwa grabs him by his hand and drags him into the water. He is screaming and kicking wildly. Wild waves come and cover them for a while, then rush back again. Qukezwa laughs excitedly. Heitsi screams even louder, pulling away from her grip, “No, mama! No! This boy does not belong in the sea! This boy belongs in the man village!”