People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  She continued to look down at the array of items. ‘There is much here,’ she went on calmly. ‘There is death and deception and a great evil. But there is goodness and reward too. You cannot change what the ancients foretell. Whichever path you choose, these things will come to pass. The evil I speak of will touch the lives of two families, yours and one other. There is nothing you can do to prevent it.’ A shudder ran through her. ‘I have never seen such wickedness,’ she whispered.

  Wilson went cold. The sangoma was never wrong.

  ‘The spirits are already at work. Your destiny is in place.’ She looked up at him briefly. ‘Remember this. Do not lose your way to sorrow. You have been selected. The third king of the Zulu nation watches you. Use your time well and be satisfied.’ She picked up a handful of dirt. ‘One speck may not seem much. How would it be if each speck believed itself insignificant and went away?’

  Wilson sat spellbound. Consultations with the sangoma always both fascinated and frightened him. Her message was clear enough: walk before you run.

  She looked back at the skin. ‘Inkatha will rise again. You will play a small part. Do not be disappointed. Many will do the same. Remember, one speck of dirt does not make a land but have faith in the strength of many specks for that is the shape of the future.’ She picked up the assorted pieces and put them back into the pouch before rolling up the skin and tucking it behind her. When next the sangoma spoke, it was with the voice of a friend rather than in the dreamy trance of someone in touch with the spirits. ‘You will find Nandi easily. Not today or the next but the one after that. Accept that she has changed. If you can do that, you will be happy. Take time to spend with her, you owe yourself that much.’ She nodded briefly to indicate the session was over.

  Wilson rose to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have listened and heard your words.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Your first son is a fine boy,’ she called out after him. ‘You will be proud of him.’

  Wilson kept walking and did not look back. But a smile of joy crossed his face.

  The Inyanga, the traditional healer of the village, greeted him as he passed. Wilson briefly considered consulting him too. True, his main function was curing coughs, stomach upsets, and many other ailments with his potions of bark, leaves, seeds and animal parts but he was also skilled in other ways. He had proved many times that his potions could protect against lightning strikes, turn bad luck into good, cast love spells, ensure successful harvests of staple foods such as sorghum, millet, beans, sweet potatoes and pumpkins. Also, if an evil spell had been cast against a village member, the Inyanga – the man of the trees – was capable of turning it away.

  Tempting as it was to hedge his bets and ask the Inyanga for guidance and perhaps a magic spell to assist his quest in finding Nandi, Wilson kept walking. The sangoma was the one in touch with the spirits and the spirits had sent a clear message. Better not to anger them.

  His father was set to say more about bringing Nandi back to the village but, despite his high status within the clan, not even he would dare to quibble with the sangoma’s advice. All he could do was shake his head and tut at the changing way of things. Wilson said goodbye to his family and set off towards the coast.

  He was still undecided. One part of him yearned to take Nandi and his son home, home to where the spirits of his ancestors still hunted the hills and valleys; home to where the rising sun sent long shadows sliding across valley floors as it burned through the early mist; home to where high cliffs bounced back the voices of his cattle, echoes mingled with the distant cry of the black eagles. It would be so easy to turn his back and go forward into the past.

  But could he? The fingers of another world had already reached his village. It was only the beginning. He had seen the white man’s cooking pots, store-bought chairs, even a paraffin refrigerator. Village life had changed and Wilson knew it would not stop there. Progress was like a runaway train, and just as impartial. The Zulus would have to take the good with the bad. Would they rush headlong to embrace the ways of the white man only to find they hadn’t progressed at all?

  Thoughts churned inside him as he walked. He had seen the towns and what they did to his people. He had seen Zulus who wanted what the whites had but who, out of desperation, had found work in kitchens and gardens and answered to the insultingly uniform call of ‘boy’. It was clear to Wilson that the Zulus needed direction, but which way? How? Would the proud nation raised by Shaka flounder and disappear? Was that the destiny of his people?

  Just as he thought he knew which of the sangoma’s paths he must take, Wilson’s resolve would waver towards the other. She had said Inkatha would rise again and he would be among those responsible. Could he do it from his rural village or should he stay in a city or large town?

  Wilson reached Empangeni the following evening, dropping from the hills just as the sun sank behind them. His original intention had been to travel light with just the clothes he wore, his shield, spears and knobkerrie, but his mother had pressed gifts on to him for Nandi and his son, his sisters suggested he take some European-style clothes to wear when he sought work and he also needed something in which to carry the food his father insisted he should take. In the end, it was all packed into his army kitbag.

  An aunt lived just outside Empangeni and he made his way there, knowing he would be made welcome. Despite their proximity to the town, none knew of Nandi’s whereabouts. Wilson woke early the next morning and set off again, towards the ocean.

  The sangoma had said to look for a place where the rhinoceros comes close to the sea, just below where the people of the bad omen had settled. Rhinoceros, he knew, did not venture onto a beach. Nor were they to be found this close to big towns. However, the sangoma had been quite specific so he stuck to the dirt road which ran along the coast. At a quarter past one in the afternoon he found what he was looking for. UBejane Estate. He went through the arched gateway and set off up a straight road flanked on either side by sugar cane. Reaching the first crossroad, he stopped. Which way? A voice hailed him in lilting English, ‘You are on private property, Zulu. What is it you seek here?’

  Wilson turned and found himself looking at a tall Indian Sikh. Automatically, he drew himself to his full height, transferred his spears to his left hand and held up the other, palm out, so the approaching man could see he carried no weapon and came in friendship. ‘I come to find my wife and son,’ he said in English, the only language common to such widely diverse cultural backgrounds.

  The Indian stopped in front of him. ‘And who might they be?’

  ‘They are Nandi and Dyson Mpande.’

  The Sikh’s expression changed. ‘You would be Wilson, isn’t it?’

  Wilson nodded.

  ‘Goodness! They will be very pleased to see you are coming. Goodness, yes.’ He directed Wilson towards the Zulu compound. ‘If you are stopped along the way tell them Raj knows you. That is being myself,’ he added gravely. ‘Goodness!’

  Wilson thanked Raj and turned to go.

  ‘Wait, Zulu.’

  He turned back.

  ‘If you see a white man on a horse it would be best if you seek cover. The man who owns this farm is . . . goodness, how do I put it . . . you do not know which way he will jump. Once he was a man who was fair but, ever since he returned from the war . . .’ Raj shrugged. ‘Try to stay out of his sight.’

  Wilson looked at the Sikh. He could see the man spoke from his heart. But he, Wilson, was a Zulu. He would not hide like some whipped dog from anyone. Raj was watching him anxiously and Wilson realised that if the white owner found him wandering on his property it would most likely be the Indian he would blame. So he nodded gravely, thanked the man again and left, following his directions through the cane fields.

  While the healthy and neatly planted fields were not as pleasing to the eye as the rows of mealies at home that curved with each gentle contour of the land, they nonetheless were living evidence of the white man’s determination and knowledge. Not
only were the plants organised into clearly defined sections, they were obviously thriving in the sandy soil and, wonder of wonders, pipes pushed out long arcs of water keeping them alive.

  He passed a field where Indian women were hoeing out weeds, backs bent to their task, working methodically, without distracting chatter. Quite suddenly he reached the end of the sugar cane. This was more like it. The undulating land stretched away towards distant hills. It wasn’t the dramatic country of home but Wilson preferred it to the flat symmetry of cane fields. He could see cattle grazing and his critical eye noted how fine they were, straight backed and well fleshed, coats a healthy shine in the afternoon sun, a herd to be proud of. Carefully shutting the gate as he had found it Wilson set off up the winding road, passing between two large boulders.

  Dyson Mpande, making preparations to ambush Michael, watched the stranger go past, wondering who he was. The man walked with the proud bearing of one who carried ancestral greatness. Dyson was impressed.

  Nandi Mpande placed a cover over the Olivetti typewriter and stood up. ‘I have finished the letters, Mrs King.’

  Claire glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one-thirty. Nandi had stayed back an extra half-hour to finish the typing. She only worked a half day and was usually gone by one. ‘Thank you, Nandi. I will post them this afternoon.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Tomorrow we’ll do the accounts.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Nandi collected up her purse. ‘I will see you tomorrow, madam.’

  Claire nodded vaguely, returning to her shortsighted examination of the day’s mail.

  Nandi left the office and stepped off the verandah. When she got home there were thirty letters to write for the Bantu Purity League, food to prepare and, if time permitted, she might spend an hour or so on the heavy, pleated skirt she was making for herself from ox hide. The beadwork was time consuming but each colour had traditional significance and she had already planned a matching headdress. Normally her husband would have created the basic skirt, leaving Nandi to deal only with the beadwork, but Wilson had been away for five years and Nandi had no idea when he would return. Although she wore a dress and shoes in the European style when working in the farm office, she preferred a simple wraparound piece of material or, for more formal occasions, the ox-hide skirt.

  It was sticky hot and the sun burned through the thin cotton of her dress as she hurried towards the compound. Nandi often longed for the cooler air of her home in the hill country. What would Wilson think when he arrived to find her gone? There was no such thing as a mail service to the village and, when he left, Wilson did not have an address where letters might reach him. There had been no way to let him know that she was moving. She had no idea where he was but she knew he was still alive because the sangoma had told her that he was safe and she would see him again. Nandi expected that her husband would beat her for leaving the village. She accepted that. But what if he insist she return? Although trained from her earliest years to obey her father and brothers, and then her husband and his male relatives, Nandi knew she could not go back.

  Her father-in-law had beaten her and demanded she stay in the village to await Wilson’s return. Nandi had expected him to do that. She faced her punishment squarely, making no attempt to sneak off. It had broken her heart when, with contempt in his voice, Wilson’s father had disowned her, saying he would only ‘see’ her again when she came to her senses. Wilson’s mother had no option but to shun her daughter-in-law but not before Nandi saw sorrow, understanding and even approval on her normally expressionless face.

  Nandi made her way along the road towards where it forked. She sighed. Sometimes it seemed that the Bantu Purity League was getting nowhere. Girls still flocked to the towns, seeking work. So did the men, leaving their wives and children at home in the villages. Loneliness brought them together and the inevitable consequence of an unwanted pregnancy was so often the outcome. The league knew they could not prevent men and women lying together so they tried to encourage hlobonga. Traditional tribal custom accepted sexual activities from puberty onwards. Young men and women were free to enjoy mutual stimulation, but on no account was a girl to lose her virginity. Girls were instructed in ways to squeeze their thighs together. This technique, hlobonga, prevented penetration while, at the same time, giving their partner pleasure.

  These days, it seemed, the old ways were not enough. Nandi and her colleagues were fighting a losing battle. It was not only in the matter of sex. Instead of toiling in the fields, many young women preferred to work in the homes of whites, living in servants’ quarters, or kias as they were called. There they slept on beds rather than mats and cooked their food over paraffin burners in preference to an open fire. The men found them lazy and disobedient, compared them unfavourably with their traditional wives back in the villages but that didn’t stop them accepting the hospitality of these more modern girls. Nandi could see that despite their best efforts to keep tribal values alive, members of the Bantu Purity League themselves were adopting more modern ways. They too were less inclined to accept that a man’s word was law. Recently Nandi had found herself wondering the same thing.

  When a representative of the league first visited Wilson’s village and respectfully asked the chief if she could address the women, that in itself was a sufficient break with tradition for the chief to refuse permission. The visitor had simply gone behind his back and spoken to the women one at a time. While most of the women agreed that the breakdown of tribal ways was a terrible thing, their lives were fully occupied. Their menfolk forbade them to become involved in anything perceived as a threat to male authority and, for the life of them, most of the women could not separate in their minds the new-look league representative from those girls she purported were in need of saving.

  Nandi had been the woman’s only conscript, though she had at first baulked at leaving the village to serve the league in the far off district of Empangeni.

  ‘Why can’t I work here?’ she asked.

  The representative had spent two days convincing Nandi that she would be more useful in a bigger place.

  ‘How will I live?’ Nandi worried, wavering a little.

  ‘I will find work for you. The league cannot pay you but I can get you a job that will.’

  She had been as good as her word. Nandi arrived in Empangeni two weeks later carrying all her worldly possessions, a three-year-old son in tow and the fading bruises of Wilson’s father’s fists on her body.

  The league representative took her to UBejane to meet Claire King. Thanks to her cousin Bessie who worked in the kitchen, she knew Claire needed help with the office work. When Claire learned that Nandi had been taught English at a mission school, she hired her on the spot.

  A whole new world then opened up for Nandi. Mrs King taught her how to use the typewriter, how to answer the telephone and, when she discovered that Nandi’s handwriting was a beautiful flowing script, how to enter transactions into the ledger. Nandi had proved an apt and willing student, in four years becoming an invaluable assistant, extending her duties to include writing out orders and preparation of the wages book. Mrs King paid her well and had offered a room in the servants’ quarters near the house. When Nandi refused, saying she’d rather live in the manner to which she was familiar, Mrs King provided her with a house in the Zulu compound.

  Nandi was lost in thought as she walked. For the past four days Mrs King had not been her normal self. Her husband had come home and instead of being overjoyed and happy, she appeared to be preoccupied and distant. A tension had appeared in her manner and, once or twice, she had snapped at Nandi for no apparent reason. It was obvious that things between Mrs King and her husband were not going well. When she was introduced to Mr King, Nandi could see that the difficulties stemmed from him. He always had liquor on his breath and seemed either distant or aggressive. Talk in the compound among those who knew him before he went away, was that he had become a different person.

  Nandi could not make allowances for this. She simpl
y did not like him. Once or twice he had looked at her too boldly and, one time, when Mrs King was out of the office, he had brushed his hand against her breast on the pretext of reaching for something on the desk.

  Up until his return Nandi had enjoyed her work. Now she was wary. There was something about Joe King she did not trust. And she could not understand why he seemed so disinterested in the farm, preferring to spend his days drinking or hanging around the office criticising.

  Yesterday, Mrs King had obviously asked him why he wasn’t getting more involved in the farm and Nandi heard him shout, ‘Give me a fucking break, I’ve been injured for Christ’s sake.’ Mrs King had not come back to the office for a long time. When she did, her eyes were red.

  Nandi had nearly reached the compound. Busy with her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the man coming towards her. He was a stranger, dressed in the manner of a Zulu. It was unusual, these days, to see a man wearing traditional apparel. ‘He is fine looking,’ she thought, lowering her eyes so he would not see admiration in them as they drew closer. Nandi was a healthy young woman and lately her body had been telling her it was too long since she had lain with a man. She had remained faithful to Wilson because she loved him but it was increasingly difficult not to have immodest thoughts. Failing to resist one last peep at the approaching man she looked up and gave a cry of unrestrained joy. ‘Wilson!’

  Wilson stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t paid much attention to the woman walking towards him. His mind was on Nandi. When he realised it was she, he dropped the kitbag and, holding his shield and spears proudly, walked towards her with as much dignity as he could muster. Nandi approached her husband with the same restraint. Twenty metres apart both gave up and ran the last of the distance, laughing and shouting. He caught her up in his arms, spun her around and then wrapped her in a bear hug. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘I have missed you too.’

  ‘Oh, wife,’ he whispered. ‘How good it feels to hold you again.’