Mother to Mother

  ‘Such noble sacrifice. But then, the more terrible the abomination, the greater the sacrifice called for. That is the simple law of cause and effect.

  ‘And they burned their fields. A people who lived off the land, who had no use for the button without a hole, who planted during the planting season, diligently tended their fields — hoeing and weeding — watered the plants and harvested them when the time was ripe. They burned their fields. People with izisele high enough for a full grown man to stand upright, so that you couldn’t see even a blade of hair from his head, burned their fields. What would they feed those large, hungry izisele now? Whence would the corn, pumpkin, beans and other vegetable to be stored come from?

  ‘But the same call to kill their cattle had also urged them to burn down their thriving fields. Burn them to the ground. Raze everything. Razed to the ground. Not a stump left standing.

  ‘With neither cattle nor harvest, never having handled the button without a hole, what would they do now? How would they live? How would they survive? Where would they go? How were they to live . . . to sustain themselves?’

  Tatomkhulu took a sip from the gourd of amarhewu Mama had come and put before him.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and lowered the gourd for me to drink. I gulped down some amarhewu and went back to where I had been sitting on the bare ground with my feet tucked under me. He took another swig and then continued:

  ‘On the appointed day, nothing untoward happened. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary. The sun rose in the east. That had been expected. People waited. They waited till it reached the zenith, high noon, when it left no shadow on the ground.

  ‘Eyes unblinking, they looked at the sun.

  ‘Did it move forward?

  ‘No!

  ‘Yes!

  ‘Maybe!

  ‘For a few, very long minutes, they couldn’t tell. They went on hoping, though. Their very lives depended on the reversal of things, the natural order turned upside down.

  ‘Soon, soon, tragically soon, there could be no doubt however. The sun was progressing as before, continuing on its preordained path, going forward, forward, and forever forward. As it had done for a million million years. The first sign betrayed. Dared they hope still?

  ‘The sun went and died in the west.

  ‘What of the promise? What of the prophecy? The first sign betrayed, dared they hope still?’

  The sun will rise in the east, as usual. It will go up and up and up till it reaches the highest point in the sky. Then, instead of going west, it will turn back, turn back and go and set in the east. The sun will set in the east!

  Then, with the rising of the new sun, all the things that had been killed and burned would rise again. New corn, cobs tall and big as the thighs of a maiden; fruit and vegetable — fresh, firm, juicy and sweet — fruit and vegetable known and new to these lands; cattle — pure breeds: black-sheened, reds, nezimfusa, iinco — cows in calf, bulls lowing and strong, bullocks proud, muscles rippling as they, slowly, unhurriedly, moved . . . cattle, sheep, goats, and all other animals of the home, animals useful to folk . . . all these would rise from the ground. Yes, like plants, they would rise from the ground. As it was in the beginning. As it was when Qamata first made all the land and everything in it. As it was Embo, before the people wanted to see Qamata with their own, nothing, naked eyes. The very ones Qamata had given them to see. Things would be as good and unspoiled as they had been Embo, in the very beginning.

  ‘Those eyes now cast about in dire desperation. Where were all these things? The people of Embo looked . . . willing the promised miracle into being. And that was not all that had been promised them. No, that was not all they awaited . . . not all they hoped for in return for their terrible sacrifice.

  ‘That was not the miracle for which the People of Embo had sacrificed their all. After all, Qamata’s good earth was not without wild fowl and beast, not without wild herb and root. Rivers roared galloping downhill, skipped chuckling over boulders, meandered through sleepy fields of amazimba, before going to disappear among strange people, villages and villages away.

  ‘Remember now, the biggest miracle, the mother reason for the whole indaba, was the promise of a return to the way of before, when the people with hair like the silken threads of corn would be no more:

  ‘A great whirlwind will rise and drive all abelungu to the sea . . . where they will all drown.’

  ‘Would that happen? Could it happen even though not one of the other things promised had happened? Could it happen?

  ‘The people looked.

  ‘Where, then, was the sign? Where, the first intimation the prophecy would be fulfilled?

  ‘The people waited. Bile in their mouths. Anxiety grinding their intestines. They waited.

  ‘When not one of the miracles appeared, they wondered. Their eyes large with apprehension, they wondered. Wondered, still hoping. For, is it at a robust tree trunk the drowning man clutches?’

  Again, we wet our mouths at the gourd. After that, this time, Tatomkhulu said his voice would go unless he kissed his pipe. ‘Take another sip!’ he said. I did then waited as he drew a few more puffs, blew smoke into the air and, eyes closed, sighed in satisfaction.

  ‘The sun set in the west,’ he began after the short break. ‘The scorched ground remained wounded and black. Not a new blade of grass peeped. No great wind rose to drive abelungu to the sea. Not that day. Not the next. Not for all the days that the people waited. Meanwhile, abelungu remained stubbornly alive and well, their mines greedily hungry for the strong hands and arms of young men.

  ‘In a few days, the stench rose from rotting corpses of cattle killed in their thousands. Soon thereafter, the stench was of people dying. Old and young. Men and women. Children too. People dying in their hundreds of thousands.

  ‘Like a veld fire, the terrible news travelled. The vultures had heard of the great debate before the slaughter of the cattle and the burning of the fields. Now, the dying of the people of Embo brought them to the villages, Sir George Grey leading the pack. They came. Bringing gifts of food to the starving, dying people. Bringing a golden opportunity never to starve again. “To the mines, to the mines, hasten! hasten and be saved. Never will you hunger again. Never.”’

  For so long, Tatomkhlulu said, the villagers had resisted the enticement. Come to the mines! Come and get paid money, the button without a hole. The button without a hole will make you a very happy people.

  ‘But, long ago, Ntsikane, the Xhosa Seer, had warned the nation of the coming of the people with hair as the silken threads of corn. “They will bring you the Good Volume and the button without a hole.

  Take the volume! Take the volume!

  But beware the button without a hole!

  Do not take the button without a hole!

  Do not take it! Do not take it!

  Take the volume but not the button without a hole!”

  ‘Therefore, Mzukulwana, at the time of the killing of the cattle, amaXhosa still did not have the hunger for the button without a hole. Among them that hunger was still totally unknown. They had no need for the things the button without a hole could get for one.’

  Hayi, ilishwa!

  Amabhulu, azizinja!

  One settler, one bullet!

  By the match stick, we shall free our nation!

  ‘Oh, the road has been long, indeed. The songs came much, much later, I can tell you that. Before the songs, many others tried to rid our nation of the ones without colour, who had come from across the great sea.

  ‘Makana, the Left-Handed, prophesied outcomes similar to Nongqawuse’s. His magic would turn the bullets of the guns of abelungu to water.

  ‘At Isandlwana, with spear and shield, Cetywayo’s impis defeated the mighty British army and its guns.

  ‘Bulhoek, in Queenstown, is another example of resistance I can cite. Close to two hundred people murdered. Their sin? They wanted back their land and took possession of it, claiming it as their own. When they wouldn’t mov
e, even by force, bullets were unleashed on them..

  ‘But it was all to no avail. All to no avail. To this very day, abelungu are still here with us, Mzukulwana. The most renowned liar has not said they are about to disappear.’

  Tatomkhulu was a fund of facts that, although seemingly different, made a whole lot of sense of some of the things we learned at school. He explained what had seemed stupid decisions, and acts that had seemed indefensible became not only understandable but highly honourable.

  1 pm — Thursday 26 August

  As from a deep slumber, I dredged myself up. Fog in my head, thick and heavy, made me reluctant to rise to the point where I would open my eyes. Why was I so loath to face the day? A heavy rock sat in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Mama, you are awake?’ Siziwe was standing at the door leading from kitchen to dining-room. She looked fine. Why did this surprise me? Why was I surprised she looked fine? Vaguely, my mind grappled with the puzzle.

  ‘How are you?’

  The smell of fried eggs hit me. Just then, my stomach growled, reminding me it badly needed attention. Behind Siziwe, strong swathes of sunlight flooded the kitchen and yellowed the sink, cupboard, wall and linoleum. The kitchen and everything in it smiled sunnily.

  ‘I woke up,’ Siziwe replied. But there was no smile on the face looking at me.

  And suddenly, it all came back. The horror of last night . . . well, early this morning. My eyes flew open and I was just about to ask how her brothers were when, as though she had read my thoughts, she said:

  ‘He has not come back.’ She didn’t have to say which brother she was talking about.

  ‘And Lunga?’ I asked. ‘Is he still asleep? How is he?’

  ‘Mama, Lunga has been gone for hours now.’

  ‘But what time is it?’

  ‘One o’clock.’

  Hungry as I was, all my appetite suddenly left me. Either seeing or sensing my distress, Siziwe quickly added:

  ‘Some boys came to see him and although I told them he was not well, they insisted on talking to him. They wouldn’t go away.’

  ‘Who were those boys? People we know?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ She was quiet for a minute then added, ‘They came by car.’ Siziwe looked at me as she imparted this startling piece of news. My mind reeled. Lunga didn’t have any friends who had cars. We had no car. Our friends had no cars. We didn’t know anyone who owned a car. But, seeing she was getting no response from me, she continued:

  ‘I heard one of them . . . I don’t know his name but he goes to Langa High School . . . I heard him say something about Bhuti Mxolisi.’

  That gave me back my voice. And the words. At once alert, I asked, ‘They were talking about Mxolisi?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘What about him? Did they say anything about his whereabouts?’

  ‘No, Mama,’ she replied, then stopped and looked at me as though suddenly at a loss as to how to proceed, how to tell me some unpalatable intelligence. I remembered the talk we’d had earlier that morning, after the police had left.

  ‘What is it?’ Again, there was that look. Why was she being secretive? So, I asked:

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter, Siziwe?’ An edge I had not invited had inveigled itself into my voice.

  ‘Mama, I don’t know,’ she began, hesitated . . . her eyes fell to her feet before she continued. ‘I think . . .,’ she said, then stopped and started again. ‘It seems as though it’s something to do with what happened to the white girl yesterday,’ she uttered in a rush.

  The room spun. It did a crazy jiggermammaroll. Clutching at the arms of the chair near me, I lowered myself onto its comforting, accommodating lap. Slowly, carefully, my body gone all liquid, I watched myself pour it onto the chair. A great sigh escaped from somewhere within that soft, jellified body I couldn’t feel. I sighed, for the heart beating painfully against my ribs demanded relief.

  ‘The one who was killed?’ I couldn’t believe I’d asked that. Why was that the first thing that came to my mind, I wondered. When had I started thinking Mxolisi’s absence might be linked to those troubles?

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ Siziwe said quietly. She said that and left the room.

  I forced myself to eat something — partly so as not to disappoint Siziwe and partly because I realized that whether I wanted to or not I had to eat, I needed the strength food would give me. I had to take strength from eating, as we say.

  We had hardly finished our late breakfast when a car stopped outside, right in front of our gate. I jumped to my feet thinking, what now? Then remembering the car that had come for Lunga, I relaxed. Perhaps, the boys were bringing him back. And perhaps, Mxolisi would be with all of them. My heart started pounding at that thought. I went to the window to get a clear look at the car, at who got out of it.

  A man I didn’t know got out of the car.

  ‘Who is it?’ Siziwe asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Just then, I saw that he wore the dog-collar that ministers wear.

  ‘But he is a mfundisi,’ I added.

  At that, Siziwe bounded from where she sat and came to stand right next to me at the window.

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered, for the man had gone through the gate and was even then walking up the stoep, approaching the front door.

  ‘Who is it? D’you know him?’ There was urgency I didn’t intend in my voice. But the man was already knocking at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ I said.

  ‘It’s Mfundisi Mananga of the Anglican Church, in NY 2.’

  ‘Molweni, aph’ ekhaya!’ The Reverend Minister’s greeting was in a cheery voice. I wondered what had brought him to my humble house. We were certainly no members of his flock. Marriage to Dwadwa, a staunch Methodist, had meant that I left the Anglican Church, under which I grew up.

  After the introductions, Reverend Mananga, in a voice decibels too high, extraordinarily loud, as though he were speaking from the pulpit or deliberately wanted people two doors away to hear what we were talking about, said:

  ‘Aphi la makhwenkwe alapha?’

  When I told him that both boys were at school, he shook his head, exclaimed that it was a pity they were not home because he had very good news for the older boy.

  ‘It is Mxolisi Ntloko, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, Mfundisi,’ I replied, ‘Mxolisi is my eldest.’

  Well, Mfundisi went on, the boy and his friends had been to see him the previous day. ‘Looking for somewhere to hold their meeting. And now,’ he said with a flourish, ‘I’ve found a place for them. Tell Mxolisi to come to the Mission as soon as possible!’

  ‘Thank you, Mfundisi, thank you!’ I said, trying very hard to keep curiosity and consternation out of my voice, taking care that that voice remained calm and natural as can be.

  And that was not as easy as it sounds. For all the while, as he gave his speech, the Mfundisi was busy scribbling something on a piece of paper he had fished out of his pocket, nervously looking about him all the time as though he expected someone or something to jump him from one of the rooms. Ceaselessly, his neck swivelled this way and that, rotating as though it had a mind all its own. He was sweating profusely — huge beads of sweat poured down his temples.

  Straightening himself up, he passed me the note, nodded and winked as, aloud, he said:

  ‘Tell this boy, Mxolisi, that I will be home all afternoon. He must come and see me. Tell him he can come any time.’ And as though answering to something I had said, he went on, ‘Yes! Yes, perhaps it is already late for today.’ His index finger straight up, he put to his lips, a gesture that I be silent? or, not divulge a secret?

  I nodded.

  With an answering nod, slow and deliberate, conveying sympathy as I understood, the minister departed, leaving me as puzzled and agitated as ever. On his note he had written:

  THATH’ ITAXI, EYA EKHAYELITSHA, WEHLE KWISTOP SOKUGQIBELA.

  TAKE A TAXI TO KHAYELITSHA, AND GET OFF AT THE LAST STOP.

  With speed I would no
t have imagined was in me at all just a little earlier, I tidied myself up and left. My heart started singing for I was convinced this man was going to lead me to my son. But, as I waited for the taxi, I sobered a little. He had not said he was taking me to Mxolisi, I had assumed that. But then, where would he be taking me? I asked myself. And he had talked about Mxolisi, hadn’t he?

  The hour of day being what it was, the taxis were slow in coming. However, again because it was not workers’ time, when the taxi to Khayelitsha eventually came, it was not full and when I got in I even found a seat.

  The taxi had gone past two stops when a girl I’d seen at the stop, and whom I’d barely paid attention to, moved from where she was sitting, a few seats behind me and came to stand right next to me. Even then I barely looked at her, taking it she was getting ready to get off and vaguely wondering whether she could not have walked the distance, as we had been on the road but a few minutes. Indeed, we were still in Guguletu’s Section Two. My mind was so filled with questions that, had she not dropped the book she was reading, I doubt I would have noticed the girl at all.

  I looked up when the book thudded right next to my foot. Right then, she bent down to pick it up. A scratch on my foot, just below the ankle, between the ankle and the shoe, surprised me.

  I looked down then.

  The girl pushed something onto my lap and immediately, without once looking at me, moved away.

  I could feel a deep frown pleating my brow as I unfolded the little bit of paper, rolled into a tight little roll till it was pencil thin. I looked.

  YEHLA KWISTOP ESILANDELA ESI NDEHLA KUSO MNA. GET OFF THE NEXT STOP FOLLOWING THE ONE WHERE I GET OFF.

  I looked up. Now, the girl was looking at me as though she had never seen me before. Which, of course, was true. True, but only to a certain extent. We were linked now, were we not? Had she not put this mysterious message at my lap? Who was she? Again, my gaze flew down to the letter and back her way.