Nwelezelanga: The Star Child

by Magubeni, Unathi

  I follow the music and it takes me up the sacred mountains and deep into its caves in search of the forbidden knowledge. I follow the mesmerising rhythm in ascension to the clouds, far away where space and time don’t matter. I visit unknown worlds in a trance while my very soul is arrested by the sound of the beating drum. I am a willing prisoner to its rhythm. I see all of the nine gods of the nine heavens from the highway of eternity. The almighty Qamata steals my heart and rests it in his almighty kingdom in one spellbinding moment. The activities reach the very peak of elation and Mama starts making grunting sounds, communicating with her ancestors. She thanks them for keeping us safe until this day; she thanks them for the revelations that open our paths moving forward. She asks them to continue looking over us and to guide us on the thorny plains of this contemptuous existence. The drum echoes faintly behind her intuitive prayer; it is medicine for the restless soul.

  In essence, the drum is a healer of Bantu. Kaboom!

  Six

  IT IS TRUE that the wise elders overstate their kindness towards us most of the time in an effort to lure us away from the fact that most villagers find children with albinism strange. We are treated as freaks, accidents of nature, and are relegated to being outcasts in our land. We get special attention because we do not look like the others. The elders speak nicely to us, something that is rare as there is a belief in our tribe that one should not be praised as one will become big-headed and egotistical and lose track of one’s good behaviour. Girls my age resent the attention I get and in return ridicule me, telling me how unnatural I am. Sometimes I wish I could change my life and receive less attention from the adults so that girls my age would not tease me so much.

  A knock reverberates from the door as we are drifting to a world of dreams; the knock whispers with rhythm and with a concealed urgent notice.

  ‘Ngubani lowo?’ Mama enquires loudly.

  ‘Nomkhubulwana,’ the faceless voice responds.

  ‘Haaa?’ Mama enquires once again.

  ‘Nomkhubulwana,’ the woman repeats her name.

  Mama gets up and lights a candle. She makes her way to the door and opens it hesitantly.

  ‘Camagu Makhosi,’ Nomkhubulwana greets Mama with some reservation.

  ‘Forgive me for coming at this late hour to your homestead; I have an urgent and important matter that needs your attention, Gogo. I had a vision that I wanted to relay to you that involves your daughter. Can you come outside for a second so that we can discuss the matter in private?’ she humbly asks.

  Mama goes outside to listen to what Nomkhubulwana has to say. I can hardly hear their whispers. The murmurs carry on for a while; Mama comes back into the hut after some time and calls my name.

  ‘Nwelezelanga.’ Her voice cuts the still of the night.

  ‘Nomkhubulwana has come for you, my child. There’s an important journey you have to take with her. Dress warmly, dear child; she is waiting for you outside at the entrance of the kraal,’ Mama says with a heavy solemn voice.

  In the forest of my subconscious, something tells me that this is a momentous occasion. I make my way out into the night sky. The full moon glows with mystical suggestions and echoes songs of love while the dancing stars sparkle and rejoice in a divine spectacle. They both light the frowning earth with magical undertones. I find Nomkhubulwana sitting next to the entrance of the kraal.

  ‘Please sit down, oh child of light,’ she says in a calm voice. ‘You have to come with me to the Mpelazwe waterfall; the great Qamata has a task for us to fulfil.’ She states the reason for the nightly visit. ‘I have taken this journey many times before. It is a call to honour the wishes of the divine one.’

  She says a prayer quietly and it stills the moment. I’m a willing traveller to the unknown. The cattle in the kraal act as witness to this earthly episode.

  ‘We can go now,’ she says coolly.

  She stands up and follows the Milky Way. The river of stars leads us to the east. We pass sleeping villages as we move with purpose. The dogs bark at us, suspicious of our mission. I follow behind the ageing sage; the speaker of great truths takes decisive strides deep into the woods. The moon lights the immense land in a shade darker than day. A hooting owl at the fringes of the forest greets us from a tall tree. We take winding pathways that lead us to the Mpelazwe waterfall. We journey up and down the hills, crossing different streams. The wind carries messages from the different ages as the creatures of the night move secretly behind the bushes. The echoes of the falling water from the waterfall tell us that we are not far from our destination. A shooting star breaks in the atmosphere in a never-ending fall; it travels faster and brighter, then disappears as quickly as it came. Nomkhubulwana has not said a single word in this great trek. We zigzag down the rock face; I tail her religiously down the slope. We reach a flat surface at the edge of the waterfall. The sound of the water overpowers the moment; a profound sense of tranquillity arrests my very being.

  Nomkhubulwana takes a shiny copper coin from her pouch and says a silent prayer before throwing the coin into the waterfall. She then lights a candle and some dry leaves of the sage plant. She kneels and I follow her, hypnotised by the ceremony. She inhales the smoke from the burning leaves and gestures for me to do the same. The smell unlocks a window and opens several gateways to eternity. A heavy cloud ready to give birth stations itself in front of the moon and diminishes its glow for a moment; it drizzles heavenly showers and blesses the occasion.

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Thank you, Siyabulela!’ Nomkhubulwana shouts in all humbleness, expressing gratitude.

  She takes a few more copper coins from her pouch. She encloses them in the palms of her hands and shakes them steadily, listening attentively to the sound they make. She bursts into prayer with a gifted tongue. She continues to shake the coins and her upper body trembles as if being transported to upper actualities. She throws the coins high in the air and they scatter in different directions on the flat rock surface.

  Nomkhubulwana lifts both her hands up with her palms facing the all-knowing heavens. She speaks in tongues, using the language of old. She swallows my very being into her prayer and I serve as a witness and creator of dreams. We receive and plant dreams for the sleeping villages; opening highways to various dimensions. We act as guides to the dreamers as they journey to the forgotten territories of the soul sphere. We fulfil the higher order by translating messages from beyond to more recognisable symbols. We act as vessels in communicating the absolute truth of all eternity. We pray in unison with every valve of emotion open to receive and give.

  A ‘cloud’ of prayer full of holy messages rises and flies away, covering the land and planting wisdom in all living souls. The prayer visits the deepest depths of the soul sphere of the dreamers. The prayer influences the dream-self of the sleeping souls to take a more prominent role; awaking the living form to a more attune divine state by accessing forgotten territories to true divinity. We plant messages from the different worlds in the subconscious, just below the window of awareness; whispering gently the echoes of the dreamers’ divine destinies yet to come. The sacred act carries on until the height of the morning hour. Exhaustion creeps in and overwhelms. I don’t know how long we travelled the sacred planes of dreams to fulfil the higher order before descending back to the apparent reality of form. Nomkhubulwana once again lights the dry leaves of the sage plant and says another prayer.

  She then looks at me and says, ‘A dream is an attempt to articulate the deeper experience in a more recognisable form; in essence, dreams are the roaming of the spirits.’ She hypnotises me with her wisdom.

  ‘The images within the dream are highly coded with deeper meaning and are not decipherable to the one who perceives the world of form as authority,’ says Nomkhubulwana, absorbed in the moment.

  ‘We are helpful to those who are ready to go beyond just looking; those who actually see the hidden wisdom. We communicate with those who are ready to go beyond just hearing; those who actually
listen to the voices of ancients. We assist them in discovering revelations and inspirations.’ She unravels my soul intentions with a penetrating gaze.

  ‘Those who are divorced from the physical focus are in a better position to hear us, aiding them in translating the abstract symbols communicating their soul’s intentions,’ she says, thereby revealing our purpose.

  ‘There is a state in the corridors of sleep in which telepathic and clairvoyant messages are received by the dreamer; a state where we become gods and reach out to the different dimensions of the soul sphere. The living dead in their ignorance have put absolute focus in the physical reality and negate the indomitable force of the spirit; a spirit more capable than what the five physical senses perceive. Many refuse to acknowledge that the physical actuality is a by-product of a much deeper reality. There are far more wonders to perceive through this inward exploration. Ours is to remind the walking dead of their true self and assist those who are ready to decipher messages beyond their present state,’ she says, adding more of the sage plant to the fading one.

  We sit for a while in silence listening to the crashing water; my heart overflows with awe. Another shooting star with a long tail appears then vanishes without trace. The moon smiles and flourishes with love divine. We meditate by resting our minds on the breath to clear all mind activities. Finally, we make our way back home in the darkest hour of the morning. The erect posture that defined our physique at the outset of this great trek has dropped as tiredness overwhelms.

  Follow your dreams; they have chosen you as much as you have chosen them. Chosi.

  PART TWO

  Seven

  LEGENDS AND MYTHS of the tribe say that in the beginning there was an incredible darkness and the darkness was life. The darkness ruled all the corners and highways of the known and unknown world. All the great orators, prophets, sages, diviners and the wise ones of all ages say that the darkness was an expression of the all-knowing one. Different spirits pervaded the darkness throughout its multidimensionality. There were no permanent structures to symbolise the birth of form and physical actuality; space was all there was and space was not empty. Spirits roamed the different dimensions in great silence that spoke volumes and creativity was the basis of existence.

  The folktales say that for aeons and aeons there was harmony in the dark world as it grew to realise more of the self; however, harmony is not free of conflict forever and nothing stays the same for all time; the creative force of friction is necessary for growth and expansion to upper planes.

  A certain diabolic spirit proclaimed itself as the lord of darkness and called itself Bubi; it pronounced almighty reign over its band of associate spirits and over time conquered lesser spirits and its kingdom grew far and wide. The foul spirit appointed a high priest, Mpundulu, and a high priestess, Mthakathi, as commanding superiors of the wicked empire. The delusion of the lord of darkness grew to the very peak of crisis and an extreme was reached.

  The natural order has a way of protecting itself when imbalances occur and through some unexplainable cosmic gestation a spark of light brightened the world; the spark of light moved from the source and multiplied in different directions and multidimensions.

  Everything upon this earth owes its ancestry to this initial spark of light. The light is growing and reaching the furthest frontiers of the known and unknown world. The soul is that spark of light that continues to manifest itself in different forms. The wise ones say that the Bantu are the descendants of that spark of light that manifested in order to bring balance in a world dominated by darkness and the domineering kingdom of Lord Bubi.

  The lord of darkness rules the underworld with an iron fist and robs gullible souls of their divinity and true magnificence, while the high priest and high priestess distort the harmonious energies and thrive with parasite tendencies. They all feed upon ignorance and the pain they inflict on unsuspecting ones.

  The knowing ones say that the lord of darkness has illusions that he is the ruler of creation itself and imposes himself as the ultimate high. Over an unimaginable period of time Lord Bubi and his band of spirits have tried their utmost to keep the delusion alive and maintain the status quo that began to crumble when the spark of light lit the darkness. The high priest, Mpundulu, and high priestess, Mthakathi, work tirelessly to shield the light and therefore the truth and convince the spirits of light and the walking dead that they are less than what they actually are. They have succeeded in many respects to convert lower vibrational spirits and some of the walking dead to serve the underworld with the promise that they will rise to a more destructive force.

  ‘Darkness shall dominate both night and day once again for all eternity,’ are the vows made by the souls of dark magic.

  The old wise ones say that the lord of darkness and his band of spirits drink in the fountain of megalomania and perpetuate ‘false facts’ to their disillusioned masses, and omit the actual fact that darkness only thrives upon darkness and actually finds light indigestible.

  The high priest and high priestess roam the vast land seducing the dream-self of lost souls.

  There are many who serve as a representation of darkness across the plains of the rural heartland. The rise of the dark spirits coincides with the rise of the ego. The foul spirits and the walking dead, in their ignorance, separated themselves from the oneness of all that is and bought into the illusion that they are islands of existence.

  While the villages sleep, there are those who work overtime secretly performing sadistic rituals to alter the harmonious energy of creation into a nightmare for the passive and unsuspecting ones. Human sacrifices are done deep in the forest and up in the mountain caves, all in the name of Lord Bubi. Children are preferred in these blood sacrifices by the witches of dark magic and children with albinism are the most prized as there is a belief that immortality will be gained in the everlasting life through drinking their blood and cutting certain body parts to make foul medicine.

  The ancients say that it is a disservice to conceal the light and contest its expansion in revealing more wonders of life. The echoes from the past reveal that it is through transcending the duality of positive and negative that one gains wisdom; it is a surrendered state of power that opens the book of life and amplifies the god-self. The children of the star surf the furthest frontiers of the halo produced by the spark of light. They roam unchartered terrains revealing the light in the dark world. They risk it all in the godforsaken territories to expose the absolute truth of all eternity.

  An unnecessary war has been waged by Lord Bubi and his band of spirits for all eternity to deny what is; contradicting the movement of the natural order and disturbing the course of life. The knowing ones say that the friction between the upper world and underworld is part of the divine game created by all that is and absolute unity will prevail to straighten the ‘madness’ in the natural kingdom.

  These are the legends told to generation upon generation of the young ones who sit with keen interest around the open fires across the vast land; swallowed in the moment and paying attention with glistening virgin eyes; listening to the wise ones sharing the knowledge of yore and the wisdom of the tribes that has stood the test of time.

  Eight

  THE MIDWIFE SUDDENLY woke up from the nightmare; she was soaking wet and her heart skipped a beat, pounding from the undesirable vision she had seen before her. The revelations were hard to believe.

  ‘How could this be?’ she silently thought.

  ‘The albino baby died on that rainy day,’ the midwife mumbled under her breath.

  She paced the room, wondering and decoding how it came to be that the shameful infant survived the drowning. Her mind took her back to that eventful day. Images of her throwing the infant down the mighty Mfolozi River as the biological mother looked on teary-eyed were revealed.

  She contemplated whether the high priest of darkness was playing tricks on her for his own amusement. The high priest, Mpundulu, is known for his wicked sense of humour; she
earnestly wished that it was him manipulating her dreams with undesirable ‘falsehood’. Sleep seduced her to the world of dreams yet again and she saw the girl child. She had grown into a delightful maiden. The midwife tossed and turned as the nightmare haunted her living soul. She woke up and beads of sweat ran down the lines of her wrinkled face. The dream not only revealed that she was living; she seemed to be thriving in the distant lands.

  The midwife was dumbfounded and unable to comprehend how the baby survived the drowning. She was confused as to how to cut the Gordian knot presented to her. She continued pacing up and down the room, mumbling under her breath. This could mean trouble.

  ‘She should have died that day.’ The thought came back to her over and over.

  She took a bottle of a foul medicine from under the table and took two sips of the dark potion. She rinsed her mouth out over and over and stepped outside, spitting and cursing the living day of the albino child. She looked up into the sky in the darkest hour of the morning as if looking for an omen to untangle the riddle. She spoke in twisted tongues, summoning the lord of darkness, Lord Bubi, to come to her aid and guide her.