The Heart of Redness: A Novel (17 page)

He was devastated.

The hand of the Believers was strengthened by five more prophets who emerged in those lands of the amaXhosa that were under British rule. All of them claimed they were messengers of the ancestors that would rise from the sea to bring freedom to the people. Their message was the same as that of the great prophets of the Gxarha River—Nongqawuse and Nombanda. People had to kill their cattle and refrain from cultivating the land. One of the prophets, the wife of Councillor Bhulu, prophesied that on top of Ntaba kaNdoda Mountain there would be endless supplies of wild animal skins of all types and beautiful ornaments for wearing. These would be provided by the new people only if the amaXhosa gave up their witchcraft and killed all their cattle.
Another prophet, the daughter-in-law of Phetsheni, ordered the people to buy new axes to build kraals for the new cattle that would come with the new people. Like the rest of the prophets, she told the people, “Do not associate with white people! Do not join those who murdered the son of their own god! Or the god of the amaXhosa will punish you!”

While those chiefs who supported the cattle-killing movement did so secretly lest they incurred the wrath of the colonial magistrates, Chief Maqoma openly admitted to supporting it. Since he was the general who had gained great respect during the War of Mlanjeni, his support further strengthened the resolve of the Believers. Maqoma ordered that all those who lived in his chiefdom should actively participate in the activities of the cattle-killing movement. Those who disobeyed the orders were threatened with banishment.

But chiefs who were Believers continued to cultivate their land. Their territories became targets of Twin’s marauding destroyers.

Not long after destroying Twin-Twin’s crops, Twin led a party of armed men to his brother’s homestead again. They went first to his kraals, their spears ready for a massacre. But the kraals were empty, except for three milk cows. Twin-Twin had sent his remaining cattle with his sons to hide in the Amathole Mountains.

The armed men turned their wrath on the huts and set them alight. Crackling sounds filled the air, and a black cloud billowed above the homestead. A large swath was splashed with an orange glow as the flames raced to the sky, only to be swallowed by the black cloud. Shadows of screaming women and children ran helter-skelter. Some were trying to save their valued belongings from the burning houses. Twin-Twin was urging them to leave everything and save their lives. He was running from hut to hut, making sure that all his children were safe, when he came face-to-face with his brother, leading the men who were now singing triumphantly and dancing around the burning homestead.

“You . . . child of my mother . . . you did this to me?” he croaked in a voice stifled by horror.

But Twin did not answer. Instead he beckoned his men to move on. There were more homesteads to burn.

Twin-Twin and his wives and children found themselves exiled in the mountains. There were many other families who had also lost everything. They were huddled under the cliffs, where old Nxito’s councillors ministered to them. Chief Nxito himself was in exile at a secret place, having been driven away from his chiefdom at Qolorha near the Gxarha River by the activities of the Believers.

Most of the refugees in the mountains were the Unbelievers who believed—it was in the days when Unbelievers believed—in Qamata, the god of the amaXhosa. The one who was called Mdalidephu or Mvelingqangi by various prophets of old. Those Unbelievers who believed in Thixo, the god of the white man, were rumored to have been given succor on the grounds of the magistrates’ courts, and some as far afield as the Native Hospital in Kingwilliamstown. They were supplied with blankets and food.

This was the most humiliating time for Twin-Twin. Here he was, a man of means and standing, reduced to a beggar. He was sitting around a fire with other wretched people, where they would spend the night under the stars.

It was clear to him that some Unbelievers were beginning to waver. He listened in distress to idle gossip about Unbelievers who were converting into Believers and were throwing their spades and plows into the river. He heard of women who attempted to cultivate their fields but were fixed to the ground, unable to move. Some women were carried into the sea by strong winds when they tried to sow. And a man who went to cut the bush in order to fence his compound was swept up by a whirlwind, which left him suspended in the air.

Although these stories were told in great laughter, Twin-Twin found them very distressing.

His scars began to itch. They transported him to his flagellation by Prophet Mlanjeni’s men years before. The itching was so severe that he had to roll himself on the rough ground and scratch himself against a boulder.

Bhonco’s scars are playing up again. Whenever he is upset by the Believers the scars itch. And when that happens he is blinded even to
the beautiful things that make him weep. He is blinded by anger. He needs NoPetticoat by his side. She has a way of soothing him, and scratching the scars gently, almost caressing them, until he is lulled to sleep. And in his sleep he joins his forefathers wandering on the mountain, digging out roots to feed their children and lamenting the folly of belief.

When he wakes up he is fresh again, and eager to enjoy life. He is ready to cry for beautiful things. And these include the fresh breeze that comes from the sea. He takes a walk with the view of bathing his lungs in the air.

“Tat’uBhonco!”

It is Camagu. The elder is glad to see him. He has heard things about this man and his daughter. But he pretends he knows nothing. He will pretend he knows nothing until an official delegation from the young man’s family—for to him he is a young man—comes and asks for the girl’s hand. And from what the gossips have told him it may be soon.

“I have not seen you for a long time,” says the elder. “Since the day of that imbhizo that I do not even want to think about. Has this village been taking care of you well?”

“Very well, my father. So well that I think I want to stay here and build a new life among the people of Qolorha.”

Bhonco smiles. Then he remembers that as an Unbeliever he is not supposed to smile. He is supposed to be angry about the folly of belief that started before the Middle Generations, and about the sufferings of the Middle Generations. And that must be reflected in his face. Oh, the burdens that have been placed on his kindly disposition by his Cult of the Unbelievers!

He replaces the smile with a frown.

“So, you want to stay here now? Have you told the chief about this? If you are going to be one of his subjects you need to put the matter before him,” advises Bhonco.

“At the moment I am just toying with the idea,” says Camagu.

Are the gossips true then, that things have developed to such a serious extent between this learned man and his daughter? Why else would
he want to give up the comforts of the city of Johannesburg, and of the wonderland that is America? He begins to pity those misguided souls who laughed at his daughter’s spinsterhood. See who will have the last laugh! And with a man who has seen the world joining his family, a man who knows what development is all about, the Believers do not stand a chance. This may yet be a thing to weep about.

In his head he can already hear the bridesmaids singing
umbhororho
songs in preparation for the wedding that future generations will talk about. He cannot wait to tell NoPetticoat the wonderful news.

“You will excuse me, son,” he says. “I must rush home. I forgot something.”

As he rushes home he remembers that lately his daughter has been talking of going to live in the city to work for the government. She has been showing her unhappiness with her lot in the village, even though as principal of Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School she is the second most important person in the village after the chief. And the chief is a headless twit whose only function in society is to eat bribes. What if this Camagu is the passport to the city that his daughter has been looking for? Then he will never see his daughter again. He will lose all the prestige he is currently enjoying due to his daughter’s position. Perhaps he shouldn’t be too enthusiastic about this wedding after all.

Camagu climbs the hill to Vulindlela Trading Store. From the top he is moved by the view below: the waves that smash against the rocks with musical violence, the Gxarha River that flows into the Indian Ocean with misty grace, the sacred ikhamanga bushes, and the pining Nong-qawuse’s Valley. He left his car at the hotel and walked on foot precisely because he wanted to enjoy this view. He thinks of Qukezwa. He hopes to have a glimpse of her. That is why he is going to Vulindlela Trading Store. To have a glimpse of Qukezwa, even if it’s a fleeting one.

He has not seen her since he was attacked by a fit of madness a week ago. He has returned to the lagoon and to Nongqawuse’s Valley over and over again, hoping she would be there, but she has been nowhere to be found.

Unfortunately the store is not busy today. He had hoped that it would be possible to lose himself among the customers while his eyes furtively searched for Qukezwa. But all the eyes of the salespeople are on him. It is obvious that wagging tongues have been doing the rounds. John Dalton comes out of his small office to greet him.

“I hear that things are happening between you and Bhonco’s daughter,” the trader says with a naughty glint in his eyes. “Maybe now you’ll decide to stay with us for a while . . . especially because you haven’t found your passport yet.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, this is a village. People talk. They say you haven’t been able to locate NomaRussia, but at least you have found love.”

“If I decide to stay for a while it won’t be because of Xoliswa Ximiya. My soul has been captured by this valley.”

“So you will stay then?”

“Just for a while. Until I sort my thoughts out. I need to earn a living, though. I have a few ideas in my mind.”

“That is wonderful. You could be very useful in our self-help projects.”

“Hey, I don’t want to be part of the war between the Believers and Unbelievers.”

“Why should you? Most people here don’t care about those petty quarrels. They want to see development happening. They want clean water. They want health delivery services. They see Bhonco and Zim and their small bands of followers as clowns who are holding desperately to the quarrels of the past. But the whole thing frustrates development.”

“Some people may say you are the one who is frustrating development since you have joined the Believers in opposing the casino and holiday resort.”

“I have not joined the Believers. On this issue of the gambling city they happen to be on the same side as me. The gambling city will destroy this place.”

Camagu agrees. He says that at first he did not understand the reasons for the opposition to what the Unbelievers call progress. But now
it is clear to him that the gambling city will not benefit the village. He does not mention that he received this piece of wisdom from Qukezwa.

“Instead of creating jobs,” adds Camagu, “it will take all the little money that there is in the village. I have been to casinos in other parts of the country and in Lesotho. During the day you find all sorts of ordinary poor people, mostly women, gambling their money away, hoping to hit that elusive jackpot. That is what we’ll find here. While husbands toil in the mines of Johannesburg, their wives will be gambling their sweat away.”

“You are so right. The men themselves will gamble their fortunes away when they are on leave. But let’s think about you. If you’re staying here for a while you need to get proper accommodation. You can’t stay at the hotel indefinitely. . . unless, of course, you are a millionaire.”

Dalton tells him about a sea cottage that is owned by a doctor who lives in Butterworth. She rents it out to inland people who want to hold parties or wedding receptions at the sea. This happens mostly in December during the holiday season. Most of the year the cottage is unoccupied. Dalton thinks that the doctor will be happy to have someone looking after it. He undertakes to talk with her about letting Camagu stay there as a caretaker.

They decide to go and see Zim at his homestead to tell him the good news. As they climb into Dalton’s four-wheel-drive bakkie, Camagu sees Qukezwa cleaning a number of big pots on the lawn near the store. He waves at her. She does not wave back.

When they get to Zim’s homestead, Zim is reclining under his tree, in the company of his amahobohobo weaverbirds. He is talking to the birds in whistles.

“It is the language of the spirits,” he explains to his visitors after greeting them. “It is the language that the prophets used when they talked with the new people.”

He says he is happy to see Camagu, although he does not understand what he is doing here. Everyone knows that he has been bought
by the Unbelievers with the thighs of Bhonco’s daughter. People have even seen him at the memory rituals of the Unbelievers.

“They say you are a total Unbeliever,” adds Zim. “You have been brought here by them to reinforce their stand in destroying our forests and our birds and our lizards.”