The Heart of Redness: A Novel (40 page)

Dalton also gives Camagu a victorious sneer. He has won his people back from the clutches of the overeager stranger from the city of Johannesburg. That is why he had not told anyone that he had applied for a court order to stop the developers, or that he personally drove to Pretoria to get the government letter. That is why he had insisted to the sheriff of the court that he serve the court order himself. That is why he had kept the government letter and the court order until the last minute. To win his people back.

She sings in soft pastel colors, this Qukezwa. She sings in many voices, as Heitsi plays on the sand. He is six years old, yet he has shown no interest in the sea. From the day he was born to ululations and heckling, his mother dreamt of the day she would take him to the sea and teach him to swim. His upbringing would be different from hers. Her mother had never allowed her near the sea. Heitsi would swim better than any fish. But, to her disappointment, Heitsi has no interest in the sea. He has come because his mother dragged him along. He plays on the sandbank as Qukezwa paddles at the shallow end of the lagoon and sings in split-tones.

She sings in glaring colors. In violent colors. Colors of gore. Colors of today and of yesterday. Dreamy colors. Colors that paint nightmares on barren landscapes. She haunts yesterday’s reefs and ridges with redness. And from these a man who is great at naming emerges. He once named ten rivers. Now he rides wildly throughout kwaXhosa, shouting at the top of his voice, declaring to everyone who cares to listen, “Finally I have pacified Xhosaland!”

Pacified homesteads are in ruins. Pacified men register themselves as pacified laborers in the emerging towns. Pacified men in their emaciated thousands. Pacified women remain to tend the soil and build
pacified families. When pacified men return, their homesteads have been moved elsewhere, and crammed into tiny pacified villages. Their pacified fields have become rich settler farmlands.

Twin-Twin’s sons are back from the Amathole Mountains and have rebuilt their homestead. But it is much smaller than before. He is one of the few people who still have cattle. They are as emaciated as the sunken-eyed ghosts that walk the land. Their milk is thin and watery. It produces amasi sour milk that looks like dirty dishwater. But people eat. Sometimes beggars get the remains.

Qukezwa is a beggar who will get nothing. Even though her eyes are sunken like those of the other ghosts that walk the land, and her high Khoikhoi cheekbones have been rendered sharper by famine, she will not even walk close to Twin-Twin’s homestead. She spends all her life at the wild beach. Like those of her people who are called strandlopers. She goes into the sea and gets some shellfish. She eats it raw and takes some to Heitsi. Heitsi is old enough to catch his own. But he seems to have some aversion to the sea. He would rather watch his mother from the safe distance of the rough beach.

Twin-Twin knows that the woman of the sea that everyone talks about is his brother’s wife. He knows that Heitsi is his own nephew who will be the bearer of Twin’s progeny. He knows that Twin died a raving lunatic at the Kaffir Relief House. He knows. But he does not care. He wakes up every day with yesterday’s anger. His heart is full of bitterness. There are two big regrets that dominate his life: that his brother died before he could gloat over him, and that he never took the chance to strike out at John Dalton, to avenge his father’s head. It is too late for that now. He missed many opportunities when Dalton and he were riding together from village to village, when Dalton was still a magistrate. He is a well-placed trader now. Has built a huge general dealer’s store at Qolorha, on a hill. From this hill he can see down below, a number of miles away, to a mission station where his son is a missionary. It is too late now. It is left to future generations to avenge the headless ancestor. If they think it is worth it. He himself has a lot to lose.

Bhonco thinks he has nothing to lose. He has already lost everything. The Believers have been victorious at every turn. There is no
gambling complex at Qolorha. None of all the wonderful things of civilization that his daughter used to tell him about. Instead there is a tourist place, which started as a backpackers’ hostel but has now developed into a holiday camp. Those villagers who decided to join the cooperative society own it. It is managed by Vathiswa, who learned the ropes at the Blue Flamingo Hotel. To make things worse—from Bhonco’s perspective, that is—this holiday camp is at Zim’s old home-stead. When Qukezwa moved to Camagu’s cottage she gave the homestead to the coop. More chalets in the form of isiXhosa rondavels and hexagons were built. The place now gives the Blue Flamingo Hotel tough competition. Tourists are attracted by the gigantic wild fig tree and the amahobohobo weaverbirds that have built a hanging city on its branches. And by the isiXhosa traditional costumes and beadwork that are created by the coop women who are led by MamCirha, NoGiant, and NoPetticoat. These are displayed in one of the hexagons.

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.