Little Suns (12 page)

A man with a long white beard, a white blanket and white beads on his head, wrists and neck sits on a chair carved from a
garingboom
trunk. He is addressing
amaxhoba
, most of whom are not paying much attention. Their focus is on the bread and milk and sundry victuals they are gourmandising.

‘We are now a confused people for we don’t know which God to follow,’ says the bearded man. ‘Perhaps that is why we are like this, we the children of abaMbo. We, the amaMpondomise people have our God, uQamata, who is also the God of other nations such as amaMpondo, amaXhosa and abaThembu. The Khoikhoi people, I am talking of amaQheya as we call them here, have their own God too. His name is Tsixqua. He has a son called Heitsi Eibib, who died for the Khoikhoi people. The God of amaZulu is uMvelingqangi. You will remember that it is the praise-name of our God as well, for his origins are a mystery. The God of Basotho is Tladi, the one who speaks in the voices of thunder. The God of abaThwa is Kaang, he who married the sorceress Coti who blessed him with the two sons, Cogaz and Gewi. Each nation pleases its own God according to its own traditions. Ours is angry with us because we have deserted him. That’s why we are here as
amaxhoba
. That’s why we are like this.’

‘It is the same God,’ says a man who is likely to be an
igqobhoka
, a Christian convert, or a former convert since Ibandla-likaNtu is reputed to be populated by those who became disillusioned with the religious denominations of the white man. ‘Various nations use different names to call him. But it is the same God, the one who created all humanity, and all heaven and all earth.’

‘
Hayikhona
,’ objects a sceptic. ‘How come the God of one nation enjoys carnal pleasures when the God of the other nation doesn’t? In one nation their God has children, in another their God doesn’t have any. And yet you say it is the same person? The God of the Khoikhoi has one son; the God of the abaThwa has two sons. The God of the white man, who is called uYehova, has one son called uYesu, yet ours have no children at all. It is just him and the hierarchies of the ancestors who surround him.’

Like most of the
amaxhoba
Malangana is not paying much attention to the theological debates. His concentration, however, is not on the food. His eyes are scrutinising every woman in the crowd, paying particular attention to those of small stature. What if one of them is Mthwakazi? How is he going to know her after twenty years? He knows that he has changed quite a bit, but he doubts if Mthwakazi could have undergone that drastic a transformation. In any event her
mkhondo
is very much alive in these environs. It is bound to be even stronger in her presence.

As soon as the bearded man gets tired of the pointless debate and silences it with a dismissive wave of the hand a group of women pounce on Malangana.

‘Come here, I have food for you,’ says one.

‘Oh no, I saw him first, follow me. I have very nice food for you,’ says another.

He is helpless as one takes his crutches and tries to pull him one way while the other is pulling him another way. He is shaken out of his wits.

‘They feed
amaxhoba
for good fortune,’ explains an old woman helpfully. ‘You are new here so they are all fighting for your blessings.’

‘I’m not here for food,’ says a breathless Malangana. ‘I’m looking for Mthwakazi.’

‘Look, you are scaring the poor man to death. You’re going to be responsible if he has a heart attack.’ That’s the man with the white beard to the rescue.

They all let Malangana go at once and he falls on the ground. They apologise and try to help him up and give him back his crutches. The man with the white beard helps him to a rock where Malangana sits down. He points at one of the women who were fighting over Malangana and says, ‘You, feed him.’ Others mumble their disgruntlement:
Yhu! Uyakhetha. Uyamkhetha ngoba ngumolokazana wakho
.
Oh, you’re not fair. You choose her because she is your daughter-in-law
.

As Malangana drinks
amasi
with sorghum bread he answers their questions about the woman he is looking for. He does not know her name. Only that she is Mthwakazi. He does not want to give them the whole history of who they once were at the Great Place of King Mhlontlo. After all, this was King Mditshwa’s territory. He does not know where these people stand on old disputes. Nor does he even know if they are all amaMpondomise. The land has been overrun by all sorts of people, many of whom are here as a reward for fighting on the side of the English.

abaThwa people keep to themselves out there in the wilderness and do not mix with other people, says one man as if explaining to a child or a stranger. Except once in a while there are those who come peddling ostrich eggs or crude handiwork to ward off famine. It would be impossible for the community of Tsolo to know the whereabouts of one nameless Bushwoman. The man then breaks out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

‘Except one,’ says a woman. ‘There’s one who doesn’t live in the wilderness; we often see her here.’

‘Yes, there was a Mthwakazi here yesterday,’ adds another woman. ‘The one who wears golden earrings.’

The other women chuckle. They know exactly who she is talking about. There must be something funny they remember about her.

‘She must be the one,’ says Malangana hardly hiding his excitement. He has heard this thing about golden earrings once or twice before since he started his search.

‘Oh, the one who never shuts her mouth?’ says another woman. ‘
Akapheli apha
with her funny stories.’
She comes here quite often
.

‘She left yesterday afternoon. We haven’t seen her today.’

Three men were sitting on the adobe stoep outside Mahlangeni’s Great House enjoying gourds of sorghum beer. The host’s face was beaming with pride for he was the new father of a baby boy. His two guests were Malangana and Nzuze. This was not a formal ceremony. He had invited them so early in the morning to share with them his excitement. At dawn his baby was visited by
inkwakhwa
, the brown mole snake.

The baby was very new, so new that his
inkaba
, umbilical cord, had only recently dried and fallen, and the ritual of burying it, connecting him with the land and the ancestors, was done the day before. The most important ceremony, the
imbeleko
, had not yet been performed to introduce the baby to the community, inducting him into the clan’s membership by slaughtering a goat and making him wear a part of its skin on his wrists and neck. It was therefore unusual that the snake had already visited him even before he was made a fully fledged clansman. It meant that there was something very special about this child, hence Mahlangeni’s beaming face.

The tradition of the snake had started with Qengebe almost two hundred years before. After his father, Mhle, died and was buried at Lothana in the Qumbu area, he moved the Great Place of the amaMpondomise Kingdom to Mzimvubu, the area that is known as Kokstad today, and there he married a woman from one of the clans. She became pregnant. Nine months later the midwives gathered at the Great House when the queen began to feel the pains of birth. As they were assisting the process of parturition the midwives screamed and ran away. A brown mole snake was slithering out of the queen’s passage of life. The queen had given birth to
inkwakhwa
. The shamans, diviners and healers declared that it was sacred and could not be killed. A few minutes later the queen gave birth to a baby boy. He was named Majola, the name he shared with the snake. The snake regularly visited the boy. When the baby prince was sick the snake came and coiled itself next to him; the next day the baby would be up and about, laughing, playing and crying for food.

Majola grew up to be a wise king of the amaMpondomise people. When he died he was buried in a lake in Mzimvubu and was succeeded by his son, Ngwanya, who was followed by Phahlo, and then by Mamani, about whom we have already spoken, the woman who married another woman. Mamani, as we have said, was succeeded by Ngcambe, and then by Myeki, and by Matiwane, and finally by the present king, Mhlontlo – not counting any of the regents between some of the royal heirs. And since King Majola, all these descendants and their relatives were often visited by Majola the snake. When that happened, it augured well. The Majola snake did not only visit babies. It might visit the king, for instance when he was facing some dire problems. Such a visit meant that there would be a positive outcome.

‘You know, of course, that the good fortune brought by Majola this morning does not only belong to the baby alone,’ said Nzuze.

‘It had better not,’ said Mahlangeni, with a broad smile.

He scooped more beer from the clay pot with a gourd and handed it to Nzuze who gulped it greedily.

‘He shares it with the whole household,’ added Malangana.

‘The little imp cannot hoard it all to himself,’ said Mahlangeni. ‘It’s mine too. Things will turn out well.’

Mahlangeni handed another foaming gourd to Malangana.

‘We are going to war in a faraway country against the fierce Basotho and you promise us things will turn out well?’

‘We are going to war only if Gxumisa leads the army,’ said Nzuze. ‘Magistrate Hope is stubborn. There is a stand-off, but we’re not giving in on that.’

‘We are going to war, but it might not be the war you think,’ said Mahlangeni breaking into a wicked laugh.

Despite all the talk about war, things were looking good. Even the earth bore witness to that. Verdure was returning to the veld, to the shrubs, bushes and trees. The eyes of men no longer wept involuntarily at the sore sight of parched grass and wilted leaves in the middle of what passed for spring. For the past two days it had rained after months of drought. And the three men couldn’t help but occasionally sniff into their nostrils the thrilling smell of wet soil.

The men did not believe that anything could spoil their high spirits until a messenger came from the Great Place. Gxumisa was giving them two options: either they convince their mate Malangana to return forthwith Mthwakazi’s drum which she alleged he had stolen, or if Malangana denied the theft they should all repair to the
inkundla
so that the said Malangana could answer before his peers to charges of theft laid by the aforementioned Mthwakazi.

Malangana broke out laughing.

‘This is no laughing matter,’ said Mahlangeni. A cloud had descended on his brow.

‘I’m laughing because I didn’t steal anyone’s drum,’ said Malangana.

‘We are in the middle of a stand-off with Hamilton Hope and here you are playing games with a Bushman girl,’ said Nzuze.

The messenger’s eyes darted from one man to the next expectantly.

‘These are the problems of socialising with a bachelor,’ said Mahlangeni.

‘He is playing with our time,’ said Nzuze. ‘Today of all days.’

‘Why are you angry with me? What wrong have I done?’

The messenger said, ‘So what should I tell
uTat’u
Gxumisa? He says if
uMkhuluwa u
Malangana denies any knowledge of the drum . . .’

‘I am not denying knowledge of the drum,’ said Malangana. ‘I’m denying knowledge of the theft.’

In which case, the messenger explained, the men should all assemble at
inkundla
for a trial. The matter had to be disposed of immediately because the king was expecting
iindwendwe
– guests – in the afternoon. The Bushman girl was insisting that her sacred drum had been stolen by Malangana. She was also insisting that King Mhlontlo was her witness because he was present when her drum was stolen. At this Mahlangeni and Nzuze glared at Malangana, one with widening eyes, the other only baring his teeth, while Malangana giggled as if he was enjoying the whole thing. The girl was obviously dragging the name of the king into this matter in order to shame the elders into immediate action. That was why Gxumisa wanted Malangana to deal with it straightaway, either to give back the sacred drum if it was true it was in his possession, or to face an immediate trial at the
inkundla
. The nation had more important things to deal with today.

‘Tell Uncle Gxumisa that there is no need for a trial,’ said Malangana. ‘I have the drum in my possession. I did not steal it, though. I was with the king when I picked it up at
ebaleni
of his Great House where the girl had abandoned it. I will give it back to her today before those visitors get here. I must not be rushed though. I’m still rejoicing with my older brother here whose family has been visited by the snake. Uncle Gxumisa must not panic. The world shall not be made to stand still by the tantrums of a Bushman girl.’

The three men sat quietly for some time watching the messenger’s galloping horse disappear in the distance.

‘The impudence of it all,’ said Mahlangeni, shaking his head.

‘They treat her as something special because she was the queen’s nursemaid. I guess they think she has strong medicine,’ said Nzuze.

‘If her medicine was strong the queen would be alive,’ said Mahlangeni.