Little Suns (26 page)

She keeps on talking, which is what old folks who are usually starved of company do once they have an audience. Her son was rewarded with five hundred morgen of land and a pension of five pounds a year, which he still enjoys to this day because Government never turns against its word and never forgets its people. And now her son has introduced geese at Sulenkama. He has many geese and has employed many people to look after them.

‘Were it not for Rhudulu, Hope and his clerks wouldn’t have had a decent Christian funeral,’ adds the old woman with much emphasis, while impatiently beckoning the acolyte to come in and not just stand at the door.

The acolyte comes in with three drums; Malangana wonders whether she no longer remembers which drum she had stolen for the
intlombe
or whether this is just a ruse to confuse the old lady. He points at the drum he wants, and immediately beats it. At first slowly, and then in a faster rhythm.

‘I have heard that sound. There is no sound like that anywhere. It reminds me of the death of the Queen of amaMpondomise,’ says the old woman.

‘It was played by a Mthwakazi who was your acolyte,’ says Malangana.

‘There was a Mthwakazi,’ says the old woman vaguely.

‘Where is she? I am looking for her.’

‘I don’t know. It was many years ago.’

‘But you have her drum. How did you get her drum?’

‘How would I know? All these drums and
imbhiza zethu
were in the divination house during the war.’

When the Red Coats besieged the village various doctors and diviners took whatever they could of the sacred drums and medicinal paraphernalia –
imbhiza zethu
– to save them. She had taken the drums that are presently in her possession and had kept them safe for all these years. Most of them just stay there in the room; no one ever plays them for no one knows what spirits are embedded in them.

‘This drum belongs to Mthwakazi,’ says Malangana. ‘I am taking it. You can’t stop me because your turncoat son doesn’t even know that it’s here.’

As he walks out he hears the old woman say to the acolyte: ‘Look what you brought to my house. He calls my Rhudulu a turncoat.’

The acolyte comes running after him. He gives her a one pound note. It is a lot of money for a drum. The price of a cow. But it is a very special drum, and he wouldn’t have found it without her and her thievery.

As he hobbles under the pine trees he can hear honking and screeching sounds. It must be the geese. He beats the drum.

They refused him permission to see Mhlontlo. He pleaded and begged and threatened. They, in turn, threatened to lock him up as a nuisance. He welcomed that, he told them. He had been demanding that he be locked up with his king right from the beginning in every town he had been tracing Mhlontlo, and in every town they cursed him away. Or just laughed at him. Now here in Kingwilliamstown they were threatening, nay promising, to fulfil his wish. He begged them to go ahead and lock him up. That’s where he belonged: in jail with his brother and king. When they saw that he was earnest and truly would love to be imprisoned they easily bundled him up and carried him to the railway station and dumped him there. They told him if he ever went back to the office of the chief magistrate or the chief prosecutor or the jailer or the superintendent of police or any of the officials he had been pestering they would not hesitate to shoot him dead once and for all and no one would remember he ever lived.

He gave up on Mhlontlo. Gcazimbane would forgive him; he had tried his best. He would find his way to Qumbu. In his youth this used to be a journey of three days on foot. Two days or a day and a half on horseback. But he was now a different Malangana; the one who had been eaten by the longing of the heart. The one who must now go and fulfil that longing of the heart. The journey would be slower. Unless he got a ride on a wagon. Or maybe he could catch a train to Umtata and then walk from there. Fortunately the bottoms of his heavy khaki pants were lined with pound notes that he hoarded for years in his hovel at Qomoqomong from the heydays of
mokhele
ostrich feathers. He would pay his way in whatever form of transportation he managed to get as long as he was careful no one became wise to the fact that this bundle of bones was sitting pretty.

Now that he had made up his mind to give up on Mhlontlo he felt free. He was eager to return to the land of amaMpondomise to search for Mthwakazi. There was nothing more he could do for Mhlontlo. In any event he was still angry about how he foolishly let himself get caught.

It happened a month ago. One month, two days to be exact. October 31, 1903. But Malangana only learned of it three weeks after it had happened. He was sitting on his adobe stoep at his Qomoqomong house – which in fact had become a hovel since he did not keep up with maintaining its grass thatch and adobe walls. He was staring at the faraway hills listening to the longing that was eating his heart when a group of horsemen in Basotho blankets stopped in his
ebaleni
. He recognised them immediately as
amaCesane oMda
, his kin from across the Telle River.

‘
Yirholeni, Jol’inkomo!
’ their leader greeted him, using the clan name of his ancestors. He knew at once that something was seriously wrong. He suspected that there was a death in the family. A death of someone very important; a senior member of the clan. He responded in the name of one of their ancestors as well: ‘
Qengebe!
’ And then added for good measure: ‘
Nina mathole oMthwakazi!
’
I return your greeting, calves of a Bushwoman!

They dismounted. Malangana apologised that he had no chairs so they would just have to sit on the stoep or stand if they were afraid of making their beautiful blankets dirty. He further apologised that he could not offer the
amarhewu
– fermented porridge – to drink since they knew that he was all alone in the world, racked by illness that even some of the great
lingaka
of Baphuthi could not cure. It was an illness that could only be cured once he stopped
ukumfenguza nokubhaca
– being a refugee and a wanderer – and returned to the land of his amaMpondomise people.

‘We hear you, son of Matiwane,’ said the leader of
amaCesane oMda
. They no longer saw themselves as refugees. They had all established themselves on both sides of the border and paid homage to local chiefs. Exile was now home. The land of amaMpondomise was now a distant memory. Only for the likes of Malangana was it still eating the heart and they felt sorry for him. But it was not the reason they were here. They had come to let him know about Mhlontlo. He was arrested on the Saturday morning of October 31, 1903. The date was repeated again and again for it had to register in the memory of all, to be transmitted to future generations as a date
yokuzila
– a date of mourning.

‘That’s almost three weeks ago,’ said Malangana. ‘Why didn’t I know of this? The man lives here in Lesotho and I get to hear of his arrest from people across the border?’

‘He was arrested across the border. We only heard when he was already in the hands of the police in Palmietfontein. And when we got there they told us they had taken him to Sterkspruit.’

What they heard was that Mr Cretchley, the white man who owned the general dealer’s store at Palmietfontein at the border of Lesotho but on the Herschel District side, met Mhlontlo in church at Holy Cross in Lesotho and enticed him with new blankets. He told him he would be safe if he came to his store in Palmietfontein and he would be spoilt for choice of beautiful colourful blankets. On the appointed day, which was the fateful Saturday, Mhlontlo clandestinely crossed the border and visited one or two of the
amaCesane oMda
before proceeding to Palmietfontein.

‘Why didn’t you who were visited by him stop him?’ asked Malangana.

There was some bitterness in him. He had been Mhlontlo’s kin and faithful servant. Yet he never set foot at his place. Qomoqomong would have been a minor detour on his way to the Telle River and the border people and Palmietfontein and places like that. Yet he never thought of coming to greet him and ask after his health.

‘He didn’t tell us he was going to Palmietfontein,’ said one of the men. ‘We thought he was returning to Lesotho. He knew how dangerous it was for him to be seen in the Cape Colony. He knew he was a wanted man.’

Well, Mhlontlo was not returning to Lesotho. At the store Inspector Charles David Dovey and his policemen were hiding behind stacks of sisal bags of corn and maize meal. Mhlontlo was warmly welcomed by Mr Cretchley. As he was admiring the blankets Dovey pounced on him and handcuffed him. Only then did it dawn on him that he had walked into a trap.

‘You see this church of his?
Ebebungene ngantoni ubugqobhoka?
’ screamed Malangana.
What did he want with Christianity?

He was furious at his king and brother for being so gullible. And he felt betrayed because ever since Mhlontlo became a Catholic he had changed altogether and no longer associated with him, and would even hide things from him. He knew nothing about his life. Where was Charles when these things were happening? He was supposed to look after his father. It was clear to him now that the white man’s God tended to make these people do foolish things. He would have to go to Palmietfontein and be with his king. That’s what a loyal groom of his horse would do. Even if the man had been made stupid by the Church, in memory of Gcazimbane who still lived in him and occasionally neighed from the depths of his belly – though thankfully not as often as it used to be for a year or two after he had eaten his meat – he would go and see what he could do for Mhlontlo.

The leader of
amaCesane oMda
reminded him that Mhlontlo was no longer at Palmietfontein but had been transferred to Sterkspruit.

At dawn the next morning Malangana set his hovel on fire and hobbled away. It was what initiates did to their
bhoma
– their huts at the mountain initiation and circumcision school when the ritual was over and they were walking back to society as fully fledged men. He felt this was a transition for him too.

At Palmietfontein he met Inspector Dovey as he wanted to ascertain that Mhlontlo was the man in their custody. He was the Inspector of Native Locations of Number 2 Area in the District of Herschel which was headquartered at Palmietfontein so he was used to talking to natives and always keen to interview one in case he was a potential witness.

‘Oh yes, the prisoner was Umhlonhlo all right,’ he said. ‘He was pointed out by one of my native men.’

He then reached for his record book and proudly read a statement he had written: ‘“He was arrested at a spot 120 yards on the Herschel side of the Telle River, in the Herschel District of the Cape Colony.” He was in our jurisdiction all right. We didn’t kidnap him in Basutoland as they are now claiming. No, siree, he was right here in our jurisdiction and we got him. He is at Sterkspruit now, has been charged with the murder of Hope, Warren and Henman of Qumbu.’

‘I want to see him with my own eyes,’ said Malangana.

Dovey said he could not see him because he had already handed him over to the Cape Mounted Riflemen stationed at Palmietfontein who had escorted him to Sterkspruit.

‘And there I already gave evidence against him,’ said Dovey. ‘I don’t think you’ll find him there but I think you should still go. You might be an important witness. Yes, they might find you useful there. Go straight to the police station. Tell them old Dovey sent you.’

Sterkspruit was the administrative town of Herschel. Dovey hoped that if Malangana became a useful witness in nailing Mhlontlo then it would count in his favour for a promotion since he had made the arrest and the case against Mhlontlo had run into problems at Sterkspruit for lack of evidence. But he didn’t say any of this to Malangana.

Malangana went back to old Feyiya at eKra and borrowed two horses and a herdboy who would return with them. He was so proud that the geldings they were riding to Sterkspruit had been sired by Xokindini.

Immediately Malangana arrived at Sterkspruit he went to the police station and demanded that he be arrested. The police wanted to know what crime he had committed.

‘I am Malangana, son of Matiwane,’ he announced, his hands ready for handcuffs.

‘Yes, but what have you done?’ asked the white sergeant. ‘You’ve got to commit a crime for us to arrest you.’

‘I am a wanted man,’ said Malangana. He was losing his patience with this lot. ‘Why do you think I was a refugee in Lesotho for more than twenty years?’

The white sergeant was impressed that he was able to communicate with him without an interpreter, though his English was shaky. The other policemen in the office, mostly black, found him quite funny and looked over the counter at the bundle of bones who was demanding to be locked up and sniggered and chuckled.

‘
Tloho hosane, ntate. Re tla u ts’oara hosane
,’ said a black policeman in Sesotho, condescendingly as if talking to a child.
Come tomorrow, sir. We’ll arrest you tomorrow
.