Little Suns (7 page)

‘Well, they are our masters now,’ said Malangana, flaring his nostrils like his charge Gcazimbane often did when agitated. ‘Our king is not even allowed to fine transgressors for blood crimes. Only Government can.’

‘Our
inkundla
doesn’t have a final decision even in settling minor disputes,’ added Mahlangeni. ‘People can appeal to Government and the magistrate often overturns our decisions. And now we want to go and fight for the white man?’

‘We haven’t made that decision yet,’ said Mhlontlo.

‘But it’s leading to that,’ said Malangana.

‘What does my young nephew think we should do?’ asked Gxumisa.

‘Fight,’ said Malangana. ‘No, not Magwayi. Fight and defeat Hope.’

He looked at Mahlangeni as he said this, hoping he would join the call. But he did not. He avoided his gaze as he puffed on his pipe.

‘We can’t fight the English because they are now the masters of all nations, even those we are afraid of,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘Forming an alliance with them is essential for the survival of our people.’

Malangana was no longer sitting down but was pacing the turf.

‘Settle down,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘You always allow your blood to boil until your head cannot think properly. That is why the white man gave your buttocks a taste of
kati
and locked you up in his jail for almost a year.’

Mhlontlo shouldn’t have reminded him of that. He walked down the hill away from the men. He sat on an anthill and buried his face in his hands.

All the bitterness he harboured against Mhlontlo flooded back and filled his chest to the extent that he was finding it difficult to breathe. Mhlontlo had betrayed him. He had not come to his aid when he was whipped by Hamilton Hope and then locked up in jail. He had refused even to pay the fine, forcing him to stay in prison for all those months. Instead he had accused him of recklessness. He was saving Hope’s face at his expense. Malangana had vowed that when he left prison he would pack all his belongings on a sleigh and drive the few oxen and cows that he was trying to accumulate across the Itsitsa River to Tsolo to join the rival kingdom of amaMpondomise under King Mditshwa. But he just couldn’t go ahead with that plan because of Gcazimbane. He couldn’t bring himself to desert Mhlontlo’s horse. So he kept on postponing his departure. And then a few months later he met Mthwakazi. That had decided him. He would not leave. At least not until he had conquered Mthwakazi’s heart. His bitterness dissipated until it was gone. Or so he thought. Until today when Mhlontlo opened an old wound he thought had healed.

‘Oh, to be young and hot-headed,’ said Mhlontlo.

‘He is of Matiwane’s testicle, that’s why,’ said Gxumisa. Matiwane was the late king, father to both Mhlontlo and Malangana, albeit from different Houses.

‘Let him sulk,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘He thinks we are foolish old men. He’ll come to his senses when he grows older.’

‘Growing old is a privilege that many will not experience, thus we carry age with pride,’ said Gxumisa.

The men deliberated without Malangana. After a lengthy debate Mhlontlo came to a decision.

‘We’ll join the white man’s war,’ he said.

There were exclamations of shock and astonishment.

‘Provided the white man supplies us with arms,’ he added.

‘They have just taken our guns,’ said Gxumisa. ‘Do you think they will agree to those terms?’

There was a glint in his eyes at the prospect of getting his prized Snider-Enfield back.

‘If they don’t give us guns then we don’t go to war. We cannot fight the formidable Basotho with assegais.’

He sent one of the men to call Sunduza and they briefed him on their decision. While Sunduza conferred with the magistrates inside the Magistracy the men gathered outside waiting eagerly for their response.

Malangana returned and joined a group of brawny Basotho youths standing a short distance from the elders.

‘What is happening?’ he asked.

‘The elders have decided to join the white man’s war against Magwayi,’ said one of the young men.

Malangana clenched and unclenched his assegai, eyes wide open and nostrils flaring like Gcazimbane’s. He thrust his assegai through the window of The Magistracy. Two other young men did the same with their assegais and sticks while laughing and enjoying the spontaneous rebellion.

Mhlontlo yelled at the young men as the magistrates and their aides rushed out in blind panic.

‘What do you think you are doing, you fools?’

He went on to accuse the culprits of irresponsibility and demanded that they apologise to the magistrates. The Basotho looked blank and avoided meeting his eyes, while Malangana only sneered and shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

‘Of all the native chiefs Mhlontlo is the most responsible,’ said Hamilton Hope. ‘I will recommend to the Government that he be considered as the head of all chiefs assembled here.’

‘We’ll follow you,’ said Mhlontlo to Hope. ‘Where you die, we’ll die.’

As for the young men, the policemen frogmarched them into one of the rooms. Mahlangeni protested aloud to the amaMpondomise elders, ‘You cannot allow them to take our men away.’

One of the policemen turned to him and dragged him off as well.

‘Perhaps you should join them too,’ said the policeman. ‘You talk too much.’

The elders assembled outside could hear the men scream in pain and beg for mercy as Hope’s
kati
ate into their buttocks.

‘You can be sure that none of those screams are from Malangana,’ said Gxumisa.

‘
Unenkani lamfana
,’ said Mhlontlo.
That young man is stubborn
.

Malangana was silent all the way from Maclear to Sulenkama. Not only was he seething inside, his buttocks smarted every time they touched the saddle. He had to ride standing on the stirrups. He wondered how Mahlangeni was feeling as he rode back to Sulenkama much earlier with the main party of amaMpondomise. He felt bad that Mahlangeni went through such humiliation trying to save him. This time he would not forgive Mhlontlo. Or Gxumisa. Once more he had experienced Hope’s
kati
, administered by Hope himself, all because his brother and his uncle were spineless.

He kept aloof even when they stopped to camp under the willow trees by the streams to let the horses graze and drink. The older men let him be and carried on with their conversation.

‘Do you think Hope will really give us the guns?’ asked Gxumisa.

‘If he doesn’t keep his promise we do not go to war,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘I doubt if Government will allow him to give us guns. They would be going against their law of disarmament. So what does that tell you, my uncle?’

‘We are not going to fight in the white man’s war, my nephew!’ said Gxumisa.

They broke out laughing.

Pangs of shame attacked Malangana. He had not been aware of Mhlontlo’s strategy. He was not aware that the elders had agreed to go to war on condition they were given guns. He had acted too rashly when he heard from the Basotho youths that the elders were in agreement with Hope without first finding out the details. But he kept his shame to himself. Instead he palliated it by transporting his mind to Sulenkama, to the place where Mthwakazi was.

As Gxumisa and Mhlontlo discussed Hamilton Hope, Malangana was frolicking with Mthwakazi on the mountainside, helping her dig the roots and collect the herbs that would heal the Queen of amaMpondomise, and chasing her among the bushes and boulders. Her shrieks of excitement reverberated in the cliffs and the valleys.

Malangana was so absorbed in the world of Mthwakazi that he caught only snatches as Mhlontlo told Gxumisa how Hope’s obsession with taxes led to a full-scale war with the Baphuthi people which resulted in the brutal murder of their ruler, his dear friend King Moorosi, only a year before.

Hope had issued writs against the Baphuthi people who had not paid tax, particularly those in Doda’s territory. Doda was Moorosi’s son. Hope’s action therefore alienated Moorosi and his family from the Government. Moorosi and his people repaired to their mountain fortress – Qhobosheane ea Moorosi – and resisted the British forces who stormed the mountain. For months on end they couldn’t take the mountain.

Mhlontlo couldn’t hide his admiration of the Baphuthi people as he narrated the story of their bravery. In the deep of the night Moorosi’s soldiers made forays down the mountain to get food supplies and to attack the colonial encampment. A number of Cape Mounted Riflemen were killed. The British were becoming increasingly frustrated by the day when they couldn’t suppress what they called a rebellion. Instead they were suffering untold casualties. Even the most important person in Government, Prime Minister Gordon Sprigg, couldn’t make Moorosi surrender unconditionally after travelling all the way from Cape Town to negotiate with him. After months of holding the fortress siege, the wily British finally found ways to climb the mountain.

They captured the mountain and killed Moorosi.

‘It was only ten months ago that they killed him,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘They cut off his head and displayed it on a pole.’

That was not the end of King Moorosi’s head. A lesson had to be made for all future rebels. The head was transported all of two hundred and fifty-five miles to Kingwilliamstown where it was exhibited for all to see. Later it was returned to the mountain to be buried with Moorosi’s body.

‘I am still grieving my friend’s death,’ said Mhlontlo, his tired voice nevertheless devoid of emotion.

In the meantime Mthwakazi was hiding among the boulders in the same way Gcazimbane usually hid. Malangana was getting frustrated because he couldn’t locate her.

‘
Heyi wena Mthwakazi, apho nd’zak’fumana khona!
’ he yelled.
Mthwakazi, woe unto you when I finally find you!

Mhlontlo and Gxumisa were startled. They stared at him. Had Hamilton Hope’s cat-o’-nine-tails made the young man lose his mind?

He sleeps for the whole day. He feels drained and his body is like
umqwayito
– the salted sun-dried meat that the Trek-Boers call
biltong
– a result of all the water that flowed out of his eyes. Around midday a little girl brings him soured sorghum porridge to drink, but it rebels in his stomach. He stops drinking lest he retches. It would have been a disaster, messing up his hosts’ freshly polished cow-dung floor.

In the late afternoon he is awakened by the nightwatchman. He is going back to work.

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Malangana.

‘You’re not well,’ says the nightwatchman.

He assures Malangana that he should not worry; his children will look after him until he is strong enough to be on his way. Malangana is grateful. Much as he would not like to impose, he needs the rest. Only for one night though. He must make haste in the morning. He cannot afford to relax.

Mthwakazi must be found.

The song of the girls outside is grating to his ears. It is
umbhororho
, the night-time practice of songs and dance steps in preparation for a wedding. Perhaps it is the first night of practice and the voices do not yet harmonise. There is more argument about which songs to sing and how they should be adapted to mock the groom and his party than there is singing. Malangana cannot help thinking wistfully of his boyhood before he went to the school of the mountain. Weddings were the highlight of any teenager’s year because of the singing and dancing at the
umbhororho
. And, of course, cavorting with the opposite sex. Weddings begot weddings.

His chest rattles with anger that no one ever held
umbhororho
for him and Mthwakazi, thanks to Hamilton Hope.

The scent of burning
umsintsi
wood and roasting maize hovers above his mat. He squints his eyes and can see in the thin light filaments of smoke creeping under the door. He wakes up, draws on his heavy khaki pants, but not before inspecting the padded bottom and feeling with a touch that whatever is hidden in a secret pouch is safe. He puts his grey ‘donkey’ blanket over his shoulder. He reaches for his crutches. He opens the door slowly, as if afraid it will disturb someone’s sleep. He hobbles into a night illuminated only by a sliver of a moon, the stars and a bonfire a few yards from where the boys and girls are practising their wedding songs.

The nightwatchman’s father is sitting by the fire even though December nights are warm. He is blind. Two young shepherds are roasting maize for him. Malangana stands there for a while and watches them pick the kernels from the roasted side of the cob with their thumbs and hand them to the old man. He chews slowly, putting a lot of effort in every crunch.

‘Is that you, Malangana?’ asks the old man.

They were introduced in the morning.

‘Yes, it is me,
bawo
. How did you sense me?’

‘Your bones. They rattle like the seashells of the diviners. Come, join us and share our roasted maize. I always prefer that they boil it first for a long time before they roast it. But I have lazy grandchildren.’

This corn of the white man is becoming more widespread even among those people who are not
amakhumsha
, Malangana observes to himself. Perhaps it will not behave like soft sorghum porridge in his stomach, perhaps it will settle. So he accepts a cob from one of the shepherds.