The Heart of Redness: A Novel (27 page)

The Unbelievers like to explore various strategies in pursuit of happiness. Whereas Believers have a tendency of wanting to stay ignorant of the things that could make them unhappy, the Unbelievers like to induce sadness in order to attain happiness.

They are now dancing the painful dance that will send them into a deep trance in which they will commune with some of the saddest moments of their past.

Mjuza and Ned, the notorious amaGqobhoka, were talking their Christian nonsense again. They were telling Twin-Twin and old Nxito that it was wrong to seek happiness in this world. Happiness could be achieved only after death.

“That is a mad idea if ever I heard one,” argued Twin-Twin. “How would you attain happiness after death if you failed to attain it when you were still living? Even the ancestors would kick you out of their ranks if you came to them as a failure like that.”

“As for me,” said Nxito, “I do not think happiness is obtainable. I have been living in this world for many years. I have seen men and women search for it. But when they think they have got hold of it, it escapes. They have to begin searching once again. It is an illusion. That is why our people are now dying of starvation. All in pursuit of happiness.”

“Don’t tell us about those,” responded Ned. “They are stupid heathens.”

“For me,” said Twin-Twin, “the pursuit of happiness is fulfillment enough.”

“Happiness can only be achieved after death, when we join the Lord and sit at his right-hand side,” insisted Mjuza.

“At his right-hand side? Why at his right-hand side?” asked Twin-Twin.

“Well, that’s where people sit when they join the Lord,” said Mjuza sheepishly. “That’s where Jesus sits.”

There was silence for some time, while the men pondered this heavy matter. They puffed rhythmically on their long pipes, blowing out rings of smoke that hung like halos over their heads.

“Perhaps followers of the religion of the white man like Mjuza and Ned have a point,” Nxito said finally. “It is better to forget about happiness. Look what its pursuit has done to my people. They thought it would finally be achieved when the new people came.”

“The followers of the god of the white man are lost, Old One,” appealed Twin-Twin. “I know that many of our people are beginning to resort to this white god. It is because prophets who purport to speak for our god have let us down. But if we commune with the ancestors, and do all that is right by slaughtering for them, they will give us happiness. Of course they will never come back as the amaThamba, the Believers, have been deceiving the people. Only we shall go to join them when Qamata so decides.”

Mjuza and Ned decided it was futile to try to convert these people. They were set in their ways. It did not matter, though. They remained friends still. Unbelievers, whether they were Christians or heathens, could be relied upon as allies of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers. Or so Mjuza and Ned thought.

“Anyway,” said Mjuza, “it is clear that we shall not see the question of happiness with the same eye. Let us talk about what you called us here for.”

“We summoned you here because messages from the Gxarha River are becoming more frantic,” Nxito explained. “Hardly a day passes without a messenger coming to say that Nongqawuse and Nombanda are demanding my return to my chiefdom. What should I do? What do
Gawler and Dalton, the representatives of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers, want me to do in this case?”

“I wonder why Nongqawuse is so keen that you return to Qolorha, when it is her Believers who drove you away in the first place,” said Ned.

No one seemed to have an answer. Could it be that the prophetesses feared the wrath of the ancestors should the aged Nxito die in exile, far away from the graves of his fathers?

“Perhaps they are afraid that when Nxito’s ancestors arise from the dead they will not be happy to see that their son has been exiled,” said Mjuza sarcastically.

“What does the elder think?” asked Ned. “Perhaps things will depend on what Chief Nxito himself wants to do. We’ll take your message to the magistrate. I am sure he will want to know what your own view is.”

“I am sure the old man is longing for his home,” added Mjuza.

“I think that if the old man returns on the orders of these young girls then he’ll be giving them more power,” said Twin-Twin. “People will believe in them even more.”

While Twin-Twin was grappling with the grave issues of happiness and the demands of girl-prophets, Twin and Qukezwa were sitting on top of a hill watching for the approach of Russian ships. They no longer sat on the banks of the river or on the beach, but now preferred the hill since it gave them a good vantage position. From here they would wait until the new people came riding on the waves, or until the long-promised Russian fleet sailed to the shores of Qolorha to destroy The Man Who Named Ten Rivers and his white settlers.

Heitsi was digging out roots a short distance away. The days of glorious feasting were over. The euphoria that soaked the land after the defeat of HMS
Geyser
had long since bubbled itself out, and people were faced with the stark reality of starvation. Twin and Qukezwa were now dependent on wild roots. Even these were hard to find, since starving hordes of Believers had long invaded the veld and the hills to
dig them out. Old people, children, the weak, and the infirm were fainting from hunger. At least one person, the son of a believing diviner, was known to have died from the famine.

Yet Twin and Qukezwa’s belief was not weakening. They refused to cultivate their fields. Like everyone else, they were hungry. To ease the pain of hunger they tightened leather belts around their stomachs. On days when they could not find any roots, they survived on the bark of mimosa trees. They even had to eat shellfish, which was not regarded as food at all by the amaXhosa. Yet the hope that the prophecies would ultimately be fulfilled burned even brighter in their hearts.

They replenished their belief by going down to Mhlakaza’s hut at the Gxarha River. Often they found Believers there whose belief was gradually fading, pestering the prophets and demanding that they be saved from a looming death.

“Go and adorn yourselves!” Nongqawuse told them. “There is no time for weeping! There is time only to celebrate the coming of the new people!”

Once more the people were invigorated. They dressed up in their red ochre costumes and beaded ornaments. Tottering old women were resplendent in new isikhakha skirts and in brass jewelry, hoping that with the rising of the dead they would have their youth restored to them. Twin and Qukezwa were torn between the austere teachings of Nonkosi, which demanded that Believers should eschew all forms of beautification, and Nongqawuse’s instructions. On some days they followed Nonkosi and on others Nongqawuse.

But hunger was no respecter of beauty. It attacked even the best dressed of people. The Believers appealed to the believing chiefs to be rescued from its pangs. The chiefs in turn appealed to King Sarhili. After all, he had taken the responsibility of the cattle-killing upon himself. Even Chief Maqoma, the general who had brilliantly led the amaXhosa forces against the British in the War of Mlanjeni, was sending persistent messages to Sarhili. Maqoma was a leading Believer, and had now taken over from his brother as the chief of the amaNgqika clan. He had led his clan into a frenzy of cattle-killing, and into famine. King Sarhili in turn appealed to Mhlakaza and his teenage prophetesses. He tried to force them to come up with a new date for the fulfillment of the prophecies.

“There is nothing I can do,” said Mhlakaza. “Nongqawuse and Nombanda have spoken. They say that the dead will not arise as long as Chief Nxito remains in exile. The chief must first return to his chiefdom near the Gxarha. Only then will the new day be known.”

Twin-Twin was adamant that old Nxito should not go back to his native place on the instructions of the girls. He was angry because, in spite of the protection that had been guaranteed by the British magistrate and his crony, Dalton, Believers had entered his homestead and had stolen grain from his silos and milk from his two cows. There was also talk that they were looking for his cattle, which were hidden in cattle-posts in the Amathole Mountains under the care of his many sons. Twin-Twin suspected the hand of his twin brother in all this. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. Twin was interested only in the rising of the dead. He had no wish to steal anyone’s food. He was fulfilled in his hunger. All he wanted to do was to sit in a dazed state with his Qukezwa and Heitsi, and await the Russian ships and the coming of the forebears riding on the waves.

Twin-Twin was now rekindling his old lust for the prophetesses, particularly for Nongqawuse. He was spreading the news throughout Qolorha that copulation was the only medicine that would drive out the wild prophecies from her head. But of course this remained only talk. He would never dare get near Mhlakaza’s homestead to seduce or rape the prophetess, even with his phalanx of bodyguards.

Pressure was mounting on Chief Nxito, and finally in November 1856 he yielded and rode back to Qolorha in the company of Twin-Twin and a number of his unbelieving followers. His son, Pama, handed back the chieftainship to him without any argument. After all, it was the wish of the prophetesses that the old man should rule.

The first thing he did, on the very first day of his arrival, was to go to Mhlakaza’s homestead. He wanted to talk with Nongqawuse personally. But she seemed disorientated and confused, in the manner of all great prophets. It was left to Mhlakaza and Nombanda to speak for her.

“Nongqawuse says that the new people—” began Mhlakaza.

“The new people?” asked Nxito.

“The ancestors who will rise from the dead,” explained Nombanda.

“Nongqawuse says that the new people no longer wish to speak through a commoner like myself,” Mhlakaza continued. “They want to speak through you, Chief Nxito. That is why the prophetesses insisted that you come back to your chiefdom. The new people have chosen you, a senior chief of kwaXhosa, to be their spokesman.”

“How is that possible?” asked Nxito.

“Nongqawuse says the new people—”

“Nongqawuse says? But she did not say anything,” shouted Twin-Twin. “We didn’t hear her say anything. She just sits there staring at nothing and you keep on lying that Nongqawuse says, Nongqawuse says. . .”

Nxito’s entourage mumbled its agreement, while the Believers expressed their indignation at such blasphemy. Some said it was a pity that Twin was no longer interested in the affairs of the state. He no longer attended imbhizos but sat all day long on the hill. If he were here he would have taught his stubborn brother a thing or two about respecting those who had been chosen by the ancestors to be their messengers.

“Nongqawuse says soon the new people will present themselves to Chief Nxito,” continued Mhlakaza, ignoring Twin-Twin’s comment. “And when that happens he must call an imbhizo of all commoners and chiefs of kwaXhosa. The multitudes must gather to await the return of the ancestors.”

Chief Nxito and his entourage laughed all the way back to his Great Place. What did Mhlakaza take them for? Did he think they were fools?

But the Believers read the return of the old chief and his meeting with the prophets in their own way. Soon word spread that Chief Nxito had been converted from his unbelief. This gave more hope to the Believers that the prophecies would soon be fulfilled. Some even said that the rising of the dead would take place at the next full moon. Once more euphoria swept the land. And the rivers thundered their laughter.

The weather is swollen, and the rivers continue to thunder their laughter. The elders of the Unbelievers have fallen on the ground in a trance. Izitibiri sounds that have leaked through the cracks of the Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School hall are filtering through the heavy air and seem to lull the elders into a deeper trance.

Eventually, Bhonco, son of Ximiya, is the first to open his eyes. Perhaps it is NoPetticoat’s voice flavoring the izitibiri that hauls him from the pain of the ancestors’ world to the world of joyous school concerts. Hazy figures of little men take shape before him. He looks around. The fellow elders are still in a trance. But to his shock they are all surrounded by a group of abaThwa, the small people who were called Bushmen by the colonists of old.

“Wake your friends up,” says the leader of the abaThwa, mixing isiXhosa with his own language which is composed of clicks. “Wake them up!”

“Hey, what is the matter?” Bhonco asks.

“We demand the return of our dance!” says the leader.

“Woe unto the amaGcaleka who have given birth to me!” cries Bhonco.

He tries very hard to wake up the other elders. Slowly they return. Their bodies are drenched with the sadness of the past. They are emerging from the trance ready to face the world and to battle with the Believers. They are taken aback when they hear that the abaThwa are demanding the return of their dance. This is a setback that none of them is prepared for. How will they survive without the dance?

They ask the abaThwa to sit under another tree while they confer.

“Didn’t these people give us this dance? How can they demand it back?” asks one elder.