The Heart of Redness: A Novel (30 page)

“We are going ahead with our plans,” says Lefa Leballo adamantly. “How will you stop us? The government has already approved this project. I belong to the ruling party. Many important people in the ruling party are directors of this company. The chairman himself was a cabinet minister until he was deployed to the corporate world. We’ll see to it that you don’t foil our efforts.”

“Well, how will you stop progress and development?” asks Mr. Smith, chuckling triumphantly.

“Yes! How will he stop civilization?” asks Xoliswa Ximiya.

For a while Camagu does not know how to answer this. Then in an inspired moment he suddenly shouts, “How will I stop you? I will tell you how I will stop you! I will have this village declared a national heritage site. Then no one will touch it. The wonders of Nongqawuse that led to the cattle-killing movement of the amaXhosa happened here. On that basis, this can be declared a national heritage site!”

“That damned Nongqawuse again!” spits Bhonco.

“That Nongqawuse of yours is already burning in the fires of hell,” says Xoliswa Ximiya.

“This son of Cesane is brilliant!” cries Zim. “I knew that Nongqawuse would one day save this village!”

It is clear that the majority of the people have been swayed by Camagu’s intervention. Bhonco bursts out in desperation, “This son of
Cesane, I ask you, my people, is he circumcised? Are we going to listen to uncircumcised boys here?”

“How do you know he is not circumcised?” asks Zim.

“Why should that matter?” says Camagu. “Facts are facts, whether they come from somebody who is circumcised or not.”

“Yes, it does matter,” says Zim. “That is why this Unbeliever brings it up. He has been defeated by facts and reason. That is why he now talks about circumcision. Of course, if this son of Cesane is uncircumcised we shall not deal with him, though he has been useful in our cause.”

At first Camagu is stubborn. He says he does not see why the worth of a man should be judged on whether he has a foreskin or not.

“You said you respected our customs,” says Bhonco. “So you respect them only when it suits you? Clearly you are uncircumcised!”

“I challenge you, Tat’uBhonco, to come and inspect me here in public to see if I have a foreskin,” says Camagu confidently. He knows that no one will dare take up that challenge. And if at any time they did, they would not find any foreskin. He was circumcised, albeit in the most unrespectable manner, at the hospital.

Zim’s supporters applaud.

Mr. Jones adopts a more conciliatory stance. In measured tones he tries to convince them how beautiful the place will be, with all the amenities of the city. There will be a shopping mall, tennis courts, and an Olympic-size swimming pool.

He is struck by a new idea, which by the look on his face is quite brilliant. “We can even build new blocks of town houses as holiday time-share units,” he says.

“Time-share units? We didn’t talk about time-share units,” says Mr. Smith. “We talked about a hotel and a casino.”

“Well, plans can always change, can’t they?” says Mr. Jones.

“If the plans change at all, I rather fancy a retirement village for millionaires,” says Mr. Smith. “This place is ideal for that. We can call it Willowbrook Grove.”

“Grove?” exclaims Mr. Jones. “How can we call it a grove when we’re going to cut down all these trees to make way for the rides?”

“We’ll plant other trees imported from England. We’ll uproot a
lot of these native shrubs and wild bushes and plant a beautiful English garden.”

The developers seem to have forgotten about the rest of the people as they argue about the profitability of creating a beautiful English countryside versus that of constructing a crime-free time-share paradise. Even Lefa Leballo is left out as they bandy about the most appropriate names: names that end in Close, Dell, and Downs. At first the villagers are amused. But soon they get bored and drift away to their homes, leaving the developers lost in their argument.

Late in the evening Camagu is eating his supper of fried eggs, oysters, and steamed bread. He is quite happy with himself. He feels that he has redeemed himself in the eyes of the villagers. He hears the neighing of a horse outside. He ignores it. The neighing continues irritating. He reluctantly walks to the door and opens it. There is Qukezwa sitting on top of Gxagxa.

She giggles.

“I love what you did today,” she says.

“And you came all the way just to tell me that?”

“Come here. Don’t be afraid. I won’t eat you.”

He hesitates, then slowly goes to her.

“You can touch Gxagxa if you like,” she says, grabbing his hand and brushing the horse with it.

“Please,” he blurts out. “I want a ride. I want to repeat the ride of that night.”

“But there is no moon tonight,” she says softly.

“It does not matter,” he cries with urgency. “I want that ride now. I want to feel what I felt. Maybe I’ll understand how that conception happened.”

Qukezwa lets him climb behind her, and Gxagxa gallops away. She sings in many voices. But Camagu cannot feel a thing. The silvery night cannot be recaptured. Gxagxa picks up speed. Qukezwa strips and throws all her clothes away. He follows her lead.

“We’ll pick them up on our way back,” she cries.

They both ride bareback, reinless and naked.

When they get to Intlambo-ka-Nongqawuse—Nongqawuse’s Valley—they run naked on the lush grass, chasing each other. Then he follows her lead once more and jumps into the pool. He can’t swim. She swims like a fish. She begins to teach him, showing him a few strokes. When they jump out of the pool his whole body is itchy and has a fine rash. He screams.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she says as she rubs it with some leaves. “It is only the
thithiboya
caterpillar that has walked on you. Or poison ivy. So far no one has died from either.”

John Dalton was becoming impatient. He dared not show it, though. John Gawler, on the other hand, sat calmly and appeared intensely interested in Sir George Grey’s ramblings. He had not become a magistrate at the tender age of twenty-six by displaying impatience at stories told by colonial governors. He had a long life full of brilliant service and lucrative promotions ahead of him. If the older Dalton wanted to interrupt the governor of the Cape Colony, it was his own problem. The older Dalton had nothing to lose. His career in the service of Her Majesty’s Government was almost over in any case. He was already talking of opening a trading store somewhere in British Kaffraria.

“Sir, perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand,” said John Dalton.

“The matter at hand? Is that not what we are talking about?” asked Sir George.

“The disaster in British Kaffraria,” said Dalton. “When he heard that you would be in Grahamstown, John Maclean, your chief commissioner of British Kaffraria, sent us with the message that things are getting worse. The natives are dying in their hundreds from starvation.”

“Their customs are to blame,” scoffed Sir George. Then he addressed the younger man. “You will be happy, Gawler, to hear that I have commissioned an exhaustive research of native laws and customs in support of my system of magisterial rule in the eastern Cape. When you know their customs, you will be a much more effective magistrate over the natives.”

“That will be very useful, sir,” assented Gawler.

“In the meantime they are dying, Sir George,” Dalton appealed. “In spite of everything, the cattle-killing continues. What should we do? The prophets of Gxarha have the people firmly in their power.”

“You know, in Australia and New Zealand I did the same thing,” boasted Sir George. “I built an important collection of the languages, customs, and religions of the natives. It is important to record these because they are destined to disappear along with the savages who hold them, don’t you think, Gawler?”

“It is so, Sir George.”

“The advance of Christian civilization will sweep away ancient races. Antique laws and customs will molder into oblivion,” proclaimed the governor.

“It is already happening, Sir George. We, your magistrates, are advancing your policies to the letter,” said Gawler, feigning enthusiasm.

“The strongholds of murder and superstition shall be cleansed,” said Sir George spiritedly, “as the gospel is preached among ignorant and savage men. The ruder languages shall disappear, and the tongue of England alone shall be heard all around. So you see, my friends, this cattle-killing nonsense augurs the dawn of a new era.”

“In the meantime, what do we do about this current emergency?” asked Dalton. “What do we tell the chief commissioner?”

“Who is this man?” Sir George asked, looking at Gawler and pointing at Dalton disdainfully.

“John Dalton, sir,” answered Gawler.

“I know that, but who is he?”

“He is a military veteran of the frontier wars. He is very useful in translating and interpreting the native tongues.”

“I interpreted for you on your last tour of the frontier, Sir George,” said Dalton helpfully.

“Then teach him that being given the privilege of an audience with me is quite different from addressing mobs of natives. He must stop interrupting me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gawler.

“My apologies, sir,” said Dalton, who then sulked for the rest of that day.

“As for the prophets of Gxarha, why don’t you just arrest them?”

“The chief commissioner fears an uprising,” said Gawler.

“An uprising of people who have been rendered powerless by starvation? An uprising of dying people?”

When the two officers got back home they laid down their plans for the arrest of the prophets. But they were advised by the unbelieving elders to wait until the problems between Chief Nxito and some of his subjects had been sorted out. It seemed that an armed confrontation between the Believers and Unbelievers of Qolorha was imminent. If the prophets were arrested at that time, it would exacerbate the situation.

After Chief Nxito’s return to his chiefdom, rumors were flying around that he had converted and joined the Believers. He, on the other hand, was eager to prove to all his subjects that his supposed conversion was a figment of the Believers’ imagination.

He also wanted to find a way of demonstrating once and for all that the prophecies were false. He demanded that Mhlakaza should display to the chiefs of kwaXhosa those new people he was claiming had already risen from the dead. The prophets of Gxarha played for time, but Nxito was persistent.

Finally Mhlakaza announced that the new people had agreed to show themselves to Chief Nxito. The wizened chief was suspicious. He sent Twin-Twin to reconnoiter the appointed meeting place and make sure that there was no chicanery. Unfortunately, Mhlakaza’s spies discovered Twin-Twin hiding in the donga near the sacred place where the new people were expected to appear just for Nxito’s benefit.

“Nxito has insulted the new people!” screamed Mhlakaza. “He has placed an Unbeliever on their path! How do you expect them to come when their path is obstructed by the evil shadow of an Unbeliever like
Twin-Twin? The new people have left in anger for the mouth of the Great Fish River. Nxito must bear all the blame!”

The Believers were fuming. Once more the Unbelievers were responsible for the delay of the rising of the dead. Some questioned Twin-Twin’s intentions. Hadn’t he publicly expressed his desire for the sacred body of Prophetess Nongqawuse? Was he not trying to kill two birds with one stone: putting obstacles in the path of the new people while at the same time waylaying the prophetess on her daily route to commune with the new people at the banks of the Gxarha River?

“You never know with these amaGogotya, these Unbelievers.” That was all Mhlakaza could say. “In any event, the new people have spoken. Nongqawuse says they say they have decided not to rise, because of the appeals that are being made to them by the ancestors of the Unbelievers. The ancestors of the Unbelievers are worried that their descendants will be doomed for disregarding the prophecies. In their infinite compassion the new people still hope that the Unbelievers will change their minds and kill their cattle.”

But King Sarhili was no longer prepared to let Mhlakaza off so easily. He demanded that he should set a definite date for the coming of the new people. The messengers the king had been sending to the Gxarha were coming back with the bad news that no wonders were seen over there. Only those people who wanted to see miracles saw miracles. They were saying that as far as they were concerned the whole story of the new people and new cattle was a deceit.

Small cracks of doubt were opening in the armor of some Believers.

Twin and Qukezwa did not share these doubts. They were among the hungry and the weak who walked the whole day from Qolorha to Butterworth, where more than six thousand believing amaXhosa had already gathered, waiting for the dawn of the new day of miracles and wonders that had been announced by Mhlakaza.

The mood was joyous in Butterworth. At last the resurrection was going to happen. There was very little food but plenty of singing and dancing. Everyone was waiting for the next full moon, which was to fall on 10 January 1857. The moon was going to be blood-red and the dead would arise.

Twin was rather unhappy that none of the prophets could be seen in the joyous crowd. Mhlakaza was not there. Neither were Nongqawuse and Nombanda. Even Nonkosi, the eleven-year-old daughter of Kulwana, who had emerged as a new prophetess at the Mpongo River, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps her absence could be explained, the people whispered. The new date had not emanated from her denomination.

“Are you beginning to doubt the prophets?” asked Qukezwa.

“No, I do not doubt the prophets,” Twin assured her. “But it would have been nice if they were here to welcome the new people personally.”

“The new people are not coming to Butterworth, Father of Heitsi,” Qukezwa reminded him. “We are merely here to celebrate their arrival at the Gxarha. The prophets insisted that only King Sarhili and his trusted councillors should be on hand to witness their approach to the shores of kwaXhosa, riding on the waves.”

“I know, I know. Those were the instructions of the new people themselves.”