Little Suns (11 page)

Like the true Thunderman, he does not respond. He fixes his eyes steadfastly on the ground. That convinces them. They shout even louder and encircle him. They clap their hands. The summer rain falls relentlessly. The leaves of the wild pear tree under which he stands cannot protect him from the barrage. He is thoroughly drenched. The chanters are drenched too. But they are children, so they love it. Rain makes them grow.

Fat drops ripple on muddy puddles. The children splash into the water with their feet and kick it in Thunderman’s direction while inviting him to come into the house and share their
amarhewu
fermented maize beverage. Of course, there is no house to come into. They are miles away from their divers homes. Their mothers are huddled on the veranda of the general dealer’s store where they have taken refuge until the rain passes. They came to sell sorghum, beans or maize to the white trader in order to purchase salt, sugar, tea and dripping from his store, or to grind maize into mealie meal at his mill, only to be stranded by the drencher. But the invitation is not out of line. It’s the custom when you see Thunderman under a tree. You invite him into the house for meat and milk and porridge. It doesn’t matter if you have the food or not. It doesn’t matter if there’s a house to invite him into or not. You still invite him.

It is also the custom for him to ignore you and to fix his eyes on the ground. Old people say that in the wondrous days of yore, when the land of amaMpondomise stretched right up to Mzimkhulu River and witches and wizards still pranced free on the hills and mountain peaks exchanging bolts of lightning with impunity, Thunderman was known on occasion to utter a few words of assurance to those who were within earshot. His role was, as it continues to be, to rein in the lightning sent by evil sorcerers to destroy the community. Ever since the land of amaMpondomise was eaten by conquest and shrank into the two districts of Qumbu and Tsolo, the art of wizardry is not as ubiquitous and proficient as it used to be. Immediately the sorcerers start their nonsense of prancing about, sending lightning from one hill to another and competing as to whose lightning can cause the most damage, Thunderman stands under a stump or a bush and fixes his eyes on the ground while working out his strategy. It is at this point that when you see him you invite him to the house for food even though you know he will not respond to your invitation. He concentrates all his power on generating a tremendous storm that swirls right into the dark clouds and drives the lightning sent by sorcerers in different directions until it is absorbed back by the clouds.

Thus death and evil are neutralised by Thunderman.

A flash and a clap send the children scuttling away to the veranda to join their mothers. The women reprimand them for playing in the rain and warn them that if ever they catch a cold they shouldn’t come sniffling or coughing to them expecting any pity.

Thunderman on the other hand wonders to himself how stupid children can be nowadays. Don’t they know that Thunderman is a creature of spring and not summer? A time when the world is red with the blooms of the coastal coral trees, the great
umsintsi
, and white with wild pear blossoms? A season when mountains are pink from aloe blooms and the
noqandilana
bird – the fantailed cisticola – is twirling in the sky drunk from the nectar of the
garingboom
agave?

As for him being Thunderman, what a silly notion! Thunderman is a young and fresh-faced personage in a verdant costume, a true representative of spring, not a rickety shrivelled man on crutches. He has seen Thunderman once when he was a little boy at the Great Place of the Regent Mbali who held sway on behalf of Mhlontlo since his father, Matiwane, died when he was a teenager. He, Malangana, never knew his father Matiwane, for he died when he was a baby. On a rainy day he saw Thunderman standing under a pole that had been erected outside Iqadi House for the very purpose of dispelling lightning. And there he was, Thunderman, all in green. His eyes too, and his hair, and his nails were all green. They say Thunderman never talks, but he talked to him. He remembers very clearly that he talked to him. Something to the effect that it didn’t matter that he could not see his father with his naked eyes, he was there all the same, looking at him, guiding him, being proud of him. He was Malangana, named after the founding ancestor, and should carry the name with pride. Since then he looked constantly for Thunderman whenever it rained but he never saw him again.

The children don’t come back even when the thunder and lightning have stopped. Perhaps they have given up on the idea that he is Thunderman. Or they don’t want to be ambushed by another sudden bolt and flash while engaged in their antics.

The rain tapers off and stops. It was only a cloudburst that overstayed its welcome. Suddenly there is an outburst of the rays of the sun. And the general dealer’s store becomes animated with customers taking their places in the long queue and others being pushed away from reclaiming spots that were never theirs ahead of everyone else.

Malangana takes a few hobbles from under the tree to the clearing in front of the store so that the warm rays of the sun can dry him. The vengeful children will not forgive him. Three of them walk past him.

‘He’s no Thunderman,’ says one of them.

‘He lied to us,’ says another.

‘
Rha!
’ says the third, spitting in front of him in disgust.

‘
Ngunyoko ke lowo
,’ says Malangana.
That is your mother.

Just the mention of ‘your mother’ in that tone is a grievous insult to amaMpondomise. The children run back to their mothers shouting that the ugly old man on crutches has insulted them about their mothers. A whole gang of women start yelling at him in unison from the veranda and the steps.

‘Why don’t you fall down right there and die?’ one of them curses, while the rest back up the suggestion.

‘I refuse to die before I find Mthwakazi,’ he yells back.

His defiance silences them.

Boys in grey blankets lazing about among their donkeys laden with bags of grain for the mill titter and snigger.

‘What did he say?’

‘He is refusing to die before he finds Mthwakazi.’

‘Who is Mthwakazi?’

These are not his people. His people were never rude like this. These must be the new people, those who came after the war and took over the lands of amaMpondomise. Granted, the world has changed after twenty years, it is possible that even amaMpondomise could become modern and rude. But to this extent?
Hayi!
Or perhaps it is just that amaMpondomise of Tsolo are different from amaMpondomise of Qumbu in manners and etiquette. Qumbu was King Mhlontlo’s territory, where Hamilton Hope had his jurisdiction, and Tsolo was King Mditshwa’s. His magistrate was A.R. Welsh, a man of a different temperament to Hope. A man of different methods too. Never whipped respected elders with cat-o’-nine-tails as if they were undisciplined adolescents.

Malangana casts his eyes on the people of Tsolo and their mangy dogs and their scraggy asses and their runty children and spits out a phlegmy curse on the ground. And defiantly stands in the sun to dry. How he despises them. He remembers that on quite a few occasions more than twenty years ago he had been determined to emigrate from Qumbu to Tsolo to seek refuge under Mditshwa when he had been disgruntled with Mhlontlo – especially when Mhlontlo seemed to be taking Hamilton Hope’s side against him. And then Mthwakazi happened. Perhaps if he had moved to Tsolo with Mthwakazi at that time things would have taken a different turn. Perhaps the twenty years wouldn’t have happened.

He casts his eyes among the rude people of Tsolo once again. He pans from right to left and from left to right in two sweeping movements. There is no sign of Mthwakazi among them. Perhaps standing in one place is not the best way to find her. It may not be the best way to get dry either. So he slowly hobbles away from the general dealer’s store through the boys and their donkeys.

Some of the aged faces here would have been familiar if he had emigrated.

How did amaMpondomise have two rival kingdoms in the first place?

He can hear Gxumisa of old telling the story; he’s all but a ghostly shadow in his memory. The years have blurred his once sharp features.

The trouble started when the land of amaMpondomise was ruled by the Regent Velelo. Myeki, the rightful heir to the throne, was still young. Myeki is the one who later begot Matiwane who then begot Mhlontlo. It was during the era of Shaka kaSenzangakhona, and he was creating havoc invading and conquering nations, causing the great migrations of iMfecane. He dared attack amaMpondomise. Malangana can hear Gxumisa’s voice, albeit now distorted by the distance of time, extolling the brilliance of Velelo as a general. The amaZulu regiments crossed Mzimkhulu River into the land of amaMpondomise where a battle was fought on the mountain of Nolangeni in Kokstad. On that mountain Shaka’s regiments were thoroughly defeated by Velelo’s regiments.

But, of course, Velelo was only a regent. Myeki came of age and took over the kingdom. He proved to be a very weak king. He couldn’t withstand persistent attacks by amaZulu, though to his credit he once defeated Shaka’s much-feared Dukuza Regiment. That was the only victory he ever earned. Under his command amaMpondomise lost many a battle.

amaMpondomise began to quarrel among themselves. Some wanted Velelo back because he had been such a strong leader. But others felt that Myeki was the rightful king and the laws of succession shouldn’t be trampled upon for any reason. It was 1828 and in that year Shaka was assassinated by his brothers. Myeki’s supporters hoped that the wars of conquest would come to an end and amaMpondomise would live in peace with their weak king. Oh no! said Velelo’s supporters. Shaka was not the only threat. There were other nations that would prey on weaker nations. amaMpondomise needed to be strong against all other nations. And who said amaZulu’s ambitions for a world empire would die with Shaka?

The quarrel resulted in a civil war that split amaMpondomise into two – the amaMpondomise of Myeki and those of Velelo. It was only after this split that they were defeated by amaZulu, and then later conquered by the British. Their kingdom had shrunk from all the land between the Mzimkhulu and Mthatha rivers to what we see today. Mhlontlo, the grandson of Myeki, was confined to the district of Qumbu and Mditshwa, the grandson of Velelo, to the district of Tsolo.

‘That was a curious thing to say,
bawo
; you’ll not die before you find Mthwakazi.’

Malangana is startled by the voice, and right behind him is a short man dressed completely in European clothes. He is not wearing a blanket or kaross over his shoulders as ordinary men do; not a string of beads either. He is obviously one of
amakhumsha
. Malangana gives way to him on the narrow footpath but he does not pass.

‘It is not for us to know the hour or the day,’ he says, smiling at Malangana. ‘But you, sir, have decided that you will not die until your quest has been satisfied. Those
amaqaba
women have loose tongues. Perhaps you were just responding out of anger?’

Malangana is becoming irritated with this man. Quite presumptuous of him to think that he does not know what he is talking about and just babbles things out of anger. It is true, the women are loose-tongued, but
amakhumsha
can be so arrogant, calling other people
amaqaba
– those who are backward and smear themselves with red ochre. Just because they have imbibed white man’s education they think they are better than their own kinsfolk.

‘You would not die either if you knew Mthwakazi,’ says Malangana.

He hobbles off. He must get as far away as possible from this man.
Amakhumsha
are the eyes and the ears of Government and anything that has to do with Government is his enemy, though he is no longer a fugitive.

‘Wait,’ says the man, laughing patronisingly. ‘I did not mean to offend you. Perhaps I can help you.’

‘The only help I need from anybody is to find Mthwakazi,’ he says, trying hard to hasten his pace. To the able-bodied man his attempt to escape is rather pathetic.

‘I don’t know any Mthwakazi. I know a place where they help people like you. Where all
amaxhoba
go.’
Amaxhoba
are victims. Men and women crippled by war and consumption.

The man gives Malangana directions to Ibandla-likaNtu, a congregation of rebels who have broken away from Christian denominations to re-establish the broken bond with the God of their fathers. Many
amaxhoba
gather there, not necessarily for spiritual nourishment but because some believers donate food; they believe it will bring them good fortune to feed
amaxhoba
.

‘If this Mthwakazi is a beggar-woman, as you say, then someone there is bound to have seen her.’

Slowly he works his way towards Ibandla-likaNtu. The place is on the outskirts of town, in a hamlet on the banks of Goqwana River.

Mthwakazi has been here. Even as he walks on the path that leads to a compound of dilapidated thatched rondavels enclosed in a fence of reeds he can feel the
umkhondo
. He stops to catch his breath. He has not felt
umkhondo
since that day he had seen amaMfengu women in his mother’s field and the preacherman had abducted him to church. He thought he had lost the ability to feel Mthwakazi’s aura just as he had lost the unwanted gift to neigh like a horse, which he discovered he had attained soon after losing Gcazimbane in Lesotho. It had quietly faded away.

Malangana stands at the entrance and leans against the pole because he is shaking so much.
Amaxhoba
are sitting all over the compound, on the ground and on the rocks that serve as seats. Others lie on the sleighs that have brought them here pulled by the emaciated oxen that are grazing a short distance from the compound. Some
amaxhoba
have no legs or arms or are blind. Others have no particular disability that he can see. They are just indigent people displaced by war. There are men and women of varying ages, but mostly old. The blind ones are accompanied by their grandsons who act as their seeing-eyes.