Little Suns (18 page)

Malangana is a descendant of dreamers. The first among the dreamers was Ngcwina who was famous for killing a rhinoceros with his bare hands when others could only trap the beast and kill it with spears in hunting parties. Ngcwina was the fourth king of amaMpondomise after Sibiside, the first known leader of the abaMbo from whom such peoples as amaSwati, amaMpondo, amaMpondomise and aboMkhize descended.

He is thinking of Ngcwina today as he sits in the ruins of the Tsolo Jail. He discovered this nook where he can have some privacy among the sandstones once shaped by masons. For many years this place was abandoned. But now it looks more like a construction site. There is a pile of sand and a load of bricks. Some stones are being dug out from the mound that had buried them for twenty years. They are bringing the jail back to life. Perhaps they are no longer haunted by the memory of the white women and children who locked themselves in here, hoping they would be safer in jail than in their houses, while the natives rampaged and set Tsolo on fire and Mditshwa’s forces besieged the magistrate during the War of Hope.

He takes off his pants and spreads them on the floor. He looks around to make sure there is no one watching. It is quiet outside although it is a Monday morning.
Amagqobhoka
– the Christian converts – are trying to recover from the festive weekend which started on Friday when they celebrated Christmas. They went to church in the morning to worship and eat bread and drink wine. And then they came back in the afternoon to drink and feast and went from house to house asking for Christmas Box. This meant you had to give them more food. On Saturday the feasting continued because they said it was Boxing Day. And then again on Sunday they went to worship and eat bread and drink wine in the church. When they came back the feasting continued. No wonder they are winning more people into their ranks, not just
amakhumsha
. Many people who can’t even read or write their names or say ‘good morning, mistress’ have become churchgoers.

As for Malangana, he hates this season with all his heart. He is grateful that he discovered this refuge – the old ruins of the jail. He hates all enforced merriment. Gaiety by decree of the white man’s book.

Having assured himself that no one is spying on him, Malangana unbuttons a secret pouch sewn inside the bottom of the pants, takes out a number of banknotes and counts them. They are in hundreds, his hoardings from his early years in exile when he used to sell the
mokhele
ostrich feathers with which Basotho soldiers dressed their shields. He is satisfied it is all in order. He never bothers this stash. But once in a while he wants to satisfy himself. He separates one note which will take care of his meagre needs for months to come and puts it in his normal pocket. He puts his pants on again.

Now he can return to Ibandla-likaNtu, though the place is getting on his nerves. He has been there now for twelve days; he has counted as each one of them dawned and dusked without any appearance of Mthwakazi. Perhaps he is getting on people’s nerves too. There is a lot of irritation in the air.

Christmas was the worst, with every preacher outdoing himself about the birth of the baby Jesus who came to save the world. Many of these preachers were
amaxhoba
themselves. Why didn’t the baby Jesus save them? Anyway, didn’t these people say they left the white man’s churches in order to worship their own God? How did this baby Jesus follow them all the way to the compound on the banks of the Goqwana River?

Malangana decides that he won’t return to the compound yet. He will sit here for a while and listen to himself and to his longing. The Gcazimbane in him has been silent since that one surprise attack at the compound and he is grateful for that. He is still puzzled why it happened then when he thought he had been cured of him. A
lethuela
– diviner – in Lesotho once told him he would be cured only if he erased his memory of Gcazimbane and of the meat that he ate. But how do you forget a horse like Gcazimbane?

His mind darts back to Ngcwina, the wonderful dreamer. He dreams like Ngcwina. But Ngcwina was a king and a powerful one at that. He had the power to make his dreams a reality. He is the one who once dreamed a hunting party of his amaMpondomise people came back from a hunt in the Ulundi Mountains with a strange animal that had no fur on its body. He knew immediately that the dream had a meaning. He then sent a hunting party to the same mountains which on the third day at Ngele – today’s Mount Ayliff – found a Mthwa woman in a cave. They knew immediately it was the fulfilment of their king’s dream and brought her down. That was the woman who became Manxangashe, Ngcwina’s wife of the Iqadi House whose son became heir to the amaMpondomise kingdom.

As Malangana sits on the heap that was the jail of Tsolo, and that will rise to be the jail again, he tastes the bitterness in his mouth that, unlike Ngcwina who did have his Mthwakazi, he still cannot have his own Mthwakazi after all these years. It is all because of one man: Hamilton Hope. amaMpondomise knew right from the beginning when this man was planted among them that he was not bringing them any good. They did not want him. They had heard of him from King Moorosi. Even after he had been posted they demanded he be expelled. But the Government was deaf to their pleas. Now see what had happened?

Malangana takes his crutches and slowly works his way towards Ibandla-likaNtu. He has disturbed the banknotes; they cause some discomfort. Soon they will settle and his bottom will be at home with them again.

At sunrise a party of more than three hundred armed horsemen departed from Sulenkama. They were led by Mhlontlo and the elders of the House of Matiwane. Mhlontlo’s uncle Gxumisa was not one of them. He remained with the rest of
amabutho
at Sulenkama who had to be prepared for war under his command in case of an attack by the Red Coats of the Cape Mounted Riflemen. Before Davis was taken away to his mother by
amakhumsha
the night before, he assured Mhlontlo that the killing of Hope, which he variously called murder and assassination, would not be the end of the story. The
CMR
would not rest until they avenged his death. amaMpondomise should therefore prepare for war.

‘We’ll fight them,’ said Mhlontlo.

‘If they couldn’t raise an army big enough to fight Magwayi how will they defeat us?’ asked Gxumisa. ‘Yes, we’ll fight them.’

Malangana was finally proud of his king. He had never seen him so resolute. The elders of the House of Matiwane and all the other councillors were just as determined. For once the so-called agitators of Mahlangeni and Malangana’s generation were in one voice with these usually conservative elders who were believed to have succumbed to English rule.

Malangana was not in the party of horsemen pacing their horses in pairs in a long line of rhythmic gait, with women ululating all along the way. Mhlontlo ordered him to take Saraband to Hope’s house and then join the rest of the men in front of the courthouse, known as the House of Trials by amaMpondomise, where he would hold a meeting with the white people of Qumbu.

Malangana, now dressed in the policeman’s shirt, first went to Mahlangeni’s homestead. He knew that he was not among the horsemen riding to Qumbu because he had to be with his father to doctor the troops for any impending war. And indeed there he was under a
umsintsi
tree conferring with a group of men whom Malangana had not seen before, drinking beer so early in the morning and eating roasted meat spread on the fresh skin of a goat. Malangana dismounted Saraband when Mahlangeni beckoned him to join them. Mahlangeni was still wearing Hamilton Hope’s coat, now cleaned of the soil and blood.

‘It’s a good thing you inherited the magistrate’s coat,’ said Malangana. ‘It suits you. They should make you our next magistrate.’

‘You inherited his horse,’ said Mahlangeni. ‘It should be mine. I did the real killing. You killed him when he was already dead.’

Malangana tied the horse to a nearby tree stump.

‘I wish I was inheriting it,’ said Malangana. ‘I am taking it back to his wife. The king’s orders. He says we can’t keep it.’

‘Your brother is still soft. Nothing will change him.’

Mahlangeni introduced Malangana to the men. They were from Tsolo, from the Great Place of King Mditshwa. When one Mpondomise was hurt all amaMpondomise were hurt. It did not matter if they owed their loyalty to Mhlontlo or to Mditshwa. If a war with the English broke out, the people of Mditshwa would make common cause with the people of Mhlontlo. This was the message of these men. A rebellion against white people had already started in Tsolo. Shops had been looted and a mission station attacked. A group of white families had locked themselves in the Tsolo Jail where they thought they would be safer than outside. These men came directly from Mditshwa who was much more prepared to go all the way than Mhlontlo who was still talking in terms of appeasement.

‘Tell your brother that he has an ally already in Mditshwa,’ said Mahlangeni.

When Malangana left Mahlangeni’s homestead he was more inspired than ever before. The English would be stupid to start a fight with amaMpondomise. If they came they would meet their match.

It was time for him to get married immediately and be a man. Then he would not be sidelined in some of these important war plans. Like Ngcwina, the ancestor who was a dreamer, he who married a Bushwoman, he would marry his Mthwakazi today. There was no time to waste. Since Mthwakazi did not want to be placed behind the door – where women who had been taken by force without permission of their kin in the
tsikiza
tradition were compelled to sit until their parents were informed of the abduction – but wanted to walk hand in hand with the man to the top of the mountain and then to the stars, they would have to start the long walk that night. When the war came, if it came, all the essential rituals must be complete and they must be man and wife. She must be accepted by the elders of the House of Matiwane as Matiwane’s daughter-in-law and he must be granted his due respect as a family man who is consulted in the affairs of state and is not a mere groom of the king’s horse whose sole role is that of a messenger.

He galloped to the Great Place. The wagons and Scotch carts were still there, but now stripped of everything, including the canvas canopies. He dismounted at these skeletons of what used to be majestic vehicles and sent a girl among a group that was playing the
ingedo
game to call Mthwakazi from
entangeni
where the maidens who were helping with the feast spent the night. After some time the girl came back; Mthwakazi said she would not come out.

‘Tell her that if she doesn’t come out I will go in there and fetch her by force, which will shame her in front of everyone,’ said Malangana. ‘I am not playing with her.’

The girl skipped back into the Great Place. In no time she returned with Mthwakazi.

‘What do you think you are doing, embarrassing me here at the Great Place?’ she asked, arms akimbo.

He could not help but chuckle to himself because Mthwakazi had covered her whole body in red ochre, the fashionable body decoration that the amaMpondomise girls – who were not red-ochre people normally – had copied from abaThembu maidens. It did not suit her at all, thought Malangana, but of course he dared not utter that thought. abaThwa women usually used white clay sparingly on their faces or bodies or no make-up at all. She stood there defiantly in her tanned-hide front-and-back beaded apron, the only thing that covered her nakedness.

‘You are coming with me,’ said Malangana. ‘I am marrying you today.’

He did not give her the chance to protest. He grabbed her and flung her on to the horse. Then he mounted and they galloped away.

‘I told you, Malangana, you cannot
tsikiza
me. I am not one of your amaMpondomise girls. If you marry me it will be like a decent girl of the earth people, the people of the eland and of the praying mantis. You will do what I told you: walk with me, marry me, and then woo me, in that order.’

Malangana did not respond. Instead he pressed his heels firmly into Saraband’s flanks to make him gallop even faster.

‘What will people say,
wena
Malangana?’ screamed Mthwakazi.

‘Since when do you care what people say?’

Actually he did not know what to do with Mthwakazi at that point, especially when he remembered that he was on a mission to return Hamilton Hope’s horse to his wife, and then to join Mhlontlo and his troops at the House of Trials for an important performance and for a meeting with the white people of Qumbu. The performance depended very much on his presence for he was the director. The meeting with the white people needed him too, for he was the interpreter. Mhlontlo was in Qumbu already by then waiting for him, and he was not there. He had let him down again, thanks to Mthwakazi.

‘If you think you’re going to take me by force and put me behind the door, Malangana, you’re playing with fire, I tell you. I’ll walk out of that door and shame you.’ Mthwakazi was not letting up.

Malangana snapped, ‘Shut up, Mthwakazi. I have let down my people for the second time, and it’s all because of you. Shut up.’