Little Suns (8 page)

‘My son told me you knew Mhlontlo son of Matiwane,’ says the old man.

He can talk with these people; they are not the interloper amaMfengu but the vanquished amaMpondomise.

‘I am of Matiwane’s testicle from Iqadi House,’ he says.

‘Thanks to your brother we lost our kingdom. We lost everything.’

Though Malangana is taken aback a little, he does not respond. He didn’t expect that there would be some amaMpondomise who’d place the blame on Mhlontlo instead of where it rightly belonged: on Hamilton Hope and the English. But those are not the things he wants to think about. They have been far from his mind since his return from exile. Only Mthwakazi occupies his thoughts.

‘I was telling these boys that our people were once great heroes,’ says the old man. ‘They see the world as it looks today and they think things have always been like this.’

Malangana takes a close look at the old man. The face is furrowed by the ravages of weather and age, but Malangana can see traces of familiar features.

‘You were once at Sulenkama, weren’t you?’ he asks.

‘That was another age, another world,’ says the old man chewing loudly.

‘I knew that I saw you there,’ says Malangana.

‘And what were you doing there when you saw me, lest you reveal my scandals to these young people,’ says the old man and breaks out laughing. ‘I’m asking you a silly question. You did say you are Matiwane’s son from Iqadi House.’

‘I looked after King Mhlontlo’s horse,’ says Malangana.

The old man rubs his eyes as if willing them to see. They won’t.

‘You are the boy who looked after Gcazimbane? What happened to you, now that your bones rattle like the ankle-shells of a dancing diviner?’

‘I fought a war and lost.’

‘You are the boy who hankered after a Bushman girl.’

Malangana winces and beads of sweat break out on his brow.

‘You knew about that?’

He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and wonders how his body is able to produce some moisture despite the rivers that flowed from it last night.

‘Everybody knew about that. I was one of the diviners who tried to heal the queen and failed. We joked about you.’

‘I don’t see white beads on your wrists and ankles,’ says Malangana.

‘The ancestors retired me. I lost my sight and my calling.’ And then he bursts out laughing again. ‘You were like a puppy sniffing around for a lost bone. We teased the Mthwakazi about you loitering at the Great Place pretending to be looking after Gcazimbane, and the girl giggled coyly. Obviously she was flattered to be sought after by the king’s groom. We could see she was playing for time . . . she wanted you too. How did you manage to lose her?’

‘How do you know I lost her?’

‘You’re not with her now, are you?’

‘You’re right, I am not.’

‘And you were not with her the last time I saw her.’

‘I am looking for her,’ says Malangana. He is trying hard to suppress the edge in his voice. ‘I am here because I’m looking for Mthwakazi. The last time you saw her? Where was that?’

‘In the streets of Tsolo,’ says the old man.

She was a beggar-woman there.

‘And you saw her? How did you see her when your eyes cannot see?’

The old man laughs and says, ‘I see with the eyes of a boy, man. The boy who guides me when I go to town to beg as all blind men must do, so that I can buy my own snuff without bothering anybody for their money and pay my tax and avoid jail.’

‘You spoke to her? You actually spoke to her?’

‘The boy who guides me said, “There’s that Bushwoman who wears golden earrings.” And there she was indeed. Yes, I spoke to her. The kinship of beggars. Once in a while she’s seen in the streets of Tsolo. She used to be seen in Qumbu as well, but that was many years ago.’

He had not seen her for almost a year when he met her in Tsolo recently and she told him she had just escaped from employment at some mission station fearing arrest by Government since her identity as the former nursemaid to the Queen of amaMpondomise had been exposed.

‘She has no reason to be a fugitive,’ says Malangana.

‘I told her so. She has done nothing wrong.’

‘I am going to Tsolo,’ says Malangana. The old man is struck by the urgency in his voice.

‘Now? At this time?’

‘I will walk through the night. I must find Mthwakazi.’

The old man will not stop him. He listens to the bones as Malangana hobbles away until the rattle is swallowed by the night.

The night of the new moon. A prolonged drought scorched the land and Mthwakazi sat flat on the ground at
ebaleni
, the clearing in front of the Great House. With her legs stretched out and a diviner’s drum between her thighs she beat it with her hands in a slow tired rhythm. This went on for hours until the ears of the people within its range became accustomed to the lamentation and could hear it no more.

She heard a loud moan from the house, and then a sharp wail. She knew immediately that what the nation dreaded had finally happened. She had been waiting for it. She hastened the tempo. One wail became two. And then three. Soon there was a wave of wails, relayed from the Great House to the Right-hand House; from the Right-hand House to the Left-hand House; from the Left-hand House to the Iqadi House. Until the whole of Mhlontlo’s Great Place was drenched in wails. The animals in the kraals, in the stables, in the pounds, joined in their various voices.

By the time these sounds reached Malangana in an adobe rondavel where he slept, dreamed of Mthwakazi and played with himself to her spectre, they had swirled into a vortex of hollow howls. He knew without anyone telling him that they were announcing the death of the Queen of amaMpondomise, daughter of Sarhili, King of amaGcaleka, they who descended, together with amaRharhabe, from an ancestor called Xhosa, and were therefore also known as amaXhosa.

The howls were relayed from one household to the next, until they assumed a life of their own. They were echoed by the hills and the cliffs and the caves, across the streams to the rest of Qumbu, and across Itsitsa River to Tsolo. Those who were sleeping could not but wake up and the owls of the night stopped their labours and added to the howls with their hoots, making the vortex fatter and fatter. As it gathered volume it also gained force, sweeping the land, uprooting trees in its path and hurling emaciated cattle across the valley as if they were dry leaves.

Its sheer rudeness silenced Mthwakazi’s drum. She held tightly to it nonetheless, and buried her face on its taut cowhide drum-head. She wept quietly. Even the most powerful herbs of her abaThwa people had failed to save the queen. She had given up long before the diviners had, and had whispered her opinion to those who would listen that the daughter of King Sarhili should be released so that her spirit might find its path in peace from the land of amaMpondomise to the land of her amaXhosa ancestors. It was a long way for a spirit to travel and ceremonies would be held by both nations to ease its journey and to welcome it in the dimension of the dead and the unborn. But that would be for the coming days, and none of those rituals would have anything to do with her except as a drawer of water and carrier of wood. For now she wetted the cowhide drum with her tears.

Malangana’s first thought after cursing death for stealing the beloved queen was of Gcazimbane. He rose to his feet, put on his pants and a blanket over his shoulder and struggled against the momentum of the howls to the Great Place. He headed straight to the kraal where Gcazimbane was snorting and squealing in turn among bellowing bulls. He embraced the horse tightly around its neck until it gradually calmed down and began to snicker. He led it out of the kraal but once there he did not know what next to do with it.

The howls were now a distance away, leaving deathly silence in their wake. Mthwakazi resumed beating the drum. Its tempo went back to slow and tired.

‘What are you doing here?’ Malangana was startled by Mhlontlo. He had not heard him approach; his face had been buried in Gcazimbane’s neck.

Mhlontlo’s voice was shaky and he was sniffling.

‘I caught a cold,’ he said.

Although Malangana couldn’t see his eyes in the dark he knew that a cold had nothing to do with it. He was crying. He was a man and a king, yet he was crying. The queen had been his partner, companion and adviser. Having been raised in the court of King Sarhili, regarded as the greatest of all the monarchs in the region, she had been wise in all matters of statecraft.

‘Take him back to the kraal,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘What has happened has happened. We cannot undo it.’

Malangana led Gcazimbane back to the kraal and secured the gate of tree trunks. He hesitated when he saw that Mhlontlo was waiting. Then he joined him and they quietly walked towards the Great House.

The two men stood in front of Mthwakazi as she beat the drum. She did not look up. She continued as if they were not there. Malangana was visibly shaking, trying very hard to suppress the hyperventilation that had suddenly overtaken him. Mhlontlo placed his hand on the head of the drum, stopping her from beating it. She looked up for the first time and saw the two men distorted by a glass of tears.

‘Go, child of the people of the trance. It is enough. The land has heard,’ said Mhlontlo.

‘It is to accompany every step she takes to the land of her ancestors,’ she said.

‘It is too early for that, child of the people of the eland. She will only become an ancestor after we have performed
umbuyiso
ritual. For now, go and sleep. That’s what we must all do.’

Mthwakazi rose to her feet and tiptoed into the Great House to join the other mourners. Diviners and the old women of Sulenkama had swiftly congregated to prepare the queen for burial. Their songs were subdued.

Malangana took the drum. It would serve as a good excuse to see Mthwakazi again. Mhlontlo did not ask him why he was taking the drum. Perhaps he did not even notice. His mind was occupied with how he would cope with grief – for the passing away of his queen and for the drought that was killing the earth. It had been an omen, this drought. A harbinger of the greatest death his Great Place had experienced so far.

Malangana could not fall asleep after that. He sat on his
icantsi
bedding and contemplated the drum. His body began to shake when the significance of its presence in his room hit him. This was Mthwakazi’s own drum. Not just a drum; a sacred drum. This was the drum she beat when she communed with her ancestors. What if the spirits of all the dead abaThwa lived in it? How would it be possible to sleep in their presence?

Occasional waves of distant wails reminded him that sleeping should not be a priority on a night like this in any case. Perhaps he should have stayed with Mhlontlo instead of rushing home to sleep.

The king had not been himself lately. Even as the queen lay sick he was making extravagant promises to Hamilton Hope. Only four days ago Malangana had accompanied him to yet another meeting with the magistrate, after which Hope entertained them to a dinner of lamb, peas and mealie-rice on the veranda of The Residency. The magistrate looked frail, and he indeed confirmed that he had been in bed with a fever. Malangana wished in his heart that the man was suffering from more than just fever; maybe from consumption. He had seen when he was in jail how deadly the disease could be. It ate its victims to the bone and then killed them. It would be wonderful if Hope was getting his comeuppance from the protective ancestors of the amaMpondomise people for using his whip indiscriminately on revered elders. Malangana was smarting inside even as he sat in the shade of the veranda chewing on the soft lamb and doing his best to interpret for Hope, who spoke in a mixture of English and Sesotho, sprinkling them with the few words of isiMpondomise he had learned since being assigned to Mhlontlo’s jurisdiction two years before. He would never forgive Hope for his
kati
. His buttocks still twitched whenever he thought of the two occasions he had been its victim.

Sunduza – the brother of the Reverend Davis, trusted by both amaMpondomise and Hope – was not there to interpret for the magistrate that day. The only other white man present was Warren. He sat quietly throughout, only jotting down notes in an exercise book with a new-fangled fountain pen. Hope kept looking at the pen with fascination as it left a trail of blue behind its nib without needing to be dipped into an ink bottle after every word or two.

Mhlontlo was making his point to the magistrate: what the amaMpondomise people hated more than anything was judicial control. Government was taking away all the powers of the chiefs. What good was any chief without judicial control?

‘I keep my promises to those who are obedient to the Government,’ Hope said. ‘I will return some of your power over the smaller chiefs provided you raise the army we need and lead it against Magwayi. You need to prove yourself, Umhlonhlo.’

‘Haven’t I proved myself ?’

‘Oh, you’ve been very good so far. But the expedition against Magwayi will be the ultimate test.’

Mhlontlo assured the magistrate once more that he would indeed be part of the expedition.