The Heart of Redness: A Novel (18 page)

“There is no truth in that,” says Camagu, trying to hide his annoyance.

“Then what were you doing at Bhonco’s place, where they arrogantly go back to the world of the ancestors to bother them with their petty problems? Where they take glory in the pain of yesterday instead of savoring the pleasures of today?”

“They glory in pain to enjoy the pleasures of today better.”

“See?” says the elder excitedly. “He even knows their things. He is defending them. He is one of them.”

John Dalton comes to Camagu’s defense. “Do not fight with the stranger, Tat’uZim,” he says. “He is on our side.”

“Since when? Is he not Bhonco’s son-in-law?”

“I am not anyone’s son-in-law,” says Camagu, beginning to lose his patience. “And I am not an Unbeliever. I am not a Believer either. I don’t want to be dragged into your quarrels. My ancestors were not even here among yours when the beginning of your bad blood happened. I come from a different part of the country.”

“Yes,” adds Dalton, “let us leave believing and unbelieving out of this. We have come to talk about development.”

“Well, you cannot claim that your ancestors were not here too, Dalton,” says Zim, ejecting a black jet of nicotine-filled spittle. It lands on the ground in front of the visitors.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Tat’uZim,” says Dalton.

Spitting is one thing he is not prepared to tolerate among his people. They spit anywhere, anytime, especially when they are puffing on their long pipes.

“You forget that this is my homestead, Dalton. This is not Vulindlela.”

The birds are making too much noise. They are overly excited today. It means that soon the weather will change. They are talking of rain. And since the men have to shout to hear one another, Zim suggests
that they go into one of his hexagons. Camagu is relieved, for they have been standing all this time, while the elder addressed them from his reclining position.

The room is sparsely furnished. They sit at the pine table and talk about their strategies in opposing the casino and holiday resort. Camagu learns that a project of this magnitude cannot be built without cutting down the forest of indigenous trees, without disturbing the bird life, and without polluting the rivers, the sea, and its great lagoon.

“But what alternative do we offer?” asks Camagu. “If we oppose development projects that people believe will give them jobs, we must be able to offer an alternative. I heard that day at the imbhizo that they think you are taking this stand for John’s benefit. They say as things stand now, only his store and the Blue Flamingo Hotel benefit from tourists. And of course John’s lackeys—NoVangeli and NoManage.”

“Surely you don’t believe that,” protests Dalton.

“The important thing is that they do. We need to work out a plan of how the community can benefit from these things that we want to preserve. We need—”

His heart skips a beat as he catches a glimpse of Qukezwa passing at the door. She is whistling to the birds, and they whistle back excitedly.

“Come, Qukezwa,” says her father. “Let me introduce you to the visitor from Johannesburg.”

She walks into the hexagon. She looks quite haggard in her blue-and-yellow floral dress and her black Pierre Cardin woolen cap. She greets the guests respectfully.

“This is my daughter . . . the only child I have. Her brother, Twin, was swallowed by the big city.”

“I have met her a few times before,” says Camagu as he shakes her hand.

“I do not remember meeting you,” she says abruptly, and then walks out.

“Prepare something for the visitors,” Zim calls after her.

A few moments later she returns with steaming plates of samp cooked with beans and relished with boiled oysters and mussels.

Fixing her eyes on Camagu, she announces, “This relish is imbhatyisa.”

“I always come here when I want to eat the food of the amaXhosa,” says Dalton, digging into the samp with a spoon. The sauce splashes all over his beard.

“It is delicious,” says Camagu.

“Some people like to fry imbhatyisa with onion,” explains Zim. “But I like them boiled. The secret lies in boiling them without salt, for they have their own salt from the sea.”

The next day Camagu is at the great lagoon. He comes here every day, even though he has now lost all hope of meeting Qukezwa again. He simply cannot understand her. Yesterday, for instance. Why did she pretend not to know him? And she was not just doing that for the benefit of her father and Dalton. She has done this before. Once when they met at Intlambo-ka-Nongqawuse. She vowed that they had never met before. Yet she was the one who first planted the seed in his mind when she propositioned him the very first time they saw each other. Out of the blue.

He is not used to being approached by women in such a manner. It is obvious that she usually does this sort of thing. Who knows how many traveling salesmen who come to Vulindlela Trading Store she has approached this way? How many tourists? She might be a reservoir for all sorts of diseases. He must completely forget about her, and resume his friendship with Xoliswa Ximiya. And his search for NomaRussia.

But Qukezwa will not allow him to forget about her. She approaches from the opposite direction, stamping her feet so hard that they dig deep footprints on the sandbank. She is holding an ulugxa, the piece of iron that is used to harvest oysters, mussels, and even abalone. She smiles at him and says, “How did you like the imbhatyisa yesterday?”

He is absolutely fed up with her. He grabs her arm and demands, “Why did you pretend you didn’t know me?”

“How did you like the imbhatyisa?” she insists.

“It was good. Now answer my question.”

“Didn’t it do something to your body?”

“Like what? Don’t be crazy.”

But she is doing something to his body. He turns away so that she should not see his shameful state. She giggles and wants to know what is wrong.

“Nothing,” he says. “Did you come to harvest the sea?”

“Yes. But it cannot be done today,” she explains, “when the tide is like this. See? The water has turned from blue to black. The sand has become blue. Water covers the rocks. Those who try to harvest imbhatyisa or imbhaza will not get them today. When the sea is like this you can expect a terrible storm.”

“So what are we doing here if there’s going to be a storm?”

“I don’t know what you are doing here. I love the sea. The sea loves me.”

She had always been scared of the sea, she tells him. Until her mother’s death three years ago. Her mother, NoEngland, always warned her never to go to the sea alone or with other children. Whenever she wanted to visit the sea, she had to ask her mother, who would then request an adult to accompany her. The chaperone was given strict instructions not to allow her even to put her feet in the water. As a result she never learned how to swim. She used to envy girls her age who could go out to swim or harvest imbhaza, imbhatyisa,. and
amangquba
—which is the abalone or perlemoen—from the rocks of the ocean.

Once, when she was a student at Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School, she nearly drowned. She went to the sea with a friend without her mother’s permission. She took off her school uniform and tried to swim in her panties. She became stuck between two rocks, and couldn’t move an inch. Waves came, buried her, receded, only to come back again. She thought she was going to die. Her friend ran to the village to call for help.

That night NoEngland gave her a thorough hiding.

Since her mother’s death she has learned how to swim, and has become quite an expert at harvesting the sea. Now she swims with a vengeance and is not scared of the most vicious storms.

“As for you,” she says sadistically, “when the storm comes it will sweep you away. You didn’t cleanse yourself when you first came here.
You must drink water from the sea when you are a stranger, so that the sea can get used to you. Then it will love you. Even your skin will be smoother, and you’ll look a bit more beautiful. You need it.”

She walks away. She does not even say good-bye. She just walks away. He looks at her with pitiful eyes. How he longs to lose his breath in hers. But then, after that had been done, what would they talk about?

John Dalton was telling Chief Nxito’s councillors that all Sir George Grey wanted was to spread British civilization. His magnanimous wish was to convert the amaXhosa from their barbarous ways. It was for their own good that they should discard their customs and follow the ways of the English. There was no saving grace in the culture and religion of the natives. The cattle-killing movement proved this beyond all doubt. It was a great setback to his civilizing mission.

“But he is taking more and more of the land of the amaXhosa,” complained Twin-Twin.

“What is land compared to civilization?” asked Dalton impatiently. “Land is a small price to pay for a gift that will last you a lifetime . . . that will be enjoyed by your future generations. The gift of British civilization!”

“The Man Who Named Ten Rivers’ civilizing mission is taking food from the mouths of our children,” insisted Twin-Twin. He had shown on many occasions that he was not in awe of this British officer who had beheaded his father. And he had not forgotten that incident either. As far as he was concerned it was for his own convenience that
they were on the same side today. One day the opportunity to avenge his father’s head would present itself.

Dalton shook his head pityingly. He had never really trusted this man. He was not happy when Ned and Mjuza suggested that he should be saved from his mountain refuge and set up in a new homestead in Qolorha, near Chief Nxito’s deserted Great Place, where he would receive protection from the marauding bands of Believers. Dalton had to go along with the idea because it was important to show the natives—especially those who were heathens like Twin-Twin—that people who were on the side of the British Empire would receive full protection. But this man had shown with his needling questions and comments that he was not really on the side of Her Imperial Majesty.

“Your savage practices are taking food from your children’s mouths, not Sir George,” said Dalton. “Sir George did not kill your cattle or burn your crops. Your own people did.”

People murmured among themselves that there were rumors among some Unbelievers that in fact The Man Who Named Ten Rivers was responsible for the cattle-killing movement, so as to break the might of the amaXhosa and subjugate even those lands across the Kei River that the British had failed to conquer. Some were even saying that one of the Strangers Nongqawuse saw behind the bush was in fact The Man Who Named Ten Rivers in person. But John Dalton did not hear these rumors. He was going on about Sir George’s magnanimity of spirit, his intelligence, his charm, and his unconditional love for the native peoples of the world, which he had already demonstrated to the natives of a country called New Zealand across the seas.

Dalton was preparing his listeners for the forthcoming visit of The Man Who Named Ten Rivers, who was riding throughout kwaXhosa, calling on chiefs and on the colonial magistrates attached to those chiefs. He was expected to visit Nxito the following day. The sad thing was that this visit was not going to happen at Nxito’s chiefdom, in Qolorha near the Gxarha River. The aged chief was still keeping his distance from the Believers, who had taken over that whole area and were acting as if they themselves were the chiefs.

“But the governor does not want any ceremony,” warned Dalton. “He wants this visit to be as quiet as possible. He just wants to talk to
the chiefs about the affairs of the nation, and to discuss with you the benefits of accepting British rule without question or rebellion.”

Even though John Dalton had told them that The Man Who Named Ten Rivers wanted no ceremony, his hosts did lot expect him to arrive as quietly as he did, accompanied only by a small entourage which included Dalton and John Gawler, the young magistrate in Chief Mhala’s district.

Twin-Twin remembered the boot-licking rituals of Sir Harry Smith, the erstwhile Great White Chief, and the pompous ceremonies of Sir George Cathcart, whose demise at the hands of the Russians was celebrated by the amaXhosa. He remembered the Great White Chief riding arrogantly all over the place, making a show of his power as a representative of the British Empire, and even whipping some of the revered elders of the amaXhosa.

The Man Who Named Ten Rivers was different. He did not even want a public meeting. He just wanted to talk privately with the chief and his most trusted councillors. Twin-Twin felt honored that he was one of those councillors. As usual, John Dalton was the interpreter.

“I am visiting all the chiefs in Xhosaland with the same message of peace,” he said in measured tones. “You want peace, we want peace, all decent human beings want peace. It is possible for us to live together in harmony.”

He went on to say that he had come to see Nxito because, as King Sarhili’s uncle, and as a respected elder who was almost eighty years old and who was also an Unbeliever, the chief could have great influence on his fellow chiefs. He could even persuade his nephew to stop supporting the cattle-killing movement and to acquiesce to the good intentions of the British government, who wanted only to bring civilization and progress to the amaXhosa people. The British government was coming with a new administrative system, devised by the governor himself. He made it clear that the chiefs had no option but to accept it. He had already visited a number of them privately, each in his own district, where he outlined the grand plans he had drawn up. The chiefs were all happy with them. But the cattle-killing movement was a serious distraction to the new system. It was crucial that it be stopped.

“What can Nxito really do, since he himself is in exile far away from his chiefdom at the Gxarha River?” asked Twin-Twin.

“The chief must go back to his chiefdom,” said Gawler. “Otherwise the Believers will think they have the upper hand.”

“It is dangerous for the chief,” pleaded Twin-Twin.

“And why is it not dangerous for you?” asked Dalton. “We have recently established your homestead at Qolorha near the Gxarha River. We have given you adequate protection there. We can do the same for the old man.”