The Heart of Redness: A Novel (26 page)

“If you can keep a secret, I can tell you that Qukezwa is pregnant,” says Vathiswa.

This comes as a shock to Camagu. He does not believe it, and he says so.

“It is true. But she cannot name the man. She says it just happened on its own. The grandmothers who examined her confirmed that she has not known a man before.”

“She didn’t say anything about this when I met her today.”

“Why would she want to tell yon about that?”

Camagu laughs mockingly and says, “Her virginity was broken by horse-riding, and she conceived from that?”

“The grandmothers say she is still a virgin,” says Vathiswa seriously.

Camagu cannot understand why he is filled with anger and bitterness. He remembers the silvery night when she sang him to an orgasm. He recalls the dreams.

He looks at Vathiswa munching away nonchalantly at rice, oysters, and mussels. It occurs to him that this is the longest he has ever been celibate. Has his famous lust deserted him at last? This is the land of starvation. He has learned to use his fingers. But only in the mornings that follow the nights that are not populated by messy dreams.

He remembers MamCirha and NoGiant talking of the troubles the young women of the village go through. In their oblique communication with him, MamCirha said that in the early days of her marriage, when her husband was away in the mines and the desire of the flesh attacked her, she would lie on her stomach for two hours while the urge slowly burnt itself away. She had not yet learned to use her fingers to create her own worlds of passion.

Everybody is talking about the concert. It is the highlight of every year. For the past two weeks the students of Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School have been practicing izitibiri, the lively songs that are also known as sounds. Sounds are very popular with school and church choirs, and are a staple at concerts.

The main aim of the concert is to raise funds for the secondary school. But it also serves to celebrate the end of the school year. It brings together people from all corners of Qolorha and the neighboring villages.

Those villagers who like the limelight are also preparing themselves for a few minutes of fame. They will “buy” themselves the right to go onto the stage and render a song, a dance, or any clownish thing that they think will make the audience laugh. Indeed, most money at concerts is raised when members of the audience go to the chairperson’s table and pay some money, “buying” that they or some other member of the audience should perform some act or other. The money that is made at the door is only a tiny fraction of the fortunes that are raised when enthusiastic citizens “buy” one another.

The workers from the Blue Flamingo Hotel are practicing hard too. For a change they will be singing for the whole village, instead of
just a few tourists in the hotel bar on Saturday evenings. They will not be buying themselves to perform, but have been specially invited by Xoliswa Ximiya to support the school choir.

NoPetticoat is the natural leader of izitibiri. Her fellow choristers give most of the solos to her. To Bhonco’s chagrin, she has been spending all her evenings for the past week or so practicing at the hotel. Bhonco has had to cook his own supper. But he suffers in silence for the sake of his daughter’s school. And for the prestige of having a wife who is a chorister by invitation rather than by being bought to sing. The concert is so highly regarded that receptionists like Vathiswa participate in the choir, even though they are too important to sing for tourists on Saturday evenings.

While Bhonco is languishing for his wife, Zim is pining for the Russians. In the same way that he resuscitated the practice of shaving his eyebrows and cleansing his soul with enemas and emetics, he has revived another age-old practice: that of standing on the hill and watching the sea for the approach of Russian ships.

The Russians were supposed to come during the days of Nongqawuse, led by the departed amaXhosa generals and kings. Believers of old stood on the hill waiting for them. The Russians did not come. It was one of the prophecies that were not fulfilled because of the selfish Unbelievers who refused to slaughter their cattle.

When Zim is not dozing under his gigantic tree, listening to the rolling songs of the spotted-backed amahobohobo weaverbirds, he spends hours on the hill, gazing longingly at the place where the sea meets the sky. He knows the Russians will not come. But he waits for them still, in memory of those who waited in vain.

In the days of Nongqawuse the Russians were black and were the reincarnation of amaXhosa warriors. Zim knows very well that today’s Russians are white people. After all, sons and daughters of the land who have spent decades in exile, some living in the houses of the very same Russians, have said as much. But the spirit of the ancestors continues to direct their sympathies. That is why they fought the English. That is why all those who benefited from the sufferings of the Middle Generations hated them. That is why they armed and trained those
sons and daughters of the nation to bring to an end the sufferings of the Middle Generations.

It is with a sense of pride that he stands on the hill. That he pines. That he waits for the Russians even though he knows they will not come. They have already come in a guise that no Believer expected. They came in the bodies of those who fought to free the Middle Generations. It is an honor to pine on behalf of those who waited in vain.

Camagu pines too. He has convinced himself that it is for NomaRussia, the woman he followed to Qolorha. However, for some strange reason he has taken to walking past Zim’s homestead several times a day. Even when his destination is Vulindlela Trading Store, he takes the longer route that detours past Zim’s homestead. And when he gets to the store his eyes seem to dart around, looking for something he never finds. He exchanges a few words with Dalton about this or that development, and then tells him that he is rushing to the women of the cooperative society. Again he takes a circuitous route that passes Zim’s homestead. Sometimes he is brave enough to enter, and finds the old man dozing under his tree. He makes some small talk while his eyes search for something that they never seem to find.

The old man reprimands him for the hundredth time for making wild claims that the private parts of a Khoikhoi ancestor live in a bottle in the land of the white man. Camagu apologizes for the hundredth time for making this statement at a public feast, but insists that it is true. He says the old man’s anger is directed at the wrong person. He should be angry with those who did dirty things to Saartjie Baartman instead of venting his wrath on him. He is only the messenger.

On occasion he sees the old man in the distance, walking up the hill. Or standing on top of the hill looking intently at the horizon. Camagu walks to the homestead pretending he does not know that the old man is not there. He knocks on every door. But no one is there. He knocks again and again. He stands out there for some time, praying for a miracle, then he slowly walks away.

Yet he pines for NomaRussia.

There are many others who pine at Qolorha-by-Sea. Rumor has it that the principal of Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School herself is
pining. But instead of waning away and languishing in her heartache, as people who pine are wont to do, she lashes out at everyone in anger. They say her problems began when she discovered that the man she intended to marry had impregnated a nondescript girl who used to be her student. The man himself is said to be pining for this former student who has been dispatched by her father to a distant village to live with relatives until the baby is born.

It is uncanny how the people of Qolorha-by-Sea know things about their fellow citizens that the unhappy compatriots do not know about themselves.

Perhaps the concert will bring some relief to languishing souls.

While pining is doing the rounds in the village, John Dalton is preoccupied with water affairs. It is weeks now since his water committee closed all the communal taps. The villagers are refusing to pay. When the chief calls a public meeting, an imbhizo, to discuss the matter, the few who come say, “You, son of Dalton, you got money from your business friends and from the government to start this water project. Why don’t you ask those people who gave you the money to maintain these taps? How do they think they will be maintained if they do not come to maintain them?”

Dalton runs to Camagu with his woes.

“We must coopt you into the water committee,” he says. “Maybe you will come up with new ideas on how to make these people pay for the water.”

“That will be impossible,” says Camagu. “My hands are full already with the cooperative society.”

The cooperative society is not doing badly. Business would be booming if the banks were interested in assisting small-business people. The women sell their sea-harvest to hotels and restaurants in East London. They now want to expand their market to inland cities like Queenstown, Kingwilliamstown, and Grahamstown. They have signed a contract with a hotel chain for large supplies of mussels, oysters, and cockles. But now they need money to harvest on a larger scale. Most important, they need to buy a cold storage vehicle that will deliver the food. At the moment they use cooler bags filled with ice. For transport
they depend on lifts from Dalton, the four-wheel-drive van from the Blue Flamingo, or buses and taxis.

They have tried to get loans from banks, but to no avail. The banks want security. They do not look at the potential of the business and the profits that will come from the contract with the hotel chain. Camagu fears that they will end up losing this big order, since the hotel chain will opt for a supplier who is able to deliver.

It was the same in Johannesburg too. The banks frustrated him after he had taken the advice to open his own consultancy. He got a two-million-rand contract to do a feasibility study for a new satellite television network. The television company was prepared to advance him 30 percent of the money provided he secured a guarantee from the bank. But the banks refused to give him a guarantee. He did not want a single cent from them, yet they failed to assist him. They did not want to take the risk, even on the basis of his qualifications, which clearly showed he could do the job. He lost that contract. The banks lost a lucrative account and destroyed one more entrepreneur.

History is repeating itself. His cooperative society is on the verge of success. But the South African banks are determined that it should not succeed. So much for black empowerment!

Hopefully the beadwork and isiXhosa costumes they are sending to Johannesburg every month will make enough money to put down on a secondhand vehicle, even if it does not have cold storage.

“But you can spare a few minutes a day to attend to the problems of water,” insists Dalton.

“No, I cannot,” says Camagu. “You went about this whole thing the wrong way, John. The water project is failing because it was imposed on the people. No one bothered to find out their needs.”

“That is nonsense,” says Dalton. “Everyone needs clean water.”

“So we think. . .in our infinite wisdom. Perhaps the first step would have been to discuss the matter with the villagers, to find out what their priorities are. They should be part of the whole process. They should be active participants in the conception of the project, in raising funds for it, in constructing it. Then it becomes their project. Then they will look after it.”

Camagu is of the view that, as things stand now, the villagers see this as Dalton’s project. He thought he was doing them a favor when he single-handedly raised funds for it and invited government experts to help in its construction. It was only later that the community was involved. Dalton hand-picked a committee of people he thought were enlightened enough to look after the project. The villagers were given a ready-made water scheme. It is falling apart because they don’t feel they are part of it.

“That is the danger of doing things for the people instead of doing things with the people,” adds Camagu. “It is happening throughout this country. The government talks of delivery and of upliftment. Now people expect things to be delivered to them without any effort on their part. They expect somebody to come from Pretoria and uplift them. The notions of delivery and upliftment have turned our people into passive recipients of programs conceived by so-called experts who know nothing about the lives of rural communities. People are denied the right to shape their own destiny. Things are done for them. The world owes them a living. A dependency mentality is reinforced in their minds.”

“Are you trying to say I don’t know what I am doing?” asks Dalton. “You come all the way from America with theories and formulas, and you want to apply them in my village. I have lived here all my life. So have my fathers before me. I cannot be called an expert from outside the community. I am one with these people.”

“That is the main problem with you, John. You know that you are ‘right’ and you want to impose those ‘correct’ ideas on the populace from above. I am suggesting that you try involving the people in decision-making rather than making decisions for them.”

John Dalton has a wounded look. Camagu assures him that he is not belittling his efforts to develop his village. He is merely being critical of the method.

But Dalton walks away without saying another word.

Camagu decides to go and while away time at the concert. People are beginning to gather at Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School. The village is already filled with the peals of bells, alerting people that the concert is about to start. On his way to the school, Camagu passes Bhonco’s homestead. Under the tree in front of the pink rondavel the
activities of the elders of the Unbelievers are going on. Camagu wonders if they will not be going to the concert even though NoPetticoat is one of the star attractions.

The Unbelievers are engaged in their memory ritual. When the pangs of unbelief gnaw them, they are undeterred even by important community activities like school concerts. Bhonco, son of Ximiya, would have loved to bask in his wife’s glorious voice at the concert. But when the elders of the Unbelievers came early in the morning and demanded the invocation of unhappiness, he had to give the concert up. Of course there may still be time to catch up with it if the Unbelievers return from the time of the ancestors early enough. The concert normally goes on for the whole day.