The Heart of Redness: A Novel (28 page)

“It is now our dance,” asserts another. “They gave it to us.”

“But now they want it back,” says Bhonco. “I do not think there is anything else that we can do.”

“We shall not give them the dance. What can they do?”

“Yes, what can they do? Will they beat us up?”

The elders would be laughing at this ridiculous notion if the elders were other people. Who can imagine little men like the abaThwa beating up giants like Bhonco? But Unbelievers are not prone to laughter.
Or if they laugh at all, it must be in secret. No one must ever know about it. That is why the elders once reprimanded Bhonco when they thought he was becoming too loose with his expression of joy.

“Of course they will not beat us up,” says Bhonco. “But we do not want to upset people who have such a powerful dance . . . a dance that can send one to the world of the ancestors and back again. We do not know what other powerful medicine they have that they can use against us should we anger them. We must tread lightly when we deal with these people. If they say they want their dance back, we must give it to them.”

“But how are we going to survive without the dance? How are we going to induce sadness in our lives without visiting the sad times of our forefathers?”

“And how do we visit the sad times of our forefathers without the dance?”

“We must negotiate. We must beg them to lend us the dance again,” says Bhonco.

“These selfish abaTbwa!” shouts another elder. “I shall not be surprised if they have been put up to this by the Believers. That Zim! He is related to these people, is he not? He must have put them up to this!”

“It is possible that the Believers have had some influence on the abaThwa,” says Bhonco. “But Zim is not related to the abaThwa. He is related to the Khoikhoi. They are different people, although if you don’t know their language you may think it sounds the same. They look different too.”

“You cannot teach us about the abaThwa and the Khoikhoi,” says the first elder dismissively. “We have lived with them since the days of our forefathers, although we did not call the Khoikhoi by that name. We called them amaLawu or amaQheya.”

Bhonco sighs appreciatively at the elder’s use of these derogatory isiXhosa names for the Khoikhoi and people of mixed race. It is the next best thing to laughter.

After a long debate, during which the abaThwa become impatient under their tree, the elders of the Unbelievers agree that the abaThwa must be given their dance back.

“We must be nice to them so that we can borrow it again when we need it,” says an elder.

“We are like a sparrow that is wearing the feathers of an eagle,” says Bhonco. “We must invent our own dance. At first it will not have the power of the dance of the abaThwa. But it will gain strength the more we perform it. Perhaps one day it will take us to the world of the ancestors just as efficiently as the dance of the abaThwa.”

Bhonco is fuming as he makes his way to the concert. Today he will have a showdown of all showdowns with that Believer, Zim. If he wants to fight dirty by sending the abaThwa to take back one of the valued rituals of the Unbelievers, he too, the son of Ximiya, has a few tricks up the sleeves of his wrinkled suit.

After paying his admission fee, Bhonco saunters into the school hall. The hall is full, but a young member of the audience stands up and gives Bhonco his seat. The elder throws his eyes around the hall. They fall on Zim, who is sitting in a self-satisfied manner next to Camagu. The eyes of the elders meet. Bhonco sneers. Zim smiles. Camagu is engrossed in the sounds of the school choir.

Across the aisle John Dalton sits next to Xoliswa Ximiya. He is not with Camagu because things have been a bit icy between them since Camagu’s indiscretion of criticizing his efforts to develop his village. Things are a bit icy between Camagu and Xoliswa Ximiya too. Not only because of their divergent views on civilization and barbarism. The little matter of Qukezwa finally reached Xoliswa Ximiya’s ears, and she did not hesitate to confront Camagu about it.

It was during one of his visits to her home. Even before he could take a seat, she asked, “Is it true what I hear about you and that child?”

“Child? What child?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I am talking about Qukezwa.”

“That child, as you call her, is not dismissive of beautiful things. Where you see darkness, witchcraft, heathens, and barbarians, she sees song and dance and laughter and beauty.”

“So it is true! You are a dirty old man! I have lost all respect for you!”

“What is true? And why am I a dirty old man all of a sudden?”

“You made her pregnant. Everyone in the village says so.”

“That’s the problem with you. You listen to village gossip. No one made that woman pregnant.”

“Woman? She is no woman. She was my student here only yesterday. And of course she made herself pregnant, did she?”

“The grandmothers confirmed after a thorough examination that she is still a virgin. I never had anything to do with her.”

“You believe in that mumbo jumbo? You are a disgrace to all educated people!”

People talked of Xoliswa Ximiya’s fury spreading like a veld fire. It was affecting everybody: her colleagues, her parents, and her students. She was right to be angry, too, they said. This Camagu was proving to be a scoundrel. He must be the one who messed up Zim’s daughter, even though the grandmothers have certified her a virgin. Otherwise how did the seed get into her? Who planted it? In what manner?

People’s thirst for knowledge must be quenched.

The history teacher is the chairman of the concert. He rings the bell and the choir stops singing. He stands up, obviously enjoying the power that he wields.

“Silence please, the chair is speaking!” he shouts. “Here we have Miss Vathiswa from the Blue Flamingo Hotel. She is buying with her twenty cents that the school choir must take a rest for the duration of three songs, and must be replaced by the choir from the Blue Flamingo Hotel!”

People applaud as the school choir walks from the stage. The Blue Flamingo choir takes the stage, and NoPetticoat’s voice rings in a new izitibiri song. Vathiswa herself joins the choir and dances around clownishly. But even before they have gone halfway through the song the bell rings again. The choir stops.

“For twenty-five cents this young man here . . . he is a student at Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School. . . he says that he will not allow anyone to treat his school choir like that,” says the chairman. “The Blue Flamingo choir should go home to sleep, and the school choir should come back to the stage.”

The school choir has sung only one song before Vathiswa buys it off the stage again. The buying battle between Vathiswa and a group of
students, now also joined by some parents, continues until the price is five rand. Vathiswa throws in the towel, and the choir from the secondary school dominates the stage. It sings three songs in a row, which reverberate around the walls of the hall, overwhelming everyone with joy. The very joy that is reflected on the faces of the students as they sing and dance.

The fourth song is not izitibiri but a formal classical piece that is conducted by Xoliswa Ximiya herself. Halfway through the song the bell rings.

“We have this man here who won’t tell us his name,” says the chairman. “He says that he is not stopping the song. After all, it is such a beautiful song by one of our greatest composers, Michael Mosoeu Moerane. He merely wants to comment on the beautiful smiles on the children’s faces as they sing with their lovely voices that sound like drops of rain. But he is not happy that the conductor herself does not have a happy smile. The conductor looks sad. He is therefore buying with his three rand that that man who is sitting in the audience, Camagu, son of Cesane, should come to the stage and tickle the conductor, Miss Xoliswa Ximiya, as she conducts this song. We have never seen Miss Xoliswa Ximiya laugh, the buyer says.”

Xoliswa Ximiya gives both the buyer and the chairman a very stern look. Camagu is embarrassed, but laughs in the spirit of the game. He goes to the chairman’s table. The bell rings again.

“Camagu is buying with his three rand fifty that he will not tickle Miss Xoliswa Ximiya because the buyer has neglected to mention which part of Miss Ximiya’s body he should tickle,” the chairman announces.

People laugh. Some students shout, “On the hips! On the waist!” while others yell, “On the sole of her feet! Tickling is more effective there!”

But the chairman rings the bell and says, “No use shouting! Only money talks at the concert! Come to the table and buy if you want to say anything.”

Xoliswa Ximiya casts a deadly look at the buyer, and then at Camagu, as she walks to the chairman’s table. The bell rings.

“Miss Ximiya says with her five rand that there shall be no tickling, and that is final,” announces the chairman. He looks around for the
buyer, hoping that he will pay more money to have his way, and for the first time the people of Qolorha-by-Sea will see their headmistress reeling with laughter. But the buyer is not brave enough to contradict Xoliswa Ximiya.

The choir continues with Moerane’s song until it comes to an end. Then they lunge into an energetic izitibiri song and dance. The bell rings.

“Things are becoming hotter and hotter,” says the chair man, “Here we have Qukezwa, daughter of Zim . . .”

Camagu’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets at the mention of the name. There is Qukezwa, looking as cocky as ever, leaving the chair-man’s table and going to sit next to the buyer who bought that Xoliswa Ximiya should be tickled. This tickling business must be her idea. He wonders from which hole she has emerged after all these weeks.

“She is buying with her five rand that every woman in the audience whose name is NomaRussia should come to the stage and parade as if in a beauty contest,” says the chairman, “and Camagu should be the judge of which NomaRussia is the most beautiful.”

This has gone beyond a joke, thinks Camagu. He came to the concert to enjoy himself, not to be the center of so much ridicule. But the NomaRussias of Qolorha-by-Sea do not see this as ridicule. It is fun, and a moment of fame for many of them. They stream to the stage, in every shape, size, and age, about fifteen of them in all. They clown around and parade on the stage, to the great amusement and cheers of the audience.

Camagu walks to the chairman’s table, intently looking at the NomaRussias, hoping against hope that his own NomaRussia is among them. But she is not. He buys with ten rand that he will not be the judge, and the NomaRussias must get off the stage so that the choirs can continue. He adds that the next choir to take the stage should be the hotel choir. The amount is too big for anyone to argue with.

The bell rings.

“Here is a group of girls. They say they are not stopping the choir. It must remain on the stage. For two rand they only want Qukezwa to come to the stage and explain the pain of their friend which Qukezwa
seems to enjoy,” says the chairman. Then he adds, “I must admit I do not understand what it is exactly that the young ladies are buying. But Qukezwa must come to the stage and explain the pain.”

Qukezwa walks to the stage. She smiles condescendingly at the girls who have bought her. It is not the first time she has had a confrontation with them. Nor will it be the last. They are the same girls who attacked her at work many moons ago. The very girls who insulted her in the presence of Camagu at the lagoon.

“The girls want me to explain the pain of their friend,” says Qukezwa defiantly. “Well, the explanation is a very simple one. Their friend caused the pain on herself.”

She is about to walk down the stage when the chairman stops her with his bell.

“Another person has bought you, Qukezwa,” laughs the chairman. “You see, you started the whole thing by buying the NomaRussias. Now people are buying you. For twenty rand John Dalton is buying you to sing in your split-tone manner. He says he has heard your beautiful voice as you went about working in his store. But today you need to share it with the rest of the audience.”

One thing Qukezwa is not ashamed of is her singing. She opens her mouth and sings in many voices. There is utter silence in the hall. Camagu remembers the silvery night when she sang him to an orgasm on top of Gxagxa.

Qukezwa sings in such beautiful colors. Soft colors like the ochre of yellow gullies. Reassuring colors of the earth. Red. Hot colors like blazing fire. Deep blue. Deep green. Colors of the valleys and the ocean. Cool colors like the rain of summer sliding down a pair of naked bodies.

She sings in soft pastel colors, this Qukezwa. In crude and glaring colors. And in bright glossy colors. In subdued colors of the newly turned fields. All at the same time. Once more wetness imposes itself on a hapless Camagu.

The song ends. She surveys the audience. Utter silence ensues. It follows her as she walks down the stage and out of the door. Panic grips Camagu. She will disappear again. And if she does he will never be able
to find her. He will not let her disappear from his life again. He jumps out of his seat, calling her name. The scandalized eyes of the audience follow him as he bolts out of the door.

“Please, Qukezwa, wait for me,” he pleads. “We must talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” says Qukezwa, walking on, almost running.

“We have a lot to talk about! Please don’t run away from me!”

She breaks into a run. He cannot keep up.

“I love you, Qukezwa! I love you!” he shouts breathlessly.

“You know nothing about love, learned man!” she shouts back. “Go back to school and learn more about it!”

She is gone. He stands there mortified. Why on earth did he utter such damnable words:
I love you?
What came over him?

He cannot go to the concert now. He has disgraced himself. He walks slowly to his cottage at the sea. The wind bombards his eardrums with sounds that have escaped through the cracks of the school hall.

Things remain happening in the school hall. After Camagu bolts out there is stunned silence for a while. Then Bhonco, son of Ximiya, angrily stands up and walks towards Zim.

“This is all your work, is it not?” he fumes. “You put your daughter up to this! You used your medicine to make that poor man run after her!”