“Missis threatened to fire me because of those girls,” sobs tata’s little girl.
“No, she won’t,” says Zim adamantly. “I’ll talk to Dalton about this.”
He knows that he usually gets his way with John Dalton. For some reason, the trader has a soft spot for Zim and his family. He is the one who set his son Twin on the road to the untold fortunes that people who have been to the city of Johannesburg talk about, but that neither Zim nor Qukezwa have seen with their eyes.
Twin liked to do carvings from wood. He made bottlelike figures with turbaned heads, and took them to Dalton, hoping that the wealthy man would buy them. Dalton saw that the boy had a talent which could be developed. Although he was not a carver himself, he explained to Twin how he should carve the arms, hands, legs, and feet, and how he could make the face more realistic by carving detailed ears, eyes, noses, and mouths.
The following week Twin delivered male and female figures, carved exactly as Dalton had shown him. Dalton bought a number of the wooden figures and displayed them on his glass counters. Even today there are hundreds of them in the store, and tourists who come to see where the wonders of Nongqawuse happened buy them.
Zim was proud of his son’s talent. He felt that it would work in the Believers’ favor in their war against the Unbelievers. He repeated the history of Twin to everyone who cared to listen.
“This child,” he said, “worked in Centani selling petrol at a filling station. Then he got very ill with fits. He was also delirious. His ancestor, Twin, visited him in his dreams, and told him to carve people out of wood and he would get well. He carved the beautiful people that you see in Dalton’s store, and got well.”
But Twin did not live up to his father’s expectations. He became a renegade who refused to follow Zim in the battle to preserve the rituals of the Believers. He decided to think like all ordinary people, to follow trends set by others, and to share the same ambition as all the young men of the village: to work in the gold mines of Johannesburg and the Free State.
Zim lost the battle and let him go. He has not seen him since. He has heard that his son has left the mines and is now living in the city, in a building that reaches the sky, where he has accumulated wondrous fortunes from his wood carvings.
Rumor has it that it is because of Xoliswa Ximiya that he has never come back to Qolorha-by-Sea. People have not forgotten that the two were in love many years ago when they were both at primary school. But as time went on, Xoliswa Ximiya outgrew Twin as she became more educated.
He gave up on education in Standard Six. But he never gave up on Xoliswa Ximiya. For many years he hankered after her. That was why he left for Johannesburg, so the gossip goes, to mend his broken heart far away from her. Villagers, however, still hope to this day that the two will eventually marry and bring about peace between the two families.
“Dalton is a good man — although a person is only good when he is asleep. . or dead,” says Zim, blowing out a cloud of smoke and ejecting a jet of spittle onto the floor. “He will not expel you on account of loose tongues. You were just doing your work and those girls came and provoked you. Listen, tomorrow I am getting my nkamnkam. I’ll buy you anything you want.”
“You do not need to bribe me, tata. I am working for myself now,” says Qukezwa proudly.
Indeed, the next day is nkamnkam day. The aged and their hangers-on stream to Vulindlela Trading Store in their finery.
Bhonco and NoPetticoat are among the first to arrive.
He wears his usual brown overalls, gumboots, and skullcap. Loose strands of beads known as isidanga hang around his neck. They are completely out of place since they should normally be worn when one is beautifully attired in isiXhosa costume. They make him look like a slob. Over his shoulder hangs a bag made of rock rabbit skin, in which he keeps his long pipe and tobacco. Today NoPetticoat’s nkamnkam check is also in this bag.
NoPetticoat is one of the amahomba—those who look beautiful and pride themselves in fashion. She is wearing her red-ochred isikhakha dress. Her neck is weighted with beadwork of many kinds. There are the square amatikiti beads and the multicolored uphalaza and icangci. Her face is white with calamine lotion, and on her head she wears a big iqhiya turban which is broader than her shoulders. It is decorated with beads which match her amacici beaded earrings.
To the amahomba, clothes are an art form. They talk. They say something about the wearer. But to highly civilized people like Xoliswa Ximiya, isiXhosa costume is an embarrassment. She hates to see her mother looking so beautiful, because she thinks that it is high time her parents changed from ubuqaba—backwardness and heathenism. They must become amagqobhoka—enlightened ones — like her. She has bought her parents dresses and suits in the latest European styles. She might as well have bought them for the moths in the boxes under their bed.
When Zim arrives, heads turn. He is resplendent in his white ingqawa blanket which is tied around the waist and is so long that it reaches his ankles. Around his neck he wears various beads such as idiliza and isidanga. Around his head he wears isiqweqwe headbands made of very colorful beads. He is puffing away at his long pipe with pomp and ceremony.
The aged and their hangers-on are all puffing away, filling the store with clouds of pungent smoke. Women, especially, look graceful with their pipes, which are much longer than men’s.
“Tell them to stop smoking, John. We can’t even breathe in this smoke,” complains Missis in English.
“Those who want to smoke must go outside!” shouts Dalton in his perfect isiXhosa.
“And they must not spit on the floor,” moans Missis. “They spit everywhere, these people.”
“Don’t spit inside the shop. It’s not good manners. If you want to smoke and spit, go outside!”
“And lose our place in the queue? Not on your life,” says one stubborn graybeard.
“You will smoke when you have received your money then. We are not going to serve anyone who smokes in the shop.”
Nkamnkam day is a very busy day at Vulindlela Trading Store. The aged and their hangers-on — daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and sundry relatives — have their checks ready to be cashed by Dalton and Missis. The salespeople are busy behind the counters, for today grannies are buying sweets, biscuits, and corned beef for their favorite grandchildren.
Qukezwa drags a big bathtub full of little black notebooks from behind the counter, and puts it on the floor. Each pensioner looks for his or her own book, and gives it to Dalton behind the counter.
Even though the pensioners are illiterate, they know their books very well. And so they should, for in the books their personal ityala is written. Throughout the month they have bought groceries on credit at the store, and Dalton and Missis have diligently recorded their debt in the little black notebooks.
Now Dalton adds up the debt, deducts it from the amount of the check, and gives the balance to the pensioner. For those who have been careless during the month there will be no money. The whole pension check will be swallowed up by their ityala. The next month the vicious cycle of debt will continue.
Bhonco and NoPetticoat are about to reach the bathtub when Zim begins to sing aloud, “Hayi. . hayi. . bo. . Even those who don’t have a book in the bathtub are here. .”
People laugh. They know that he is referring to Bhonco. Everyone knows that Bhonco receives no nkamnkam.
Bhonco, son of Ximiya, responds with his own song, “Hayi. . hayi. . bo. . Those whose daughters are not secondary-school principals but sweep the floors of white people should stop talking nonsense. .”