“Indeed that is wonderful,” said Twin-Twin sarcastically. “His children went to scare the birds in the fields, and he has called the whole nation to tell us about it.”
But Mhlakaza ignored the amateur comedian and continued his speech. He called two young girls to stand in front of the people. “This older one is Nongqawuse,” he said. “She is fifteen years old. I took her as my own daughter after her parents were murdered by British soldiers during the War of Mlanjeni”. This eight-year-old one is Nombanda, my wife’s sister. Now, when these children were in the fields, a wonderful thing happened.”
“The man has said that already,” said Twin. “Get on with the story. Tell us what happened.”
“Does he know that we have left our fields and our cattle unattended?” asked Twin-Twin. Others agreed with him.
“Don’t be in a hurry for the gravy before the meat is ready,” said Mhlakaza, demanding their patience. “Nongqawuse heard a voice calling her name behind the usundu bush.”
“Was it not you, Twin-Twin, trying to seduce the poor girl behind the usundu bush? You are well known as a naughty man who loves young blood!” heckled another man, trying to be funny as well. But no one laughed. People were curious to hear more about the voice behind the usundu bush.
Mhlakaza went on, “At first she thought she hadn’t heard well, and continued to play with Nombanda and to chase the birds. The voice persisted. She slowly walked to the bush, while Nombanda remained transfixed. At that time mist rose around the bush. The faces of two Strangers appeared in the mist and addressed her.”
“What did they say?” people wanted to know. “Who did they say they were?”
“Let the girl tell us herself,” demanded Twin-Twin.
“Come, my child, and give us the message of the Strangers,” said Mhlakaza.
Nongqawuse shyly stepped forward. She was unkempt and looked like a waif. In the manner of all great prophets she seemed confused and disorientated most of the time.
“Who were the Strangers, my child?” asked Twin.
“I do not know, father,” replied Nongqawuse. “They said they were messengers of Naphakade, He-Who-Is-Forever, the descendant of Sifuba-Sibanzi, the Broad-Chested-One.”
People were confused. They had not heard of He-Who-Is-Forever, nor of the Broad-Chested-One. Obviously these must be the new names of the god of the amaXhosa people. . the one who is known by everyone as Qamata or Mvelingqangi. . the one who was called Mdalidephu by Prophet Nxele.
Nongqawuse continued, “The Strangers said I must tell the nation that all cattle now living must be slaughtered. They have been reared by contaminated hands because there are people who deal in witchcraft. The fields must not be cultivated, but great new grain pits must be dug, new houses must be built, and great strong cattle kraals must be erected. Cut out new milk sacks and weave many doors from buka roots. The Strangers say that the whole community of the dead will arise. When the time is ripe they will arise from the dead, and new cattle will fill the kraals. The people must leave their witchcraft, for soon they will be examined by diviners.”
Mhlakaza said that at first he had treated the message of the Strangers as a joke. But they had appeared to Nongqawuse again, and ordered her to give the message to her uncle. He had therefore told the chiefs and was given permission to call the imbhizo.
He urged those present not to take the words of the Strangers lightly.
“The rapid spread of lungsickness is proving the Strangers right,” he said. “The existing cattle are rotten and unclean. They have been bewitched. They must all be destroyed. You have all been wicked, and therefore everything that belongs to you is bad. Destroy everything. The new people who will arise from the dead will come with new cattle, horses, goats, sheep, dogs, fowl, and any other animals that the people may want. But the new animals of the new people cannot mix with your polluted ones. So destroy them. Destroy everything. Destroy the corn in your fields and in your granaries. Nongqawuse has told us that when the new people come there will be a new world of contentment and no one will ever lead a troubled life again.”
As Camagu drives his Toyota Corolla on the gravel road he concludes that a generous artist painted the village of Qolorha-by-Sea, using splashes of lush color. It is a canvas where blue and green dominate. It is the blue of the skies and the distant hills, of the ocean and the rivers that flow into it. The green is of the meadows and the valleys, the tall grass and the usundu palms.
He is pleased to see that there are some people here who still wear isiXhosa costume. They are few, though. Most of the men and women he passes on the road don’t dress any differently from people of the city.
It is sad, he thinks, that when nations of the world wear their costumes with pride, the amaXhosa people despise theirs. They were taught by missionaries that it is a sign of civilization, of ubugqobhoka, to despise isikhakha as the clothing of the amaqaba—those who have not seen the light and who still smear themselves with red ochre.
Even today the civilized ones condescendingly visit the clothes of the amaqaba, and wear them as curiosities during special cultural occasions. As their everyday attire the civilized ones wear German and Java prints that are embroidered in the West African tradition, but they still boast that they are in African dress. To them, African fashion means West African, and never the clothing of the amaXhosa or some other ethnic group of South Africa.
Camagu parks his car and walks into Vulindlela Trading Store. There is a long line of people who are waiting to be served. He is not sure whether he should go to the counter and make his inquiry or join the queue. He thinks everyone is looking at him with suspicion. To them he looks like the kind of person who thinks he is better than the common village folk, and who will therefore jump the queue. He decides to join it.
It is a long queue and the salesperson behind the counter takes her time. She is passing pleasantries and exchanging snippets of gossip with the customers as she serves them. Camagu amuses himself by watching a teenage boy whose hat has made him very popular with a group of children who are surrounding him. It is a miner’s helmet in the black-and-yellow colors of Kaizer Chiefs Football Club. It has many horns that fascinate the kids. He tells them that the horns grew because his grandmother told him folktales during the day. Such stories are supposed to be told only at night.
“Every time she told me a story a horn grew,” he tells his captive audience.
Finally Camagu’s turn comes and he asks for the owner of the store. He is told that the owner and his wife are not in. They are in the house behind the store. The salesperson asks Qukezwa to take the visitor to the house.
Once they are outside the store Qukezwa smiles at him and impishly says, “I am not married.”
Camagu takes a close look at her, his eyes betraying his shock. She is short and plump. She wears a skimpy blue-and-yellow floral dress. Although she is not particularly beautiful, she is quite attractive. Almost half her face is hidden by a black woolen cap which is emblazoned with the P symbol of Pierre Cardin in green and yellow.
“I am available if you want me,” she adds.
“What do you mean?”
“You can lobola me if you like.”
“What is your name?”
“Qukezwa Zim.”
They have reached the door of the house. Without another word she runs back to the store laughing. He knocks unsteadily and Missis lets him in.