The landscape has changed already. The Unbelievers say it is a good thing, though, because the cottage owners give employment to the local men who wash their cars and to local women who work as maids. None of the men get jobs as gardeners, though, since most cottage owners keep wild gardens planned by landscape artists from East London, and these need no maintenance.
The history teacher says that progress is in the eye of the beholder. He remembers one day when the Minister of Health came to the village to address an imbhizo — a public meeting — about family planning. The minister’s emphasis was on the necessity to limit the number of children to three.
An old man asked the minister, “Now, you tell me, my child, how many are you in your family?”
“Eight,” said the minister. “But those were the olden days. Things were different then.”
“That’s not what I am talking about. You say you are eight. What number are you among these eight children?”
“I am the seventh.”
“Now tell me, where would you be if your parents had taken the advice you are giving us today?”
The imbhizo never forgot how the old man put the minister in his place.
The table laughs, except for Xoliswa Ximiya, who snarls, “The minister was foolish. Today we don’t talk of limiting the number of children. We talk of spacing them properly.”
“In any case,” says a puny man who has been quiet all along, “that story of the Minister of Health — it did not happen in this village. It’s an old joke. I read it somewhere.”
The history teacher is offended.
“Cooks read too, do they?” he asks.
“I am not a cook.”
“Since when? As far as we all know you cook for white people at the Blue Flamingo Hotel.”
“I am a chef, not a cook.”
“What’s the difference? You cook, so you’re a cook.”
“You call me a cook again and I’ll show you your mother!”
The history teacher is jumping up and down, dancing around the table, shouting, “Cook! Cook! Cook!”
No one knows when the chef got the stick. Like lightning he hits the history teacher on the head. Blood springs out like water from a burst pipe. He falls down. Soon there is a long red stream on the floor. There is commotion. People hold the chef and try to stop him from inflicting further damage on the unconscious history teacher. Xoliswa Ximiya is more concerned with what the visitor from Johannesburg will think of them, behaving like savages in her father’s house. She takes Camagu by the hand and leads him outside.
“I am sorry you had to see our worst side,” she says.
“It is all right,” replies Camagu, trying to make light of the matter. “I have learned a good lesson: never call a chef a cook.”
He laughs. She maintains her stern expression.
“Anyway, I must be on my way. But please, can I see you again?”
“Of course.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I am free in the afternoon.”
In a clearing in front of the pink rondavel, women’s upper bodies are vibrating in the umngqungqo dance. Bhonco is joking with the men under the umsintsi tree. He sees Camagu walking away and calls him back.
“Hey, teacher, are you just going to disappear like a fart in the wind, without even saying good-bye?” shouts Bhonco.
“Oh, Tat’uBhonco, I am sorry. I did not see you,” says Camagu.
“Did those children expel you so early? The feast is still young.”
“I have enjoyed myself, thank you. They entertained me enough.”
“With fights? A woman came wailing that the teachers were fighting. I told her to leave us alone to enjoy our beer in peace. The learned ones always fight when they are drunk. What was it all about?”
“I do not know. It started with the discussion about the developers.”
“The developers are still going to cause more fights in this village!”
He is passionate about development. His wrath is directed at the Believers who are bent on opposing everything that is meant to improve the lives of the people of Qolorha.
“They want us to remain in our wildness!” says the elder. “To remain red all our lives! To stay in the darkness of redness!”
The Unbelievers are moving forward with the times. That is why they support the casino and the water-sports paradise that the developers want to build. The Unbelievers stand for civilization. To prove this point Bhonco has now turned away from beads and has decided to take out the suits that his daughter bought him many years ago from his trunk under the bed. From now on he will be seen only in suits. He is in the process of persuading his wife also to do away with the red ochre that women smear on their bodies and with which they also dye their isikhakha skirts. When the villagers talk of the redness of unenlightenment they are referring to the red ochre. But then even the isikhakha skirt itself represents backwardness. NoPetticoat must do away with this prided isiXhosa costume. But she is a stubborn woman. Although she is a strong Unbeliever like her husband, she is sold on the traditional fashions of the amaXhosa. But Bhonco is a suit man. He even cried when he saw his beautiful reflection in one of the big windows of Vulindlela Trading Store. In any case, these suits were lovingly bought by his daughter, and it makes her very happy when he wears them.
Camagu wonders why the Believers are so bent on opposing development that seems to be of benefit to everyone in the village.
“It is just madness,” shouts Bhonco. “Madness has seeped into their heads. And that John Dalton whose father was my age-mate, that John Dalton is misleading the nation. Now they want to enforce a ban on killing birds. Have you ever heard of such a thing? In the veld and in the forests, boys trap birds and roast them in ant-heap ovens. That is our way. We all grew up that way. Now when boys kill birds, are Dalton and his Believer cronies going to take them to jail? I’ll tell you one thing: it is all the fault of Nongqawuse!”
At night Camagu becomes the river again, and NomaRussia flows on him. Yet she remains elusive. So does the dream. It refuses to bearrested. But it keeps on coming back. Until the birds and the waves and the monkeys and the wind tell him it’s time to get out of bed. He defies them and sleeps until midday.
After a fulfilling lunch he goes back to Bhonco’s homestead. He is met by NoPetticoat, who is talking in whispers. He whispers back that he has come to see Xoliswa Ximiya.
“Xoliswa does not live here,” she whispers. “She has her own house at the school.”
“Thank you, mama. But why are we whispering?”
She tells him that there is a meeting in progress. The elders of the Unbelievers are sorting out a few problems before they engage in their rituals.
Under the umsintsi tree a motley group of men are sitting and drinking beer. Some are wearing traditional isiXhosa clothes while others are in various western gear ranging from blue denim overalls and gumboots to Bhonco’s crinkled suit and tie.
Bhonco sees Camagu and assumes that he is there to visit him. He beckons him to join the elders. Timidly Camagu approaches them, and apologizes for disturbing the old ones in their deliberations.
“Let the young man sit down. He will talk with Bhonco when we have finished upbraiding him,” says a grave elder.
Camagu has no choice but to sit down. He cannot tell them now that he has not come to see Bhonco, but his daughter. It will be considered rude and disrespectful if he answers back after receiving such firm instructions to sit down. Even though he has spent so many years in foreign lands, he remembers the culture of his people very well.
Bhonco, son of Ximiya, is being admonished by his peers.