“I didn’t know you were Zim’s daughter. I would like to meet your father,” says Camagu, trying to change the subject.
“What for?”
“I would like to know why he is against progress.”
Qukezwa laughs for a long time. Then she says, “Your thin girl-friend has been feeding you lies. That’s the only thing she knows how to cook.”
“I was at the imbhizo. I heard him opposing the building of the gambling complex that will create jobs and bring money into the village.”
“Are you aware that if your gambling complex happens here I will have to pay to swim in this lagoon?”
“Why would you pay to swim in the sea?”
“Vathiswa says they made you a doctor in the land of the white man after you finished all the knowledge in the world. But you are so dumb. White man’s education has made you stupid. This whole sea will belong to tourists and their boats and their water sports. Those women will no longer harvest the sea for their own food and to sell at the Blue Flamingo. Water sports will take over our sea!”
“There will be compensation for that. The villagers will get jobs at the casino.”
“To do what? What do villagers know about working in casinos? What education do they have to do that kind of work? I heard one foolish Unbeliever say men will get jobs working in the garden. How many men? And what do they know about keeping those kinds of gardens? What do women know about using machines that clean? Well, maybe three or four women from the village may be taught to use them. Three or four women will get jobs. As for the rest of the workers, the owners of the gambling city will come with their own people who are experienced in that kind of work.”
Camagu is taken aback both by her fervor and her reasoning. She is right. The gambling city may not be the boon the Unbelievers think it will be. It occurs to him that even during its construction, few men from the village, if any, will get jobs. Construction companies come with their own workers who have the necessary experience. Of course, a small number of jobs is better than no jobs at all. But if they are at the expense of the freedom to enjoy the sea and its bountiful harvests and the woods and the birds and the monkeys. . then those few jobs are not really worth it. There is a lot of sense in what Qukezwa is saying. He is grudgingly developing some admiration for this scatterbrained girl with a Standard Eight education who works as a cleaner at Vulindlela Trading Store.
She walks away.
He follows her unquestioningly. She does not even look back to ask why he is following her. They waddle on the sand, past the holiday cottages and below the part of the village that faces the sea. They walk silently among tall grasses that are used for thatching houses. Then they get to the rocks that are covered with mosses of various colors. Camagu is fascinated by the yellows, the browns, the greens, and the reds that have turned the rocks into works of abstract art. Down below he can see a hut of rough thatch and twigs. It looks like the nest of a lazy bird. Outside, naked abakhwetha initiates are sitting in the sun, nursing their newly circumcised penises. The white ochre that covers their bodies makes them look like ghosts. One shouts at Camagu, asking for tobacco. But he walks on, following the relentless girl.
After about thirty minutes they reach Intlambo-ka-Nongqawuse — Nongqawuse’s Valley. They are greeted by the sight of partridges and guinea fowls running among the cerise bellflowers, and among the orchids, cycads, and usundu palms.
When they reach Nongqawuse’s Pool, Qukezwa speaks for the first time, asking him to throw some coins into the pool. He finds a few two-cent pieces in his pocket and throws them into the pool.
“That is not how things are done,” she says softly. “You cannot throw brown money into the sacred pool. You need to throw silver so that your road will shine with good fortune. Your thin girlfriend should have advised you that when you came to Qolorha for the first time you ought to have come here to throw money into the sea, for that is where the ancestors are — the people that Nongqawuse spoke about.”
“She is not my girlfriend, and she is not thin!”
“And she does not believe in the ancestors! Just like all of you whose heads have been damaged by white man’s education.”
“I believe in the ancestors, dammit! Where do you get off telling me I don’t believe in the ancestors?” he shouts, throwing two shiny five-rand coins into the pool.
A white wild fig tree stands out among the green bushes. Camagu is lost in the antics of the birds that are eating the figs. Qukezwa pulls him by the shirtsleeve to the bank of the Gxarha River where it spews its water into the Indian Ocean. A flock of Egyptian geese takes off from the river. Camagu’s eyes follow the brown, white, and black patterns until they disappear in the distance, far away, where the sea breathlessly meets the sky.
“Those birds used to come here only in summer,” says Qukezwa. “But now they stay here all year round.”
“You know a lot about birds and plants.”
“I live with them.”
Mist rises on the sea.
They are now walking among the broad-leafed wild strelitzia.
“These look like banana plants. I didn’t know bananas grew in the Eastern Cape.”
“It’s not really a banana tree. It is called ikhamanga. White people call it wild banana. But it bears only the banana flower, never the fruit. Birds enjoy its nectar and its seeds.”
The mist thickens.
Qukezwa has a distant look in her eyes.
“We stood here with the multitudes,” she says, her voice full of nostalgia. “Visions appeared in the water. Nongqawuse herself stood here. Across the river the valley was full of ikhamanga. There were reeds too. They are no longer there. Only ikhamanga remains. And a few aloes. Aloes used to cover the whole area. Mist often covers this whole ridge right up to the lagoon where we come from. It was like that too in the days of Nongqawuse. We stood here and saw the wonders. The whole ridge was covered with people who came to see the wonders. Many things have changed. The reeds are gone. What remains now is that bush over there where Nongqawuse and Nombanda first met the Strangers. The bush. Ityholo-lika-Nongqawuse.”
Camagu is seized by a bout of madness. He fights hard against the urge to hold this girl, tightly, and kiss her all over. It is different from the urge he once had: to hold and protect Xoliswa Ximiya. This woman does not need protecting. He does. He is breathing heavily as if he has just climbed a mountain, and his palms are sweating. Every part of his body has become a stranger to him. He convinces himself that this is temporary insanity: he is merely mesmerized by the romance of the place and the girl’s passion for the prophets.
Yet his heart is pumping faster than ever!
He must run away from this siren. Away from her burning contours. After only two strides he trips over a pile of stones and falls. She helps him up, and her touch exacerbates the madness. Wonderful heat is consuming his whole body. Like the fires of hell.
She adds a stone to the pile.
“It is a cairn,” she explains. “The amaXhosa call it isivivane. People from my Khoikhoi side said these were the graves of their prophet, Heitsi Eibib, the son of Tsiqwa. They were found at many crossroads. If you want the protection of the ancestors for a safe journey, you add a stone to the pile. Come on. Add a stone. Then you’ll have a safe journey to America.”
Camagu gingerly puts a stone on the cairn.
Qukezwa added another stone and sang a song in praise of Heitsi Eibib. Twin added a few twigs of aromatic buchu herbs. He gave another twig to Heitsi, who was wrapped in a blanket on his mother’s back. She bent down so the child could put the twig on the stones. Then they continued on their way. Even though the crossroads was near their destination, they had made it a habit never to pass Heitsi Eibib’s graves without performing the ritual.