When they get to Zim’s homestead, Zim is reclining under his tree, in the company of his amahobohobo weaverbirds. He is talking to the birds in whistles.
“It is the language of the spirits,” he explains to his visitors after greeting them. “It is the language that the prophets used when they talked with the new people.”
He says he is happy to see Camagu, although he does not understand what he is doing here. Everyone knows that he has been bought by the Unbelievers with the thighs of Bhonco’s daughter. People have even seen him at the memory rituals of the Unbelievers.
“They say you are a total Unbeliever,” adds Zim. “You have been brought here by them to reinforce their stand in destroying our forests and our birds and our lizards.”
“There is no truth in that,” says Camagu, trying to hide his annoyance.
“Then what were you doing at Bhonco’s place, where they arrogantly go back to the world of the ancestors to bother them with their petty problems? Where they take glory in the pain of yesterday instead of savoring the pleasures of today?”
“They glory in pain to enjoy the pleasures of today better.”
“See?” says the elder excitedly. “He even knows their things. He is defending them. He is one of them.”
John Dalton comes to Camagu’s defense. “Do not fight with the stranger, Tat’uZim,” he says. “He is on our side.”
“Since when? Is he not Bhonco’s son-in-law?”
“I am not anyone’s son-in-law,” says Camagu, beginning to lose his patience. “And I am not an Unbeliever. I am not a Believer either. I don’t want to be dragged into your quarrels. My ancestors were not even here among yours when the beginning of your bad blood happened. I come from a different part of the country.”
“Yes,” adds Dalton, “let us leave believing and unbelieving out of this. We have come to talk about development.”
“Well, you cannot claim that your ancestors were not here too, Dalton,” says Zim, ejecting a black jet of nicotine-filled spittle. It lands on the ground in front of the visitors.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Tat’uZim,” says Dalton.
Spitting is one thing he is not prepared to tolerate among his people. They spit anywhere, anytime, especially when they are puffing on their long pipes.
“You forget that this is my homestead, Dalton. This is not Vulindlela.”
The birds are making too much noise. They are overly excited today. It means that soon the weather will change. They are talking of rain. And since the men have to shout to hear one another, Zim suggests that they go into one of his hexagons. Camagu is relieved, for they have been standing all this time, while the elder addressed them from his reclining position.
The room is sparsely furnished. They sit at the pine table and talk about their strategies in opposing the casino and holiday resort. Camagu learns that a project of this magnitude cannot be built without cutting down the forest of indigenous trees, without disturbing the bird life, and without polluting the rivers, the sea, and its great lagoon.
“But what alternative do we offer?” asks Camagu. “If we oppose development projects that people believe will give them jobs, we must be able to offer an alternative. I heard that day at the imbhizo that they think you are taking this stand for John’s benefit. They say as things stand now, only his store and the Blue Flamingo Hotel benefit from tourists. And of course John’s lackeys — NoVangeli and NoManage.”
“Surely you don’t believe that,” protests Dalton.
“The important thing is that they do. We need to work out a plan of how the community can benefit from these things that we want to preserve. We need—”
His heart skips a beat as he catches a glimpse of Qukezwa passing at the door. She is whistling to the birds, and they whistle back excitedly.
“Come, Qukezwa,” says her father. “Let me introduce you to the visitor from Johannesburg.”
She walks into the hexagon. She looks quite haggard in her blue-and-yellow floral dress and her black Pierre Cardin woolen cap. She greets the guests respectfully.
“This is my daughter. . the only child I have. Her brother, Twin, was swallowed by the big city.”
“I have met her a few times before,” says Camagu as he shakes her hand.
“I do not remember meeting you,” she says abruptly, and then walks out.
“Prepare something for the visitors,” Zim calls after her.
A few moments later she returns with steaming plates of samp cooked with beans and relished with boiled oysters and mussels.
Fixing her eyes on Camagu, she announces, “This relish is imbhatyisa.”
“I always come here when I want to eat the food of the amaXhosa,” says Dalton, digging into the samp with a spoon. The sauce splashes all over his beard.
“It is delicious,” says Camagu.
“Some people like to fry imbhatyisa with onion,” explains Zim. “But I like them boiled. The secret lies in boiling them without salt, for they have their own salt from the sea.”
The next day Camagu is at the great lagoon. He comes here every day, even though he has now lost all hope of meeting Qukezwa again. He simply cannot understand her. Yesterday, for instance. Why did she pretend not to know him? And she was not just doing that for the benefit of her father and Dalton. She has done this before. Once when they met at Intlambo-ka-Nongqawuse. She vowed that they had never met before. Yet she was the one who first planted the seed in his mind when she propositioned him the very first time they saw each other. Out of the blue.
He is not used to being approached by women in such a manner. It is obvious that she usually does this sort of thing. Who knows how many traveling salesmen who come to Vulindlela Trading Store she has approached this way? How many tourists? She might be a reservoir for all sorts of diseases. He must completely forget about her, and resume his friendship with Xoliswa Ximiya. And his search for NomaRussia.
But Qukezwa will not allow him to forget about her. She approaches from the opposite direction, stamping her feet so hard that they dig deep footprints on the sandbank. She is holding an ulugxa, the piece of iron that is used to harvest oysters, mussels, and even abalone. She smiles at him and says, “How did you like the imbhatyisa yesterday?”
He is absolutely fed up with her. He grabs her arm and demands, “Why did you pretend you didn’t know me?”
“How did you like the imbhatyisa?” she insists.
“It was good. Now answer my question.”
“Didn’t it do something to your body?”
“Like what? Don’t be crazy.”
But she is doing something to his body. He turns away so that she should not see his shameful state. She giggles and wants to know what is wrong.
“Nothing,” he says. “Did you come to harvest the sea?”
“Yes. But it cannot be done today,” she explains, “when the tide is like this. See? The water has turned from blue to black. The sand has become blue. Water covers the rocks. Those who try to harvest imbhatyisa or imbhaza will not get them today. When the sea is like this you can expect a terrible storm.”
“So what are we doing here if there’s going to be a storm?”
“I don’t know what you are doing here. I love the sea. The sea loves me.”
She had always been scared of the sea, she tells him. Until her mother’s death three years ago. Her mother, NoEngland, always warned her never to go to the sea alone or with other children. Whenever she wanted to visit the sea, she had to ask her mother, who would then request an adult to accompany her. The chaperone was given strict instructions not to allow her even to put her feet in the water. As a result she never learned how to swim. She used to envy girls her age who could go out to swim or harvest imbhaza, imbhatyisa, and amangquba—which is the abalone or perlemoen — from the rocks of the ocean.