And now here is Qukezwa standing at the door, laughing at Missis shooing the rowdy villagers away.
Camagu remembers that in fact he and Zim had come to discuss the botanical garden that Dalton wanted to establish. He goes back to the store. As he enters he looks at Qukezwa and smiles. She smiles back. She actually smiles back at him!
His mind is no longer on the botanical garden. It is wandering somewhere in the clouds. Dalton is telling him how the brilliant idea came to him one lovely day. He was at the river with the water project committee that included Bhonco and Zim, inspecting the water pump that had been constructed with money that he had raised from his business friends and from the government. The pipes were laid to draw the water up to the village. Next to the concrete embankment near the pump, Bhonco showed the committee a small piece of land surrounded by wild irises, orchids, and usundu palms. On it grew protea flowers, which was strange since they are found nowhere else in the Eastern Cape. He told his colleagues that it was his land that had been left for him by his father. Dalton suggested that they develop the land into a botanical garden where they would cultivate rare indigenous plants, especially those that were endangered.
The next time Dalton went to inspect the water pump he found that Bhonco had planted maize on that piece of land. Apparently the elder thought that Dalton had an ulterior motive concerning his land.
“What’s the use?” asked Dalton, laughing loudly. “Monkeys will eat those mielies!”
But it was no laughing matter when he also discovered that a rare fig tree that he had pointed out to the committee of the water project had also been chopped down.
“It is this son of Ximiya,” Zim had said at the time. “He came in the middle of the night and chopped the tree so that no one else could enjoy it.”
But Bhonco denied that he had had anything to do with the destruction of the tree.
Dalton is obviously having a good time recounting these stories. And many others about the problems the war of the Believers and Unbelievers has caused him. He goes on about his plans to develop the village, what a wonderful team he and Camagu will make, and how their “Let the Wild Coast Stay Wild” campaign will succeed if only they play their cards right. But Camagu can only hear his droning voice, as if from a distance.
He excuses himself. He must get away from these surroundings that are haunted by Qukezwa’s aura. He must fight the demons that take hold of him at the mere thought of her smile. He must try to be in control. This wild woman cannot possibly be of any good to him.
That evening he visits Xoliswa Ximiya. She is glad to see him. After a glass of orange squash and Tennis biscuits, he suggests that they enjoy a walk in the full moon.
Distant fires speckle the silvery night with golden orange. Shadows of lovers assume monstrous shapes. Unseen eyes follow Camagu and Xoliswa Ximiya as they are drawn slowly by the song of the silvery girls who are dancing on the village playground.
Tomorrow more stories shall be told, seasoned as usual with inventive spices by whoever is telling the story at the time.
Xoliswa Ximiya comments that it is shameful that the girls are frolicking about topless, wearing only traditional skirts. Camagu responds that he does not see anything to be ashamed of. The girls are from a culture that is not ashamed of breasts.
“That brings me to this thing about Majola,” says Xoliswa Ximiya. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it for months.”
“My totem snake, you mean. What about it?”
“Don’t you think you are reinforcing barbarism in this village?”
“Then I am a barbarian, because I believe in Majola, in the same way that my parents before me believed in him.”
“You are an educated man, Camagu, all the way from America. How do you expect simple peasants to give up their superstitions and join the modern world when they see educated people like you clinging to them?”
“I am not from America. I am an African from the amaMpondomise clan. My totem is the brown mole snake, Majola. I believe in him, not for you, not for your fellow villagers, but for myself. And by the way, I have noticed that I have gained more respect from these people you call peasants since they saw that I respect my customs.”
“You have messed up everything. I thought we were going to have a beautiful walk in the moonlight,” says Xoliswa Ximiya, walking away from him. “You will call me when you have come back to your senses.”
He calls after her, but she walks on. He decides it is not worth pursuing her. He should rather go home to his cottage by the sea. He does not understand why his joy at being visited by Majola so long ago should cause him so much trouble on such a silvery night. And why Xoliswa Ximiya should feel so strongly about it.
It is like this Nongqawuse thing. Everyone seems to be ashamed of her. There is a lot of denial in this village about Nongqawuse. She is an embarrassment. Some say she never existed and that the story is a lie concocted by white people to defame blacks. Others say she existed but not in this village. She must have lived somewhere else, in Umtata or even in Cape Town. Another group says that even if she did live in these parts, she was a liar and a disgrace. They don’t want to hear or know anything about her.
It is only the family of Believers and their few followers who take Nongqawuse seriously and are proud of her heritage. That is why there is such anger against Zim among the amaGqobhoka — the enlightened ones like Xoliswa Ximiya — that he is bringing back the shame of the past. And against Dalton, who takes tourists to Nongqawuse’s Pool in his four-wheel-drive bakkie.
When these white tourists throw money into the pool, the Unbelievers lament, “What a waste! Why don’t they give that money to us?” To the Believers, however, it is proof of the power of Nongqawuse. White people are trying to appease her for all their sins.
“They say when an owl of the night hoots at daytime, then we must brace ourselves for misfortune,” observes a silvery voice.
He is startled out of his reverie. A silvery beast stands right in front of him. She is sitting on top of it, all silvery in her smug smile. As usual, she rides on Gxagxa bareback and reinless. Over her shoulder she is carrying an umrhubhe, the isiXhosa musical instrument that is made of a wooden bow and a single string. Women play the instrument by stroking and sometimes plucking the string, using their mouths as an acoustic box.
“What do you mean?” he demands.
“I saw old Bhonco getting the better of you. You men are useless,” she declares, with a naughty twinkle in her silvery eyes.
“Where did you come from?”
“It is a night not to be wasted. Come, let me give you a ride.”
He panics.
“Like that? Without a saddle? Without reins? Where will I hold?”
“Don’t be scared. Climb up. Gxagxa is strong. He can carry two people.”
She helps him up. He sits behind her, and holds tightly around her waist as Gxagxa gallops away. He must try to forget his circumstances. He must try to ignore the havoc that is being caused to his body. He must talk about something.
“Why do white people drop money into Nongqawuse’s Pool?” he asks breathlessly. “Surely they don’t believe in her like you do.”