“We should be asking you why the taps are closed, son of Ximiya,” says another old man. “You are on the water committee, are you not?”
“Ask Dalton, not me,” says Bhonco defensively. “He and his Believers closed the water. Or ask this son of Cesane.”
“No. Not me,” says Camagu. “I am not on the water committee. No one ever elected me there.”
“No one ever elected you in any of these quarrels between the Believers and Unbelievers. Yet you have chosen a side,” says Bhonco.
“Hey, John, come out here,” Camagu calls into the house. “I am not going to be a martyr for your sins.”
John Dalton walks out. He seems relieved to be rescued from the harangue of the intellectuals in the house. But his face soon changes when he realizes that he is in for interrogation out here. The people want to know why the water taps have been closed.
“You know very well why they are closed, my mothers and fathers,” says Dalton. “For many months now you have not paid for the water. You know that those water pumps have to be maintained, and it takes money to maintain them. It takes money to buy diesel too.”
“But some of us have been paying regularly ever since the communal taps were constructed,” pleads a woman.
“It is true, some of you have been paying,” admits Dalton. “But most of you have not been paying. The taps shall remain closed until all of you have paid.”
“It is unfair. We suffer for the sins of those who have not paid.”
“We open the water just for you, even those who have not paid will get it. It is up to you to see to it that your neighbors pay so that everyone can get water.”
“What about you and Camagu? You have water.”
“Because we have paid and ours are not communal taps. Those who can afford to have taps that go straight to their homesteads and have paid for them continue to get water.”
“It is a plot of the Believers!” shouts Bhonco. “I want everyone to know that I disagreed with this closing of the taps at the committee meetings. I disagreed completely. But I was outvoted by the Believers!”
“It is like this election thing,” says NoPetticoat. “We thought things were going to be better. But look who they put in to run our affairs: people we don’t know. People from Butterworth who know nothing about our life here.”
This is a sore point for the villagers. When local elections came a few years back, people thought that at last they were going to run their own affairs. But the ruling party had different ideas. It imposed its own people nominated by party bosses from some regional headquarters far away from Qolorha. And the villagers did not know these candidates. As a result many people refused to vote, even though they were supporters of the party. The same thing happened at the last general election, and it will happen again at the next local election unless people learn to fight for their rights.
“It is the same at the provincial and national level too. Leadership is imposed from above,” says Dalton. “But I do not see what that has to do with the water taps. The water committee was not imposed on anyone. It was elected by the villagers.”
“Don’t even talk, Dalton,” says Bhonco. “You have messed up our lives. You and your Believers. Now we can’t even cut our own trees.”
“That is unfair,” says Camagu. “You all know it is not John’s law. It is the law of the land. And it is for your benefit.”
“What benefit?” Bhonco fumes. “Our forefathers lived to be gray-beards without imposing such stupid laws on themselves.”
“Perhaps you need to learn more about your forefathers,” says Dalton. “King Sarhili himself was a very strong conservationist. He created Manyube, a conservation area where people were not allowed to hunt or chop trees. He wanted to preserve these things for future generations.”
“Don’t tell us about Sarhili,” cries Bhonco. “He was a foolish king. A king of darkness. That is why he instructed his people to follow Nongqawuse!”
The argument is broken by the arrival of Zim. Everyone bursts out laughing. Zim looks very strange. It is as if he does not belong to this world. He has shaved off his eyebrows. And he has cocooned himself inside a red blanket, without any of the beautiful ornaments for which he is known far and wide. There is not even a single strand of beads. His feet are bare. No shoes. No anklets.
“I greet you, children of the amaGcaleka clan, even though you welcome me with the rudeness of your laughter,” says Zim, sitting down among his peers.
“What have you done to yourself, Tat’uZim?” asks Camagu. “You were not like this yesterday when I saw you.”
“It is the new look of the Believers, in accordance with the teachings of Nonkosi, the prophetess of the Mpongo Valley,” explains Zim.
“What happened to Nongqawuse now?” asks NoPetticoat laughing.
“Oh, she is still there all right. But she is not the only prophet, you know. We Believers have a number of prophets. Nonkosi taught her followers to shave their eyebrows so as to distinguish themselves from the Unbelievers.”
Zim is clearly taking the war to new heights. He says it came to him through the birds that he had neglected some practices of the Believers of old. Maybe that’s why his son left and never came back. From now on he is going to shave his eyebrows.
His discovery of Nonkosi, the eleven-year-old prophetess of the Mpongo Valley, has injected new life into his belief. He has now adopted a new set of rituals that combine the best from the two denominations. For instance, he takes regular enemas and emetics to cleanse himself, as he comes into contact with Unbelievers like Bhonco on a regular basis. This ukurhuda ritual is a basic tenet of the teachings of the daughter of Kulwana.
All the while Bhonco is shaking his head pityingly.
“A person who does not get any pension from the government can shake his head until it flies off his neck,” says Zim, not looking at Bhonco.
“How foolish can people be!” rejoins Bhonco.
“How foolish can people be!” echoes NoPetticoat.
“If Unbelievers have their rituals, there is no reason why we cannot have our own too,” says Zim. “If they can induce sadness in their lives, there is no reason why we should not purify our bodies and our souls by purging and vomiting.”
“Our rituals don’t leave a stink!” shouts Bhonco.
“Your rituals are not even your own,” Zim shouts back. “You stole them from the abaThwa!”
“The abaThwa people don’t dance around to invoke grief! Grief is our thing, and no one else’s.”
“The abaThwa dance around to induce a trance that takes them to the land of the ancestors. You stole that from them!”
“We didn’t steal it! They gave it to us!’
“Thieves! Thieves!”
“You call me that again, Zim, and see if Nongqawuse and Nonkosi will protect your head from the damage that my stick will cause on it.”
“You and whose army, Bhonco?”
“Stop!” cries Camagu. “You are the elders of the village. You are here to bless my new house, not to desecrate it with your bad blood!”
“How can your house be blessed when you have run out of beer?” asks NoPetticoat, standing up and shaking her upper body in the tyityimba dance. Everyone cheers and claps hands and sings for her.
It is true that Camagu underestimated the number of people who would come to his housewarming party. He had thought that only those he had invited would come. He had forgotten that in the village a feast belongs to everyone. But he has only himself to blame, because MamCirha and NoGiant, his business partners who brewed the beer for him, did warn him that the malted sorghum he bought was too little to satisfy the thirsty throats of the guests. Camagu thought they were referring to the guests he had invited, and not to the whole village. So he dismissed their concerns. Now everyone is complaining that he is tightfisted and stingy like all learned people.