Pacified homesteads are in ruins. Pacified men register themselves as pacified laborers in the emerging towns. Pacified men in their emaciated thousands. Pacified women remain to tend the soil and build pacified families. When pacified men return, their homesteads have been moved elsewhere, and crammed into tiny pacified villages. Their pacified fields have become rich settler farmlands.
Twin-Twin’s sons are back from the Amathole Mountains and have rebuilt their homestead. But it is much smaller than before. He is one of the few people who still have cattle. They are as emaciated as the sunken-eyed ghosts that walk the land. Their milk is thin and watery. It produces amasi sour milk that looks like dirty dishwater. But people eat. Sometimes beggars get the remains.
Qukezwa is a beggar who will get nothing. Even though her eyes are sunken like those of the other ghosts that walk the land, and her high Khoikhoi cheekbones have been rendered sharper by famine, she will not even walk close to Twin-Twin’s homestead. She spends all her life at the wild beach. Like those of her people who are called strandlopers. She goes into the sea and gets some shellfish. She eats it raw and takes some to Heitsi. Heitsi is old enough to catch his own. But he seems to have some aversion to the sea. He would rather watch his mother from the safe distance of the rough beach.
Twin-Twin knows that the woman of the sea that everyone talks about is his brother’s wife. He knows that Heitsi is his own nephew who will be the bearer of Twin’s progeny. He knows that Twin died a raving lunatic at the Kaffir Relief House. He knows. But he does not care. He wakes up every day with yesterday’s anger. His heart is full of bitterness. There are two big regrets that dominate his life: that his brother died before he could gloat over him, and that he never took the chance to strike out at John Dalton, to avenge his father’s head. It is too late for that now. He missed many opportunities when Dalton and he were riding together from village to village, when Dalton was still a magistrate. He is a well-placed trader now. Has built a huge general dealer’s store at Qolorha, on a hill. From this hill he can see down below, a number of miles away, to a mission station where his son is a missionary. It is too late now. It is left to future generations to avenge the headless ancestor. If they think it is worth it. He himself has a lot to lose.
Bhonco thinks he has nothing to lose. He has already lost everything. The Believers have been victorious at every turn. There is no gambling complex at Qolorha. None of all the wonderful things of civilization that his daughter used to tell him about. Instead there is a tourist place, which started as a backpackers’ hostel but has now developed into a holiday camp. Those villagers who decided to join the cooperative society own it. It is managed by Vathiswa, who learned the ropes at the Blue Flamingo Hotel. To make things worse — from Bhonco’s perspective, that is — this holiday camp is at Zim’s old home-stead. When Qukezwa moved to Camagu’s cottage she gave the homestead to the coop. More chalets in the form of isiXhosa rondavels and hexagons were built. The place now gives the Blue Flamingo Hotel tough competition. Tourists are attracted by the gigantic wild fig tree and the amahobohobo weaverbirds that have built a hanging city on its branches. And by the isiXhosa traditional costumes and beadwork that are created by the coop women who are led by MamCirha, NoGiant, and NoPetticoat. These are displayed in one of the hexagons.
To Bhonco, all these things represent defeat. The Believers have won. He has nothing more to lose. And it is all John Dalton’s fault. He brought that despicable Camagu to this village. They both stood with the Believers against the Unbelievers. As a result he lost the abaThwa dance, he lost his wife, he lost his daughter, and he lost the respect and prestige that he enjoyed in his village. The village itself lost a glittering gambling paradise that would have changed life for everyone. Instead it got a rustic holiday camp that lacks the glamour of the gambling city.
And there is Zim. It is almost six years since he left. A new millennium has dawned. The excitement it caused has died, and people have now become used to the idea. Yet he hasn’t forgotten that damned Zim. The Zim who is now venerated as an ancestor. The Zim for whom the living slaughter animals so that he may communicate their messages to Qamata, while Bhonco languishes on earth. The Zim who is capable of telling lies about him to the other ancestors, and of influencing them to distance themselves from him.
Bhonco feels that everything has gone wrong for him. He must avenge Xikixa’s head. Somehow it must be restored. Dalton must speak with his ancestors to see to it that Xikixa’s head is restored. Only then will things come right for Bhonco and his divided homestead.
He takes his panga and knobkerrie, and casually walks to the cultural village that Dalton established a few years back in direct competition to the holiday camp. It is also a cooperative society, run by Dalton with the assistance of NoVangeli and NoManage. Although it is called a cultural village, it is not really a village. There are four mud rondavels, thatched with grass and fenced in by reeds. The outside walls of the rondavels are decorated with colorful geometric patterns. Inside there are clay pots of different sizes, which are for sale. Grass mats are strewn all over the cow-dung floor. There is nothing else. In a large clearing in front of the rondavels, village actors walk around in various isiXhosa costumes. Some are sitting on tree stumps, drinking sorghum beer. When the tourists come, the amagqiyazana, the young girls who have not yet reached puberty, are invited to dance. They are always happy for the tips they get from the visitors, who are usually guests at the Blue Flamingo.
Bhonco demands to see John Dalton. NoManage tells him that he has left for his store. Bhonco climbs the hill to Vulindlela Trading Store. He finds Dalton arranging the black credit books in readiness for the nkamnkam day tomorrow, when old-age pensioners come to cash their checks. When he sees Bhonco he assumes that the elder has come for more ityala, more credit.
“There cannot be any ityala for you today,” says Dalton.
“Who says I want ityala?” replies Bhonco.
But Dalton is not listening. He just prattles on, “I know your daughter sends you money regularly. She has a good job, that Xoliswa Ximiya. A deputy directorship in the national Department of Education is not to be sneezed at. You must be proud of her. But I will only give more credit to people after nkamnkam day.”
“I do not want ityala, Dalton,” says Bhonco calmly. “I want you to ask your forefather to restore the head of my forefather.”
“The head of your forefather? Have you gone crazy?”
“Give me the head of Xikixa, Dalton!”
Before Dalton can answer, Bhonco hits him with his knobkerrie on the head. The trader falls down, unconscious. Bhonco gives him two whacks with his panga. Blood spurts out and sprays the walls. Missis runs from her tiny office wailing. Screaming clerks and salespeople join her. Bhonco lashes out at everyone. He is foaming at the mouth as he screeches something about the head that has caused him misery. Customers and passersby finally grab him and disarm him. Dalton is unconscious on the floor. He is bleeding profusely from a gaping wound on the head and another one on the arm.
Gxagxa neighs. Qukezwa does not stop her song of many voices. She only looks up and smiles. Whenever the horse has had its fill of grazing, it comes looking for her everywhere. If she is not at the cottage, it goes to Nongqawuse’s Valley. If she is not there still, it goes to the sea, particularly to the lagoon. She is sure to be there. They love each other, Gxagxa and Qukezwa. It was her father’s favorite horse. Her father lives in this horse. She wouldn’t dare do anything shameful in its presence, nor utter words she would never have uttered in her father’s presence. She gives it the same kind of respect she gave her father.