It neighs again. She jumps out of the water, and goes to caress its neck. She tells it to go and graze some more, for she intends spending the whole day playing in the sea. She hopes that Heitsi will finally agree to follow her into the water. She will make a swimmer of Heitsi yet. Heitsi is afraid of the sea.
Qukezwa fills the valley with her many voices. She fills the wild beach with dull colors. Colors that are hazy and misty. Gray mist, not white. She sings of Qukezwa walking in the mist. She is so bony. Her eyes are bulging out of her skull. They are resting on her high cheekbones. Her hide skirt is tattered. She does not sport a single strand of beads. Beads were long since exchanged for food. She is the woman of the sea. She is a strandloper. A beach scavenger. As long as the sea yields, she and her son will not go hungry. It is high time Heitsi learned to harvest the sea. How will he survive if something happens to her? Heitsi is afraid of the sea.
She sings of prophetesses walking in the mist.
A white woman is teaching them ring-a-ring of roses. She is Mrs. Gawler. They live with her and her husband, Major John Gawler. Mrs. Gawler finds them quite amusing, although they can’t get the hang of the simplest of games. She teaches them beautiful children’s songs that celebrate death: Ring-a-ring of roses. A pocket full of posies. Atishoo! Atishoo! We all fall down!
These children. These prophets. They do not know how to fall down. They do it so artlessly. So gracelessly. So crudely. Their heads are so hard they cannot catch the simplest of games. Well, Nonkosi catches on faster. And knows how to have fun. She plays hopscotch too. Nongqawuse and Nombanda are difficult to figure out. Especially Nongqawuse. She seems confused most of the time. And unkempt.
Mrs. Gawler tries to teach them the rudiments of good grooming. They are immersed in a bathtub, and she sees to it that they scrub their sacred bodies with pebbles, and wash themselves thoroughly with soap and water. Until the layers of dirt have peeled off. She dresses them nicely in colorful dresses. Young prophets in summer dresses. She and Dr. Fitzgerald — the miracle doctor that The Man Who Named Ten Rivers brought from New Zealand — take the prophetesses to a photo-graphic studio for their portraits.
“Smile Nonkos!” she says.
Click.
“Come on, Nongause! Don’t be so sullen! Smile!”
Click.
These prophets. Not only do they not know how to fall. They do not know how to smile either.
Click! Click!
Then they all sail to Cape Town in the Alice Smith. Throughout the voyage the sacred girls are a showpiece. Everyone wants to take a good look at them. In Cape Town the prophetesses are taken to the Paupers’ Lodge, where they are incarcerated with a large number of female prisoners and transportees.
“Nongqawuse really sells the holiday camp,” Camagu tells John Dalton, who is lying in a hospital bed. “When we advertise in all the important travel magazines we use her name. Qolorha is the place of miracles. It would have been even more profitable if she had been buried there.”
Dalton groans and tries to move. The drip shakes. He groans again. He looks like a mummy with bandages all over his body. All sorts of strange contraptions lead to his body. They are taking good care of him at this very expensive private hospital in East London. The doctor has told Camagu that he is lucky to be alive. He will survive. But there is no guarantee that he will have all his faculties functioning as before.
“You will be glad to hear that Bhonco has been arrested,” says Camagu, trying to stretch the conversation to fill the time. Dalton lets out a long groan as if to say he wants to near nothing of the madman.
“You must get well soon, John,” says Camagu sincerely. “This rivalry of ours is bad. Our feud has lasted for too many years. Five. Almost six. And for what? Nothing! There is room for both the holiday camp and the cultural village at Qolorha. We must all work together. You must come back home quickly, John. We need your business expertise at the holiday camp.”
Dalton groans his agreement. He tries to lift his heavily bandaged hand. Camagu shakes it gently.
As he drives back home he sees wattle trees along the road. Qukezwa taught him that these are enemy trees. All along the way he cannot see any of the indigenous trees that grow in abundance at Qolorha. Just the wattle and other imported trees. He feels fortunate that he lives in Qolorha. Those who want to preserve indigenous plants and birds have won the day there. At least for now. But for how long? The whole country is ruled by greed. Everyone wants to have his or her snout in the trough. Sooner or later the powers that be may decide, in the name of the people, that it is good for the people to have a gambling complex at Qolorha-by-Sea. And the gambling complex shall come into being. And of course the powers that be or their proxies — in the form of wives, sons, daughters, and cousins — shall be given equity. And so the people shall be empowered.
Qukezwa sings in soft pastel colors and looks at Heitsi. Qukezwa swallows a mouthful of fresh oysters and looks at Heitsi.
Oh, this Heitsi! He is afraid of the sea. How will he survive without the sea? How will he carry out the business of saving his people? Qukezwa grabs him by his hand and drags him into the water. He is screaming and kicking wildly. Wild waves come and cover them for a while, then rush back again. Qukezwa laughs excitedly. Heitsi screams even louder, pulling away from her grip, “No, mama! No! This boy does not belong in the sea! This boy belongs in the man village!”