Little Suns (13 page)

‘
Sukani apha
, elder brothers, you can’t put that one on her head,’ said Malangana. ‘She was not even the main doctor of the queen. She was merely an assistant.’

‘She is impudent still,’ said Nzuze, shaking his head, his jaws clenched.

Perhaps it was because she was an
inzalwamhlaba
– an autochthon; a person not born of humans but emerged from the earth like a sorghum seedling. That was why she had scant respect for the authority of men. She did not know any differently. While the men – the two men, that is, for Malangana did not seem to be bothered by the bad behaviour of the Bushman girl – were muttering and moaning their outrage, Tsitwa came limping and muttering to himself. He was swishing his
itshoba
– the medicine man’s staff with tassels of an oxtail.

‘Why are you people still here?’ he asked, staring at his son Mahlangeni.

‘We thought we should start the day by celebrating the snake, father.’

‘Majola is not your business,’ said Tsitwa. ‘He visited my grandson, not you.’

Malangana and Nzuze sniggered.

‘You just want to steal my grandson’s glory for yourself,’ added Tsitwa for good measure, relishing the effect of his humour. ‘You and I should be mixing and boiling the medicines for strengthening the soldiers. By the time
iindwendwe
arrive this evening our medicines should be ready for the rituals of the
umguyo
dances. Tomorrow we are marching to war.’

The three men looked at Tsitwa with wide eyes. They had not associated the
iindwendwe
with Hamilton Hope and his war machine.

‘Yes, we have no choice but to give in. The stand-off is over,’ said Tsitwa.

Nzuze was crushed. He stayed on the adobe stoep, his head buried in his hands. Malangana and Mahlangeni paced the ground, beads of sweat erupting on the former’s brow. Both were mumbling their disgust at Mhlontlo who could not stand up to Hope and was apparently now going to lead the men to war. They had been sitting there blissfully celebrating the snake, only to discover that behind the scenes the elders were conspiring to betray the nation of amaMpondomise by allowing the king to go to war while he was in mourning.

Like all the peoples of the eastern region, amaMpondomise were known for their hospitality. But these particular
iindwendwe
were not the most welcome guests in the history of kwaMpondomise. Everyone had been dreading their arrival from the time spies reported that they had left Qumbu with a caravan made up of one wagon loaded with five hundred Martini-Henry rifles for the thousand men that Mhlontlo had promised Hamilton Hope, a Scotch cart loaded with ammunition comprising eighteen thousand ball cartridges, two other wagons loaded with mealies and potatoes, another Scotch cart loaded with the things of the white people, and a slew of black servants – mostly amaMpondomise and amaMpondo converts and a few amaQheya or Khoikhoi. The caravan was led by the four white men on their horses, Hope, Warren, Henman and Davis.

Qumbu was only eighteen miles from Sulenkama so they had arrived the same afternoon, and had set up camp on a hill about a mile from the village. Even before they could send a messenger to Mhlontlo’s Great Place the king sent his own messenger to them, a man called Faya. The king was reiterating what he had said before; he would not lead the army to war. His army was waiting for the orders, all ready to go, and his uncle Gxumisa was ready to lead them anytime he was called upon to do so. He, Mhlontlo, King of amaMpondomise, was in mourning because his senior wife, daughter of the most revered monarch in the region, King Sarhili of amaGcaleka, also known as amaXhosa, had passed away, and according to the customs of his people he had to stay in seclusion and observe certain rituals. He could not touch weapons of war during mourning.

Of course Hamilton Hope had heard all this nonsense before. He sent Faya back to his master with a stern message: the British Empire could not be kept waiting on account of heathen customs. The war would be fought and the Pondomise warriors would be led by none other than Umhlonhlo. He, Hamilton Hope, Resident Magistrate of the District of Qumbu in the Cape Colony Government of Her Glorious Majesty Queen Victoria, was summoning the Pondomise paramount chief Umhlonhlo to come and meet him in person forthwith and take orders to march to war against the rebel Basotho chief Magwayi, failing which he would be stripped of all vestiges of chieftainship and his Pondomise tribe would be placed under chiefs of those tribes that were willing to cooperate with Her Majesty’s Government.

As Faya galloped away with the dire message, Hope fired a few shots after him to illustrate that he was serious, to the laughter of his entourage. Faya hollered all the way to the Great Place that someone should save him; the men whose ears reflected the rays of the sun –
ooNdlebezikhanyilanga
– were trying to kill him.

For two days Mhlontlo kept Hamilton Hope waiting. That was the stand-off that had excited the young men. At last the elders were fighting back. Finally the king was refusing to be treated like an uncircumcised boy by a couple of white people whose own penises were undoubtedly still enveloped in foreskins. In the evening they cast their eyes on the hill and saw the fires at Hamilton Hope’s camp and went on with their lives as if all was normal and the world was at peace with itself.

Of course Hope was not amused. On the second evening he sat at the camp fire with his three aides, Warren, Henman and Davis, eating bully and bread and playing cards.

‘You still doubt my premonition?’

The aides merely shook their heads and continued to chew and take sips of tea from enamel mugs. Their black servants could be heard in the background singing and ribbing one another to great laughter.

Before they left Qumbu the magistrate had said to them, ‘Look, fellows, I’ll give you your choice. I have heard certain things which make me suspect that Umhlonhlo intends turning traitor. I am too much involved, besides I am an Englishman and can’t turn back. You fellows may turn back if you choose and I will think none the worse of you.’ The three men had insisted that they were Englishmen too and would not turn back.

‘I will not allow Umhlonhlo to defy me,’ said Hope. ‘That would be the end of me. I am known by my peers and by the Chief Magistrate of East Griqualand, and you can be sure even by the Governor, for my discernment and knowledge of the native character. What will happen to that reputation if Umhlonhlo defies me and gets away with it?’

‘He will get away with it unless we send a
CMR
column to crush him once and for all, which is what we should have done to the Basotho rebels in the first place,’ said Warren.

‘We are not at war with Mhlontlo,’ said Davis. ‘He is our ally. He is willing to supply us with a thousand men to fight. He is just not willing to lead them.’

‘The two of you are two extremes that I must bring to the sensible centre,’ said Hope. ‘Firstly, the Cape Mounted Riflemen are spread thinly already, what with the Gun War in Basutoland. With the change of Government in England and our Governor recalled, the new Government has a strict policy that no new Imperial troops will be allowed to take part. We are on our own. We have no choice but to get the natives to fight for us, which is the normal practice as you know since they are now subjects of the Crown.’

‘What we want is to crush the rebellion of Magwayi’s Basotho in Matatiele,’ said Davis. ‘We have Mhlontlo’s men. We have everything we need. His uncle Gxumisa will lead his men. I suggest we go to war.’

‘Then he will have prevailed on me,’ said Hope. ‘No native will ever obey me after that.’

‘Anyway, this Gxumisa is an old man,’ said Henman. ‘How’s he going to survive a war with a ferocious tribe like Basotho?’

‘Mhlontlo is an old man himself. He is fifty-three.’

Hope looked at Davis for a long time.

‘Are you this man’s advocate, Captain?’

‘No, sir, I am advising you, as is my role.’

‘Thank you, but I am not taking your advice on this one. I want you to get on your horse right now and go down that hill and tell Umhlonhlo that tomorrow afternoon I am moving my camp to just outside his Great Place. He should have his warriors ready. I will be addressing them. The next morning he will be leading them to war. If the chief won’t ascend the hill the magistrate will descend, and you can be sure it is the last time the magistrate does that.’

That was the end of the stand-off and the beginning of the preparations for
iindwendwe
in Sulenkama, though they were of the unwelcome variety. Mahlangeni, despite himself, followed Tsitwa to grind and boil the concoctions that were going to strengthen the soldiers and Malangana dawdled to his house to get Mthwakazi’s sacred drum. Nzuze left the adobe stoep and went to join his brother at the Great Place to find out what exactly was happening. The joys of the snake’s visit were all forgotten as the matters of statecraft became the focus.

Malangana sat on a stool and stared at the drum. He did not know where to find Mthwakazi in order to return it. He certainly would not make himself a laughing stock carrying it all over the village and asking people where he could find her. By now he was sure gossipmongers knew that he had been sued for theft and would be making silly jokes about him. What was Mthwakazi thinking, accusing him of theft, besmirching his name like that? The right thing of course would be to take it to Gxumisa since he was the elder who had summoned the
inkundla
for the case. He would know how to get it to the silly girl. That’s what he should do and get it over with. He would have liked to hand it to the girl personally though and give her a piece of his mind too.

A horse whinnied outside. Malangana went to the door and looked at Gcazimbane swooshing his tail impatiently. This was a new habit, this of trotting in from the veld and routing his groom out of his quarters when days had gone by without seeing him. Not that Malangana’s attachment to him had diminished. These days his time was occupied mostly by the affairs of the Great Place. The nation was still in bereavement and Mhlontlo spent all his days in seclusion mourning his beloved queen. Malangana was therefore the one who was always around for errands. He was the trusted messenger who was sent, sometimes with Charles or with Nzuze or with any other of Mhlontlo’s kin, to other chiefs in the region or to the white traders or missionaries about matters, often disputes, that had to be postponed until the period of mourning was over. Gcazimbane would be taken by the herdboys in the morning to graze with the cattle in the valleys. It was from there that he would sometimes escape to look for Malangana at his house. He would whinny outside. On most occasions Malangana would not be there and the horse would finally wander away and in the evening the herdboys would be whipped by the men in charge of the royal herds for their carelessness. Malangana would only hear from neighbours that his horse, as it was now called, was looking for him. During those days of grieving Malangana would get to see Gcazimbane only in the evening. He would walk to the cattle kraal where Gcazimbane slept with the cattle, let him out, and brush his neck and his mane, while singing the horse’s praises, or sometimes his own. Occasionally he threw glances at familiar pathways hoping to see the puny figure of Mthwakazi. On some errands Malangana would beg Mhlontlo to let him ride Gcazimbane: ‘You’ve not been riding him since you’ve been mourning. He’ll get lazy.’ Mhlontlo would reluctantly agree: ‘But don’t get used to it. Gcazimbane is my horse, not yours.’

For most errands Mhlontlo insisted that Malangana use one of the Basotho ponies that were a gift from his late friend King Moorosi of the Baphuthi people. So, Gcazimbane went grazing with the cattle and played his tricks on the herdboys and occasionally disappeared to look for his groom and friend.

Today, unlike most other days, he found him. Gcazimbane held his tail high and snickered and blew. Malangana broke out laughing. The horse started prancing around with excitement and Malangana clapped his hands, singing its praises. A few of the neighbours who were outside sweeping the grounds or tending to
umhlonyane
herbs in front of the rondavels started ululating and waving the brooms and clapping their hands and dancing around and singing along in the chorus: ‘
Nanko ke, nankok’uGcazimbane; ngobuhle bakhe bonke, nankok’uGcazimbane.’ There he is, there he is, Gcazimbane in all his beauty
.

Malangana ran into the house and raced out with Mthwakazi’s drum. He continued to sing Gcazimbane’s praises accompanied by the drum and the women’s ululation. Gcazimbane neighed and stood on his hindlegs, and circled around his worshippers in a canter. Malangana jumped on him and settled bareback as the horse continued with the dance unabated. He prodded Gcazimbane with his feet and the horse took off at full gallop. Malangana controlled him only with his heels and knees as there were no reins and his hands were fully occupied with beating the drum while singing not only the horse’s praises but his own as well. The neighbours were left laughing and applauding in admiration of the king’s wily horse and its devoted groom.

It was as though a whirlwind was carrying them through the village pathways. And Gcazimbane was ignoring all the protocol of slowing down whenever they passed one or more adults so that Malangana could greet them and enquire after their health, and maybe exchange a few titbits of what the return of the rains after such a long and vicious drought meant to the crops in the fields and to the welfare of the nation. Some looked at the dustless whirlwind and merely shook their heads as they rearranged their
izikhakha
skirts and karosses disturbed by its force. Others muttered something about the recklessness of youth; it was high time Malangana got married so that his blood could be calmed by a good woman.

‘Even the school of the mountain and the prison of the white man could not tame his wildness,’ observed an elderly man to his elderly wife. ‘That is why he is now even stealing sacred drums from
inzalwamhlaba
, those whose womb-home was the earth.’

As he said this he spat on the very ground from which the autochthon was supposed to have emerged.