Samuel Florman - The Aftermath

“Well, these are questions for a different time,” thought Wil Hardy. “For the moment, it really doesn’t matter one whit whether or not our words are heard clearly by the multitudes.”

Still, to those who were able to hear the exchange of vows, and the selected readings, the familiar, hallowed words were a comfort and a consolation. And to those beyond the range of the participants’ voices, the ceremony and celebration that followed was a welcome community-building event.

An invitation to the wedding had been extended to all the inhabitants of Engineering Village and to many of the Inlanders as well, although the travel involved would make it impractical for more than a few of them to attend. There were about twenty-five hundred people altogether, many of whom attended out of courtesy and curiosity, watching diffidently from afar as if observing a theatrical event. Plans had been made to serve about fifteen hundred meals. Shortly after the recessional, the ship’s orchestra broke into a spirited hora, and each of the newly married couples was hoisted aloft on chairs and carried about. They were surrounded by a crowd of revelers who held hands, circling and kicking in time with the music. Soon the hora gave way to a tarantella, and then an Irish jig, which Mary’s parents led with marvelous agility. The six just-marrieds considered showing off their line-dancing skills—for old times’ sake (just six months ago!)—but the wedding dresses did not accommodate those western steps. They also figured that the majority of the people present would be ready for some honest-to-goodness fox-trots, jitterbugging, and disco.

Sure enough, as the musicians shifted to jazz tunes and then rock, people all over the beach broke into lively dance. The serenity of the wedding service was transformed into the merriment of a carnival. If there were indeed evil fates who had sent the comet to crush the human spirit, they must have been astonished by the scene.

After everybody had danced to the point of exhaustion, the meal was served. Buffet tables were loaded with such a variety of spectacular dishes that one could readily imagine there had never been an errant comet, that the survivors were instead off on a grand vacation or living in an idyllic land of milk and honey. The next day, everyone knew, they would return to a diet heavy with corn meal, corn mush, and corn bread. But for the moment there was a cornucopia of beef, mutton, and fowl; a dazzling variety of vegetables and fruits; a stunning display of ornately decorated pastries; and delicious bread made from fine white flour.

Within the past week, the populace had been heartened to learn that a small crop of wheat had been harvested, and that two water-powered gristmills were turning out flour of excellent quality.

The bridal party and a few special guests sat at a large table, using an assortment of chairs and stools made of every imaginable material and in every conceivable design. The rest of the assemblage sat or stood or lounged, as all had become used to doing, some within the pavilion and others spread out like picnickers in a park.

While they ate, they were serenaded by singers and musicians who had been recruited from among the Inlanders by Roxy and Sarah. White groups alternated with black; they played rock music and folk, and sometimes a marvelous combination of both. Most sang the lyrics in English, but Afrikaans and tribal languages were also heard.

Then, as the meal came to an end, Sarah rose and walked to the central area that was serving as a stage. She wanted personally to introduce the next performers, the Zulu Male Voice Choir. Eight Zulu men—none of them young—dressed simply in shirts and trousers, stepped forward and started to sing. The sound they made was familiar yet exotic, sort of gospel with an African tribal intonation. As Wil Hardy found himself tapping his feet and swaying in place, Sarah told him a little about what he was hearing.

This was music known as mbube (“lion”) or sometimes called cothoza mfana (“walk steadily, boys”). The unique art form had its roots in American minstrel shows that visited South Africa in the 1890s. Mission-educated South Africans combined elements of this minstrelsy with ragtime, western hymns, and Zulu song. From the 1930s to the 1960s, when many blacks were compelled to leave their homes—the men obliged to find employment in remote mines, fields, and factories—performers of mbube became enormously popular in the migrant worker communities. After hearing a few selections, Wil could understand why. Fantastic, he thought. Not only the sound and style, but also the story of how it came to be. American minstrel shows traveling in South Africa in the 1890s! Another of the quirks of history that he found so enthralling.

“So you see,” said Sarah, reading her husband’s mind, “art has its historical tales, every bit as fascinating as technology’s.”

Hardly had the choir finished taking its bows, after a few encores demanded by the audience, when another performer came, leaped really, to center stage. This man was dressed in tribal regalia, and there was no tinge of Western influence in his manner or sound. He radiated Zulu exuberance and pride from head to toe. Roxy introduced him as Ezekiel Motsima, an imbongi, a praise poet, a chanter of izibongo, praises.

As Deborah Frost had explained in one of her seminars, this ancient genre had been widely used in Southern Africa by speakers of Zulu, Ndebele, and Xhosa. In its earliest form, tribal leaders were the primary focus of the praises, and the stress was on macho virility and prowess in battle. In more recent manifestations, political groups had used izibongo to seek partisan advantage, praising one official or another at ceremonies, or even at trade union rallies.

There is also a long-standing practice of reciting praise poems for ordinary people on special occasions, particularly weddings. Ezekiel told the wedding party that since the most renowned imbongis had been swept away by the Event, he, an amateur, would do his best to serve in their stead. To these observers, however, he seemed very much the professional.

First he chanted some traditional praises for national leaders of the past. After calling out the lines in Zulu, he gave the audience rough translations and encouraged them to call out “ Musho! ” (Speak him!) if they were so moved.

He is awesome…

One who overflows with compassion, helper of those in danger.

Broad-shouldered one…

Violent flooder like the Thukela River, who cannot be restrained…

Then, taking up shield and spear, the imbongi started to intone war cries, which the audience accompanied with clapping hands.

Our blood!

It quivered!

Get out of our path!

You’ve provoked us!

We are the courageous ones!

Our hearts are angry—as red as blood!

Finally, in the spirit of banter and jest often employed at family celebrations, he called out praises that he had prepared for the three grooms—obviously using information supplied by Roxy. He called Herb “the jokester who upsets the people with his impudence.” Tom was teased as “the man who loves machines too much, who ought to love trees.” And he called Wil to task for keeping his head down in books all the time.

“Stand up,” he yelled, waving his spear close to Wil’s face. “Stand up, show us you can put down your pencil, kiss your new wife, and do a dance.”

The young recording secretary had no pencil to put down at that moment; but he did stand up, kiss Sarah, and twirl her about in an impromptu waltz.

With that, the brides called out in unison, “ Musho! Say him!” And the call was echoed by the surrounding crowd, most of whom had not made out the imbongi’s words, but who were swept up in the exhilaration of the moment. “ Musho! Musho! Musho! ”