Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

No one is ever invited to a village feast. When people hear there is a feast at someone’s homestead, they go there to enjoy themselves. Others, especially the neighbors and close friends, go beforehand to help with the preparations and to contribute whatever food they can afford. Everyone is welcome at a village feast. Indeed, it is considered sacrilege to stay away from your fellow man’s feast.

But none of the Believers have come. The war of the Believers and Unbelievers has gone to that extent. They don’t attend each other’s feasts. They do attend each other’s funerals, though, because death is, as the elders say, the daughter-in-law of all homesteads.

Cynics will say that they attend each other’s funerals to make sure that the deceased is really dead. One less person to be irritated about.

But this boycott does not worry Bhonco and NoPetticoat. There are more people at this feast than Zim, the elder of the Believers, would ever be able to muster at a feast of his own. After all, there are more descendants of Twin-Twin’s in the Qolorha area than there are of Twin’s. This is because Twin-Twin had five wives, who gave birth to many more children than Twin’s sole wife was able to do. Another reason is that Twin-Twin was the original Unbeliever. He refused to slaughter his cattle when Nongqawuse gave the orders that the amaXhosa should destroy all their herds. He said the prophetess was a liar who had been bought by white people to destroy the black race. Today the village is full of Twin-Twin’s progeny, because not many of his children died when famine attacked the land after Nongqawuse’s prophecies failed. At the Blue Flamingo Hotel alone, every other charwoman, gardener, waiter, and bartender comes from the loins of those who came from Twin-Twin’s loins. Three generations of chefs, trained by Zimbabweans, are from Twin-Twin’s line. And everyone is always at pains to stress that Twin’s and Twin-Twin’s lines are distinct, even though they are joined at the top by the headless ancestor.

The members of Qolorha society who are sitting at the table are discussing precisely these issues, as they stuff themselves with meat and beer. They are laughing about it all. One teacher asks, “How far can you stretch pettiness?” And the rest of the table laughs once more. Camagu notices that Xoliswa Ximiya does not laugh. She merely grins. She seems embarrassed.

The attention turns to the stranger in their midst. After he has introduced himself, Xoliswa Ximiya wants to know, “What puts you in this godforsaken place?”

“Godforsaken? I think it is the most beautiful place on earth,” replies Camagu, meaning what he says.

“Perhaps if you are only a tourist. If you were forced to live here forever you’d think twice about it.”

“Maybe you are right. I’ve never lived in a village before.”

“It must be something important that has brought you here.”

Camagu repeats the concocted story of a young woman called NomaRussia from these parts who worked for him in Johannesburg. He released her from work because he was going to the United States to live there. Only when he was on his way to the airport did he discover that NomaRussia had inadvertently taken his passport with her.

“I am looking for her, and I hope that some of you may know her,” he tells them.

NomaRussia is a very common name, one of the teachers explains. The people of this region began giving their valued daughters this name — which means Mother of the Russians — when the Russians killed Sir George Cathcart during the Crimean War in 1854. Cathcart, the teacher further explains, was the much-hated colonial governor who finally defeated the amaXhosa in the War of Mlanjeni, a war that had initially been provoked and launched by Sir Harry Smith, the pompous moron who had styled himself the “Great White Chief of the Xhosas.” The colonists called the amaXhosa Xhosas, or even Kosas!

He must be the history teacher of Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School, judging by the way he coughs out these facts with aplomb, as if he is in the classroom.

“Since then the amaXhosa have been great admirers of the Russians,” he adds.

Unfortunately no one seems to know the particular NomaRussia Camagu is looking for. Perhaps if he knew her surname they would be able to help. They cannot fit the description of her that he has given them with any NomaRussia who worked as a maid in Johannesburg.

It is too late for Camagu to amend his story. He must remember next time that NomaRussia did not work for him as a maid. She was merely visiting Johannesburg to attend a funeral. That will narrow the search. Surely not many NomaRussias from Qolorha-by-Sea have visited Johannesburg for a funeral recently. But then how did his passport fall into her hands?

Camagu’s eyes are glued on Xoliswa Ximiya. He does not remember seeing anyone quite so beautiful before. Her beauty exceeds that of the hungry women who are referred to as supermodels in fashion magazines. It is the kind of beauty that is cold and distant, though. Not the kind that makes your whole body hot and charges it with electric currents, like NomaRussia’s. If only she could bring herself to smile a bit. Her colleagues are now full of boisterous cheer, most of which is obviously induced by the spirits. Yet she remains collected, and throughout maintains her no-nonsense demeanor. Her uncompromising eyes penetrate you when she is addressing you. Deep inside them lurks a sorrow that cannot be remitted.

NoPetticoat enters to find out if the guests need anything. She is introduced to the visitor from Johannesburg. He can see the source of Xoliswa Ximiya’s good looks. When he met Bhonco outside, Camagu’s eyes could salvage beauty from his aging face. Now here is the mother of the homestead, coming with her own loveliness and grace. She is a sonsy woman, though, not willowy and grave like her daughter.

“You are a family of beautiful people,” says Camagu when NoPetticoat has left the room. “Your father, your mother, and you.”

She does not thank him for the compliment. Perhaps, thinks Camagu, she has no time for such pettiness as acknowledging compliments or admiring beauty. But then why has she taken the trouble to enhance her own beauty by braiding her hair in such trendy extensions? Her whole mode of dress is elegant. Severe but elegant.

Xoliswa Ximiya is more fascinated by the fact that the stranger was on his way to the United States of America. She informs him that he will be happy in that wonderful country. She herself has lived there, empowering herself with the skill of teaching English as a second language. It is a fairy-tale country, with beautiful people. People like Dolly Parton and Eddie Murphy. It is a vast country that is highly technological. Even though Camagu comes from Johannesburg, he will be fascinated by America. A city like New York is ten times the size of Johannesburg. She remembers when she went to Washington, D.C., and saw the White House, and the Capitol, and the memorial of one historical figure or another. She also remembers when she traveled in a subway in New York. Then she goes on to explain that a subway is a train that moves underground. Very much unlike the Johannesburg — East London train which crudely moves above the ground where every moron can see it.

Before Camagu leaves he must remind her to give him a few pointers on how to survive in America, she adds with a flourish.

America, wonderful America!

Her colleagues are beginning to fidget. Obviously they have been subjected to this harangue before. Camagu is embarrassed on her behalf.

“For how long were you in America?” he asks.

“Six months! I was at a college in Athens, Ohio.”

“Athens, like in Greece!” adds a woman who was earlier introduced as Vathiswa. She is sitting next to Xoliswa Ximiya, and is obviously her great fan. She nods vigorously at everything the principal says. Camagu has no heart to tell her that Athens is a college town that is even smaller than the nearby town of Butterworth.