Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

Twin and his wife went on to dig out the corn from their underground granaries and threw it into the river.

Some Believers sold their corn and cattle to the unbelieving amaMfengu and to the markets of Kingwilliamstown and East London at a fraction of the market price.

Twin-Twin was disturbed by all these activities. At an imbhizo at the chief’s place, when arguments were hotting up between Believers and Unbelievers, he shouted, “I say to you, Believers, bring that foolish girl Nongqawuse to me so that I may sleep her. I will give it to her so hard that she will stop spreading lies! She is telling all these lies, dreaming all these dreams, seeing all these imaginary visions, because she is starved of men!”

It was too late for Twin and his fellow Believers to close their ears to avoid being contaminated by such blasphemy.

Camagu tells Xoliswa Ximiya about the memory ritual of the Unbelievers. The graceful pain that captivated him. She is surprised that such a highly educated man who has lived in America for three decades is fascinated by such rubbish.

“It is embarrassing, really,” she says. “I do not know why they do not want to forget our shameful past.”

“I thought it was beautiful.”

“Don’t patronize my people.”

“Really. You don’t have to be a Romantic poet to know that sadness is essential in our lives.”

Xoliswa Ximiya makes it clear that she would rather talk about other things. She tells him about her wish to leave Qolorha-by-Sea, to be away from the uncivilized bush and the hicks who want to preserve an outdated culture. Her friends have important posts in the government. She would like to join the civil service too. She has made many applications but all she gets in the post are letters of regret. Perhaps she should follow his example and fly to the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Apart from her obsession with America, Camagu finds her quite attractive. The sadness in her eyes gives him a strong urge to hold her very tightly and protect her from the harsh world. But he knows that if he dared succumb to the temptation, she would not hesitate to put him in his place.

After a glass of orange squash, and a promise that he will see her tomorrow, he takes leave of her. He wants to see more of the seashore before it gets dark.

He is walking in Nongqawuse’s Valley when a whirlwind approaches and almost blows him off his feet as it passes by. Then it turns back and stops right in front of him. It is Qukezwa riding bareback and reinless on Gxagxa. She giggles.

“Hello, stranger,” she says, as she dismounts and lets Gxagxa graze on his own. She takes out a panga from the sheath she is wearing and starts waving it about. He moves back in fear. She enjoys this and laughs.

“You are scared? Don’t worry, I won’t chop your head off — at least not yet.”

She starts chopping away at some bushes.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Qukezwa Zim.”

“Oh, you are the girl at the shop. The girl who told me—”

“Told you what?”

“Come on, you know that we met at the store where you work. You actually propositioned me, naughty girl!”

“I have never seen you before.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. But I know that we met.”

She continues to chop the bush.

Maybe this girl will know NomaRussia. Camagu decides there is no harm in asking her.

“I am looking for someone.”

“NomaRussia? I heard.”

“But you said you have never seen me before.”

“This NomaRussia — you really love her, don’t you? Coming all the way from Johannesburg to look for her! Do you really know her? Did she tell you about herself? Did you taste her womanhood and then decide you were going to follow her to the end of the earth?”

“Don’t be outrageous!”

“Did you meet her at some drinking place where your drunken eyes saw a goddess in her?”

“I did not meet her at a drinking place!”

“Oh, I forgot, she was working for you and left with your passport.”

“Who told you that?”

“Do you think I am a baby? Do you think everyone is a baby in this village?”

“Of course not!”

“NomaRussia never worked for you. She doesn’t work for anyone.”

“Do you know her then? Please tell me where I can find her.”

“No. I don’t know her. Never heard of her.”

“Please. It is very important that I find NomaRussia.”

“What if she is a married woman? What if she has someone?”

He remembers that she was dressed like a newly married woman — a makoti. He had not thought of this when he drove all the way from Johannesburg. Now he fears that the villagers will not take kindly to the fact that he is busy inquiring after someone’s wife.

“Is she married then?” he asks, dreading the answer.

“What if she suffers from an incurable disease?”

“Don’t toy with me, girl!”

“What if she is the daughter-in-law of a vicious ogre who will not hesitate to castrate the first man who gives her a second look?”

“I am sure you know her. Please — I beg you. .”

“No, I don’t know her. I don’t want to know her. So leave me alone about NomaRussia!”

She chops the bush even more aggressively.

“Do you know what I call what you are doing?” he asks sneeringly.

“Chopping down a stupid plant, what else?”

“Vandalism. Why are you destroying these beautiful plants that have such nice purple flowers?”

“Nice purple flowers? They are blue as far as I am concerned.”

“Because they are blue as far as you are concerned they deserve to die?”

“Nice plants, eh? Nice for you, maybe. But not nice for indigenous plants. This is the inkberry. It comes from across the Kei River. It kills other plants. These flowers that you like so much will eventually become berries. Each berry is a prospective plant that will kill the plants of my forefathers. And this plant is poisonous to animals too, although its berries are not. Birds eat the berries without any harm, and spread these terrible plants with their droppings.”

Suddenly she emits a sharp whistle, which brings Gxagxa galloping to her. She mounts the horse and rides away — brandishing her panga.

Camagu shouts after her, “Thanks for the lesson!”

Then under his breath: “Bloody bitch.”

At night he becomes the river and NomaRussia its cool, crystal-clear water. He wakes up in a cold sweat when the panga-wielding girl of Nongqawuse’s Valley defiles his dream by intruding into it. She is squeezing the purple juice of the inkberries into the river, turning its water into purple slime.

He cannot sleep again after that.

Since the rebuke of the elders, Bhonco, son of Ximiya, has changed. He now laments the sufferings of the Middle Generations. He still cries for beautiful things. But he does not believe in not grieving anymore. We cannot say he believes in grieving, for as an Unbeliever he does not believe.

It is as it should be.

At this public meeting he is gearing for a fight. If Chief Xikixa is so weak that he cannot put his foot down and take a sensible position on this matter of development, he will show the Believers that there are still men in the village of Qolorha-by-Sea. The chief is the kind of person who is swayed by each speaker’s argument, and at the end of the imbhizo he does not know what side to take.

Those who like to make snide remarks are often heard saying of the chief, “How do you expect him to have a head for good reasoning or for anything else for that matter? He is named after a headless ancestor.”

But it is difficult for many people to know which side to take. Even Camagu, with all his learning, cannot make up his mind. Every day of the two weeks he has been at this village he has spent time with Xoliswa Ximiya. Sometimes just an hour or two after school, or almost half a day during weekends. It is understandable, then, that at this imbhizo he is more sympathetic to the position of the Unbelievers.