Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

Next week two of them are leaving, one for Australia and the other for New Zealand. One owns a cottage at Qolorha-by-Sea and the other lives in Port Elizabeth. Today they and a few other cottage owners gather in the garden of the emigrant, braaing meat on an open charcoal stand and drinking beer.

Dalton is one of the guests.

“What will happen to this nice cottage?” he asks.

“I am selling it,” says the emigrant. “My house in East London too. And my ostrich farm in the Karoo. I am leaving everything in the hands of my estate agents.”

Perhaps Camagu will be interested in this cottage, thinks Dalton. He seems so happy in Qolorha, and is involving himself in the life of the community. He has even established a business with some village women.

It all started with the oysters and mussels that he ate at Zim’s. He was sold on the taste. When he moved to the sea cottage he is currently taking care of on behalf of the Butterworth doctor, he made it a habit to buy fresh oysters and mussels from the women. Two women in particular, NoGiant and MamCirha, became regulars at his cottage. Every other day they brought him oysters and mussels kept in a bucket of sea water to prevent them from going bad. They told him that sea-harvest can last for many days in a bucket of sea water. Since then he has not had any need to buy meat.

Later on, Camagu wanted to learn to harvest the sea himself. But the women would not teach him. He was good as a customer and not as a competitor. One morning he found Qukezwa harvesting the sea. She was in a good mood and offered to teach him the art of catching mussels and oysters, or imbhaza and imbhatyisa. She told him that the best time to catch this valued seafood was in the morning between seven and nine.

“When the moon is red,” she explained, “or is dying, with only a small piece remaining, then we know that the next morning will be good for harvesting the sea.”

She taught him how to walk into the sea, sometimes with the water rising up to his chest, how to use his hands to feel the rocks at the bottom, and how to use an ulugxa to dislodge imbhaza and imbhatyisa from the rocks. She also taught him how to get amangquba and amaqonga , the varieties of abalone that look like big snails. He learned fast, for there was no guarantee that Qukezwa’s good mood would still be there the next morning.

NoGiant and MamCirha were not happy that he was no longer buying their seafood now that he could harvest his own. In fact, he could not eat all his harvest, and this gave him a good idea. He had no means of earning a living in this village. Soon his money was going to run out. His Toyota was sitting idle since he hardly went anywhere in it. He made up his mind to catch oysters and mussels, keep them in sea water as he was taught by the women, take them in his car, and sell them to hotels in East London and the surrounding smaller towns. He was not going to compete with the women. Instead he would form a cooperative society with them.

Indeed, the business was established, with NoGiant and MamCirha leading a committee of very enthusiastic women. It is not as lucrative as they might wish. It is struggling on. But Camagu, for the first time after many years, is a very fulfilled man.

Although he has not said it in so many words, he regards Qolorha as his home now, and it is reasonable for Dalton to suspect he will not be thinking of going to America or even back to Johannesburg in the near future. He often says this is the most beautiful place in the world. Even if he leaves, there is no harm in investing in property, especially such a prime one. Dalton will certainly bring the matter to his attention.

“This is one of the things we’ll miss,” says the second emigrant to the first. “I don’t think where we’re going we’ll get such beautiful land for a bottle of brandy.”

Everyone laughs. Except Dalton.

“You are the only one who will remain in this mess, John,” says a cottage owner who sees himself as a prospective emigrant down the line. “Everyone is leaving.”

“Not everyone,” says Dalton, not bothering to hide his irritation. “The Afrikaners are not leaving.”

“Do you fancy yourself an Afrikaner, just because you married one?”

“I am staying here,” says Dalton. “I am not joining your chicken run. This is my land. I belong here. It is the land of my forefathers.”

“That is self-delusion, John,” warns the first emigrant.

Dalton is now getting angry. Against his better judgment he raises his voice and says, “The Afrikaner is more reliable than you chaps. He belongs to the soil. He is of Africa. Even if he is not happy about the present situation he will not go anywhere. He cannot go anywhere.”

Everyone is taken aback by his outburst. No one understands why he takes their ribbing so seriously. So personally. They all look at him in astonishment.

“He can go to Orania,” says another prospective emigrant, trying to recapture the jolly mood.

“That is the problem. You call the Afrikaner racist when he wants a homeland for his own people. You laugh at his pie-in-the-sky Orania homeland as a joke — which it is — but you are not aware that you your-selves have a homeland mentality. Your homelands are in Australia and New Zealand. That is why you emigrate in droves to those countries where you can spend a blissful life without blacks. . with people of your culture and your language. . just like the Orania Afrikaners. Whenever there is any problem in this country you threaten to leave. You are only here for what you can get out of this country. You think you can hold us all to ransom.”

“Us? You are not a native, John. You may think you are, but you are not,” says the second emigrant, jokingly using the “native” tag of a bygone era.

“At least in Australia they killed almost all their natives,” titters the first emigrant.

But the other cottage owners are not prepared to take Dalton’s accusations lying down. How dare he call them racists when they are well-known liberals who fought against apartheid? Dalton himself knows very well how they used to demonstrate against the injustices of the system even in their early university days, how they were activists in liberal student organizations, how they always voted for the sole progressive party of the day. How dare he compare them to people with a laager mentality? Does he mean they must stay and watch while the country is being sucked into a whirlpool of crime, violence, affirmative action, and corruption? Is he blaming them for thinking of the future of their children?

“Yes, you prided yourselves as liberals,” admits Dalton. “But now you can’t face the reality of a black-dominated government. It is clear that while you were shouting against the injustices of the system, secretly you thanked God for the National Party which introduced and preserved that very system for forty-six years.”

He is walking away as he utters these words. His friends remain wondering whatever went wrong with a man who used to be so upstanding.

The first emigrant says sadly, “It’s very much unlike him. He must be under a lot of stress.”

“Stress my foot!” exclaims the second emigrant. “The man has mastered the art of licking the backsides of the blacks. He has even joined the ruling party.”

John Dalton gets into his four-wheel-drive bakkie and drives away. He has had it with these clowns and their attitude. They can all leave for all he cares. Yes, let them go. He does not need them. He has his community of Qolorha-by-Sea. And his wife’s people.

Somebody is flagging down the bakkie. It is Bhonco, son of Ximiya.

“Where does that road lead to, son of my dead friend?” he asks.

“To my store, of course. Where does yours lead to?”