Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

Black economic empowerment is a buzzword at places like Giggles in Johannesburg, where the habitués are always on the lookout for crumbs that fall from the tables of the Aristocrats of the Revolution. But the black empowerment boom is merely enriching the chosen few — the elite clique of black businessmen who have become overnight multimillionaires. Or trade union leaders who use the workers as stepping-stones to untold riches for themselves. And politicians who effectively use their struggle credentials for self-enrichment. They all have their snouts buried deep in the trough, lapping noisily in the name of the poor, trying to outdo one another in piggishness.

Disillusioned with the corruption and nepotism of the city, Camagu had come to Qolorha in search of a dream. And here people are now doing things for themselves, without any handouts from the government.

But why is there still a void in his life?

Finally Qukezwa comes riding Gxagxa. After a long wait. Yet she is unhurried.

“You kept me waiting,” complains Camagu.

She does not dismount.

“Why do you want to see me?” she asks.

“It is polite to apologize when you have kept someone waiting.”

“I didn’t ask you to wait. It was your choice. And it is not for you to teach me manners. Go and teach that girlfriend of yours to stop being a bat.”

“Girlfriend? A bat?”

“Are you going to pretend that Xoliswa Ximiya is not your girlfriend? In that case you are the only one in the village who doesn’t know that you two are lovers. Yes, she is a bat, because she does not know whether she is a bird or a mouse.”

He does not know how to answer that.

“If you don’t know why you wanted to see me I’ll be on my way,” she says.

“Please give me a ride on Gxagxa. . like the other night,” he pleads.

She laughs, and says, “Only if we ride naked. Do you think you can do that, learned man? Strip naked? Gxagxa loves to be ridden naked.”

She does not wait for his answer but gallops away. Camagu just stands there, openmouthed and looking foolish.

Qukezwa does not get far before a group of about six girls emerges from the bushes and howls at her. She stops and faces them defiantly.

“So this is what you are up to, Qukezwa! Sneaking around with other women’s men?” cries one of the girls.

“Does Xoliswa Ximiya know that you sleep with her man?” asks another.

“You have taken after your mother! What she did to our friend is terrible!” yells yet another girl.

“She must be burning in hell for what she did to the poor girl!”

“And all because of your father!”

“Our friend is getting worse now! Are you going to be happy when she dies?”

“You are all a family of whores and perverts!”

“Your friend is the whore in this whole matter,” Qukezwa finally shouts back, and gives Gxagxa two slaps at the back. The horse neighs and charges at the girls. They run in different directions, screeching. One falls down and Gxagxa gives her a kick in the stomach before he gallops away. The girls utter various invectives pertaining to NoEngland’s sojourn in the house of Lucifer as they rush to assist their fallen comrade.

Camagu wonders what this is all about.

He is eating the evening meal when there is a sharp knock on the door. It is Vathiswa, and she says she has come to fetch her compact discs that people were dancing to at the housewarming party. Camagu invites her to join him at table. There are more oysters and mussels fried with onion in the pan. At first Vathiswa is hesitant. People in this village talk, she says. They will tell Xoliswa Ximiya that now she is eating her supper in Camagu’s house.

“Xoliswa Ximiya is my friend,” she adds. “I wouldn’t like her to think I have designs on her man.”

“Her man? Xoliswa does not own me!” says Camagu. “Why is everybody on my case about this Xoliswa Ximiya?”

He tells her about the girls who attacked Qukezwa just because they saw her standing with him.

“It was not really about you,” says Vathiswa. She tells him about the girl who had a tryst with Zim, and the activities of NoEngland and her igqirha that left the poor girl gushing to this day.

“If you can keep a secret, I can tell you that Qukezwa is pregnant,” says Vathiswa.

This comes as a shock to Camagu. He does not believe it, and he says so.

“It is true. But she cannot name the man. She says it just happened on its own. The grandmothers who examined her confirmed that she has not known a man before.”

“She didn’t say anything about this when I met her today.”

“Why would she want to tell yon about that?”

Camagu laughs mockingly and says, “Her virginity was broken by horse-riding, and she conceived from that?”

“The grandmothers say she is still a virgin,” says Vathiswa seriously.

Camagu cannot understand why he is filled with anger and bitterness. He remembers the silvery night when she sang him to an orgasm. He recalls the dreams.

He looks at Vathiswa munching away nonchalantly at rice, oysters, and mussels. It occurs to him that this is the longest he has ever been celibate. Has his famous lust deserted him at last? This is the land of starvation. He has learned to use his fingers. But only in the mornings that follow the nights that are not populated by messy dreams.

He remembers MamCirha and NoGiant talking of the troubles the young women of the village go through. In their oblique communication with him, MamCirha said that in the early days of her marriage, when her husband was away in the mines and the desire of the flesh attacked her, she would lie on her stomach for two hours while the urge slowly burnt itself away. She had not yet learned to use her fingers to create her own worlds of passion.

Everybody is talking about the concert. It is the highlight of every year. For the past two weeks the students of Qolorha-by-Sea Secondary School have been practicing izitibiri, the lively songs that are also known as sounds. Sounds are very popular with school and church choirs, and are a staple at concerts.

The main aim of the concert is to raise funds for the secondary school. But it also serves to celebrate the end of the school year. It brings together people from all corners of Qolorha and the neighboring villages.

Those villagers who like the limelight are also preparing themselves for a few minutes of fame. They will “buy” themselves the right to go onto the stage and render a song, a dance, or any clownish thing that they think will make the audience laugh. Indeed, most money at concerts is raised when members of the audience go to the chairperson’s table and pay some money, “buying” that they or some other member of the audience should perform some act or other. The money that is made at the door is only a tiny fraction of the fortunes that are raised when enthusiastic citizens “buy” one another.

The workers from the Blue Flamingo Hotel are practicing hard too. For a change they will be singing for the whole village, instead of just a few tourists in the hotel bar on Saturday evenings. They will not be buying themselves to perform, but have been specially invited by Xoliswa Ximiya to support the school choir.

NoPetticoat is the natural leader of izitibiri. Her fellow choristers give most of the solos to her. To Bhonco’s chagrin, she has been spending all her evenings for the past week or so practicing at the hotel. Bhonco has had to cook his own supper. But he suffers in silence for the sake of his daughter’s school. And for the prestige of having a wife who is a chorister by invitation rather than by being bought to sing. The concert is so highly regarded that receptionists like Vathiswa participate in the choir, even though they are too important to sing for tourists on Saturday evenings.