Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

At first Camagu is stubborn. He says he does not see why the worth of a man should be judged on whether he has a foreskin or not.

“You said you respected our customs,” says Bhonco. “So you respect them only when it suits you? Clearly you are uncircumcised!”

“I challenge you, Tat’uBhonco, to come and inspect me here in public to see if I have a foreskin,” says Camagu confidently. He knows that no one will dare take up that challenge. And if at any time they did, they would not find any foreskin. He was circumcised, albeit in the most unrespectable manner, at the hospital.

Zim’s supporters applaud.

Mr. Jones adopts a more conciliatory stance. In measured tones he tries to convince them how beautiful the place will be, with all the amenities of the city. There will be a shopping mall, tennis courts, and an Olympic-size swimming pool.

He is struck by a new idea, which by the look on his face is quite brilliant. “We can even build new blocks of town houses as holiday time-share units,” he says.

“Time-share units? We didn’t talk about time-share units,” says Mr. Smith. “We talked about a hotel and a casino.”

“Well, plans can always change, can’t they?” says Mr. Jones.

“If the plans change at all, I rather fancy a retirement village for millionaires,” says Mr. Smith. “This place is ideal for that. We can call it Willowbrook Grove.”

“Grove?” exclaims Mr. Jones. “How can we call it a grove when we’re going to cut down all these trees to make way for the rides?”

“We’ll plant other trees imported from England. We’ll uproot a lot of these native shrubs and wild bushes and plant a beautiful English garden.”

The developers seem to have forgotten about the rest of the people as they argue about the profitability of creating a beautiful English countryside versus that of constructing a crime-free time-share paradise. Even Lefa Leballo is left out as they bandy about the most appropriate names: names that end in Close, Dell, and Downs. At first the villagers are amused. But soon they get bored and drift away to their homes, leaving the developers lost in their argument.

Late in the evening Camagu is eating his supper of fried eggs, oysters, and steamed bread. He is quite happy with himself. He feels that he has redeemed himself in the eyes of the villagers. He hears the neighing of a horse outside. He ignores it. The neighing continues irritating. He reluctantly walks to the door and opens it. There is Qukezwa sitting on top of Gxagxa.

She giggles.

“I love what you did today,” she says.

“And you came all the way just to tell me that?”

“Come here. Don’t be afraid. I won’t eat you.”

He hesitates, then slowly goes to her.

“You can touch Gxagxa if you like,” she says, grabbing his hand and brushing the horse with it.

“Please,” he blurts out. “I want a ride. I want to repeat the ride of that night.”

“But there is no moon tonight,” she says softly.

“It does not matter,” he cries with urgency. “I want that ride now. I want to feel what I felt. Maybe I’ll understand how that conception happened.”

Qukezwa lets him climb behind her, and Gxagxa gallops away. She sings in many voices. But Camagu cannot feel a thing. The silvery night cannot be recaptured. Gxagxa picks up speed. Qukezwa strips and throws all her clothes away. He follows her lead.

“We’ll pick them up on our way back,” she cries.

They both ride bareback, reinless and naked.

When they get to Intlambo-ka-Nongqawuse — Nongqawuse’s Valley — they run naked on the lush grass, chasing each other. Then he follows her lead once more and jumps into the pool. He can’t swim. She swims like a fish. She begins to teach him, showing him a few strokes. When they jump out of the pool his whole body is itchy and has a fine rash. He screams.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she says as she rubs it with some leaves. “It is only the thithiboya caterpillar that has walked on you. Or poison ivy. So far no one has died from either.”

John Dalton was becoming impatient. He dared not show it, though. John Gawler, on the other hand, sat calmly and appeared intensely interested in Sir George Grey’s ramblings. He had not become a magistrate at the tender age of twenty-six by displaying impatience at stories told by colonial governors. He had a long life full of brilliant service and lucrative promotions ahead of him. If the older Dalton wanted to interrupt the governor of the Cape Colony, it was his own problem. The older Dalton had nothing to lose. His career in the service of Her Majesty’s Government was almost over in any case. He was already talking of opening a trading store somewhere in British Kaffraria.

“Sir, perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand,” said John Dalton.

“The matter at hand? Is that not what we are talking about?” asked Sir George.

“The disaster in British Kaffraria,” said Dalton. “When he heard that you would be in Grahamstown, John Maclean, your chief commissioner of British Kaffraria, sent us with the message that things are getting worse. The natives are dying in their hundreds from starvation.”

“Their customs are to blame,” scoffed Sir George. Then he addressed the younger man. “You will be happy, Gawler, to hear that I have commissioned an exhaustive research of native laws and customs in support of my system of magisterial rule in the eastern Cape. When you know their customs, you will be a much more effective magistrate over the natives.”

“That will be very useful, sir,” assented Gawler.

“In the meantime they are dying, Sir George,” Dalton appealed. “In spite of everything, the cattle-killing continues. What should we do? The prophets of Gxarha have the people firmly in their power.”

“You know, in Australia and New Zealand I did the same thing,” boasted Sir George. “I built an important collection of the languages, customs, and religions of the natives. It is important to record these because they are destined to disappear along with the savages who hold them, don’t you think, Gawler?”

“It is so, Sir George.”

“The advance of Christian civilization will sweep away ancient races. Antique laws and customs will molder into oblivion,” proclaimed the governor.

“It is already happening, Sir George. We, your magistrates, are advancing your policies to the letter,” said Gawler, feigning enthusiasm.

“The strongholds of murder and superstition shall be cleansed,” said Sir George spiritedly, “as the gospel is preached among ignorant and savage men. The ruder languages shall disappear, and the tongue of England alone shall be heard all around. So you see, my friends, this cattle-killing nonsense augurs the dawn of a new era.”

“In the meantime, what do we do about this current emergency?” asked Dalton. “What do we tell the chief commissioner?”

“Who is this man?” Sir George asked, looking at Gawler and pointing at Dalton disdainfully.

“John Dalton, sir,” answered Gawler.

“I know that, but who is he?”

“He is a military veteran of the frontier wars. He is very useful in translating and interpreting the native tongues.”

“I interpreted for you on your last tour of the frontier, Sir George,” said Dalton helpfully.

“Then teach him that being given the privilege of an audience with me is quite different from addressing mobs of natives. He must stop interrupting me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gawler.

“My apologies, sir,” said Dalton, who then sulked for the rest of that day.

“As for the prophets of Gxarha, why don’t you just arrest them?”

“The chief commissioner fears an uprising,” said Gawler.