Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

On 16 February 1857, the long-awaited day dawned. The sun rose. It was not the color of blood. It looked like any other sun. It did not rise late either. The Believers watched it in disbelief as it moved across the sky. There was no darkness. No thunder. No lightning. The dead did not arise.

The Unbelievers went about their usual work. But for the Believers it was the day of the Great Disappointment.

Perhaps on the following day things would be different, sighed the Believers. But nothing happened. And the next day. And the next. Until all hope faded away.

Twin and Qukezwa slowly made their way back to Qolorha. Their hunger belts were fastened even tighter. They lived on grass and ants. They were angry. But not with the prophets. The Great Disappointment was the fault of Nxito and his spies, who had insulted the new people. It was the fault of all Unbelievers, who had refused to slaughter their cattle and continued to cultivate their lands.

But King Sarhili had finally lost all hope. He took the blame upon himself for issuing the imiyolelo, the orders that people should obey the prophets of Gxarha. He told John Dalton, “I have been deceived. I must explain this whole matter to The Man Who Named Ten Rivers personally. Please send a message to him that my people and I do not want any war.”

“I will see what I can do,” said Dalton, “although at the moment I am busy setting up my trading store. I have retired from full-time service in Her Majesty’s Government.”

Twin and Qukezwa went back to Mhlakaza’s homestead to replenish their faith. There was Mhlakaza preaching to a small group of desperate Believers who were hoping to hear words of encouragement. Nongqawuse and Nombanda were standing next to him. As usual Nongqawuse looked confused and disorientated, and Nombanda had a distant look in her eyes.

“Nongqawuse says the new people say they do not want to be troubled with the importunity of the amaXhosa, and will make their appearance when they think fit.”

“There is no hope,” whispered Qukezwa. “The prophets are forsaking us.”

“There is some hope,” replied Twin. “Mhlakaza says they say they will still make their appearance. In spite of what the Unbelievers have done to them, they have not deserted us completely.”

“Blame the amaGogotya, the Unbelievers!” declaimed Mhlakaza. “They have refused to kill their cattle. The new people were ready to rise. The great Naphakade, He-Who-Is-Forever, was ready to lead them to our shores, driving more than six thousand cattle. But the ancestors of the Unbelievers still want to save their descendants from eternal damnation. They hope that the stubborn Unbelievers will change their minds and kill their cattle. Only then will the dead arise. It is for you, beautiful amaThamba, you the Believers, to see to it that these prophecies are fulfilled. It is for you to see to it that all cattle in the land are killed.”

There was general fury against the Unbelievers. Believers invaded Unbelievers’ kraals and cattle-posts. They also stole grain from their granaries. And chickens from their fowl-runs. Even dogs were not spared. Back in Hohita, at his Great Place, King Sarhili made things worse when he declared, “I cannot starve. There are still cattle in the land, and they are mine. I will take them as I require them.”

Twin-Twin vowed that he was going to protect whatever cattle he had left with his life. His grain was threatening to run out. He had not been able to cultivate the land since he had been placed under protection in Qolorha. He feared that the Believers would burn his fields.

He was going to nurse his grain until the next harvest. Hopefully the Believers had learned their lesson and would start cultivating the land instead of destroying the crops of those who wanted to feed their families.

He did not give a hoot for the plight of the Believers. He felt no pity even when he heard stories that his twin brother, his brother’s yellow-colored wife, and their yellow-colored son were surviving on the bark of the mimosa tree.

His praise name was not He Who Wakes Up With Yesterday’s Anger for nothing.

The mimosa tree, or the umga , as the amaXhosa call it, is plentiful and grows easily. It is the only tree a person can chop without the chief’s permission. For all other trees, even foreign ones, one is supposed to get permission before one can chop them down.

It is for the crime of chopping down a tree that Qukezwa appears before the court, the inkundla, of Chief Xikixa. Camagu is among the people who have come to listen to the case. He wonders what came over Qukezwa to make her chop down trees, when she has always presented herself as their protector. Part of her objection to the planned holiday paradise is that the natural beauty of Qolorha-by-Sea will be destroyed. But here she is, standing before the graybeards of the village, being charged with the serious crime of vandalizing trees. What is worse, she was not even in need of firewood. She just chopped them down and left them there.

Yet she stands defiant. Like her father, she has taken to shaving her head, although she has not gone to the extent of shaving off her eyebrows. The red blanket that she wears over her shoulders reaches down to her ankles. But it cannot hide the protruding stomach. She looks forlorn in her defiance.

An elder sums up the charges against Qukezwa, daughter of Zim. Yesterday she was seen cutting down a number of fully grown trees in Nongqawuse’s Valley. She continued with impunity even when women from Xikixa’s Great Place shouted at her to stop. She displayed her bad upbringing by daring anyone to physically stop her.

Bhonco stands up to object.

“This is highly irregular,” he complains. “Where have you seen a child this age being charged or sued for anything? According to our customs and tradition, when a minor has committed an offense it is his or her father or legal guardian who is charged.”

“I am twenty years old,” says Qukezwa.

“You are a minor still. Even if you were thirty or fifty you would still be a minor as long as you are not married,” explains Chief Xikixa.

“That is the old law,” cries Qukezwa, “the law that weighed heavily on our shoulders during the sufferings of the Middle Generations. In the new South Africa where there is no discrimination, it does not work.”

“Now she wants to teach us about the law,” mutters the chief.

“She may be right on the question of minority when a woman is not married. But still she is under twenty-one,” says a councillor of the chief. “The law is clear that she is a minor.”

“They vote at eighteen nowadays,” says another elder helpfully.

“Perhaps she thinks that just because she is with child she can stand for herself,” moans Bhonco, ignoring all the niceties of what the law says or does not say. “Or does she think her illicit liaison with this son of Cesane who has brought nothing but trouble to this village qualifies as a marriage?”

“I have nothing to do with this case. I do not know why this elder drags my name into it,” protests Camagu, looking at the chief for protection.

“Why is Zim hiding behind his daughter’s skirts? Why doesn’t he stand up like a man and take the rap?” asks Bhonco.

Zim gracefully stands up and gives a mocking chuckle in Bhonco’s direction.

“How can I be hiding myself when I am here in person?” Zim wonders. “Was it me who said you must charge my daughter instead of me? I know the laws, customs, and traditions of our people as well as any man. You people, you cowards, decided to charge my daughter instead of me! Is that my fault?”

“Do you hear what you are saying, Zim?” asks the councillor. “Are you insulting this inkundla by calling us all, including the chief, cowards?”