Zakes Mda - The Heart of Redness

“That is your own interpretation,” says Zim, sitting down.

“Perhaps I should explain how this girl got to be charged,” says Chief Xikixa. “When we sent a messenger to Zim’s homestead he found this girl. She insisted that she was the one who should be charged. She and not her father cut the trees, she said. And she boasted that she was going to cut them again and again. It seems that my messenger got angry and decided to teach her a lesson by charging her instead of her father. In the course of it all, he forgot about our judicial customs and traditions. The fact of the matter is that Zim is the one who must answer for his daughter’s actions.”

“I do not mean to be rude to you, my elders,” says Qukezwa, displaying a humble demeanor that some might see as uncharacteristic. “I cut the trees, and I shall cut them again.”

“This stubborn girl must sit down or get away from here. Since when do girls attend an inkundla? Since when do they address their elders with such disrespect? Is it the seed of this son of Cesane that is jumping about in her womb that makes her talk like this?” demands Bhonco.

The men laugh. Another one shouts, “It is the modernity that you Unbelievers are fighting to introduce here at Qolorha!”

But Camagu will not let the elder get away with libeling him like this. He shouts from where he is sitting, “Hey, Tat’uBhonco! Do you have cattle to pay for my name that you are dragging in mud? I shall sue you dry!”

“This girl must get away from here,” insists Bhonco, ignoring Camagu.

“She cannot go away, because she is a witness in this case,” says the councillor. “Although we are charging Zim, she is the one who cut the trees. She must explain why she did it.”

“She has already admitted that she cut the trees. All we need to do is to fine her father,” argues Bhonco.

The inkundla agrees that there is no need to waste time on this matter. The girl has admitted that she committed the crime. The gray-beards cannot sit here all day long when there are other matters to deal with. There is, for instance, this question of the developers who are said to be bringing civilization to Qolorha. Today they must thrash it out. Camagu must explain exactly what he meant when he said the place could be turned into a national heritage site, and how that would benefit the people of Qolorha.

“The chief must mete out an appropriate fine so that we may move on,” an elder suggests.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” says Zim. “You cannot talk of meting out a fine when you have not heard from our side.”

“What is there to hear from your side?” asks Bhonco.

“This girl has cut down the inkberry before, yet no one complained about that.”

“The inkberry is poison. It is well known that it destroys every-thing before it!”

“So do the trees that I cut down,” says Qukezwa. “They are foreign trees! They are not the trees of our forefathers!”

“Are you going to cut down trees just because they are foreign trees?” asks Bhonco indignantly. “Are you going to go out to the forest of Nogqoloza and destroy all the trees there just because they were imported from the land of the white man in the days of our fathers?”

“The trees in Nogqoloza don’t harm anybody, as long as they stay there,” explains Qukezwa patiently. “They are bluegum trees. The trees that I destroyed are as harmful as the inkberry. They are the lantana and wattle trees. They come from other countries. . from Central America, from Australia. . to suffocate our trees. They are dangerous trees that need to be destroyed.”

“The law says only the umga, the mimosa, can be cut without permission,” insists Bhonco, son of Ximiya. “The law does not mention any other tree.”

“Then the law must be changed,” says Qukezwa, explaining once more. “Just like the umga, the seed of the wattle tree is helped by fire. The seed can lie there for ten years, but when fire comes it grows. And it uses all the water. Nothing can grow under the wattle tree. It is an enemy since we do not have enough water in this country. If the umga can be cut without permission because it spreads like wildfire, so should the wattle. . and the lantana for that matter. So should the inkberry, which I have always cut without being hurled before the elders.”

Most of the elders nod their agreement. Some express it in grunts and mumbles. One mutters his wonder at the source of Qukezwa’s wisdom when she is but a slip of a girl. Shouldn’t she be focusing her interest on red ochre and other matters of good grooming and beauty?

“The law is the law,” insists Bhonco. “It cannot be changed for the sake of this impetuous girl. The law says only the mimosa can be cut without permission. We must not apply the law selectively. Remember that only a month ago two white tourists who were staying at the Blue Flamingo were arrested by the police, no less, for smuggling cycads from our village. Remember that last week we punished boys right here at this inkundla for killing the red-winged starling, the isomi bird.”

There can be no comparison here, the elders say all at once. The isomi is a holy bird. It is blessed. No one is allowed to kill it.

The chief’s councillor is obviously moved. He stands up and declaims, “Shall we now be required to teach revered elders like Bhonco about our taboos? It is a sin to kill isomi. Yes, boys love its delicious meat that tastes like chicken. But from the time we were young we were taught never to kill isomi. We ate these birds only when they died on their own. We watched them living together in huge colonies in the forest or flying in big flocks of thousands. We only desired them from a distance. We rejoiced when they fought among themselves, often to death, for we knew that only then were we allowed to eat them. These are sacred birds. If an isomi flies into your house your family will be blessed. Isomi is a living Christ on earth. If you kill isomi you will be followed by misfortune in every direction you go. When we punish boys for killing red-winged starlings, we are teaching them about life. We are saving them from future misfortune.”

“I say the same rules that apply to the mimosa must apply to the wattle tree and to the lantana,” shouts Zim out of turn.

“Perhaps we should look at the intentions of Qukezwa before we pass judgment in this case,” suggests Camagu.

They look at him as if he is something a naughty puppy has just dragged into the house from the garbage heap. No one thought he would have the audacity to contribute his say in this matter. After all, everyone now knows that he was fed a powerful potion by the Believers, which turned him against a well-mannered and educated woman of the Unbelievers, only to run like a puppy after this tree-cutting siren. Now she is even carrying his child. Of course the village is divided on the matter of the child, as the grandmothers long since proclaimed that she has not known a man — in the biblical sense, that is. And no one can question their expertise in these matters.

Wouldn’t it have been wise if he, as an interested party, had kept his mouth shut? But then every man of the village participates in the inkundla court cases. No one ever recuses himself, even when he is related to the disputing parties.

Bhonco stands up to respond and put this spineless foreigner in his place. But all the attention of the men is drawn to a cloud of smoke that is billowing in the distance. Herdboys suddenly appear with buckets of water, running towards the blaze that is rising to the sky.

“Umzi uyatsha! A homestead is burning!” they shout.

The inkundla breaks up and the men rush to assist in extinguishing the fire. Camagu takes advantage of the confusion to talk with Qukezwa.

“Why can’t you just let things be?” he asks.