would have been a disaster, messing up his hosts’ freshly polished cow-dung floor.
In the late afternoon he is awakened by the nightwatchman. He is going back to work.
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Malangana.
‘You’re not well,’ says the nightwatchman.
He assures Malangana that he should not worry; his children will look after him until he is strong enough to be on his way. Malangana is grateful. Much as he would not like to impose, he needs the rest. Only for one night though. He must make haste in the morning. He cannot afford to relax.
Mthwakazi must be found.
The song of the girls outside is grating to his ears. It is
umbhororho
, the night-time practice of songs and dance steps in preparation for a wedding. Perhaps it is the first night of practice and the voices do not yet harmonise. There is more argument about which songs to sing and how they should be adapted to mock the groom and his party than there is singing. Malangana cannot help thinking wistfully of his boyhood before he went to the school of the mountain. Weddings were the highlight of any teenager’s year because of the singing and dancing at the
umbhororho
. And, of course, cavorting with the opposite sex. Weddings begot weddings.
His chest rattles with anger that no one ever held
umbhororho
for him and Mthwakazi, thanks to Hamilton Hope.
The scent of burning
umsintsi
wood and roasting maize hovers above his mat. He squints his eyes and can see in the thin light filaments of smoke creeping under the door. He wakes up, draws on his heavy khaki pants, but not before inspecting the padded bottom and feeling with a touch that whatever is hidden in a secret pouch is safe. He puts his grey ‘donkey’ blanket over his shoulder. He reaches for his crutches. He opens the door slowly, as if afraid it will disturb someone’s sleep. He hobbles into a night illuminated only by a sliver of a moon, the stars and a bonfire a few yards from where the boys and girls are practising their wedding songs.
The nightwatchman’s father is sitting by the fire even though December nights are warm. He is blind. Two young shepherds are roasting maize for him. Malangana stands there for a while and watches them pick the kernels from the roasted side of the cob with their thumbs and hand them to the old man. He chews slowly, putting a lot of effort in every crunch.
‘Is that you, Malangana?’ asks the old man.
They were introduced in the morning.
‘Yes, it is me,
bawo
. How did you sense me?’
‘Your bones. They rattle like the seashells of the diviners. Come, join us and share our roasted maize. I always prefer that they boil it first for a long time before they roast it. But I have lazy grandchildren.’
This corn of the white man is becoming more widespread even among those people who are not
amakhumsha
, Malangana observes to himself. Perhaps it will not behave like soft sorghum porridge in his stomach, perhaps it will settle. So he accepts a cob from one of the shepherds.
‘My son told me you knew Mhlontlo son of Matiwane,’ says the old man.
He can talk with these people; they are not the interloper amaMfengu but the vanquished amaMpondomise.
‘I am of Matiwane’s testicle from Iqadi House,’ he says.
‘Thanks to your brother we lost our kingdom. We lost everything.’
Though Malangana is taken aback a little, he does not respond. He didn’t expect that there would be some amaMpondomise who’d place the blame on Mhlontlo instead of where it rightly belonged: on Hamilton Hope and the English. But those are not the things he wants to think about. They have been far from his mind since his return from exile. Only Mthwakazi occupies his thoughts.
‘I was telling these boys that our people were once great heroes,’ says the old man. ‘They see the world as it looks today and they think things have always been like this.’
Malangana takes a close look at the old man. The face is furrowed by the ravages of weather and age, but Malangana
In the late afternoon he is awakened by the nightwatchman. He is going back to work.
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Malangana.
‘You’re not well,’ says the nightwatchman.
He assures Malangana that he should not worry; his children will look after him until he is strong enough to be on his way. Malangana is grateful. Much as he would not like to impose, he needs the rest. Only for one night though. He must make haste in the morning. He cannot afford to relax.
Mthwakazi must be found.
The song of the girls outside is grating to his ears. It is
umbhororho
, the night-time practice of songs and dance steps in preparation for a wedding. Perhaps it is the first night of practice and the voices do not yet harmonise. There is more argument about which songs to sing and how they should be adapted to mock the groom and his party than there is singing. Malangana cannot help thinking wistfully of his boyhood before he went to the school of the mountain. Weddings were the highlight of any teenager’s year because of the singing and dancing at the
umbhororho
. And, of course, cavorting with the opposite sex. Weddings begot weddings.
His chest rattles with anger that no one ever held
umbhororho
for him and Mthwakazi, thanks to Hamilton Hope.
The scent of burning
umsintsi
wood and roasting maize hovers above his mat. He squints his eyes and can see in the thin light filaments of smoke creeping under the door. He wakes up, draws on his heavy khaki pants, but not before inspecting the padded bottom and feeling with a touch that whatever is hidden in a secret pouch is safe. He puts his grey ‘donkey’ blanket over his shoulder. He reaches for his crutches. He opens the door slowly, as if afraid it will disturb someone’s sleep. He hobbles into a night illuminated only by a sliver of a moon, the stars and a bonfire a few yards from where the boys and girls are practising their wedding songs.
The nightwatchman’s father is sitting by the fire even though December nights are warm. He is blind. Two young shepherds are roasting maize for him. Malangana stands there for a while and watches them pick the kernels from the roasted side of the cob with their thumbs and hand them to the old man. He chews slowly, putting a lot of effort in every crunch.
‘Is that you, Malangana?’ asks the old man.
They were introduced in the morning.
‘Yes, it is me,
bawo
. How did you sense me?’
‘Your bones. They rattle like the seashells of the diviners. Come, join us and share our roasted maize. I always prefer that they boil it first for a long time before they roast it. But I have lazy grandchildren.’
This corn of the white man is becoming more widespread even among those people who are not
amakhumsha
, Malangana observes to himself. Perhaps it will not behave like soft sorghum porridge in his stomach, perhaps it will settle. So he accepts a cob from one of the shepherds.
‘My son told me you knew Mhlontlo son of Matiwane,’ says the old man.
He can talk with these people; they are not the interloper amaMfengu but the vanquished amaMpondomise.
‘I am of Matiwane’s testicle from Iqadi House,’ he says.
‘Thanks to your brother we lost our kingdom. We lost everything.’
Though Malangana is taken aback a little, he does not respond. He didn’t expect that there would be some amaMpondomise who’d place the blame on Mhlontlo instead of where it rightly belonged: on Hamilton Hope and the English. But those are not the things he wants to think about. They have been far from his mind since his return from exile. Only Mthwakazi occupies his thoughts.
‘I was telling these boys that our people were once great heroes,’ says the old man. ‘They see the world as it looks today and they think things have always been like this.’
Malangana takes a close look at the old man. The face is furrowed by the ravages of weather and age, but Malangana
Similar Books
