to see her mother looking so beautiful, because she thinks that it is high time her parents changed from
ubuqaba
—backwardness and heathenism. They must become
amagqobhoka
—enlightened ones—like her. She has bought her parents dresses and suits in the latest European styles. She might as well have bought them for the moths in the boxes under their bed.
When Zim arrives, heads turn. He is resplendent in his white
ingqawa
blanket which is tied around the waist and is so long that it reaches his ankles. Around his neck he wears various beads such as
idiliza
and isidanga. Around his head he wears
isiqweqwe
headbands made of very colorful beads. He is puffing away at his long pipe with pomp and ceremony.
The aged and their hangers-on are all puffing away, filling the store with clouds of pungent smoke. Women, especially, look graceful with their pipes, which are much longer than men’s.
“Tell them to stop smoking, John. We can’t even breathe in this smoke,” complains Missis in English.
“Those who want to smoke must go outside!” shouts Dalton in his perfect isiXhosa.
“And they must not spit on the floor,” moans Missis. “They spit everywhere, these people.”
“Don’t spit inside the shop. It’s not good manners. If you want to smoke and spit, go outside!”
“And lose our place in the queue? Not on your life,” says one stubborn graybeard.
“You will smoke when you have received your money then. We are not going to serve anyone who smokes in the shop.”
Nkamnkam day is a very busy day at Vulindlela Trading Store. The aged and their hangers-on—daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and sundry relatives—have their checks ready to be cashed by Dalton and Missis. The salespeople are busy behind the counters, for today granniesare buying sweets, biscuits, and corned beef for their favorite grandchildren.
Qukezwa drags a big bathtub full of little black notebooks from behind the counter, and puts it on the floor. Each pensioner looks for his or her own book, and gives it to Dalton behind the counter.
Even though the pensioners are illiterate, they know their books very well. And so they should, for in the books their personal ityala is written. Throughout the month they have bought groceries on credit at the store, and Dalton and Missis have diligently recorded their debt in the little black notebooks.
Now Dalton adds up the debt, deducts it from the amount of the check, and gives the balance to the pensioner. For those who have been careless during the month there will be no money. The whole pension check will be swallowed up by their ityala. The next month the vicious cycle of debt will continue.
Bhonco and NoPetticoat are about to reach the bathtub when Zim begins to sing aloud,
“Hayi. . . hayi. . . bo . . .
Even those who don’t have a book in the bathtub are here . . .”
People laugh. They know that he is referring to Bhonco. Everyone knows that Bhonco receives no nkamnkam.
Bhonco, son of Ximiya, responds with his own song,
“Hayi
. . .
hayi. . . bo . . .
Those whose daughters are not secondary-school principals but sweep the floors of white people should stop talking nonsense . . .”
People laugh again. Qukezwa, who was helping an old lady find her book, glares at Bhonco. And so does Zim.
“Don’t you two start your senseless quarrels again. At least not in my store,” warns Dalton, who knows from experience that this may lead to a physical fight.
“Don’t look at me,” protests Bhonco. “That Believer started it. Doesn’t he know? It is because his ancestors forced the amaXhosa people to kill their cattle. That is why we are suffering like this. That is why I don’t even have nkamnkam.”
“Tell the Unbeliever that it is because his ancestors refused to slaughter the cattle even when prophetesses like Nongqawuse, Nonkosi,and Nombanda instructed them to do so. That is why life is so difficult. That is why he has no nkamnkam.”
The war of the Believers and
ubuqaba
—backwardness and heathenism. They must become
amagqobhoka
—enlightened ones—like her. She has bought her parents dresses and suits in the latest European styles. She might as well have bought them for the moths in the boxes under their bed.
When Zim arrives, heads turn. He is resplendent in his white
ingqawa
blanket which is tied around the waist and is so long that it reaches his ankles. Around his neck he wears various beads such as
idiliza
and isidanga. Around his head he wears
isiqweqwe
headbands made of very colorful beads. He is puffing away at his long pipe with pomp and ceremony.
The aged and their hangers-on are all puffing away, filling the store with clouds of pungent smoke. Women, especially, look graceful with their pipes, which are much longer than men’s.
“Tell them to stop smoking, John. We can’t even breathe in this smoke,” complains Missis in English.
“Those who want to smoke must go outside!” shouts Dalton in his perfect isiXhosa.
“And they must not spit on the floor,” moans Missis. “They spit everywhere, these people.”
“Don’t spit inside the shop. It’s not good manners. If you want to smoke and spit, go outside!”
“And lose our place in the queue? Not on your life,” says one stubborn graybeard.
“You will smoke when you have received your money then. We are not going to serve anyone who smokes in the shop.”
Nkamnkam day is a very busy day at Vulindlela Trading Store. The aged and their hangers-on—daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and sundry relatives—have their checks ready to be cashed by Dalton and Missis. The salespeople are busy behind the counters, for today granniesare buying sweets, biscuits, and corned beef for their favorite grandchildren.
Qukezwa drags a big bathtub full of little black notebooks from behind the counter, and puts it on the floor. Each pensioner looks for his or her own book, and gives it to Dalton behind the counter.
Even though the pensioners are illiterate, they know their books very well. And so they should, for in the books their personal ityala is written. Throughout the month they have bought groceries on credit at the store, and Dalton and Missis have diligently recorded their debt in the little black notebooks.
Now Dalton adds up the debt, deducts it from the amount of the check, and gives the balance to the pensioner. For those who have been careless during the month there will be no money. The whole pension check will be swallowed up by their ityala. The next month the vicious cycle of debt will continue.
Bhonco and NoPetticoat are about to reach the bathtub when Zim begins to sing aloud,
“Hayi. . . hayi. . . bo . . .
Even those who don’t have a book in the bathtub are here . . .”
People laugh. They know that he is referring to Bhonco. Everyone knows that Bhonco receives no nkamnkam.
Bhonco, son of Ximiya, responds with his own song,
“Hayi
. . .
hayi. . . bo . . .
Those whose daughters are not secondary-school principals but sweep the floors of white people should stop talking nonsense . . .”
People laugh again. Qukezwa, who was helping an old lady find her book, glares at Bhonco. And so does Zim.
“Don’t you two start your senseless quarrels again. At least not in my store,” warns Dalton, who knows from experience that this may lead to a physical fight.
“Don’t look at me,” protests Bhonco. “That Believer started it. Doesn’t he know? It is because his ancestors forced the amaXhosa people to kill their cattle. That is why we are suffering like this. That is why I don’t even have nkamnkam.”
“Tell the Unbeliever that it is because his ancestors refused to slaughter the cattle even when prophetesses like Nongqawuse, Nonkosi,and Nombanda instructed them to do so. That is why life is so difficult. That is why he has no nkamnkam.”
The war of the Believers and
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