Broken River Tent Page 18

  ‘The Battle of Nxele convinced me once and for all that it was futile, suicidal, to engage white people on open plains. We had to come up with some better tactics if we wanted to engage them successfully. It became clear in my mind that in warfare with white people you have to hit and run on forested battlefields. Ambush was the best tactic against their murdering fire. The best time for attack would be when it rained, because their muskets did not work properly then, and their wagons were not as swift. Or at night, when they could not see you from a distance. White soldiers were useless in the forests, especially without the KhoiKhoi and the Mfengus as guides. These thoughts went through my mind as I lay on my mat that evening.

  ‘After the colonial government vanquished amaNdlambe and amaGcaleka, white people followed after their remnants like a disease. Instead of falling on his assegai like a coward, Nxele did the manly thing. He first held a ceremony at Gompo to invoke the rising assistance of the shadows, the ancestor spirits he claimed would help our nation. People gathered there overnight with lit fires and slaughtered beasts. Again the ancestors failed to show up.

  ‘Still defiant of the white man’s rule, Nxele surrendered himself, with his two wives, to save the nation, since white people were not going to be satisfied until they captured him. He handed himself to the white authorities, not crestfallen, but boasting that he would be back with the River People to deliver our people from serfdom. The white government took him to the colony of lepers; banished him to be damned by howling winds.

  ‘People believed Nxele would come back soon, would come back victorious. The news spread through our villages like wildfire. His personal belongings were preserved in expectation of his return. Mqantsi, the rainmaker, kept Nxele’s fire burning. When the rains were late in coming he blamed it on missionaries and urged people to drive them away. He held rainmaking ceremonies at different river spots, discouraging people from going to the missions at the threat of lightning. But nothing much came out of his ceremonies. The drought continued.

  ‘Then people went to the missionaries, who were rich in harvest because they employed irrigation schemes to water their fields. The nation had to wait for Mlanjeni to gain another witch-doctor close to the powers Nxele wielded during that difficult period. Even he, Mlanjeni, gained authority and power from the support of Nxele’s son Mjuza, who kept the faith that revived the 1850 war, which became known as Mlanjeni’s War.’

  Phila, plagued by thoughts of Nxele and unsettled by Maqoma’s words, absent-mindedly walked through the black township of Fingo.

  Like all other South African townships, it was a ramshackle conglomoration of tin houses and spaza shops, with occasional government buildings – schools, clinics, a post office, a police station – and a proliferation of shis’inyama shebeen spots, all swept by dusty poverty and buoyant misery. He felt sich verfahren again, losing his way, looking for a foot to stand on, driven by Unruhe. The more he walked the louder the clanking of his father’s armour sounded. He didn’t even know what he was looking for, or if the township, with its soft violence of poverty, was even aware of its tragic history.

  Ntsikana

  THE WALK AROUND FINGO MADE PHILA awake to the scratchings of his dust, his complicity in the nature of things. He found himself longing to hear Nandi’s voice.

  “Hey!” Nandi answered her phone.

  “Hello! I’m in town. I thought I would give you a ring.” Phila was slightly hesitant.

  “I figured. You never do unless.”

  “You make me feel bad.”

  “Oh, it’s not an accusation. I’d be worried something was wrong. It’s your nature. It is what it is.”

  “Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to go out for dinner or something tonight? You could show me around?”

  “That would be lovely, if you don’t mind company. A few of my friends already made plans to go out. In fact I think you would love to meet them. We’re celebrating a production of a play one of them wrote.”

  “Cool. I’ll be at your place in twenty minutes or so. Would love to have a shower first.”

  “Perfect!”

  The apartment building Nandi lived in was a sort of old Chelsea style, the houses interconnecting, distinguishable by the interchange of wooden French shutters painted different colours – green, blue, purple and white. Each apartment had a small garden with a lawn in front. Nandi had planted flowers along the paved path to the door. The walls were weather hardened by ingrained sandblast – British style: something done to prevent dampness from penetrating internal walls during the epoch when cavity walls were not yet invented. The house had a pleasing Victorian feel about it.

  Nandi gave him a brush kiss after she had opened the door for him. She was dressed in blue and white traditional Xhosa umbhaco. When she noticed the surprise on Phila’s face she explained.

  “We’re going to an Ethiopian restaurant so I decided on traditional wear.” She frowned, feigning seriousness.

  “I don’t have anything traditional to wear,” Phila protested.

  “Yes, you do. I bought you a shirt when I collected my dress from the seamstress.” She led him to the bedroom, took out the shirt from the wardrobe. “You see, you’re not the only one psychic here.”

  Phila smiled at her, then took off his clothes and jumped in the shower.

  A low moon serviced the night, drawing the evening away from dusk into deeper night as they walked to the restaurant. The air was typical for middle of winter in the Cape, clear with a polished steel kind of coldness. The white dots of umbhaco on Nandi’s face glowed against the moonlight. She looked happy and this made Phila feel happy; somehow he managed to escape the feeling of constriction inside. He restrained the urge to talk about the wounds of the past as they passed the stone cathedral in the city square. The healthy openness of the streets was a shock to his mind after his afternoon of wandering the streets of Fingo, with the impression it gave of a slum, of many people living in a small, congested space.

  The resturant had the simplicity of a student canteen, with gingham checkered tablecloths and citronella oil table lamps to repel mosquitoes. They were seated at a table in the garden section, under a tent canopy, with gas heaters on every corner. It was Grahamstown Festival time and the place was buzzing with visitors. Phila was pleased to discover they were the first of their group to arrive; he preferred receiving than being received. He ordered a double whisky and asked for a glass of water when the waiter came – a jovial young person they later discovered was a music student at the university. Nandi ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc.

  “Why would they have tables, not cushions in an Ethiopian restaurant?” Phila wondered aloud.

  “Can you imagine white people eating on their sides?”

  “Why not? Romans used to.”

  First to arrive was Rebecca, or Becca as everyone called her. Phila didn’t catch how Nandi knew her but apparently she was in the legal department. Nandi introduced him as a childhood friend.

  “Who’s crashing the party. Sorry about that.” Phila stood up, extending his hand to greet Rebecca. He also took the opportunity to order another double when the waiter came with dumpling bread, asking Rebecca what she would like.

  “I’ll have a single of what he’s having.”

  “You sure?” Phila said. “It’s Singleton, rather peaty. Perhaps you want something Irish?” Even as he said it Phila felt it was rather presumptuous of him.

  “I prefer Scotch actually,” answered Rebecca, who didn’t seem to mind his forwardness.

  Luckily the last of their crew arrived at that moment. Phila had a bad habit of not catching a guy’s name while never forgetting his face, and never remembering a woman’s face from a first encounter but never forgetting her name. So when the bespectacled philologist professor, who had written the play that was being staged the following day at the opening of the festival, kept chatting to him he felt embarrassed for not retaining his name after they’d been introduced. The boyfriend had Nordic features and
a brogue, which most probably meant he was Scottish. He was more circumspect than his partner. After everyone had ordered the professor came back to Phila.

  “Nandi tells us you’re an architect? What would you say is your specialisation?” He made it sound confrontational rather than a friendly way to pass time. Phila decided to indulge him.

  “Only TV show architects can afford to be specialists, or at least only the well-to-do ones. The rest of us take whatever jobs we can find.”

  “But what was your thesis on at school?” He was probably Phila’s age, or younger, so Phila was taken aback by the insolence in his voice until he connected the dots. He was probably a friend of Nandi’s married lover.

  “Frank Gehry,” answered Phila, making an effort to be polite but not go so far as to elaborate.

  “Oh yes? Why Gehry?”

  It was Nandi who started shifting restlessly in her seat. Phila smiled, took a swipe of his drink, and asked if anybody minded if he had a cigarette. The professor minded so he put his pack back in his pocket.

  “Well, it was more like Gehry chose me than the other way round. Frank, like me, grew up with the legacy of fishing from his dad. It made him interested in curvilinear forms. Hence you see most of his buildings are that way, like a fish in motion.”

  “And they have scales for walls,” Nandi added playfully.

  “Yes. He’s probably the leader of the movement of putting art and playfulness back into architecture. This does not entail building structures only, but public spaces, interior designs, furniture and so forth. I am interested in that sort of thing. And he can hold his own as the poet not just of structures, but words and concepts also. He does not seem to distinguish between poetry, philosophy and the theology of the environment …”

  “Theology of the environment?”

  “I’m not drunk enough to discuss that. Suffice to say that some of us believe there’s a theology to the environment, which we violate at our peril.”

  They changed the topic to the reason for the gathering – the play the professor had written, and which he described as a hybrid of Western sensibility and Xhosa history and culture. It sounded interesting, if vague conceptually, so Phila decided to reserve his opinion until he’d seen it. Rebecca excused herself for a smoke break – “Since we’re not allowed to smoke at the table.” Phila liked her a lot but decided not to follow, for the sake of Nandi, if not the professor. When Rebecca came back the table conversation had bisected. There was Rebecca and the blonde partner talking about drama and acting – he was a postgrad drama student – and Nandi with the professor deep in analysis about the points in the play the professor thought would resonate with the white audience and those with the black. Phila stood to go to the toilet, passed the bar for another double shot and went outside onto the pavement for a smoke. He came back when he saw their waiter carry the gebeta to their table. When he was seated Nandi broke a piece of injera, scooped up the paprika goat stew, and smiled at him. “Gursha!”

  Phila gobbled it down. The wild earthiness of the taste was amazing.

  The professor got bored, confirming Phila’s suspicions. “Why don’t the two of you get a room?” he suggested.

  Phila was amused. As if to make amends, the professor tried to turn the conversation back to Phila’s profession. “When you look at the spatial videography here do you see any difference to the apartheid years?” he asked, while Rebecca seemed to be continuing a different line of conversation, which had probably been interrupted by the arrival of food and which Phila had been half listening to.

  “Well, the majority of the students are black, for one. And we have black judges at the High –”

  “If you have ten students, eight black and two white, then the university admits only five, and chooses the two white students and another three from the eight black students. Would you call that a majority and fair?” Nandi interjected.

  “If they were all chosen through merit. Meritocracy is what we strive for in a democratic system.”

  “Not justice?” asked a visibly angry Nandi

  “Meritocracy is a major part of justice.”

  Phila read between the lines these were probably common arguments among this crew and so he decided to stay out of it. It went on for a while until they finished eating. He went outside for another smoke break, returning just as the waiter was serving the pot of Ethiopian coffee he’d asked for. The professor asked if he could try it and he lifted the jebena before Phila, who had been going to suggest putting a strainer on the spout to reduce the ashyness for a beginner, could stop him.

  “It’s salty!” protested the professor.

  “Yes, they pinch it with salt to release the flavours.”

  “Not my cup of tea – or coffee,” the professor grumbled, and they all laughed as he wiped his tongue in exaggeration. “What about you, old chap?” he said, moving his attention once more to Phila. “Do you also think desegregation has achieved nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that. But there’s no arguing with the point that the apartheid spatial geography has hardly changed.”

  “But surely you can see that the suburbs are filling up with the black middle class?” he asked.

  Phila looked at him, thinking the question was in jest, only to discover the professor was being earnest. “I think what black people resent in this Mandela’s rainbow reconciliation thing is that it came at the greater price of justice, thus only ending up being a catharsis for white people and nothing much else. If you ask me, the people who got the rawest end of the stick are the black middle class. Because they joined institutions that were designed for white people, bringing with them ninety per cent of being black problems, while in reality being barred from eighty per cent of white privilege. They have to straddle the divide, making themselves a nuisance to both sides.”

  “But surely we can’t blame the institutions for that, or call it racism?” The professor wasn’t giving up on his course of thinking.

  “Oh, I agree. I don’t think it’s racism, not the overt kind anyway. It is just that the whites have not adjusted to the situation of living with blacks on equal terms, without having authority or hegemony over them. The black people sense this, and resent it. I think that’s where we are in our generation, just over a dozen years into democracy. Of course, the truth of the matter is that the refusal of most institutions to transform means, despite the freedom rhetoric and all, the white male in particular still has authority and hegemony over most. Most white people sense this also, and according to their individual characters, it either embarrasses them or emboldens them.”

  “Let’s just say I am not conversant with your thinking somehow. It is getting late. We need to get going. Big day tomorrow.”

  The professor called for the bill but the women indicated to the waiter that the night was on them, to help him celebrate. He thanked them, then took the hand of his lover and they left.

  The air was nippy by the time they left the resturant, the stars more resplendent in the black sky, and the crickets chirping and the moon shepherding them as Phila and Nandi walked back to the flat.

  Suddenly there was the clip-clop sound of horseshoes on a road and then a horse pulling a carriage passed them at a saunter.

  Phila, who was rather drunk by now, pulled Nandi to a halt by the arm. “Please tell me you saw that,” he said.

  “Of course I saw it.”

  “A horse and carriage?”

  “It’s a circular service offered to night-time lovers. The ride starts at the university lawns and goes to the city square. A round trip will cost you R150.”

  “So … do you want to …?”

  “Really? I never took you for the type!”

  “No! I don’t care about the rubbish ride. I just thought it was one of … you know … my visions.”

  They both laughed.

  “And I was thinking they’re even getting funnier because I could have sworn the horse was wearing diapers.”

  They bot
h burst out laughing again, Phila laughing so hard that he couldn’t continue walking. He stopped and sat down to catch his breath, while Nandi, tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks, sank down next to him.

  “They wear the diapers because the municipality fines them for the droppings if they don’t clean up after the horse,” she explained, still chortling, which made Phila start laughing all over again. After a while he caught Nandi’s face fixed on his in silence. He became quiet. They kissed. And kissed again.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your laughing face,” said Nandi as they stood to resume their walk.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve heard something to laugh about.”

  Just as they were crossing the last street Phila mock marched the goose step, reciting a Rilke poem:

  Berge ruhn, von Sternen überprächtigt;

  aber auch in ihnen flimmert Zeit.

  Ach, in meinem wilden Herzen nächtigt

  obdachlos die Unvergänglichkeit.

  Nandi stopped, bending down and laughing with her hands on her mouth. “Do that again,” she begged.

  “You look so sexy when you do that.”

  Phila crossed the street back to Nandi, again reciting the poem, but this time in English:

  Mountains rest beneath a splendour of stars;

  but even in them time flickers.

  Ah, unsheltered in my wild,

  darkling heart lies immortality.

  “No, no! I want it in German,” Nandi said. “With the accent. I like it more when I don’t understand what you’re saying.”