Broken River Tent Page 9

  ‘As they closed in on us, like vultures on a carcass, our flanks panicked and dispersed. From there the battle became a massacre. Those of us who were caught in the centre fought with unabashed candour, checking them for the greater part of the day. I believe that morale and perseverance are the ultimate determining factors in war. We had more of these but, unfortunately, they had numbers. The blood of our men blotched the plains.’

  Maqoma slowly raised his hand to point at the sacred grounds of Ntaba kaNdoda when they reached the summit.

  ‘All we could do was attempt to open their circle and break the trap in desperate assault to free ourselves. I received terrible assegai wounds on my thigh and my neck. I owe my life to the valour of our Indwes. Matshaya, especially, didn’t give up on me, even though things looked forlorn. Wishing to spare some of them, I commanded they run and save their lives. But they chose to stay and fight until they opened a path with their assegais. Eventually, they managed to penetrate like a wedge through hostile lines and carried me to the mountain safety of Ntaba kaNdoda. I lay there for a long time, begrimed with dust and surreal from the impact. Around sunset most of our warriors had managed to break through the wall of the enemy and, sensibly, they ran for their lives. The enemy pursued them all the way to our villages. Some of the enemy force remained behind, feasting on our dying, impaling the wounded and burning our dead; gambolling around and congratulating themselves. A holocaust smoke rose to the bare heights of the lonely sky as I watched from the mountain safety. I could not believe I had given command, my first one, for so much death sprawl.

  ‘I have never been the one to be broken by power of leadership, but that day? My coevals, ones I had grown up with, the only people I knew and trusted, were lying dead, burning in sacrifice for the never-satiated god of war. We left Ntlukwana there, the valorous father of Neku. We left Nteyi, the indefatigible father of Tyhala. We left Tolwana at the tender age of having seen only four zilimela. We left even that benign fool Zakude, hard-headed as ever; he had charged like a bull to the centre when he saw I was injured. We left the whole generation of amaJingqi in those fields of death.

  ‘Once you see so many people you know die on the same day, you lose something of yourself, something deep and unidentifiable. Their screams and whimpers visit your sleep, their stirring faces of reproachful innocence. I lost my youthful innocence that day.

  ‘As I struggled with death on my chest, Ntsikana’s words came back to haunt me. I needed someone to blame my anger on, but none was reprehensible but me. I tried to marshal some arguments to excuse my inexperience, but anger and grief came to possess me. I became hateful in my own heart, and swore to avenge my men, even if it took my whole life to do it. I didn’t know whether to kill or respect Ntsikana after realising he must have learnt of the ruse through the wind, and had come to warn us. As time went on the things he foretold came true. But that too was to cost me dearly later on in my life. So, in a way, Ntsikana double-cursed me. But now it’s too late, the deed has been done. The fault was not yours, son of Gaba, but our itching ears.

  ‘As I lay, my face to the grass, Matshaya, my whilom friend and adjutant, softly said, “Strength against strength, we could have taken them. They won the day by cunning.” I knew what he said was true, but truth offered me no consolation at that moment. Battles are remembered by who wins, not by who was most virtuous.

  ‘Disaster followed hard on disaster as the enemy turned its bloodbath orgy to our villages. It seemed as though destruction, not conquest, was their purpose. They visited our villages with a satanic blast, mowing down everything they came in contact with, leaving behind only death and desolation. The dirge voices strained from our women who carried bloodstained hands on their heads crying, “Destruction, destruction all over! We’re trapped in our own ruin!” The battlefield and our villages reeked of a slaughterhouse. Vapours of putrefying flesh invited wild animals from their forest lairs. Scenes of hyenas thrusting their sharp teeth on the insensible bodies of our men were common. Dogs tore the rotting flesh of their masters in an attempt to fight their hunger. The skies were dark with vultures feasting on dead bodies. Desperate women lay strewn all over the place. Nothing like that had ever happened before in our nation. In our custom women and children were sacred. Not that day. That’s why I say their intention was annihilation, not conquest. Every nearby tree bore marks from the bloodstained claws of the birds of prey painting the trees a russet colour.

  ‘More than three hundred men of my first command fell that day. The enemy seized more than six thousand cattle from our kraals. My father, Ngqika, had to flee beyond Tyumi and Ngcwenxa to Khobonqa for safety. And from there he remembered the words of Governor Somerset. “If you keep me, I’ll also keep you.” He appealed to the colonial powers for help.

  ‘As for me, that is the time I really learnt how to hate. To think I had only seen twenty-two winters. The destiny of a male child in our nation was that of an ass, carcass for crows and vultures. His entire life, birds of prey hovered above his head. Where he lay, be it on the mountain slopes or plains, he was bound to be carrion.

  ‘I led what was left of my Indwes back to the bogs and bushes of the Mthontsi forests at the Nkonkobe fastness there, where we could lick our wounds and recuperate in peace. That was when I first discovered the fort-like protection of the mountainous cliffs and caves of Waterkloof, which would serve me well later on for the bush wars against the British.

  ‘Our enemies congratulated themselves, thinking they had dashed the last hopes of amaNgqika. Then they made the daring mistake of going to the heart of the beast, eRhini. We, amaNgqika, were the only Xhosa tribe that didn’t join the all-out Xhosa battle against the colonial government. But more of that later.

  ‘They say a man’s worth is revealed during the time of his greatest need. I tried to discover myself during those months when the certainties of youth deserted me one by one. I saw myself victim of my own braggadocio. My men deserted in droves, some to the white man’s religion, some to join the winning side, Ndlambe. Some stayed only to calculate which way to jump. Others stayed out of unflinching loyalty. My confidence in myself was shaken. Inwardly I couldn’t command the thoughts I was forced to live by. As I stood on my humiliation I was filled with shuddering loathing for myself. Only those who had remained gave me any semblance of strength by their confidence and their expectations of my leadership.

  ‘Rumour ran on winged feet, reporting that I was dead. This came as a relief to my enemies, who laughed my memory to scorn. But, within no time, I pulled myself together. White people helped us recover some of our cattle, most of which – and more – they confiscated for themselves. In my heart of hearts I knew we would eventually pay for their assistance with a pound of our own flesh. When you bring home a nest full of maggots you must expect a visit from the lizard. That race of thieves had seen how vulnerable and dependent on them we were. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they exploited that vulnerability.

  ‘Later, during my incarceration, I spent a long time thinking about my life. Even then it looked as though my life had amounted to nothing but a path of blood, knitted from a black fleece of destiny. Fate was unkind to me, unkind to the life of wrath and pride it allotted me.

  ‘Once a man gets done with the vicious stream of vindictiveness and accusations he lands naked before wisdom. In his heart he cries: It is all vanity! Then, if he is humble enough, from there wisdom comes to take abode in his heart. Once you live long enough with wisdom you learn not to appreciate even the hollowness of victory, and the uselessness of revenge. There’s nothing to take pride in in this life except counsel with wisdom. But we must first despair in order to gain wisdom. Only Qamata fills the gap of what we’ve lost. If it was Qamata’s will that our nation should drudge for other nations, then there was nothing any one of us could have done. Our fate was too strong for us. Death is the end of weight, and the soaring of the spirit, that is why it comes as a relief to a wise man. Be not anxious about anything, not even of death
as relief. Let death’s shade close upon you if it must, but let your heart yearn for nothing except goodness. Do not allow yourself to be caught up in pride, that satanic weakness. Perhaps you’ll reach old age, the age of your greatest needs. I pray that, unlike me, it does not find you in fields that are encircled by howling waters.

  ‘I refused to ford where Nxele dared. I refused to swim where my sister dared, in the arms of white men and their hypocritical religion. Yet wisdom found me all the same. I, Maqoma, am my own self; son of Ngqika, who comes from the noble Xhosa lineage. Even when my star was paling I dared to say my end would be my own. It was written in the stone of my destiny, so I could not escape my fate. My life ached like an unhealed wound during the last days of my life. White people delivered my death, but even in the end my spirit was never broken. When I took my last blanket, I cursed the devil in white people’s ways and went to my permanent sleep with the wind at my back.’

  Vagabonds

  DUSK AND DAWN, PHILA’S FAVOURITE TIMES of the day, are when creation eloquently comes to the defence of the transcendent spirit, according to his grandma. When the nature of things assumes fervid calmness with voluptuous plenitude. “I grow young at dusk,” his grandma used to say. Obviously, Maqoma, also, grew young at dawn, hence his cognomen, Jong’Umsobomvu.

  Phila went down memory lane with dancing motes of dust, where Maqoma manifested to him.

  ‘By now we had no choice but to consolidate our ties with the colonial government, because we were weak and dependent on their protection. But then came a man by the name of Graham, a demon if ever there was one to our people. He claimed he was sent by the white Governor, another devilish man, by the name of Cradock. They were the two people who made it clear to us that our land no longer belonged to us. They were not satisfied with sweeping off the Ndlambes, who in turn became a boil on Chungwa, eCawe. I might claim that we bore the brunt of white man’s greed in our land, but no one bore this more than Chungwa, who had to deal with them coming from the Gamtoos side, from the Zuurveld, across Fish River and from the Vuba mountains. Right to his grave Chungwa was caught in the vice of war from every direction. Hence, to this day, amaXhosa call a person with whom everyone picks a fight uchungiwe, from Chungwa’s name. He hid himself in the whistling caves zase Bunyameni nase Cawe, from where amaNdlambe and the whites chased him out to establish the present towns of Alexandria and Port Alfred. That time Graham was busy sweeping the Zuurveld region clean of all amaXhosa.

  ‘The thing that concerned me most with the coming of the white people was not the violence of war, conceived by their greed. It was the new stirrings of religious excitement that brought with it the destruction of our traditional ways, and the dissent from custom. I mean, we were used to the spiritual gale that came with the outpouring of fear and emotional fever during times of war or drought. But the Christian thing was different; its hold was a vice-like grip on the captured person. It made people disinterested in everything but their risen Christ. We will talk about that when we discuss Ntsikana further, who was the first black Christian proselyte in our villages. For now, suffice to say Ntsikana founded the first Christian movement in our villages. Though propulsive, it still retained some semblance of our indigenous ways, although eventually these were weeded out as regressive superstition by the repulsive Wesleyan missionaries who came after the Scottish Presbyterians.

  ‘Ntsikana possessed a spiritual drive before the arrival of greater missionaries. Like the rest of us, he met and liked people such as uNyengane, known as Van der Kemp in white man’s language, and Khula, Coenraad de Buys. Both men were benign white people who understood our ways, for our mutual gain, who settled first with us way before the other pestilence followed. When the spirit of the eternal ruler, the one he called Qamata kaTayi, entered Ntsikana, it released in him an insurmountable drive for the mystic. As my father’s councillor, he was indomitable. He gave voice and authority to lower caste people to speak against chiefs and kings. As such he became suspect in my eyes. I didn’t so much mind their preaching values of sobriety and moving away from witchcraft because of repentance – that was the claim to their salvation. Their spirit made them thrifty and hard-working, something I very much approved of. But when it taught them to forget their hierarchical positioning in life – with the talk about self-advancement, and the disrespect and abandonment of our customs, our moral cement – I developed a problem against them. It made them impertinent and disrespectful of their caste superiors and elders. Masses gathered in valleys and dongas, listening to Ntsikana preach, and were carried away in passionate conversions that inspired communal fervour no chief could tolerate. But things got worse when Ngqika, my father, got caught up in it also. Like my grandfather Rharhabe, who opposed his sickly brother Gcaleka when he became isangoma, I knew something needed to be done.

  ‘Rharhabe was my life’s role model. By the time I came the field of glory had been harvested by him.’

  Maqoma went on in praise-singing mode about Rharhabe:

  The mast of Nomagwayi!

  The great perturbator of the nations!

  The sharpness of the piercing stick!

  The usurper of Amathole Mountains!

  From the KhoiKhoi chieftess Hoho!

  To build a nation.

  After collecting himself, he continued: ‘Rharhabe perambulated the land of Phalo, up to Umzimkulu River, which checked Shaka’s pride, over to the house of Sivanxa. Even went as far as the back of the land framed by Ukhahlamba, and followed the fence of the sea. He found that land pinned to the thrall of oppression, so he went back homewards.

  ‘In his era the settlement of the royal house of Xhosa was at the foot of the mountain of Mkentane, the place called Mbinza in the lower parts of the Gcuwa River. Through the sagacity of old Majeke he nearly gained the chiefdom of Xhosa, though he was only the right-hand son of Phalo. Phalo’s elder son, heir of amaXhosa paramount, was Gcaleka. From Gcaleka came Khawuta, who bore Hintsa, the father of Sarhili, Kreli lenkazimlo. That became the royal house of Xhosa. Phalo was the last chief of a united Xhosa nation, a son of Tshiwo, of Ngconde, of Togu, of Skhomo, of Ngcwangu, of Tshawe, of Nkosiyamntu, of Malangana, whose father was Xhosa.’

  Phila, who had by now resigned himself to the fate of having Maqoma around and, despite himself, had been drawn into the history, wasn’t altogether prepared to tolerate all of the old man’s narrative style. ‘Could you at least spare me the biblical narrative version?’ he asked.

  Maqoma gave him an amused look. ‘Rharhabe’s conspicuous energy and valour made him outshine his brother Gcaleka in the eyes of the Xhosa people. Gcaleka, a pensive man of sickly health, was exposed to illusions of fancy. He allowed himself to fall into the hands of amagqirha and zanuse. He frequented esoteric rituals on the banks of Gxingxolo, near Qumrha. Izanuse hid him there for three moons, the usual period for ukuthwasa, claiming to be “consulting the shades, the underworld”. They lied to the people by saying he disappeared into the river to learn ancient ways from the ancestral River People. A beast had to be slaughtered to enable him to emerge. When he emerged he was known to be a diviner, having completed the initiation yokuthwasa. Such things wearied Rharhabe into disrespecting his elder brother.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ said Phila. ‘But wait up, wait up. Would you say then that what is happening to me, I mean, having you around although you are long dead, is part yokuthwasa in me? Does this mean I must go seek my answers from amaGqirha? I am sure you eavesdropped on my conversation with Nandi that night I spent with her in iRhini. What would be your take on it?’

  ‘My only take is that I am here, and that has nothing to do with those liars and their witch-doctoring. Suit yourself if you want to waste your money on them, but don’t drag me into it, or make me the excuse for it.’

  ‘Then tell me this,’ Phila said, aware that his frustration was visible. ‘How am I supposed to deal with you, I mean your manifestation? They are a strain on my body, I feel it. I have headaches.’

  �
��You’re supposed to listen to what I tell you and learn what you must from it. It will soon be over, and you’ll be back to your normal life soon enough. Meantime you’ll be provided with all the strength you require.’

  There was silence. Whether the sudden tears Phila felt on his face were tears of frustration or benediction, whether they were because of his father or because of himself, or because of Maqoma’s intrusions, he didn’t know. All he knew was that after a while Maqoma continued talking, softly at first, then in his strong, persistent voice. Perhaps he would reach screaming point – Phila did not know, how could he? – but he had no option but to be true to his stoic spirit. The hiccup of this quiet flow of tears was all he allowed himself. Then, after blowing his nose and even as the salt still stung his eyes, he felt lighter.

  ‘As I was saying. Bad health dogged Gcaleka. Nothing – from herbs to letting blood through cupping with a cow’s horn, to administration of purgatives so he might vomit the poison, which amaGqirha prescribed as the cures – worked, and he blamed his weak health on sorcery. This made him resort to witch-hunting. Amaxukuza, and their specious influence to expose the culprits, made Gcaleka acquiescent to smelling-out ceremonies where witches were identified and killed. He engaged in the wanton and superstitious killing of people, mostly people close to him, whom he accused of witchcraft because amaxukuza had told him his death was in his hearth pot. By doing this he hoped his health would improve but it didn’t. The witch-hunts drained his prestige among the people. When you’re a chief –’