Now I See You

by Holmes, Priscilla; Holmes, Priscilla;

  ‘Your name is so pretty,’ I said. ‘Miss Rain.’

  Nomvula spoke shyly. ‘I was born when the spring rains came.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have a nice name. I never tell anybody my first name, it’s so awful.’

  Nomvula giggled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nontozakuyithini! – Oh that will never do!’

  Nomvula burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Why did they call you that bad name?’

  I grinned. ‘Probably because I wasn’t a boy, but at least I got a nice second name. Can you tell me why this ceremony is taking place?’

  ‘It’s a sacrifice for the Malumi grandchild who is sick,’ Nomvula said. ‘They are brewing the beer and a black-and-white ox is being prepared.’

  My heart sank.

  It was late afternoon and already the sun was low. Voices and drums sounded ahead. As we rounded the brow of the hill, red cliffs reared in front of us. Below lay dark green forests, four grey huts and a cattle fold. Spilling between us was a vivid flood of people dressed in red, pouring down the hill.

  My timing was unfortunate. It had been many years since I’d attended a sacrifice and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to this one. I felt my stomach turn at the thought.

  Malumi’s homestead had been swept and branches of mountain trees laid for the sacrificial fire. His family made a colourful group, some with faces painted white and others bright yellow. They were seated on the floor, and a small girl lay on the lap of her grandmother. She was crying softly, her small head barely moving. I watched through narrowed eyes. The child was probably suffering from malnutrition. She should be in hospital, not lying here far from the help she needed.

  Malumi appeared in the doorway. He held himself proudly, wearing an intricately beaded headband and carrying a sawn-off spear. His family shuffled to their feet, heads bowed.

  A figure seated at the far end of the homestead raised his hand. My grandfather, seated in the position of honour.

  Very slowly, in single file, Malumi, preceded by my grandfather, led his family out. They followed him, chanting and dancing, to the cattle fold. The rest of the villagers joined the procession, most of them stained bright red with ochre, their foreheads smeared with white paint. White lines under their eyes gave them an alien appearance.

  A general thumping of feet began as the villagers stamped in rhythm, moving forward, following Malumi and his family. Above the rhythmic pounding, women ululated, their cries lending an eerie effect to the occasion. The noise swelled until it felt as though the hills were pulsing with sound. It was as though the ancestors were watching, floating amongst us, reaching out to us, sending us strength and wisdom.

  I squeezed between the crowds. Their comments followed behind me as I made my way to the front. They were laughing, commenting on my appearance. ‘Tyho! Tyho! Lomfazi! – Goodness me, look at this woman!’

  They eyed my jeans and white T-shirt with scorn. The old crones, led by Ngosi, were crowing with mean laughter, hissing, and taunting. I rounded on them, flashed my pale eyes in their direction and hissed back. That stopped them.

  I finally squeezed through the crowd and stood near the front. My grandfather was standing at the entrance to the cattle kraal. He noticed me and I lowered my head in respect. When I flicked my eyes up and looked at him again he was still staring at me, eyebrows raised. At least he didn’t look angry. I had too much of importance to discuss with him to become embroiled in one of our usual arguments. But all of that had to wait until the ceremony for Malumi’s grandchild was over.

  The Malumi family sang a traditional song; the guests repeated their words in another key. The result was vibrant, their voices swelling in splendid harmony. I found myself singing along, swept back to my childhood by the familiar words. My body moved involuntarily to the rhythm of the chant. With every beat my muscles contracted and my bones seemed to vibrate. The ancient ritual of the music was in my blood and it couldn’t be denied.

  But I knew what was coming next, and I dreaded it. It was taboo for women to enter the cattle fold, and at the gate the dancers paused and the singing stopped. The crowd pushed forward. I found myself near the front, in full view of what was about to happen.

  Malumi and all the men moved into the cattle fold and stood in a circle. The pungent smell of dry manure wafted around me, bringing back vivid memories.

  I felt like a visitor from another planet witnessing an otherworldly ceremony. Was it only nine days since Sue Kellon had died? Only last night that I’d slept in a soft bed? And only this morning that I’d showered under hot, running water, using my favourite Body Shop soap? It all seemed to have happened long ago, to a different person.

  A woman, dressed in white, pushed past me, thrusting herself in front of the crowd. She lunged backward and forward, her legs moving spasmodically, her feet raising red dust. She went on dancing wildly until Ngosi, skinny legs rattling so fast I thought she would trip, pulled her back into the crowd. Ngosi, with her narrow eyes rolling, lips thin and unsmiling, spittle running down her chin. She looked even more creepy than usual.

  Now, all eyes were fixed on Malumi as he approached the black-and- white ox. It was held immobile by men with ropes tied to its horns and legs. I watched knowing what would follow. The creature’s chest was rising and falling in terror. It thrashed about, taking great gulps of air. Some of the men held onto the animal to subdue it. Others held up flaming torches whose brightness lit up the cattle fold, chasing away the evening shadows. Their bare upper bodies glistened.

  Malumi, holding a long spear, held up his arms invoking the ancestors to listen. He called out in a loud voice: ‘We call upon the ancestors to help us. I call upon you all to witness that I make this sacrifice to my ancestor.’

  The people roared out in one voice: ‘Camagu! – We are with you!’

  Malumi stabbed the ox and the beast bellowed with pain. Then others moved forward to slit the throat and a geyser of blood spouted into the air.

  The world tipped. It was barbaric, a gory scene from the Old Testament. A howl of approval lifted to the sky as the ox fell to its knees. A good omen: the ancestors would help the child.

  Malumi and his sons performed a prayer dance. The drumbeats thudded; their voices rose and fell in an ancient rhythm. The faith of their song touched me. My throat tightened with the need to cry. A small breeze wandered across the valley. There was a throb of thunder and lightning played beyond the mountains.

  I watched transfixed, staring at the scene. It felt familiar to me, and yet there was so much I didn’t want to understand, had forced myself to forget. At once repelled and fascinated by the ritual of blood and fire, I had a strong sense of the transfer of spiritual power that was happening in front of my eyes. Something unique was taking place, something to be acknowledged with respect but also a shiver of supernatural discomfort. From time to time in everyone’s lives something big is glimpsed for a moment or two, and that was what was happening to me. For a fleeting moment I grasped the thread of feeling that was winding around me and saw the bigger picture.

  I watched the crowd swirling around me, faces glowing. I thought about the desperate lives they lived, how many died early, aged by hard work and malnutrition. How rituals like these give life meaning, connecting us to something bigger than ourselves. And then, a thought hit me – a thunderbolt sent from the darkening sky. Who was I to say that my life was any less desperate? Perhaps the valley people would see my city life as pretty undesirable. The rush and bustle of the city, never stopping to appreciate the slow passage of the seasons, the joy of sunrise, the comfort of knowing that life is being lived as it has been for centuries, unspoilt by technology and progress.

  I thought of the rituals of life that make an urban man happy: anointing a new car weekly with polish, feeding bank accounts, slotting plastic cards into machines and buying more and more stuff. Suddenly the valley way seemed beautiful in its simplicity. I thought how nice it would be to wake up one morning and not
have to worry about the mortgage, the electricity account, getting my car serviced, answering my buzzing cell phone every few minutes, organising my Facebook, coping with rising prices, traffic jams, the escalating crime rate in Jozi, getting hijacked at the robots on a dark night.

  Not everything in life revolved round a Sandton apartment, a good job, an attractive boyfriend and a favourite perfume. It was far more elemental. Something was present in the valley for all people that night, something from the dark past linking all human beings as they struggled to make sense of their lives. As quickly as the thought came, it left, but I felt different.

  I moved towards my grandfather, then knelt on the grass and greeted him in the traditional way. When I looked up he was smiling thinly. At least he didn’t look irritated.

  ‘Back so soon? Why is this, Thabisa?’ He spoke kindly. I was surprised, but relieved.

  ‘I have some questions, important issues I need to discuss, Grandfather,’ I said.

  He gestured me to sit next to him. I settled down at his feet. I noticed Ngosi scowling and murmuring under her breath as she watched me.

  ‘There will be time to talk later, Thabisa, this is not Johannesburg, rush, rush, rush. Big city, fast action. This is the valley and things will be told in their own time.’

  I sensed a softening in my grandfather’s attitude towards me, and wondered why. Perhaps he had watched me during the ceremony and seen how I had been affected.

  He bent to speak to me, his words echoing the thoughts racing through my mind.

  ‘I know from watching you at the ceremony that you are still a child of the valley. It’s in your blood. The ancestors spoke to you. I could read it on your face’.

  I couldn’t deny it. ‘Yes, it’s true, but I can’t change my life. I am what I am, Grandfather. But I would like to come back and visit you without feeling like an outcast in the valley.’

  My grandfather paused. Several emotions played across his face and then, for the first time in my life, I saw that he was considering my point of view.

  ‘I can’t make you change, Thabisa,’ he said slowly. ‘I can’t force you to do what I want you to do. Sometimes, I even tell my fellow elders about my granddaughter who chases criminals in the big city. They laugh, but we all know that change has to come.’

  We stared at one another, both stubborn, both determined. He, an autocratic, overbearing traditional man, me a career-orientated, focused young woman. Both bearing the same blood lines. It was in our veins, part of our DNA. I knew that we would always take opposing views, but we had each moved part of the way to understanding and respecting one another.

  Solenkosi looked towards Ngosi and some of the other old crones, skinnering behind their hands as they watched us.

  ‘Stop!’ he commanded. ‘Stop that and return to the village, now. You are no longer welcome at this feast.’

  All but one scuttled away. Ngosi sidled forward.

  ‘What is this young woman who was cast out in shame doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t the scars on her body remind her she is no longer part of the valley?’

  Much as I hated the old battle-axe, I had to admire her fighting spirit. It was going to take more than a few harsh words to silence her.

  My grandfather rose from his seat. ‘You have gone too far in this matter,’ his voice silenced the people around us. ‘I will send you from the valley if there is any more of this conversation. This is my granddaughter. She is my blood. You will show respect from now on, or you will leave the valley and make your way in the world outside. You have disgraced my house with this behaviour.’

  Ngosi gave me one last ugly look. Then she turned on her heel and scuttled away. I knew I would never win her over, but as long as I got to speak to my grandfather and make him listen to my story, I was happy.

  My grandfather turned to me and said quietly, ‘I had no idea the punishment you endured as a young girl was so severe. I would have stopped it had I known. It is my shame that I allowed my granddaughter to be so badly hurt.’

  I gripped his hand and held it for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  When the meat was cooked and all had feasted, everyone settled in the Great Hut. I sat with my grandfather, watching the men, women and children I had grown up with. They sang with their whole being, clapping, bodies swaying and bending. There was too much noise to speak, so I sat quietly, knowing what would happen next.

  Tall and terrifying, the sangoma sprang into the space, as if by magic. His left eyelid, arm and thigh were painted white, the right side black, the rest of his body smeared with blood-red clay. He strode into the crowd, face covered by a bizarre mask. He wore animal skins dripping with white beads. His skirt, made of monkey tails, swirled around him and he carried a long, thin stick. The crowd gasped in fear, turning away, trying not to meet his eyes. I found him pretty scary too, although my logic told me not to be so foolish.

  No greetings were exchanged. He appeared to be in the grip of intense rage, lashing out with his stick. The crowd shrank back. He inspired awe and terror in everyone. He asked no questions, only making statements.

  In the valley, people’s fears, fantasies and emotions are deeply embedded in witchcraft. The sangoma is their priest; he speaks directly to the ancestors, and rules over their rites and rituals.

  Without his powers of magic, the valley people couldn’t survive. He stops a storm simply by placing certain herbs under a stone; he divines illness by the lines on a man’s face. By holding up an earthen pot he protects the valley during a lunar eclipse. He is all-powerful.

  Although I dismissed traditional healers as primitive, far removed from the life I was now living, I was apprehensive. They were always unpredictable. Sometimes it was almost laughable, but dark comedy was their speciality.

  As he leapt and pranced, the sangoma’s monkey tails flew faster and faster, his bead necklaces gyrated, and he shone with sweat. Tossing his head, leaping and kicking, he moved with a magic rhythm.

  Raising his stick high above his head, he cried out in terrible voice: ‘You have come about a bad happening!’

  ‘Siyavuma! We agree,’ the crowd shouted, clapping their hands.

  ‘You have come about a woman whose mother is killing her!’

  The crowd disagreed. ‘Asiva – We do not hear.’

  He made another attempt. He whirled round, lifting his stick high. ‘You have come about a sick child!’

  ‘Yes!’ shouted the crowd.

  The sangoma moved to the family of the sick child in a series of frightening darts; leaping, prancing, shaking his stick in the faces of the family; moves that held the crowd spellbound. Was he going to help her? Wasn’t he? Eventually he presented the family of the sick child with a heavy necklace made of bark and herbs telling them that she should wear it until she was cured.

  Was it my imagination or did the child’s grey pallor lift as soon as he put the necklace round her neck? Or was I just caught up in his drama and my fevered imagination?

  Jet-propelled, he leapt forward again. Terror rippled through the crowd. He held his stick high. Then he pointed it straight at me.

  ‘You have come here on a secret mission!’ he shouted at me. The crowd was silent. ‘Do not tell me that this is not so. I have been told why you are here!’

  All my logical training and schooling didn’t stop a trickle of fear running down my spine. I bowed my head. My grandfather chuckled.

  ‘Oh, so that’s why you are here, eh? Well, we’d better return to the homestead and talk about this secret mission. Come.’

  Solenkosi Tswane rose to his feet and stood majestically, head up, shoulders back, every inch a leader. He raised his hand to the sangoma, signalling him to leave the gathering.

  The people made a path, bowing deeply as we passed, careful not to let their eyes rest on the face of their chief. I noticed my grandfather’s dignified and assured manner. I saw how he delighted in the children of the valley, patting a small head there, stroking a small
cheek there.

  When we reached his homestead, I sat at his feet. He looked down and said, ‘Whatever you are about to say to me is not important, child. Your heart speaks for you. You have travelled far to come home.’

  I felt tears welling as I looked at him. ‘Thank you, Grandfather.’

  I felt that at last there was a chance that things could change. Although our paths were different we were still blood of blood, bone of bone. I reached out, took his hand and held it between mine.

  ‘I have come to tell you of a great wrong that has been done. Do you remember the man who betrayed my father and uncles in 1977?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘That same man is bidding to become the next President of South Africa.’

  My grandfather pulled his blanket around his shoulders and lit his pipe. After a few puffs, he said: ‘Tell me about this man.’

  I told him about Sue Kellon, Julia McEwen and Ollis Sando. I described Richard Bowles and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Lucas Makanda and his family. I told him of the records in the Grahamstown bank, now destroyed, and the death of the bank manager. Then I told him about what Julia McEwen had said about the mark of the snake, the symbol of treachery, tattooed on this man’s back. This Ollis Sando was the same man. The man who had betrayed our people.

  Solenkosi Tswane was leaning close, to hear me better. After I’d finished, he sat back and looked at me. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t see censure in his eyes. He took both of my hands and held them together, placing his own above and beneath. The gesture carried comfort and courage. ‘You have behaved bravely in telling me this,’ he said finally. ‘It must be taken higher. I will speak with our leaders.’

  ‘We can’t stop him, can we? Even with proof from the beads?’ I said.

  ‘There must be more proof than beads in modern law. Who would believe the beads against such a man?’ I bit my lip. He was right. My grandfather and I were the only witnesses who could tell what the beads said, and even that would be based on symbols and what they meant according to the way we had been taught to interpret the beads. An art passed down from generation to generation. Never recorded in the way a court of law would recognise. A clever lawyer would be able to tie it all up in knots in no time. I could just hear it: ‘Are you sure Ms Tswane? This long mark here symbolises a... snake? Isn’t it meant to be something more, ahh... phallic?’ And then the laughter which my grandfather and the other elders would have to sit through. There was no way our testimony would be enough. Even if we authenticated each other’s statements, we didn’t have powerful enough proof.