by Zakes Mda
‘The white man says Mhlontlo is here, hiding in the land of amaMpondo,’ the interpreter was saying. ‘So you, Inkosi Mqhikela, should open up every part of your jurisdiction so that the Government can search for him.’
Mqhikela said, ‘Oh, no, Mhlontlo is not here. He can’t come here. He knows that amaMpondo are the allies of Government. I can’t let the Red Coats search all over my villages because they will disturb our children.’
Mhlontlo knew that Government was just following protocol asking the chief’s permission to search his villages so as not to alienate an ally. At the end of the day Government would do exactly what Government came to do.
‘We must search for him ourselves because if he is here there is nothing you yourself can do,’ said the officer. ‘You can’t arrest him.’
Mhlontlo stepped forward and, pretending to be one of Chief Mqhikela’s subjects, addressed the chief.
‘Allow the white men to search, my Nkosi, because if you don’t they will continue to bother you. Let them see for themselves that you are a man of your word.’
The chief considered this for a moment and consulted two of his councillors sitting next to him. He told the Red Coats to go ahead and search for Mhlontlo.
That gave Mhlontlo and his men a headstart. It would take the whole day for the Red Coats to search Mqhikela’s entire jurisdiction, by which time he and his men would have made it to a new hiding place.
Now, though his body was exhausted, his spirit refused to rest. The thought of Gcazimbane nagged him. He must be dead by now. No doubt, he must be dead. Once more tears rolled down his face on to the mossy trunk.
His ears were very sharp, particularly the one on the trunk lying on the ground. He heard footsteps at a distance and determined they were of men and not animals. Two men, to be exact. That was how skilful he had become in the art of survival as a fugitive in the forests, mountains and caves since losing the war.
He jumped to his feet, his spear at the ready, just in case these were not his men returning. He took cover behind a tree and waited. After a while Malangana and Feyiya approached, each carrying on his shoulder half a carcass of a sable bull, its majestic horns dragging on the ground behind Malangana.
Feyiya was another from a junior House of Matiwane, although much older than Malangana in years. His great affinity for Malangana on this road as escapees was because they were both lovelorn. Their hearts were in Sulenkama where their loved ones were waiting: Malangana’s by the river to take a walk with him to the top of the mountain; Feyiya’s at his homestead where she had just given birth to their first child, named Charles after Mhlontlo’s heir to the throne, on October 31, 1880, when the war started in earnest and the men had to leave and fight. As lovelorn men they could share sentiments that other men thought were foolish and womanish and soft and maudlin and not worthy of soldiers hardened by war and fleeing for their lives.
But softness came in other ways too, as Feyiya could immediately see on Mhlontlo’s face when he stepped on to the path to meet them.
‘Ah, you’ve been crying again,’ said Feyiya. ‘Please stop that.’
‘Gcazimbane was a very special horse,’ said Mhlontlo in a hoarse voice.
As Malangana was hanging the sable bull in a tree and cutting some of the meat into pieces for roasting he offered to go and search for Gcazimbane. He did not believe the horse was dead. He had survived two months being ridden by Mhlontlo in the heat of many battles and then more weeks of hide-and-seek in all kinds of terrain. He was bound to survive this latest capture as well.
He was captured only a few days ago; which was why Malangana believed he could still be retrieved. Fortunately Gcazimbane was not in his hands when he was captured, but in Mhlontlo’s; otherwise he would never have heard the end of it.
It had been evening when Mhlontlo and a bodyguard took what they thought would be a short horse ride from their hideout just to get a little bit of fresh air in the valley. They had not been aware that some amaBhaca men had been spying on the camp with the view of capturing Mhlontlo for the bounty that Government had placed on his head. Two men approached them and shouted ‘Sinika!’. Mhlontlo and his bodyguard relaxed, for that was the password of the amaMpondomise military intelligence. They responded ‘Sinika!’ and stopped to chat to the men who they thought would have news of the new positions of the enemy. The amaBhaca men pounced on them and stabbed the bodyguard to death. Mhlontlo rolled on the ground with the first Bhaca man and stabbed him repeatedly with his assegai. When he sprang to his feet to face the second Bhaca man, the latter had already mounted Gcazimbane and was riding away on him.
Mhlontlo and his men had to vacate that camp immediately because they knew that within minutes the Red Coats and their amaBhaca allies would be on to them. It had been like that these few months since the decisive defeat at the Battle of Tsita Gorge. Playing the hide-and-seek game with the enemy. And it would be like that until they reached Lesotho where King Letsie had sent a response through their messenger that they were welcome to take refuge in his country.
The three men sat at the fire and ate the meat. They were silent and listened only to the rhythm of their munching teeth. The sable was an old bull and therefore the meat was rather tough. But of course their teeth were made for just that kind of meat. In any event later in the evening when the other elders arrived they would roast the liver and the kidneys and the lungs, the softer and gentler kinds of meats, before they proceeded on their long journey to Lesotho.
Mthwakazi filled almost every space of silence. The rest was filled by the war that took him away from her. Malangana’s chest filled with anger at the thought of how the war was lost. It had been going well and every day he had hoped it was the end and he would go back and resume his interrupted walk to the mountain with his Mthwakazi. In his mind the walk had already started. It had started when they walked from the flames in their beautiful clothes: her floral silk frock and his purple gown. The eighteen-mile walk where they savoured each other as a precursor to the savouring that would happen on the journey to the mountain and then to the stars, and on the longer journey to the rest of life until each reached the setting of the sun. The detour to Sulenkama to collect the sacred drum was a small interruption. Mthwakazi retrieved the drum and went to wait by the river. But before he could leave for the river a bigger interruption happened. The war generals took him. They gave him arms. The war had started. The CMR was in Qumbu already. He had to go to war. No time to go to the river. No time to warn Mthwakazi. Every man to war. She waited and the war raged.
By October 29th Mhlontlo’s forces had routed the British forces out of Qumbu and Mditshwa’s forces had taken over Tsolo without any resistance. In Qumbu Government offices and the jail were set on fire. In Tsolo members of the white community locked themselves in the jail where they thought they would be safe and of course no one could set it on fire with all the people inside.
The CMR was indeed thinly spread in many parts of the Colony as there were what the Government characterised as ‘rebellions’, which were in fact a series of battles lasting at least two wars. The incitement from Lesotho had also reached Basotho clans in Herschel, Barkly East and Griqualand East – the very fire that Hamilton Hope was trying to douse was spreading. While the Imperial troops were occupied with fighting the Gun War inside Lesotho they found it impossible to contain the Basotho clans south of the Drakensberg. These Basotho clans, on the other hand, took vengeance on those nations that were loyal to the British and were fighting in alliance with colonial forces, the amaHlubi and amaBhaca, and drove them further south.
For the rest of November Mhlontlo and Mditshwa had a free hand, winning every battle. Malangana was always by Mhlontlo’s side and watched in admiration how he commanded his forces. For the first time he saw how strict and how much of a disciplinarian he was. His word was law and no one dared disobey. He was not the Mhlontlo who, according to him and his mates back home, was pliable in the hands of Hamilton Hope. He led his section of the ar
my at various theatres: at Qunu, and Mahlungulu, at Caba and at Qanqu – territories that covered a great part of the Colony. And in all these places he was victorious. Mditshwa also led his section of the army at various theatres. Sometimes he and Mhlontlo disagreed on strategy and quarrelled. Once they quarrelled so violently they almost came to blows. But after that they went forward to fight and returned victorious.
After a series of these victories Malangana slipped away and went to look for Mthwakazi. He stole a horse in a village and rode for two days to his home. It was strange to walk in Sulenkama and find that it was a village of women and children and young shepherds and very old men who could no longer lift a spear and a shield. Every man was out fighting what had now been dubbed the War of Hope. He walked around the village asking if anyone had seen Mthwakazi. No one had seen her for months, not since the war started. He even walked to the confluence of the two rivers and sat there for many hours and dipped his feet in the water and looked at the hills that grew into mountains at night. And then he rode his horse back to war.
His comrades believed he had been captured by the enemy. To save himself from Mhlontlo’s wrath he confirmed that indeed he had been in the hands of amaBhaca but was able to escape with one of their horses. He named the horse Xokindini, which meant ‘You Liar’.
Malangana returned when preparations were being made to invade Kohlombeni, as Tsita Gorge was known. It was at this stage that Mhlontlo learned that amaMpondo had decided to throw in their lot with the British. He had banked on their alliance.
‘We, the children of Sibiside, though we both come from the loins of Njanya, how can they turn against us and stand with those whose ears reflect the rays of the sun?’ asked Mhlontlo.
‘We have gone thus far without them,’ said Gxumisa. ‘We shall defeat the white man without them.’
‘We shall defeat them and their white masters,’ said Mahlangeni. He was still wearing Hamilton Hope’s coat. He never took it off. Perhaps he even slept in it.
Malangana stood in awe of these generals. He knew that he would never be one of them. None of them thought of anything but war strategies and tactics. One could see that they relished what they were doing. It was like a game, even though people were falling and dying. Once in a while a horse would fall and a man would weep for it. Yet he, Malangana, was thinking of nothing but his desire for a woman. Even as he fought each battle his ferocity was fuelled by his yearning for her. She made him slay the enemy with so much vengeance for it was the enemy that took him away from her. Each morning he woke up hoping to hear Mhlontlo’s voice announce: ‘The war is over, let’s all go home.’
Yet Tsita Gorge was the turning point. The West Pondoland Chief Nqwiliso sent amaMpondo forces to Chief Magistrate Elliot for the relief of the Tsomo magistracy. The amaHlubi and amaBhaca who were running away from the Basotho also joined the English, as did the amakhumsha of amaMfengu who had always been with the English anyway. What broke Mhlontlo most was the discovery that even King Ngangelizwe of the abaThembu had come out in support of the Imperial Forces against amaMpondomise.
Mhlontlo was all alone with all the peoples of British Kaffraria against him. He and his fellow Mpondomise King Mditshwa of Tsolo. By early December the Imperial Forces and their allies were already gaining the upper hand in the land of abaThembu and in Griqualand East. At the Battle of Tsita Gorge the storm of amaHlubi and amaBhaca and abaThembu and amaMfengu and a few Red Coats was too powerful. Mhlontlo’s forces suffered a decisive defeat. More than three hundred amaMpondomise soldiers were killed.
One of the casualties was Gxumisa.
It was this particular death that brought Mhlontlo to his knees. He ordered his forces to retreat.
‘Mampondomise, Government has defeated us,’ he said. ‘Those of us who can lose themselves in the mountains let them do so, and those of us who can lose themselves in the waters let them do so.’
‘How do we retreat? We are being killed in every direction,’ some men demanded. ‘And if we do manage to escape at all, where do we go?’
Mhlontlo suggested the mountains of Lesotho, to exile.
Mditshwa said it was against the ethos and values of amaMpondomise to be a Mfengu, meaning a refugee. He would rather surrender. If they killed him, so be it; he would rather die than be a fugitive.
‘I said I shall not be taken alive,’ said Mhlontlo. ‘Those of you who want to follow me to exile will do so.’
Mahlangeni said he would go to no exile, nor would he surrender. He was a Mpondomise man and would die fighting. He rode his horse back into the thick of the battle.
Mditshwa sent his son with a white flag to the enemy camp to say he was surrendering, while Mhlontlo and his followers, among them Malangana, Ndukumfa, Feyiya, Gatyeni, Hamza, Cesane and Sititi, his relatives from the House of Matiwane, escaped into the forest with a number of soldiers.
The eighteenth of December 1880 was the date they were to remember, since those whose sons and daughters became literate wrote it down for posterity.
Even as they were escaping from camp to camp in the forests and mountains, working their way towards Lesotho, they heard that Mditshwa had been put in chains and sent to Robben Island to serve a three-year sentence for sedition.
But their fighting spirit was not yet dead. In January Mhlontlo and a small band of his followers attacked Commandant Usher at Fort Usher. They were unable to take the fort and lost more men.
Malangana should have listened to the sage Cesane. Don’t look back so soon, he said. Look forward. Looking back flooded his mind with bitterness which in turn made the meat taste bitter.
‘Bile must have spilled on this meat,’ he said throwing the piece to the ground and stepping on it. ‘I am not eating any more.’
‘It is your own bile; it is boiling. Calm down, mfondini,’ said Mhlontlo.
‘It was not easy to kill this sable bull. You will not waste it,’ said Feyiya.
‘I did all the chasing, old man,’ said Malangana. ‘Anyway there is enough meat for most of those who are coming. They are taking their time. They should be here by now. I thought we would find them here already.’
He walked away, kicking at everything in front of him to the detriment of his bare feet. The two men didn’t even look at him but put more meat on the fire.
‘It is the longing that is killing him,’ said Feyiya.
‘For the Bushman girl?’ said Mhlontlo, chuckling.
‘You know about her?’
‘I have eyes, mninawe,’ said Mhlontlo, addressing him as younger-brother. ‘I have ears too. And of course Gxumisa was encouraging him. It would not have been a catastrophe. We are descendants of a Mthwakazi. Not only was our ancestor Cirha from Iqadi House, his mother was a Mthwakazi. Who are we to stop one of us from marrying a Bushman girl?’
‘Perhaps you should have told him that,’ said Feyiya.
‘He didn’t ask me,’ said Mhlontlo.
‘His heart is breaking.’
‘We all have our longings.’
Malangana came running back looking as excited as if he had been struck by a new idea. The two men looked at him expectantly. It was not a new idea after all. He was leaving immediately to look for Gcazimbane. Mhlontlo tried to stop him: it might take days to find Gcazimbane, if at all he did so, and by that time the party would have left that hideout. Before sunset today the rest of the refugees would arrive: Cesane, Ndukumfa, Gatyeni, Sititi, Hamza, and the soldiers who were protecting them and the animals they were driving.
‘As soon as they get here we’ll move on,’ said Mhlontlo.
‘Yes, move on,’ said Malangana. ‘I will follow. I will find you on the way. I am faster. Perhaps even before you cross the border I will be there. It will not be difficult to trace you.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Mhlontlo.
‘You think your longing is yours alone?’ asked Malangana. ‘Anyway, we can’t afford your tears any longer. The tears of the King of amaMpondomise are very expensive.’
Feyiya laughed and said, ‘It is for his selfish reasons. He misses Gcazimbane too. His heart has two holes. One for Mthwakazi and the other for Gcazimbane.’
This rather infuriated Mhlontlo.
‘Gcazimbane is mine,’ he said. ‘He’s only a groom. His horse is Xokindini.’
‘Look after Xokindini when he arrives,’ said Malangana, and left them arguing about the existence or not of his sanity. They did not understand why he would travel all those distances by foot, looking for a horse without any idea where it might be, while he had his own horse grazing right there in the forest.
Later that afternoon after walking for a few hours Malangana saw a few cattle, horses and donkeys grazing on the outskirts of a village. Their herdboys were nowhere to be seen, perhaps they were shaping clay cattle on the banks of a stream or hunting for rodents between harvested fields. He mounted one of the horses and, without reins, he galloped away bareback.
Tuesday March 29, 1904
They don’t know his name. They call him madala, khehla or xhego, all of which mean ‘old man’, which suits him fine. Only three months ago when he had just arrived from his Lesotho exile he hated to be called that. He has since learned to live with it and take its benefits with grace – even those that come with superciliousness.
They are a well-meaning lot, these young men, and they have given him a place to sleep at their camp. During the day they go to work planting trees for Government on the escarpment to stop the dongas and to create a forest. Now that the natives have finally been pacified and the Boers have been defeated and subdued in the second and hopefully final Anglo-Boer War, the British Kaffraria administration can focus on taming the landscape and making it more civilised by planting pine, gum, and poplar trees imported from the mother country.
