Broken River Tent

by Mphuthumi Ntabeni

  ‘Is Qumrha still a sacred place of the Gcalekas?’ Maqoma asked.

  ‘How should I know? I’m not Xhosa. I’m Mfengu.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Maqoma smiled tauntingly. ‘One of the sell-outs.’

  ‘I’m a sell-out? Then why did you choose me?’

  ‘I didn’t choose you. You chose me. Mfengus were good-for-nothing sell-outs who facilitated the draining of this land to white people.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ve other views.’

  ‘Rharhabe held iziVivane sacred where travellers passed. Travellers looked to them for protection and direction.’

  ‘I hope they were paid in kind.’

  ‘They tied long grass near ravines to express wishes and prayers, food and shelter, supplications and all. The visitor on Rharhabe land was required to throw a stone kwiSivivane for luck too. IziVivane were regarded as the holy ritual of peregrinations, which amaRharhabes were known to be. These places grew to be formidable stone hills all over Rharhabe land.’

  ‘Hellenic people had their temples, Romans their shrines, and you guys had iziVivane. To each their own. I really am in need of sleep now, if you don’t mind.’ Phila was tossing and turning in bed.

  ‘I cannot make you do something you don’t want. You’re not sleeping not because of me, but because of your own thoughts.’

  ‘Isn’t that the whole point, though? You’re in my thoughts.’

  ‘Not without your invitation. Only you can banish me.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I come to your thoughts only per your invitation.’

  ‘I invite you out of my head then – now!’

  ‘You must not only say it, but believe it. It is about belief. That is why I’m here. I was summoned by your belief.’

  ‘Do I look like I believe in iziVivane?’

  ‘You cannot build without a good foundation. I’m here to lay it.’

  ‘Could you lay it somewhere else tonight, please? It’s four in the morning, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Christ? Our nation died because of Christ’s sake. The missionaries …’

  ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘Rharhabe had reverence for ancestors …’

  Phila closed his eyes again, but continued to toss and turn. Maqoma’s voice was still present like a clacking cymbal. He tried drowning the voice by yodelling: ‘Halaa-lo-halaaaa! Loooo!’ but it didn’t work. The only thing he succeeded in doing was wake his sister, who came into his room.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

  As soon as she was gone Maqoma continued.

  ‘He slaughtered a cow every opportunity he got. They say he derived his strength from his strict observance of ancestral worship. The dead live! You see? They’ve certain powers over their descendants. They communicate with the living through mediums like dreams and diviners, who must in turn minister to their needs.’

  ‘Are you my ancestor?’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘It is to me. Are you?’

  ‘Ancestors look out for the good of their people. I look out for the good of you.’

  ‘So that makes you my ancestor. Now why not do something useful, like let me win a lottery, for instance? Believe me, that would be good for me.’

  ‘Let’s get back to Rharhabe.’

  ‘I’m tired of hearing about Rharhabe. The dude was your hero, I get it, now can we move on?’

  ‘Rharhabe moved to and fro across the land he had recently acquired, encountering numerous nations, like the Quena and Otentottu people. He met their chieftains, Queen Hoho. He wanted to marry her, no doubt for her beautiful apricot skin, but she’d have none of it. Rharhabe forced her into seceding her land in exchange for tobacco, dagga and dogs.’

  ‘Yes, you guys stole their land, we know. We touched on that, remember?’

  ‘Rharhabe went on to cross Nxarhuni to Gqunube before sleeping along the sea, eKhwikhwini, where they were met by engrossing mist and swarming locusts.’

  ‘Those rivers are now called Nahoon and Gunubie. And your Khwikhwini is Quigney now.’

  ‘They moved eastward to cross iNxuba, because the waters of that river get impregnated with salt during summer, making the grass sour and poisonous to cattle.’

  ‘Fish River.’

  ‘Went past Tyelerha, as far as iNqweba.’

  ‘Sundays. I don’t know the other river you’re talking about.’

  ‘They found salt lakes eNgqurha; swam on the green waters of Qagqiwa before finding themselves up on a gumtree because of snake infestation.’

  ‘Qagqiwa they call Zwartkops now.’

  ‘He could not stand the snakes towards Tsitsikamma so he turned towards the mountains of Vuba.’

  ‘Zuurberg mountains.’

  ‘In these peregrinations Rharhabe incorporated fugitives, malcontents and small tribes into his own tribe; bribed others by kind and kin; blackmailed others with protection; persuaded others by force and rancour into joining him.’

  ‘Kei and Keiskamma is what they call the Nciba and Qoboqobo rivers today.’

  ‘Rharhabe’s authority was bestowed by the natural esteem his people had for him, and his generosity, which he was always prepared to support with force when necessary. Even his brother Gcaleka learnt to moderate his authority over his brother Rharhabe. When Gcaleka died early, Rharhabe took advantage of the situation by attacking his son, Khawuta, when he refused to subject himself to his authority. The Xhosa nation at large would not allow that, so they came to Khawuta’s assistance. Rharhabe was defeated and driven off to the west, and as fate would have it set his progeny, us, on the scene to encounter the white people out of the sea. It was in the north that he encountered the fluid and restless Thembus who sealed his fate. In one of the skirmishes with those non-reliant Thembus, he and his son Mlawu died. Thus his life ended in defeat, after such a glorious, promising start.’

  ‘The Thembus are now something of heroes because of their son, Mandela, who became the first black democratic president of this land. I would watch my words, if I were you. Rharhabe seems more like a glorified rover to me.’

  ‘I thought, as a Mfengu, a wanderer, you’d readily associate with his spirit and plight.’

  ‘Well, not really. By the way, the historian Tacitus sheds a doubt on the story of Nero being responsible for his mother’s death. Of course that has not stopped drama-inducing writers, like Montaigne, adding the juicy bits about Agrippina screaming as she drowned. Do you think Nxele screamed as he went under? I mean, we have to admit, Nxele does seem like the hollering type. He wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to create such noise, even if for the sake of drama.’

  ‘In my life experience, drowning people, besides manually thrashing against the water, do so quietly. But it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Nxele didn’t go quietly; after all, he was a noisy fellow …’

  Maqoma faded as Phila bumped out.

  The Apricot Tree

  PHILA WOKE JUST BEFORE MIDDAY. The house had taken on a strange impoverished look of neglect; with an uncanny peace, it felt also like a bowdlerised version of his home. He tried in vain to locate the energy they grew up with: the silent kindness of his father’s face; the frenzied frustration of their mother, who must have had premonitions of running out of time. By the time he went overseas to study his mom was five years underground, disappointed at the matrimonial betrayal of her husband, which had hastened her cancerous departure. During her last days, Phila associated her room with sulfuric anger, the torment of the ammonia smell of her chamber pot. His father’s descent into a defeated life fast-tracked after that. He felt trapped in a life he’d never really wished for. Cherishing vita umbratilis, a life in the shade, he dreamt of an idyllic pastoral life whose possibility had been overtaken by the times.

  Phila opened the window, stood, with autumn in his heart, in the gardens of his life’s spring. The smells and the colours were still
the same, even the manner in which the wind shaved the swaying apricot tree. The carcass body parts from his father’s blue Jeep van still lay there. He recalled the day they came to drop them. It was almost the carbon copy of this day except the parents were now gone. Phila had stood at his bedroom window, spying on the combat battle between his parents about where to put the parts. Something about his parents’ lives seemed to be descending into disorder at that time, and for a boy with Phila’s observational powers it felt like watching a tragic accident in slow motion. His father was being unreasonable, wanting to cut down the apricot tree, instead of the wire fence on the other side, to create space for the parts. His mom would have none of it. The eleven-year-old Phila, who had learnt to stay out of such things, eventually took a pair of pliers from the kitchen drawer and went outside. He began cutting the wire fence, creating space for the delivery van to reverse and unload the things where his mother wanted them to be, which was exactly where they still were today.

  Phila had invested many an afternoon with his mother on that garden. When his father came around, their eyes met. Nothing was said. Phila refused to be browbeaten this time. Those two seconds defined their relationship henceforth. Embarrassed, his father turned back and went inside the house. He had discovered his own stubborness in his son’s eyes and felt found out. Found out because he had not been in the house the whole week. Found out because he had no integrity to demand authority. Found out because he understood that his son had decided to step up into the berth he had left vacant by deserting them. Found out because he had been unreasonable and childish, made himself too ridiculous to recover his dignity. Thus had he speeded up the moment of power exchange between a boy and his father. Growing up shocks us, Phila reflected, because it always carries a price of humiliation, whether of ourselves or those we respect most.

  Phila turned back with a smile. The swaying of the apricot tree seemed much more vigorous in the memory album of his mind. Now he could see that it was just a tree, getting hollowed from within by the ant nest inside its stem. He almost finger-whistled for his dog, Baby.

  “Good morning,” he greeted Siya as he sat at the dining table. She had prepared a breakfast Phila had no appetite for. The eggs looked lumpy. He apologised for waking up late. He felt nauseous, miserable as snow and somehow impatient with himself. His headache, dormant under the alcohol rush, was pulsating again. It was not just a mere babalaza from the previous night. More like a crashing of unacknowledged childhood fantasies, the realisation that it was too late for the future.

  “No need to be embarrassed. I woke around ten myself. Yesterday was a long day,” said his sister, uncharacteristically making an effort to remove all irritation from her voice regarding his drinking. They ate in relative silence. Phila felt lonely, not for himself, but for his sister who had chosen to stay. Her face had grown thin and strained, prematurely aged even. When he could not stomach it anymore he stood up. He was going back to PE via East London, he told her, to run what he called “a personal errand”. In actual fact he wanted to trace the migration of amaRharhabe that Maqoma had described. Phila could see his sister was relieved at this announcement – not for any sinister reason; she had become accustomed to being alone. It was not a matter of not liking each other; they respected each other. Phila was proud of her as a human rights lawyer. He followed her career, mostly through the media. It gave him hope. Both their characters were leopard-like, solitary. They didn’t do well as a pride. There was also the issue of their father’s death, which both had nothing to say about at that moment. They were also avoiding situations where they would be compelled to comment on it, or worse, examine it.

  The moment he drove away from Queenstown and took the road towards the even smaller town of Cathcart, Phila could feel Maqoma’s presence, but he was baffled by his uncharacteristic silence. Initially he thought he might be angry because almost everything around here was named after people who had been his arch enemies, like the town, named after Sir George Cathcart. In 1852, in the middle of the 1851-1853 Frontier War, after Maqoma had humiliated the British in Waterkloof, Governor Harry Smith was recalled and replaced as Governor by Cathcart, with orders to finish the war. In a way that was the last real war Maqoma fought against the British, in proper command, before handing the reins to his younger brother, Sandile. Maqoma was fifty-five years then, beginning his life-long battle with rheumatism. He also nearly died from dysentery during this war, the most cruel and the biggest the Xhosas and the British fought.

  When he saw the Hogsback signs, and looked upwards to notice the start of the Nkonkobe mountains Phila realised that Maqoma was having bad memories, especially of the day he was nearly caught as he lay in a cave there, suffering from dysentery. Defiant as always, his wife Katye, who was taken prisoner with other women and children, when asked by the Governor if the leopardskin blanket was Maqoma’s, replied, “Did you find him in it?”

  They were driving on the flanks of the escarpment of the Nkonkobe mountains, which held so much meaning for Maqoma. From the west, the mountains extend to join up with the Amathole mountains, where the majority of the Frontier Wars were fought. These mountains elevated the settings for the wars and enhanced the armature of Maqoma’s character as the most brilliant general of the Xhosa warriors. He used them for what came to be known as the bush wars against the colonial encroachment on their land by the British. Nowhere else had geography determined history to an extent as large as this, Phila thought. The bottom slopes of the mountains were forested with yellowwood, stinkwood and assegai trees. The plantations of pine and other timbers came later, and were cultivated for commercial use. The farmers, originally Germans, still planted Xhosa staples here: maize, sorghum, pumpkins and wheat. They began sowing when the snow-capped mountains started to thaw, sending torrential white waters leaping from the cliffs. During that season the sawmills had to operate on skeleton staff, because their Xhosa lumberjack employees went back to their villages to plant fields. This, to a smaller degree, was still the pattern today. The Xhosas lost their self-sustenance as a result of losing most of their arable land to the British colonial government, which was handed over to white farmers in 1853 by Cathcart. In almost all the Frontier Wars the British fought with the Xhosas, it was land that was the central issue.

  Maqoma held his tongue all the time they went through the land that was so dear to him.

  When he reached Stutterheim Phila followed the exit sign that directed him to the site of Sandile’s grave, which he reached after passing a series of lakes and dams and driving through plantations of trees. The grave was tucked in between the graves of two British soldiers, to guard ‘his rebellious spirit’ from ever rebelling against the British crown again. Knowing the psychological weight the Xhosas assigned to the graves of their kings, the British had devised this ruse to keep the living Xhosas in check.

  Sandile was Maqoma’s younger half-brother. Until Sandile was old enough to assume the throne Maqoma had acted as regent. Growing weakly, under the shadow of Maqoma, the young king had had to work hard to prove himself as capable as his older half-brother. Unlike Maqoma, he was not a natural leader and he nearly bungled the well-orchestrated Eighth Frontier War where the Xhosas gained significant victories against the British.

  This was not the first time Phila had been to visit Sandile’s grave. He had been taken there as a child when on a fishing trip to Xholora, but the information hadn’t really registered on him then. Now he sat there recalling one of his happiest family days, when his father woke him early to get his clothes on, without washing, let alone brushing his teeth. He was about eleven or twelve years old. It was in the early eighties and getting stopped by the police when you drove during the hours that needed your headlights to be on was a frequent occurrence. Headlights attracted white police cars of the Special Branch – they all drove Valiants – to chase you and pull you over. So the moment they pulled out of town on the N6 to East London they were flagged down by the police. Instantly the blinding torches we
re on their faces, shining at them through the windows on all sides of his father’s Ford Custom. When one of the cops realised who his father was he stepped up.

  “Damn, chief!” – people called his dad chief then, especially the white ones he played tennis with; the whole town, including white people, tested their salt as tennis players on Phila’s father, something that made him famous – “Where you going at this ungodly hour?”

  “Thought I’d give my son a taste of real fly-fishing in Xholora. He’s quite keen to learn how to properly cast the line. So we thought we would give the fish a head-start, especially the dippers who drop their guard before dawn.”

  “Well, good luck to you both,” said the policeman, who was on Phila’s side of the car. “Hope you bring a catch to gut this evening. I’ll radio you a pass to our guys ahead so they don’t give you any more trouble. Hope we can catch up on the best of three next Saturday.” He moved the torchlight off Phila’s face and brushed his hair with his hand to indicate all was well. “Oh! You’ve got a cheeky one here,” he laughed.

  “Oh, he’s just angry I woke him up early on a Sunday morning. Take no notice. Ready for the game whenever you are,” his father said as they pulled off. Phila thought he was going to get a scolding from his dad for the frown against the cop, but he never even mentioned it.

  After they got to Stutterheim they changed into their fishing gear. His father led him to the waters for his maiden deep-water fly-fishing lesson. His father was a trout fisherman. This Phila understood in retrospect each time he recalled his hallmarks when wielding a double hander. But that day his father still had more knowledge than Phila on fly casting, so he began with a lesson before showing how it was done. Phila had got stuck on the rookie jump-steeple-circle spey, something he still blamed on his father’s trout fishing hallmarks, and had now resigned himself to as his factory fly-fishing fault. He usually ran too high to keep a fly where he aimed it to be; as such his tended to be whipped away in seconds by dippers. Or worse, he caught leaves with every third cast or so. That day this was very discouraging for Phila, especially when he fished next to his father who seemed to draw a yellow fin with every fifth cast. Phila’s thirst for knowledge was what kept him going. And his father, on these trips, became forthcoming about issues, life plans and all. For instance he’d learnt on one of these trips that his dad had a dream of going salmon fishing in the Scottish Highlands one day, even of owning a cabin there, if it were possible, because, “A man’s thoughts come easier with such clear mountain air.” Phila used to think it was because his parents had grown up under the shadow of the Scottish missionary influence that his father chose Scotland, not Norway or Canada, for his salmon fishing dream. But now he knew better. The geography of an area is crucial in building the spirt of a person, a tribe, or a nation. The similarities between the Scots and amaXhosa – their obsessive grip on rustic culture, despite the pressures of civilisation – were not accidental but bred, by evolving for centuries on similar mountainous landscapes.