Broken River Tent

by Mphuthumi Ntabeni

  ‘Ntsikana taught me that, but we shall talk about it later. I wanted to wait until I was here before telling you about our war with amaNdlambe. My father, Ngqika, was by then isolated from other chiefs, because he was deemed to be too close to white people, a sell-out, so to say.’

  ‘Ndlambe was your father’s, Ngqika’s, uncle? Who became a regent when he was still too young to reign?

  ‘Indeed. But by then we were virtually in a perpetual war with him, and with those who broke from our tribe to follow him when he refused to hand over the reins. He had been looking for an excuse to engage us in war; raided the kraals of our minor chiefs and of the white farmers who were our allies. Then, on the brink of crisis, Ngqika was asked by the colonial authority to assist the commandos that had come to recover the white people’s cattle. Ngqika attempted to negotiate the handover of the cattle with Ndlambe. Ndlambe refused and was joined by many others from the imiDange tribe. Nxele, the war prophet whom everyone was by then calling Makhanda, because he practised witch-doctoring, was the one inciting people, knowing very well it would eventually provoke war with the white colonial government. Seeing the source of trouble, Ngqika demanded from Ndlambe that he hand Nxele over to him. Ndlambe refused, citing that he recognised only Hintsa, across Inciba, as a king; in similar manner Rharhabe, before, had recognised only the paramountcy of Gcaleka. He was basically claiming the kingship of amaRharhabe. Ngqika was furious at such insolence. He could be heard around our hearth murmuring, “I’ll show that dog Ndlambe that I too am a king.”

  ‘All this, of course, was just part of heightened tensions of both Ngqika and Ndlambe wanting to reunite amaRharhabe under one house. Ndlambe continued attacking and confiscating cattle from our sub-chiefs until, compelled by the whites also, we had no choice but to take his actions as a declaration of war. The only way to unite amaRharhabe, we thought, and save our nation from the wrath of white colonial rule, would be first to finish off Ndlambe as the main chief of amaRharhabe. Needless to say, Ndlambe, under the tutelage of Nxele, had similar thoughts about Ngqika. We all wanted to unite amaRharhabe, but who was Ndlambe to think he could be the paramount chief of amaRharhabe, when my father was a legitimate heir? They used the excuse that my father was conniving with white people to trickle the land away from the house of Phalo. What was my father to do when they isolated and united against him?’

  The rain, though still drizzling, was showing signs of slowing down. Phila opened the car door to get away from Maqoma’s suffocating pipe smoke. He looked across to the mountain cap that was bandaged in white mist. Hannibal crossing the Alps in his campaign against Ancient Rome was the only other time he could think of when the cartography of mountains had played as crucial a role as did these formations in the Eastern Cape and Lesotho. The escarpments of the Amathole mountains travelled to join up, in a disjointed way, with the Nkonkobe (Winterberg) spurs to the east, moving to the ridge of the Thyumie valley where amNgika were densely populated, prompting the Scottish missionaries to build a station there, where the first Xhosa converts to Christianity, like the Sogas, resided. The mountains became craggy before they towered into the greenery of the Waterkloof in a series of flat tables as they moved west. By different graduation the Nkonkobe ran to jam up with what began the Ukhahlamba (Drakensberg), though still just a tangle of mountain ranges. Then they formed a solid wall that belted the Eastern Cape from Lesotho, from KwaZulu-Natal, before guttering towards Somerset East and Graaff-Reinet to the east, in rock-falling fastnesses, and, to the west, in solidifying granite, serenading the south-west coast until they hugged the sea to form a solid scrim curtain for the mother city – Cape Town – whose eyes were to the occident and back to the African continent.

  For the Frontier Wars, the major action was on the fastnesses of the Nkonkobe and Amathole mountains, the latter named so by the Xhosa because they resembled cavorting calves.

  Noticing he had gotten wet, Phila got back in the car to join Maqoma, who appeared to be in deep thought still.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. There was, of course, an element of opportunism in Ngqika’s allying himself with the whites. He had first turned for help to the turbulent and disunited Thembus out of frustration. It was the main reason why he married the daughter of their chieftain, Suthu. But the Thembus were too feeble and weak to be relied on. It was a foolish thing to rely on those mercenaries anyway, who’d sell even their own mothers for a sack of corn. Then, out of desperation, Ngqika appealed to the colonial powers, telling them other Xhosa chiefs were uniting against him since he wanted to help white people recover their cattle so we might all live in peace. But no material help was really forthcoming from the colonial forces. We had to brave the war on our own.

  ‘I had just come out of circumcision school then. AmaJingqi, the newly formed warrior tribe, was under my command. It was our tribe’s pride and hope, with agile young men of my age. Everyone in our tribe looked upon amaJingqi to deliver not only the tribe but amaRharhabe into a strong nation.

  ‘We had internal problems too, like the group who followed the new religion under the leadership of Ntsikana. These people preached pacifism around our tribe. That was fine under normal times, but when the evil times were upon us they became a nuisance.

  ‘Nxele and Ntsikana held the major spiritual forces of our times. When Ndlambe fell under Nxele’s influence Ntsikana came to our tribe to influence Ngqika against the spirit of war Nxele was preaching. Myself, I didn’t fully understand Ntsikana. I suspected he knew more than he was telling us about his prophecies. I kept wondering what his real intentions were. Was he commissioned by Ndlambe to make us effeminate? I didn’t want to upset my father with my suspicions. But I grew more suspicious by the day that Ntsikana had come to our tribe on some clandestine mission.’

  Phila was beginning to take serious interest in what Maqoma was telling him. He knew Ntsikana and Nxele as folklore figures of their history; and there was a proverb about the coming of Nxele, the origins of which were vague. Ntsikana, of course, was known as the prophet who predicted the arrival of white people with money and the Bible, but beyond that Phila knew very little, not even the fact that Ntsikana and Nxele were contemporaries. He treated that history the same as he did biblical stories: not really sure if they happened but, for cautionary purposes, went along with them. His eyes started opening when he began reading the history of the world, and discovered how the Hebrews interpreted historical events as the actions of God, something he still found most fascinating about the Old Testament. It now felt to him as though Maqoma was reading the South African Testament to him. He listened further.

  ‘I thought Ntsikana was just under the spell of the white people’s God. To have a good understanding of my thinking you must also recall that amaCirha, Ntsikana’s clan, were the oldest Xhosa royal family. Their lineage went as far as the era when Tshawe, who was the grandfather to Gcaleka and Rharhabe, overthrew Cirha to usurp the Xhosa throne. So there were bound to be some suspicions against Ntsikana on our part; thinking his flaring popularity had something to do with the resurgence of amaCirha to reclaim their crown.

  ‘Ntsikana had come to our tribe because he thought we wanted to avoid war with white people – Ngqika was then seen to be in collaboration with white people. Ntsikana was my first misjudgement as an incumbent prince. In one of our war councils he approached my father, begging, “Chief, please do not fight with your brothers, because if you do you’ll fall. Siyimbumba yamanyama!”

  ‘When he did that I was certain my suspicions were confirmed against him. I wrote his name on my knee as the first person I’d acquaint with the coldness of my spear when I returned victorious from the battle with the Ndlambes. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, our pro-war faction had the support of most councillors. Never have I appreciated Manxoyi’s hard-headedness, which irritated me under normal circumstances, as I did that day. He was the one who crushed Ntsikana.

  ‘Just when we were about to leave, Ntsikana pulled a stunt that sent shivers down my spi
ne. He let fall a gourd that smashed on the ground before us. Pointing to its shards he shouted: “That signifies our nation if we go to war with each other! This thing that has entered me” – he was always going on about the thing that had entered him, which they called The Word – “is telling me. My last word is that your strength can only be found in unity. But if you go to war now, you will forfeit your land. You shall be slaves of other nations. Your land will be a constant curse to you.” But Manxoyi put everyone back on track again within no time.

  ‘The following week we held a ceremony of the Strengthening of Warriors, presided over by our trusted amatola. AmaJingqi were officially given feathers of Indwe as members of the first warrior circle yamafa-nankosi, the happy-die-with-the-king. We ate raw beef, mixed with bitter herbs, and other witch-doctor medicines to ensure victory at war. After that we left in full battle regalia. I, wearing a chief’s leopard band around my head, with a plume from the feathers of a partridge to signify my regiment, led the regiments; a plume of the blue crane, as our highest regiment of Indwe, I wore on the other side to distinguish my highest warrior status. Ah! I can remember that day. My shoulders were bare save for the python skin bands on my upper arms that had been sewn by my twin sister, Nongwane. The snake, especially the mamba and python, was our escutcheon. A necklace of hyena’s teeth hung around my muscle-corded neck. The loin-skin, crude and rough from buffalo hide, fitted snugly to facilitate ease of movement. And around my calves I wore leggings of buffalo tail. My assegai, shielded by an elephant’s tail skin, completed my war regalia.

  ‘As we left, several imbongi incited us to war with chants. The only blemish to the party was Ntsikana, who persistently shouted like a prophet of doom: “Terrible things are coming to the land of Phalo! You’re flirting with destruction, my people! You’re flirting with doom! There cometh a cloud from the sea that will flood and clog your springs of sustenance … Beware if the enemy seeks to draw you in! Do not follow them, because you are being led into a dangerous trap. Male issue of my nation! I saw your heads devoured by ants in the wilderness.”

  ‘His words haunted me like a perpetual nightmare the rest of my life.

  ‘The day we left for the battlefield was sinister in colour, like bird’s entrails. Womenfolk sent us out with a haunting Ntlaba Mkhosi, a war song that showered us with tears.’ Maqoma began singing:

  Hoyo ho!! Kuyaliwa ekhaya (2)

  Yoma ho!! Kuyaliwa ekhaya

  Nase Mthontsi!! Kuyaliwa ma

  EHohita!! Komkhulu ekhaya mna

  Kuyaliwa ekhaya mna (2)

  Hema yo!! Yemolo yo ho ho!

  Heya ho!! Kuthiwa ekhaya mna (2)

  Xel’ eKhobonqa kwaLunqongo

  Kuyaliwa ekhaya mna (2)

  KwelaseQombolo kuCentane

  EQwaninga kuGatyana

  Xela kuyaliwa ekhaya mna (2)

  Yoma yo!! Hoyoyo mama

  Umlo usifikele thina!!

  There’s friction at home (2)

  My mother ho!! They’re fighting at home

  Even at Mthontsi!! There’s friction ma

  At Hohita!! The royal house of my home

  They’re fighting at home O! me (2)

  Wait yo!! Greetings yo ho ho!

  Here ho!! They say at my home O! me (2)

  Tell at Khobonqa, the home of Lunqongo

  There’s friction at home (2)

  In the land of Qombolo at Centane

  At Qwaninga, the home in Gatyana

  Tell they’re fighting at home (2)

  My mother yo!! Hoyoyo mama

  Doom has visited us!

  ‘I wish I could summon my coevals to relive the emotive force of that song. It has a funereal pathos about it, and a plaintive falling cadence. Remind me to teach you how to sing it.’

  Maqoma opened the car door. Silent and animated, Phila followed him. A rainbow arch was forming in the sky. Of his own accord, Phila bent to pick up Maqoma’s stick, which he had seen drop while the old man was getting out of the car. It was only when he failed to make physical contact with the stick that he remembered and began following in Maqoma’s virtual footsteps. The grass and stones, wet and slippery, made things difficult for him as they climbed the mountain. As soon as Phila caught up Maqoma continued his narrative in a plaintive voice.

  ‘When I cast my mind back, my heart wrings in hearing that song still.’

  ‘We still sing it,’ Phila told him, ‘in jubilation though, when we have traditional celebrations. It is usually in mock battles people enact when they have had one too many.’

  ‘You mean mock stick fights?’ Maqoma cheered up a little.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Are you any good in a stick fight?’

  ‘No! I’m rubbish at it. I was always getting bullied about it in school.’

  ‘We must remedy that.’ They fell silent for a moment before Maqoma continued.

  ‘We marched out, trance-like, with a marked sense of order and calmness. We didn’t like to mask our fear with undue jolliness. It was saddest because we were going to fight our own brethren. We knew death awaited us on the other end in their hands, our own brothers, whose only quarrel with us was that they chose to follow Ndlambe. We mastered our fears for what had to be done since it was our long-awaited chance to prove the valour of our unit, amaJingqi. That day was grave and unswerving. The thing with our nation, for instance, unlike the Zulus who’ve always been a little belligerent, is that we first do everything, and almost anything, to avoid fighting. But once we decide on it we commit. We prefer non-reckless bravery. We admire valour more when it is tempered with moderation.

  ‘We marched until we reached Ntaba kaNdoda – out there.’ Maqoma pointed to the mountain across from them.

  ‘Your grave is there, isn’t it?’ Phila asked hesitantly.

  ‘So I believe. But how that came to pass I will tell you in due time. As I was saying –’

  ‘I read somewhere that it is rather neglected. Perhaps I must apply to the municipality to fix it? Then we can remedy that.’ Phila felt embarrassed for the whole nation.

  ‘We bivouacked for the night at Ntaba kaNdoda. It is impossible to describe the feeling that comes with sunset when a man is on the peak of a high mountain a day before what might be his last.’

  They were now halfway to the summit. Phila stopped to survey the distance they’d covered, and to give himself a breather because he was feeling slightly dizzy. On the flanks of the khaki-coloured hills Xhosa villages clung like spit on a wall. The mountain chain was heavily forested where it was not covered by copses and scrub. Some hills stood in dull relief against the clearing sky.

  Sunsets, in this land of longing, bring a crescendo of pain, reminding one of the inevitability of tears in mortal things, Phila thought to himself.

  ‘The sun was quick in taking the moon out of its pocket that evening. The moon took her time bringing her flock of stars out to pasture. When they came out the dark night became ghostly. Dawn, with its pink fingers over the mountains, came as it must the following morning. I had had a restless night. It was my custom to meet dawn at the top of the mountain. I went to a high hill to watch the sunrise in its rosy splendour, listening to the counsel of the sounds of daybreak. All I could think was, if this should be the day I join my ancestors, I hope at least there is a sun as beautiful as this where they are.

  ‘Where I am now, there is a man who was a king in a white man’s world. He says he also liked climbing mountains to watch the sunrise. His name is Hadrian, an emperor of Rome in his time. His favourite mountain was Mount Etna. We get along fine with our ritual of meeting at dawn. In the days of my living it earned me the pet name of Jong’Umsobomvu – the one who watches the sun’s lustre. My mind works better in the early hours. That is why I made it a point, especially when I had important things to consider, of rising early and sitting upon the highest point, to contemplate things. High mountain scene to sprawling land below has always been dear to my heart. I had hoped when death came for me it would find m
e on the mountaintop somewhere at dawn. Well, things turned out differently, very differently, for me.

  ‘We marched early towards the open Debe Flats. When we stopped on the last hillcrest to descend in single file, yonder, we could see their warriors waiting for us on the declivities on the plains of Amalinde. Mdushane, Ndlambe’s son, led their army. It is going to be a battle of princes, after all, I thought to myself. I was glad because I knew vast, plain fields would play to our advantage. We were more disciplined, younger, agile, more organised and passionate.

  ‘Round about the time you rest your first plough-share, in the late morning, I led my men in a mighty charge. Hastily the enemy came to meet us. Our raised weapons clashed. If you’ve ever heard metal ring against stone you know the sound of battle. That sound echoes in the ear of your soul, eternally. I sometimes hear people, who have probably never been to war, speak of war as if it were a noble thing. War may be necessary, but there’s nothing noble about it. It is a foul, stinking zone of blood and ordure that lingers in your nostrils for days. If by some kind of scatological perversion you enjoy shit running down men’s legs whose faces are twisted beyond recognition with fear, perhaps war will be noble to you. The majority of us see no grandeur in that waste of life. If you have ever seen the face of a young person, full of uncomprehending bewilderment, dying, you would despise war forever. I’ve never met a man who does not believe in God on the battlefield. The battlefield is the platform of naked needs; in such, God is never far away.

  ‘We forced them to hesitate and retreat. We advanced, forgetting all about Ntsikana’s warning. Those days were the days Shaka was routing other tribes with a battle strategy called a ‘bull’s horn’. Ndlambe had a lot of Mfengus on his side who had learnt this strategy from Shaka impis. The first time Ndlambe tried it was on us that day. Late did we learn they were not retreating but withdrawing the centre of their battle line in order to entice us into going deeper. It worked. With us deep in the centre of the phalanx of their broken bull’s horn circle they gave a signal for some of their warriors who were hiding on the bulge of the hills to close in. These were mostly the Gcalekas, led by Hintsa himself. As soon as I saw them I knew we were done for. My only wish was for my men not to panic. The enemy had also chosen the battlefield well to suit their strategy. The plains were guarded by small hills from both sides where the Gcalekas hid.