‘That day, as usual, the rain ceremony started with due sacredness. Mqantsi chanted the usual arcane gibberish, leading an ox (a magical rain animal) with a special leather thong across the land affected by drought. People followed him in awed anticipation and hypnotic superstition, hoping for the thong not to snap as that would have spelt unheard prayers. The thong seldom broke, Mqantsi made sure of that.
‘The ceremony was half the issue. Mqantsi dragged my name through the mud as soon as the sacred ceremonies were finished. It was no secret that I didn’t go for the mumbo-jumbo, whether traditional or foreign. I tolerated ceremonies for the peace of the society. I didn’t mind them so long as they had some social value and – this was most crucial to me – they promoted respect for chiefs. I long learnt that orderly life among human beings depends upon the presence of some common sentiments that control their behaviour as individuals in relation to others for the benefit of all. If superstition regulates sentiments for social communal benefits, fine by me. But if it is in opposition to the people’s sentiments, and to chiefdom, I oppose it, even if it is brought by an angel on a golden tablet. For me, God’s voice has to take cognisance of the social order of the group; meet people where they are. I don’t care about any law that does not respect the customary ways of the people it wishes to govern. By wishing to suppress, or govern by force, belief can do no good. All it will do is set a dangerous chain of reaction in motion. People will only see it as an alien agency that threatens their situation. Once you undermine people’s ways, which have a very strong hold on their national conscience, friction will develop.
‘So I tolerated superstitious ceremonies for the greater good of the tribe. That was why I first tried to reason with the faction that was led by Mqantsi – for the sake of our people. When they approached me for support to attack white people, I told them, “We must first wait until we establish a trusting relationship with the missionaries. From them we shall learn their tricks, perhaps even how to manufacture weapons similar to theirs for ourselves.”
‘“Is that the excuse you give for playing a coward now, great Maqoma?” Mqantsi challenged me, interrupting me as I was speaking. A commoner interrupting a chief while he was still talking was not heard of in our culture. It was a sign of the low opinion he held of me. It irked me, of course, but I kept quiet, giving him enough rope to hang himself. I hated the mocking irony by which he pronounced my name as “great Maqoma”! He continued. “You know as well as I do that the presence of white missionaries has never deterred the white government from attacking and killing us for sport and for our land. What do you suppose will be different this time? Or is it as I’ve heard – that the fort buildings erected next to your villages have brought water in your knees?”
‘It became apparent to me that the meeting had been organised to denigrate my reputation in the eyes of the people, not for rainmaking. Suthu, Ngqika’s widow, had arranged it thus, so that I might lose credibility in the eyes of the people, which would be her son Sandile’s gain. By appearing brave in pushing for an immediate war with the white people they thought to undermine my power and subvert my authority. Although I was fuming from Mqantsi’s obstreperous solecism, I tried to minimise the damage by keeping my temper cool.
‘“Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Mqantsi,” I said, picking my pipe with a grass stem. “But the missionary presence in our midst limits potential colonial mischief, and reduces their atrocities. When they know there are some of their own who observe and judge their destruction it tempers their cruelty. Now is not the time for us to put the flute of our anger on the lips. Let us first arm ourselves with guns. It is of little use to fight white people with assegais. Their firearms are far too advanced.”
‘There was open discontent in the air. It could have easily led to revolt. Most had no patience to embrace what they saw as a forlorn hope. But Mqantsi, who was obviously chosen to be at the front of confrontation against my leadership, attacked again. “Let Maqoma wag his tail between his legs and cower if he wants.”
‘Such audacity! I kept thinking to myself. Things had gone too far. Mqantsi was bold because he was sure of chieftain backing. I suspected my brother Thyali was in it too, wishing to capitalise his influence on the inexperienced young Sandile. Mqantsi continued, more charged. “Let the great Maqoma ingratiate his missionaries, but we, the sons of Phalo, shall not be implicated in that degenerate cowardice. We shall not sell off our forefathers’ land for buttons and strange sayings, as Ngqika did. I’ve been suspecting that the great snake of Mthontsi has been growing weak. Now I see it with my own eyes. They’ve tamed the mirror of Nothontho! Maqoma was sharp as a double-edged sword in his day, but not anymore! Perhaps none braver than him shall ever come in the history of our chieftainship. But that was before the sea came to his knees.”
‘It is very frustrating when stupidity becomes audacious; fatal when it has the majority following of the tribe. I listened with ripe boredom and mounting anger as he continued to insult me.
‘“Personally I never thought I would see the day when the scaly python of Nothontho would wallow in feminine credulity of believing what gives him joy. I say those who woke late saw nothing. They’ve not seen the python uncoiling itself, the star of Mthontsi appearing at dawn. The fire burning in the valleys of Ngcwenxa when the son of Nothontho lost his cool. What tragedy Ngqika committed by welcoming white people in our midst. It is he who raised those muck-eating Mfengu into pecking their necks. It is our tribe who is now living on muck. The Mfengus have outstripped us with our own cattle. Shaka was wise in eliminating the Mfengu vermin on his land. We were stupid for opening our hearts to them. Look now, our land, from Cwecweni to Ngquthu, reeks of Mfengu vermin. They flee like the sun when they move because their soles have grown callused as baobab bark.
‘“Do you really think white people would live in peace with you, Maqoma, just because you want to live in peace with them? What they really want is to see the nation of Phalo annihilated and all of this land in their hands. Whatever happened to the talks you used to inflame us with that white people’s idea of peace was making us their vassals? That there was an uncrossable desert between our habits and theirs?” He stopped to collect himself while making sure the cheers were heard before continuing. “So long as I’m still eating the millet of this land, white people shall feel the pinch from Phalo’s vice.”
‘Thundering shouts of approval denoted support for Mqantsi’s sentiments. I wrote him on my knee, swearing the year would not be over before he slept under the sod, wrapped in the mat of my vengeance. I knew I couldn’t touch him then because his fame was high on behalf of the hopes people had in his powers to placate the wrath of the ancestors. Being a leader depends on your ability to choose your moments, to adapt your course to practical demands. You must know and be able to submit to necessity; how to build and profit by materials at hand. There’s no need to go on the offensive if you know the field does not suit your tactics, and the timing is wrong. One who chooses time and place can rise superior even when the greatest odds are against him. That is the sign of true leadership.
‘I knew where to tie Mqantsi and let him learn the weight of my anger. There was nothing I could do to protect my brother Thyali, however. His obduracy and myopia stood between us and drove him, stupidly, to sacrifice our people unnecessarily. I had always admired his sterling simplicity and discipline, but when he was under the influences of the warring party he lost his best qualities. Fortunately, one of my elders sensed the direction of my anger and tried to placate things by putting Mqantsi in his place. He put aside the calabash next to the crock he had just drawn from. Then, wiping his hands on the slumbering dog at his feet, he addressed Mqantsi.
‘“You think you’ve grown so wise and popular to earn the right of lifting your lips in scowl, and laying harsh words against chiefs, Mqantsi? Since when has being a rainmaker entitled one to throw abuses at royal blood? You think you can talk the equal of chiefs just because you know how to lie to people by pr
omising the rain you’ve no power of making? If you don’t watch your mouth, your doom is in the offing.”
‘The intense reproach of the old man was agreeable to me, but things had gone too far for it to tame my anger. Others stood also to draw Mqantsi back from his insolence, to little avail. Mqantsi continued on the trail of his insults. Maidens came to sprinkle the floor with water to settle the dust. I looked into the distance with frustration. The wooded plains and slopes along the heights of Mgxada beckoned.
‘Circumstances plot to the advantage of the devil’s mischief when he is preparing your destruction. Two days after the ceremony the rain came down in a mad rush, destroying instead of rejuvenating the dying crops. But nobody cared. The fact was that it came, which to them meant Mqantsi stood in favour with the ancestors. From then on the grumbling wind could only fan the fire of Mqantsi’s popularity. Thyali, who could never resist the temptation to win glory for his ego, which this time was fanned by Mqantsi, started rustling white farmers in flat disobedience of my orders. This gave a long-awaited excuse to the Cape Mounted Rifles, the mercenary destructive force hired by the colonial government, to come down on us like a disease. Within no time Thyali and his people were driven away from their land and forced to resettle on barren land. As I didn’t think that was an opportune time to hazard a sortie, I didn’t go to their assistance. My best strategy lay in remaining passive while waiting to feast on the carrion. I knew whites were dying to extend the fight to me because they recognised I still held the greater balance of power. My plan was to play fast and loose between the two belligerents. I knew Smith would not be content with only Thyali’s land; his success would serve only to sharpen his greed. I sent emissaries to Hintsa, the paramount of the Gcalekas, warning him of impending white attacks on both our lands.
‘In the meantime I thought it an opportune time to deal with other internal issues troubling my tribe. Matwana, a minor chief in my tribe, had been causing me some concern by pilfering followers to the Mqantsi faction. When he suddenly fell ill with a mysterious sickness that caused him constant headaches, continuous nose bleeds and strange carbuncles on his skin, I saw an opportunity to be done with him once and for all, and exterminate his infected chieftainship. I’m not proud of what I had to do to maintain power sometimes, but necessities will arise when the devil drives, and in shameful times it is normal to be ashamed. The power of a chief depends upon his ability to manipulate his people’s weaknesses to his own advantage.
‘With four councillors and witch-doctors we paid Matwana a visit at his base in Mkhubiso, near Burnshill Mission. The diviners I brought, encouraged by myself, suggested that death was in Matwana’s own hearth. Strategic witch-hunts were made. Naturally, most of his wealthy followers took the blame for his sickness. In our tribal system when you destroy wealthy aristocratic councillors you destroy the tribe, because the power of a chief is highly dependent on the wealth of his aristocrats. We accused Matwana’s wealthy aristocrats of sorcery, a sin that is punishable by death. We attached loops of ingximba to their doorposts, as tokens of accusation, and summoned them to the great place to answer the accusations. Many of them fled to the colony and the missionaries, which prompted the missionary Laing to request a congress with me.
‘On the agreed congress day, they came with my old friend Matshaya. Did I tell you about Matshaya?
‘He once saved my life, at the Battle of Amalinde.’
‘I believe you did,’ Phila said.
‘Matshaya was living in missionary quarters then, and fully practising white man’s religion. The day was oppressively hot, without a single cloud in the sky. We sat under the tree of umsintsi as we congressed.’
‘Why did white people call the tree kaffirboom?’
‘I don’t know, perhaps because we liked to congress beneath its shade? It grew abundantly in our areas.’
‘Matshaya …?’ Phila prompted.
‘I was very much interested in hearing about the health of my quondam friend, who served as an interpreter between the missionaries and us,’ Maqoma continued. ‘He began the proceedings wearing a wary warm smile. “It’s been a long time, my chief, since our eyes met. Things multiply and the grass is long.”
‘I always had a soft spot for him, but then was not the time for intimacies. “Is that why we don’t see each other anymore, Matshaya?” I asked, rather crudely. I immediately berated myself and tried to placate him. “I know we are scarce from each other’s eyes, Matshaya, but you know how it is with you there and me here. I never thought it had anything to do with the grass, or any of Qamata’s designs. It only proved too dangerous for you to be Xhosa, so you found yourself other masters. I thought that was why we don’t see each other anymore. Am I reading things wrongly from where I’m standing? Enlighten me.”
‘“I guessed you’d see it that way,” he answered sheepishly.
‘“The cat lies at the hearth in our villages while you drink fermented drinks with a thorn; living in the lap of luxury and trailing foreign robes. Beyond that we’ve been keeping well despite the pressure your colonial friends put us through. We have a hard life this side, spilt out like water since hearing the misfortunes that have befallen our tribes, but we know Qamata bends his eye on the deeds of man. Have you any news for us?”
‘“I’ll get straight to the point,” he said, standing, casting a towering shadow with his stature and robes.
‘“You never were one to beat about the bush, Matshaya,” I encouraged him, lighting my pipe. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted you always close to me. You are loyal, but loyalty has many faces, I guess. Your only weakness was always too much honesty, always allowing your tongue to speak before your brain. Repair yourself and let’s get on with it. What do your friends want?”
‘“My missionary friends feel they need to warn you that you’re on a dangerous course, my chief. The green flies have reached us that you’re planning an all-out attack on white colonial powers. That will be suicide. They have brought me along to assist in persuading you against such an undertaking, for old times’ sake. I hope you don’t mind.”
‘I found it funny that he should still address me as his chief while wearing immaculate clothes, and having washed the ochre off his face, carrying a book with a red mouth in his hands with clean nails. And teeth, white as kids against burnt grass. I looked a beggar compared to him. Part of me wanted him to shrink before his disgrace of choosing opulence over struggling traditional life, but he was not biting.
‘“A suit and a book with a red mouth – wages of slavery are low these days, wouldn’t you say, Matshaya?”’
‘“If my chief sees it that way.” Matshaya showed indifference.
‘“You think because you walk with white men and their flowing hair your ears will reflect the sun also? Tell your white friends I want my people they harbour in their missions. Those people wish to escape their obligation in our societies. They must hand them back. Otherwise we shall have no choice but to regard the missionaries as harbouring the fugitives. How many women do you have there who’ve run away from uphundlo? How many thieves and murderers escape their due punishments to your missions into your Jesus’s hands who seems ready to forgive only sins committed against kaffirs without justice, but demands the justice of white people’s courts where the ill is committed against white people?” I asked cynically, still trying to bring him down from his high horse. He ignored my comments and continued with his mission, which irked me more.
‘“We’re not here to talk about that, my chief, perhaps later. I know whatever has reached the ears of my chief about my reasons for defecting must not have favoured my side of the story. The world gives an easier ear to slander than to truth …”
‘“Are you one with the world then, Matshaya?” I interjected. “It seems it’s you who’s now arguing slander.” My resentment mounting, I paused, wishing to give him a chance to defend himself. But when he failed to lower his eyes in shame I saw no reason to respect someone who obviously had lost his f
or me, so I continued in controlled impatience. “What reached me, Matshaya, is that you’ve deserted the field Qamata gave you to cultivate for a less stony one. In my eyes you have no reason to be proud, not the Matshaya I know anyway.”
‘“In my lights,” it was his turn to interject with a hard voice, seeing no point of sparing me, I suppose, “conditions that made for our traditional life no longer exist, and to resist the times is to set yourself on a collision course with the wagon of destiny. Still that’s not why we’re here. My friends want me to tell you that Her Majesty’s government is much more powerful than the Xhosa nation incorporated, let alone the Ngqikas. If you love our people, as you purport to do, you’ll realise that it is futile to resist inevitability. You’ll only bring meaningless death to our people.”
‘I became surprised by the superior disdain his voice acquired the more we spoke.
‘“They’re not your people, Matshaya,” I retorted indignantly. “You gave up that right when you chose to join white missions. And since when is defending our inheritance futility? So long as there’s one warrior left in this land of Phalo the sons of Albion shall catch hell before they’re able to confiscate it.”
‘Matshaya kept a momentary calm before answering. “The suppleness of your mind has always beat with intelligence, my chief. But these are dangerous times for intelligence. It would afford you a better future to assume meekness. I won’t attempt to compete with your eloquence. But these are things above any one man, and these are not times for eloquence, or gallantry. We’ve fallen on evil times, not an epoch of heroes that was our forefathers’. Your valour is indisputable, everyone knows that, but these are other times. There is no sense in fighting an elephant with a walking stick. For the sake of the people, find other ways.
Broken River Tent Page 25
