“What did you interpret that to mean?” he asked.
“Zat I’ll know ven I get zere!” They laughed half-heartedly before the girls, in muted giggles, went inside. Arno took the opportunity to expound, still in German.
“You know what? I always wanted to sleep with a black woman. I mean not a hooker. A nice good clean black woman. It vill be different … you know vot I mean?”
Phila felt things were fast moving from heights of politeness to buddy luridness and locker-room banter and he wasn’t sure how to react. In the end he decided to be a good sport and indulge Arno, but he stuck to English. If they kept up this conversation in German, he thought, it would only prolong the luridness.
“I bet none too different from sleeping with a white woman, except for the colour of her bush?” he asked.
“I know. But ze difference in skin colour type, culture and race surely brings viz it subtlety of tensions zat are ripe for transformation into sexual energy. Do you not zhink?”
“Well, I never really gave it that much thought. But now that you mention it, I see your point.”
Mercifully, the girls came back, which the men took as their signal for a change of topic. They brought with them a bottle of whiskey, dilating pupils and canned laughter. It was Matswane’s turn to listen to Arno’s ben trovatos. Rolling his eyes, Phila clicked the front door shut behind him on his way to the loo, partly to prevent mosquitoes coming in, but secretly to have a momentary respite from Arno’s voice. When he came back he was offered a glass of whiskey. Arno was astonished to learn Phila drank ‘zat Amerikan ding’ and they all laughed, though Phila not as heartily.
The sea had risen with the wind that was gusting strongly. After they had finished eating Arno wanted to go swimming.
“I couldn’t move from this stool even if I wanted to,” Martyana said.
Only Matswane was game. She went inside to put on her bathing suit, and off the two of them disappeared into the darkness.
Quite how they got onto the subject of the dangers of itis, Phila couldn’t recall, but soon he and Martyana were in a deep discussion. She asked what it was called in Xhosa. Phila said ukwetyisa and went on a drunken explanation about cud and two bovine stomachs, because in the confusing sense of Xhosa words having a minimum of two meanings and maximum of sometimes eight meanings, ukwetyisa meant literally chewing cud also. They went on with their malarkey, more to disguise their concern about the pair who had gone swimming in the strong sea in the dark, conjuring the notion yoku thwetyulwa, in Phila’s mind. The Xhosas associated the high rate of death by drowning around river mouths as a call by the River People – the ancestors. Hence they also regarded river mouths as dangerous, sacred places. “Do you think we should go check on them?” he asked Martyana.
“I wouldn’t worry about them. Arno, you know, is, what you say, a professional swimmer in Germany.” She did an imitation of breaststroke to make her point.
Phila told her, in mock fear, that it was exactly the hour the River People called their victims into the underwater sea caves. Martyana, who had a dreamer’s gaze, was fascinated by the stories of Xhosa lore Phila told, the way his grandma used to tell them as in intsomi.
The duo returned after an hour or so. Arno, for some reason, was naked, holding his swimming costume with the hand that was not holding Matswane’s, his penis shrunk into a button. Phila was used to odd European behaviour, but he wondered what Matswane made of it.
Arno excused himself to go and sleep after an unscripted gulp of that ‘American ding’. In his overbearing and blustering manner, which Phila was getting used to by now, he dismissed his girlfriend, saying she could stay up if she wished. He did everything with a predatory boldness that irritated Phila. After a while Matswane excused herself too. “It’s been a long day,” she said as she drained her glass. “Don’t stay up too late, babes.” She ruffled Phila’s head as she left. “It was nice meeting you, Martyana. See you on some adventure tomorrow.”
For a while things felt a little awkward between Martyana and Phila. He broke the tension by asking where in Poland she was from. “Not that I know any part in Poland,” he added.
“Ummm, originally, Kolobrzeg,” Martyana said. “Do you know anything about?”
“Only that it’s on the extreme side of the Baltic Sea and has terrible winters, with the sun setting at midday sometimes.”
“That’s my home.”
Her visage had a troubling humility. Phila just could not make the commonality, or connecting attraction, to the blustering character of Arno.
“So you probably don’t think South African winters are anything to write home about?”
“Let’s just say I’ve never felt a need, not once in three years, to wear a parka with a fur-trimmed hood, or put my hands in mittens,” laughed Martyana. “I love South African weather.” She paused to assess his reaction before continuing. “My family lives in Krakow now. I studied in Warsaw before moving to Munich. It was there I met Arno. But we begin, what you call … go out?” She looked to Phila for reassurance that she had the right words. He nodded in encouragement. “Go out, yeah … only here in Africa. Before, in Germany, we see each other, greet, but nothing much.” She had a better command of English than Arno, and her accent wasn’t nearly as heavy. “I go to Munich because I want to study under a very good German artist called Juerno.”
Phila and Martyana talked almost until dawn. They hugged as they stood to go to bed. Then kissed. Though its meaning was vague, the kiss was accomplished without hesitation or guilty haste. Phila put it down to sheer exhaustion, being very drunk and obvious mutual affability; he really liked her quiet manner, the tranquillity it fostered with the placid sea.
When Phila woke around noon Matswane was nowhere to be found. A note on the kitchen table said he should meet them at the river café for lunch at 12. He took a shower and had a little hair of the dog that bit him the previous night. Then he strolled over to the braai area to see if there was any of the lamb stew left in the potjie. There was plenty still. He dipped in a morsel of garlic bread without bothering to warm the pot. It tasted even better than before. Having made up his mind not to join the others for lunch at the café, he unplugged his computer, which was on the dining room table. He took the laptop outside and sat on the veranda to read up on the notes he had made from his reading and conversations with Maqoma.
“Anything could have incited war during those volatile times,” he read. “It might seem ridiculous now that the casus belli happened to be the stealing of an axe by Tsili. Tsili was caught stealing a white farmer’s axe in Fort Beaufort. He was rescued by his friends in a daring stance that involved cutting off the hand of a KhoiKhoi prisoner to whom the farmer had cuffed Tsili. The colonial government demanded that Tsili should be handed over. Sandile, as the Ngika chief then, refused. Even in the midst of grave intimidation he stood his ground. It led to another all-out war. Such are the fortunes of men under the rule of fools.
“The colonial government had not bargained on an all-out war. They were under the impression that Sandile was pusillanimous. They sought to teach him a lesson that would deal the kaffirs a quick powerful blow, to settle things once and for all. Maqoma and his brothers were in retreat. The cantankerous Thyali had just died. Sandile first engaged the British forces on the plains of Gwanga but was routed. Maqoma, who was sitting that war out, came secretly to train Sandile’s warriors in guerrilla warfare tactics. The British hit them hard by burning Xhosa fields and huts, digging up and burning granaries. Both armies were disintegrating in disarray. AmaNgqika were almost prostrated on account of famine. Identifying where the problem secretly lay, the British again placed Maqoma under house arrest in Port Elizabeth under the pretence of consulting with him. Sandile’s warriors were ensconced in their mountain fastness, but without victuals or provisions it was just a matter of time before they came down with their tails between their legs, or continued dying horrific deaths in the wild. Things were extremely bad. The kloofs reeked wit
h the stench of putrefying flesh. The weather became oppressively hot, as if nature herself was colluding against them. Their sustenance came from occasional raids on white farms, relieving wagons of their loads, ransacking vulnerable posts, overpowering weak patrols, and raiding Mfengu settlements for food. They did these things with diligence and reasonable success, but it was unsustainable. Eventually, Sandile sued for peace, while claiming not to be defeated.
“Sandile had learnt from Maqoma that suing for peace while still in a stronger position affords tremendous negotiating powers.”
Phila re-read the pages he had written, but they didn’t satisfy him. He gazed out at the sea and its sunlit waves.
‘The thing was this.’ Maqoma sat down on the chair next to Phila. ‘No matter how many redcoats you killed, more came from the sea. They were like a hydra with numerous heads. Unlike them, we had no power to cross the sea, neither did we have friends far away to fight our wars. The white government called for peace talks. We met with them – under the leadership of Cox, if I’m not mistaken. Three friendly cheers rose from our warriors to signal that talks were beginning in peaceful terms. We sat, myself in front, followed by Xhonxo, Anta and Casa, Nqeno’s albino son. Thyali was dead by then. Nqeno was himself minding the rest of the warriors, ready to come to our assistance whenever we needed it. There were a lot of our councillors around, watching for any strange behaviour from the side of the British.
‘The British are cunning. They sent, with their negotiating team, my sister Nongwane to persuade me to surrender. I was very glad to see my mother’s child. Then she had the cheek to lecture me on what protracted war would mean for our people. I, who was living daily with it, whose home was the wilderness and the canyons, like a wild beast, while she was comfortable on the warm couches of her newly found religion in the missions. Warden read the terms of peace from the Governor’s letter to us. We were to surrender Sandile and his mother, Suthu, to live under British protection. We were to give up our firearms, powder, and any KhoiKhoi deserters that might be with us. We were to move out of the Chumie (Tyumi), Amathole, Keiskamma, Ntaba kaNdoda and Buffalo Mountain fastnesses to the foothill plains near the Nyati River, with our women and children. Basically, we were expected to surrender all our traditional homelands. Warden and Shepstone, who were interpreting, would show us the country we were to reside in and its boundaries. The land we were given went from the Kabousie to the Kei, including the Gunube area. After paying close attention to the terms, I made bold to answer. To say I was seething would be an understatement, but I was careful to control my tone so as not to give undue offence.
‘“That is not peace you are offering but surrender, as if we were defeated. Is it a character of men who are after peace to propose impossible stipulations as peaceful terms? We will only settle for peace that is honourable.” I stopped. Our men grumbled their compliance. I looked at my choleric brother, Anti, to see if he was with me. I knew if trouble came it would be from his direction. His expression satisfied me. I could see even he was praying that I would lower my tone. Cox’s brow furrowed with studious application from the weight of my words. Truth be told, I knew that we were all tired of war but I was not prepared to negotiate slavery as peace for my people. So I continued.
‘“When at Gaga the other day you proposed to terminate war. You said it was the wish of the Governor to forget the past. You mentioned his willingness to give up anger of things gone by, things mentioned in his paper. Now, what firearms do you want from us? If there’s to be peace between our nations, what are you going to do with the firearms? Why must peace be maintained by only yourselves being armed? Who appointed you policemen of the country? The KhoiKhoi were born in this country. I have no power of handing and not handing them to anybody. They are their own people by right. And as for Sandile, he’s our chief. Do you now want to separate us from our chiefs? You want us to move to strange lands. Who will tend the graves of our forefathers here then?” I pointed to the rising ground east of Mkhubiso where my father, Ngqika, was buried. “Many of our forefathers are buried here, and that land” – I pointed to the Baviaans River– “that is the garden land that has fed our nation since time immemorial. Today you say it is yours to settle. We didn’t quarrel with you when by the hand of Somerset you deprived us of our motherland. We moved away from Gaga, Mankazana, and so forth, where you saw fit to settle your farmers and Mfengus. You confiscated our cattle and distributed them to the Boers that helped you fight us. We were aggrieved in our hearts but we moved on, with our hearts aching in our throats. Yet now, in turn, you do not grant us the courtesy of remaining where we wish with whom we wish. Every place we move you covet. And for that matter” – and this time I pointed to those I had heard had been part of the delegation that had murdered Hintsa – “why did you assassinate King Hintsa? Was it not enough that you had already stripped him of everything, and encouraged amaMfengu to rise against him? You had to murder him too? Where is this peace to be found if no justice is meted to us? Why has your government not brought Smith to justice, he who was the killer of our king? Instead we’ve heard that Smith has been promoted to figure the Indians after us.
‘You create enmity against the black nation, though they’re blood relatives. Do you think bullets are stronger than blood?”
‘Warden interrupted me. “The Governor will continue military operations against you if you don’t accept these terms, and give your land to the Mfengus.”
‘I interjected impatiently: “Let it not be said I’m the one who put obstacles in the way of peace. We, too, want to go and plough our fields, the fields you destroyed in inhumane maliciousness. It’s already way past planting time. You know our stand. Thus we shall have you to thank when you advise the Governor to better counsel as I’m sure he does not make any major decisions without first consulting his generals. We want to go back to our land and live in peace. It is cold out there in the mountains. We do not want to live like wild animals as your acquisition of our land has forced us to live. But if we are forced, we will have no choice but to remain there until better terms for peace are found between our nations; terms that testify to the fact that no one won this war. These peace terms you’ve placed before us are treading on our entrails.
‘“Should the Governor give our land away to the Mfengus, we’d not give them peace to sit anywhere. They’d have to take their muskets along when they went to plough the land. If we cannot live in peace in this land, no one will. We’ll tow and bury it under our own ruins. And you, too, will be forced to plough your fields and dig your graves with your bayonets.”
‘I halted, seeing all sides were now alarmed, realising that my remonstrance was sounding like a declaration of war. I didn’t care. By then in fact I was dancing with rage. The British officers held their breath in contempt and angry expectation.
‘Taking up my hat, I called for my horse. I rose in my stirrups and before I brought the whip down, I said: “I’m sure you know our stance by now!” And I galloped away. When the ram’s horn was blown my men followed me. The white people must have imagined my audacity was leaning on something. Little did they know it was just a bluff. In any case we had nothing to lose, our rope had been stretched to breaking point. Cox pursued us with vague intentions. Just before we got to the fastness of Ngqika’s Kop I saw they made to spend the night at the mission station near the river, so I sent scouts to ask the intentions of their patrol. He sent back his answer, saying peace could only be accomplished if we agreed to the Governor’s terms. It remained clear to me that their peaceful terms included our enslavement.
‘The skirmishes and retaliations between us got worse. Warden came with the Governor’s answer accompanied by that megalomaniac bag of ordure Smith, whose dolichocephalic features, thick vomers, and serpent-green eyes lurking under his bristling brows made me want to puke. With his parvenu love of pomp, Smith was nearly always in his coat of mail, metal greaves and so on. He wore double-soled shiny knee-boots with his grey trousers stuffed into them,
and, that day, a buckskin coat trimmed with fur over his red devil’s coat. But under all that you could see a man afraid to die like most of us, perhaps more so because of all of his pomposity.
‘It was the last time I saw him before he came, a few years later, even more pompous, if that were possible, having recently been appointed Governor.
‘On that occasion Suthu, acting as regent of amaNgqika, according to them, accompanied them. She came with her so-called principal chiefs, Vena, Guyana and Hasslas. Seeing her on such close terms with the killers of Hintsa made her abhorrent in our eyes.
‘The British came escorted by eight dragoons to show their might. On our side we were guarded by two thousand warriors, most armed with firearms, which was something that put the fear of the devil in them. Not very far in the distance were about four thousand more men. These were our foot warriors, mostly amaGcaleka Kreli had sent at my request, forming a line on a nearby slope, ready to attack on my signal.
‘The beetle-browed Smith started with his old bravura and melodrama. He cursed us as “remorseless and relentless savages” he was ready to “teach a lesson until we cried out for mercy”. His characteristic splenetic, capricious and tyrannical temperament was at its worst that day. His unpleasant, sneering manner was also, no doubt, to convince himself of his own importance. My expression was stern, remote and distant, which concerned Warden, my friend. I knew by Smith’s anger that he was involuntarily bearing tidings that were favourable towards us. He tried to make a rare show of our chiefs but was reined in by his companions. He started his speech by trying to make us aware, in his vainglorious, posturing manner and with the gimmicky peacocking of a narcissist, revealing only how hard he was trying to impress on everyone his own importance and the vulgar greatness of the government he served. He ended up making himself a cynosure by rounding everything to his own glory. How I scorned the pretentiousness of that man.
Broken River Tent Page 34
