Broken River Tent

by Mphuthumi Ntabeni

  ‘Listening to Smith was an ordeal but I did it in forced politeness. I had never been able to breathe easy in the company of that man. His two-facedness was the worst: mingling threats with flattery, twirling and chewing his whiskers; those tomcat glinting eyes of his.

  ‘“Children of great Ngika! You know when your father died, his last words were for you to be the friends of the English and live with them in peace. You forgot his injunctions and made war with the colony, which is still prepared to come to you with every desire to help and remove the difficulties under which you labour. The Governor would have gladly pressed you against his heart had you been obedient to him like his children. Now I’m here. In one hand I hold peace, in another war. I feel that deeds await me of which your kaffir minds cannot comprehend. The Governor and I are good men. We feel for you and your children, and will be your fathers if you stop your insurgence and obey us. If you do not learn to give up your old order for the far better one we bring, you shall be subjugated by the torrential force of Her Majesty’s government. We shall go on until you become Her Majesty’s humble servants. Artillery shall achieve what persuasion fails. My ear is at the heart of your needs, if only you would let go of your barbaric nature and be civilised. Swear to me then that as of now you shall be sedulous in avoiding mischief towards the colony, and I shall bring the spectre of peace upon your land …”

  ‘He followed this speech with forced praises, poisoned by his malignity, now and then switching from assiduous truth to the wild ideas his demented mind produced, mingling disdain with generosity, and so on and so forth. He despised the nation whose well-being he sought for his own vanity. Smith was a garrulous and infernal bore. We suffered him for the expedience of peace.

  ‘I knew he was a man with a firm grip on the sword-hilt so, wishing to set a tone for the other chiefs, I answered first.

  ‘“We will be kaffir Englishmen.”

  ‘From what we had seen D’Urban do to the Mfengus, this was their design for us.

  ‘Needs must be when the devil drives, I thought to myself. I had to think about the future of our nation. No need to condemn ourselves to famine and a battle we couldn’t win when we could take a break, plough our fields and live to fight another day. Although trembling with wrath, the other chiefs were constrained to silence.

  ‘Smith continued to read from his papers, now and then smacking his whip of rawhide against his boot, his left eye nervously twitching. “These papers, which you must agree to,” he continued, “say: ‘The children of Ngqika cry Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! We wish for peace and to become British subjects. We promise to give up our arms if the Governor wishes it, since as British subjects we belong to him. But since we’ve suffered so much we implore to keep them so as to defend ourselves from the Governor’s enemies, and employ them to kill game for our support.” Thus in such manner Smith made even their conceding to our demands sound like their generosity.

  ‘When we agreed to the terms he shook our hand. But in his destructive mischief Smith could not resist constructing new obstacles to our peace. It rankled in his mind that the talks had gone amicably and without incident. Consequently, he pulled a wicked prank that nearly sent us straight into war again. Just as we were departing he ordered his dragoons to fire seven shots in the air. A metallic ring struck into the depths of my spirit when I heard those sounds. Shocked and startled, I was sure the British had led us into yet another trap. Fear mingled with anger within me as I jumped to my feet, ready to give my signal to war. Standing, I found I was shaking with anger like a blancmange. Warden leaned over to assure me that nothing was going on except Smith’s sick mind overstepping itself. He, with Stretch, had pre-warned me not to play to Smith’s tricks. The Governor, he had told me, wanted peace at almost any price. Afterwards he took Smith aside. When they came back Smith was ready to apologise to us for what he termed a misunderstanding, saying he had just intended to fire the salute of peace.

  ‘“Are you a great chief, Macoma?” His lips twitched in a mirthless smile as he spoke.

  ‘I wanted to floor him with my knobkerrie. I hated the way he pronounced my name, not caring to pronounce the click of “q” but substituting it with a “c”. My smouldering resentment standing on its feet, I decided to moderate my answer.

  ‘“I don’t know,” I replied. “Ask my people. Only the subjects can testify to the greatness of their ruler.”

  ‘“Well, they acknowledge you. I guess a rickety colt makes a good riding horse. Now let me tell you where you shall have your land. The Governor knows you’ve had no country to live in for a long time.”

  ‘“Were I to receive my land back the Governor would have my eternal gratitude and loyalty, as I myself am tired of being driven from mountain to mountain. I am made to drink from this river to the next river, hiding in that valley and the other. I’m getting on in years. It does not suit an old person to be without a place he calls home.”

  ‘Smith pointed from the source of Zingcuka to the confluence of Qoboqobo down to the hills of Burnshill indicating that this was the land that was to be mine. Nqeno was to have the land from Iqanda Hills along the high road of Debe to Beresford and the boundary north-east of the Kei. The truth is we never really knew what our boundaries were, because another governor or commander would come along the following morning when we had planted our fields and demand we vacate the land for white settlers. Hence I was not even slightly excited when Smith told us this. I knew tomorrow would come with different tidings. When Smith finished talking I offered him my hand, saying, Pish! and Tush! inside me. I still nursed a grudge against him in my heart for the insolent death of Hintsa.

  ‘We both knew that our scrum was not over, hence our real trust with destiny came five years or so after, in Waterkloof. For now it was expediency that made me swallow my pride, and only colonial orders that made him behave amicably towards us. He hated our guts as much as we despised his low-born conniving guile. I’ve rarely seen a person whose rapacity was equalled only by his sanguinity.’

  Nongqawuse and the Death of a Nation

  “YOU WOKE TO AN EMPTY HOUSE TOO, did you?” said Martyana across the veranda as she came out, stretching.

  “Yes. Do you know where they’ve gone to?” Phila, shutting his laptop, raised his head with a smile.

  “Scuba diving. Arno left me a note. He’s very good at it.”

  “I got a note too – to meet them at the river café. I just didn’t have the energy for it. I’m still paying for my sins, and now it’s way past lunchtime.”

  “That makes two of us!” They both laughed.

  “I’m thinking, why I not check the plat du jour at the communal dining room. Wanna come with me?”

  “Sure. It’s a better plan than potjiekos leftovers while entertaining a pounding headache.”

  “Good! Perhaps we go for a walk later for our penance.”

  “Let me put on shoes.”

  “Mat told me something about you being a writer also. What are you writing about?” Martyana asked as they strolled together to the communal dining area.

  “I am trying to document the history of the Eastern Cape region according to my Light.” Phila made a short waving circle with his hands to indicate the area.

  “And how’s that coming?”

  “Come with me to the village and perhaps measure for yourself?”

  “Wunderbar! Good.”

  “Truth be told, though, I’m struggling to find my voice.”

  “What you wanna do?”

  “Tell a story about a nation that was invaded into a crisis? Carry adventure and raise it to the level of moral parable? Look to self-discover? I don’t know! Perhaps all the above.”

  “Fabelhaft!” She smiled at him. “You want a pie or something?”

  “In the sky?”

  “No,” she laughed, pointing to the food display in the dining hall café. “Lebensmittel! Food!”

  They bought a few items: yoghurt, cheese, ham, fresh bread, nuts and such, having decided
to elevate their walk to a picnic at the river mouth.

  “I think I live with guilt of apostasy. I was not here during the height of apartheid,” Phila said when they hit the sand path away from the café.

  “Where were you?”

  “Germany.”

  “Oh ja. I heard last night. Whereabouts?

  “And what were you doing there?”

  “Frankfurt mostly. I was studying there. Then Berlin as an intern.”

  “Interesting. So you saw something of the country, you did some travelling while you were there?”

  “Yes, by train – throughout Europe I travelled by train – and I saw something of the Bundesländer.

  “I love Cologne and the Bavarian area generally.”

  “Train is best way to see the continent,” Martyana agreed. “But you didn’t visit my country? I’m offended.”

  “Well, the fog of Auschwitz kept me away. Had enough of that sort of thing. When I was sixteen I watched a documentary about Prague. Ever since then I had wanted to see those canals and that city’s marvellous architecture; made me fall in love with the field I went on to study, but I’ve not been yet. I hope there’s still time. Perhaps I could squeeze in Poland somewhere when next I go.”

  “Tell me when you go. I will be your travel mate.

  “I love the Czech Rep.”

  “Mine is a permanent longing, ga’agua. Generally, I’m never satisfied where I am.”

  “Spirit of furriner?”

  “I have a restless spirit, yes,” Phila acknowledged with a sigh.

  Phila felt strangely comfortable around Martyana and he found himself telling her more of his life story, more, in fact, than he had told Matswane in the time they had been together.

  When they reached the river the sun had softened to a clear blue sky. Phila took his shoes off. The sand felt wet and sticky on his feet. A slender, agile boy with, of all things, a keffiyeh around his neck, who was looking after sheep on the adjacent hill, scrutinised them. Phila wondered how he could have gotten hold of a keffiyeh.

  The hills fissured where they met the river. The tops of dongas bristled with tall grass. Goats, with clustered tits and bold balls, stood on their hind legs to reach the juicy foliage on thorny bushes. The heat on the river bank was muggy.

  “So why Africa?” Phila asked Martyana.

  She shrugged. “Opportunity presented itself. I like to see how other people live in the privacy of their own countries.”

  “Good for you!”

  “Thanks!” She paused before continuing. “I can easily see South Africa being for me a second home.”

  “There are no second homes,” said Phila.

  “One is born where one is born, and one’s spirit never really leaves, wherever else a person might live.”

  “That’s a little, how do you say, harsh?”

  Phila said nothing. He admired the fields around them before finding a spot for them to sit, in the shade of a willow tree. Hills framed the northern horizon with something that spoke to the soul.

  “Do you know the story of Nonqawuse?” Phila asked when they were sitting comfortably.

  Martyana looked at him enquiringly.

  “The Xhosa prophetess who led the nation to the void by asking them to sacrifice all their kine to what she called the ‘River People’, who were coming to liberate them from the encroaching English.”

  “I think I read about this in one of our travel guides,” Martyana said.

  Phila gestured to the hills behind them. “Some say Nongqawuse and Nonkosi met some Russian sailors not very far from here. They say they extracted a promise from them to help the Xhosa fight the English, and bring better cattle, since theirs were dying from the rinderpest. Some say that the Russians were the so-called River People. It could be conjecture, and of course it’s easy to be wise in retrospect, but there might be truth to it. The name Nomarussia is legend in the Xhosa villages around here. Everyone used to claim it for their first-born girls.”

  Phila told the story but not in detail. By the time he finished the sun was low in the sky and it was time to go back to their bungalows. They walked slowly, further exploring the subject of Xhosa historical displacement.

  A surprise awaited them: two handwritten notes informing them that Matswane and Arno had left for Johannesburg – together. They had taken Matswane’s car and left them the rented one.

  Phila felt his insides clench tightly. He took beer and the remainder of the whiskey to the veranda. After the initial shock (and two shots), something like resigned abnegation set in. Something Virginia Woolf wrote about the sun yellowing the day with crops of darted fire crowded out the thoughts about Matswane that clogged his mind. He was sure Woolf wrote those words for the view he was looking at.

  After about an hour Martyana came out of the bungalow next door, her flip-flops click-clacking on the cement. She smelled shower fresh. She didn’t say anything, just took a swig from the whiskey bottle.

  It was Phila who broke the silence. “I guess Arno found his destiny.”

  There was momentary silence before they both burst out laughing, somewhat surprised, somewhat confused, but altogether not too bothered.

  “He’s always been the one on the hunt,” Martyana said. “I noticed that Africa boosted his ego.”

  “Perhaps he felt noticed here, even envied.” Phila smiled a little as he said that.

  “I guess.” She uttered the words more in sympathy than anger. Phila adored her non-vindictive heart.

  After a while, he said, “I feel hurt …” He did not know how to finish.

  “Jilted, you mean. But that is your male ego speaking.” There was silence again and Martyana sat up straight and said: “But you and I, we have better things to talk about, yes, than Scham and flouted lovers?”

  “You’re right.” Phila was impressed by Martyana’s sangfroid. “No use chewing one’s cabbage twice.”

  The nascent cacophony of night insects pronounced the falling dusk.

  “How was the Xhosa prophecy supposed to be fulfilled?” Martyana asked, pouring another round for them. “You didn’t finish the story.”

  “According to Nongqawuse, at the appointed day two suns would rise and appear in the sky. On that day the spirits of the ancestors would rise and fight for the Xhosas against the whites. But before all that could happen, the Xhosas had to show faith by slaughtering all their cattle, and burning all their crops. Not a blade of corn was to be left in the fields; not an ox lowing in the kraal. That so many people believed Nongqawuse, methinks, shows the extent of desperation in Xhosaland. You see, their cattle were already dying from a strange disease called the rinderpest, which made them fall, struggling for breath while frothing flakes of soapy foam from their mouths and nostrils. In no time, no matter how strong your cow was, it died. So Nongqawuse was preaching on fertile ground when she suggested this was the doing of the River People. ‘They want us to kill all our present livestock so they may replenish us with strong fatted kine. They say we should not plough nor sow our fields for a season until the prophecy is fulfilled.’

  “As they say, a dog never bothers an unready bitch. The killing of affected animals made sense to stymie the disease. Most people ordered their tenders to hide unaffected stock on grazing mountain fields. But the word came that even those cattle were already affected and would soon be dying like flies. The convenience of Delphi is that it is never wrong. The prophecy, according to believers, didn’t come true because of those who refused to meet the condition of killing their animals. Nongqawuse basically started a millennial movement that almost killed the nation.”

  Martyana extended her hand across the table to touch Phila’s. He responded by closing his fingers over hers.

  “Do you know anything about analeptic memory?” Phila asked in a sudden change of topic.

  “Not really …?” Martyana replied.

  Phila remained silent for a while, thinking about the best way to put what he wanted to say without scaring her off
. Another reason he couldn’t think properly was because he felt cataleptic. When he spoke again it was in a different, grittier voice.

  ‘On the appointed day I woke with the red dawn to walk to the mountains. The autumnal azure on the ridge blended dreamingly with the rising sunlight. We expected glorious things to come as the day launched itself with virginal modesty. But there was nothing strange about it. I stood on the hill to watch the sun’s first rays, hoping its rosy silence would simplify my confusion. I had brought some provisions, victuals and the white man’s fiery water. My KhoiKhoi wife was with me, a sot, but well-mannered, and with a beauty that could steal the heart of a stone. As we sat on the hill, drinking the tears of Victoria, she started with her drunken giggles. Alcohol gave her appetites. My heart thumped. I felt morbid dread at the absence of herds straying in the fields, no laden grain. It dawned on me for the first time that something catastrophic was about to happen to our nation. There was a dearth of everything – orchards had no figs, no peaches, no pomegranates, no quinces. No prickly-pears hedging them. The sight gave me the creeps.

  ‘Of course, only one sun rose. That was the harbinger of the first trouble. The rocks, married to the newly minted sun, had a hypnotic tinge. I took a sopie brandy before tackling the second hill. The climb made my brow perspire and my intestines clench. Three steep hills made for a complete mountain. The sun looked singularly bright from the mountaintop. It travelled its steady course, not pausing or stopping at high noon as expected. After it reached its apex it went down on its usual course with no fiery tricks or gambol as had been predicted. It showed no signs of strangeness. I looked at my wife. She showed no signs of concern in her tipsy state. My dog, obediently sitting at my feet, anticipated with keen eyes signs of pending activity in vain. I envied his ignorance. He was wiser for it. His whiskered face came alive now and then when I made for stretching of my legs, only to drop his pricked vulpine ears when he realised I was not aiming to do much beyond that.

  ‘“Horrors will accompany the course of the sun today,” I said to my wife. She gave a lascivious laugh, rotating her head in owlish circles. On hearing my voice the dog’s wandering attention steadied into what seemed like intelligent consideration. He seemed to wrestle for a minute with my meaning, flapping his ears, then relaxing after satisfying himself it was beyond his comprehension. He must have thought I was promising the excitement of a hunt when we climbed the hills. His disappointment was palpable, but it meant little compared to mine. I was shaking.