People greeted him, but Wilson did not stop to talk. There would be time for that later. His first priority was to present himself to his father. His heart was beating excitedly as he stepped through the entrance, back to his childhood and the only place on earth he called home. A young man went to challenge his right to enter, recognised him, smiled a welcome and let him pass.
His mother was bent over her cooking fire and did not hear him approach. He watched for a few moments, smiling at the familiar way she fussed over the sticks until they were burning exactly to her liking. Bent almost double, her considerable bulk did not in any way hamper her effortless agility. He had seen her like this thousands of times but never had the sight been so precious, so satisfyingly familiar or such a comfort as it was now. Wilson finally knew he was home. ‘I see you, Mother,’ he called softly.
Her reaction to her son’s unexpected appearance called on several hundred years of dignified Zulu tradition. She straightened slowly and turned, a small smile on her face. Observing him with great care, she did not move until satisfied that he was well. Then, and only then, did she walk towards him, placing a hand briefly on his cheek before saying, ‘Your father will be pleased to welcome you home.’ She called sharply and a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, came shyly from the hut, her eyes averted as a mark of respect.
Wilson looked at the child. She would undoubtedly be his niece. ‘Silomo?’
His mother touched the child’s head fondly. ‘The second born of your older brother,’ she confirmed. ‘She has grown from the baby you once knew.’
There was a lump forming in Wilson’s throat. Silomo and Dyson were the same age. His son would have changed this much too.
‘Go and find your grandfather and bring him here. Tell him his son has come home. Tell him,’ she called after the girl who was already racing away to do as her grandmother had instructed, ‘that his son comes home a man.’ She could not hide her pride and Wilson knew that, once she heard how he had rescued the white captain, the story of his bravery would be passed to every woman in the village. Such was the way of the Zulu. If a man returned from battle covered in glory the women would ensure he stayed that way until tales of his greatness passed into legend. Her son’s elevated reputation would increase her own standing too. Women could only gain respect through the deeds and the status of their menfolk.
Wilson was anxious for news of Nandi and wondered why she had not appeared to greet him. He felt some disquiet, fearful that misfortune might have fallen on her. His brother’s wives had seen him and were approaching shyly, not crowding, keeping a respectful distance until he greeted them. Where was Nandi? Wilson, however, did not ask. He would have to wait for his father to tell him.
Despite his anxiety there was no impatience in Wilson. Important news had to be given with due consideration to its value. And that meant more trivial matters would be discussed first. All the things that Wilson had been happily anticipating would have to wait. Removing, for the last time, the white man’s uniform of war. The freedom of his own traditional clothing. Control of his own destiny. He was eager for his father, who had looked after his cattle during his absence, to take him to the kraal and point them out. Wilson had been able to identify each and every one of his beasts before he left. Now he would have to reacquaint himself with them, and any of their issue. He wanted, more than anything, to see his wife and son. But first there was the matter of man-talk with his father.
‘I see you, my son. Welcome home.’
His father had put on weight. Wilson was pleased to see that he still dressed in the traditional way and not in the manner of the white man. ‘I see you, Father.’ A sprinkling of grey in the closely cropped hair. A few wrinkles he didn’t remember. A tooth missing, leaving only four that he could see. But still, wisdom shone from the eyes that examined him and dignity surrounded the proudly held head.
His father walked to him, slow and sedate as Wilson remembered, as unhurried as time itself, and clasped Wilson’s hand, chuckling gently. He was as delighted to see his son as Wilson was to see his father but there was a protocol and the old man would not dream of breaking with it.
‘You return decorated with the white man’s symbol. I understand it is for brave deeds.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Hmmm.’ His father roughly fingered the ribbon on Wilson’s chest. ‘There is blood on your spear?’
‘That is not their way, Father.’
‘Tell me.’
‘They gave me this for saving a man’s life.’
‘Hau! Why would you do that?’
‘I was ordered to try.’
His father looked scathing. ‘What kind of fool orders a good warrior to risk his life to save one who is in difficulties? If a warrior is destined to die, then die he must. It is not up to others to help him. If you are not fighting then the enemy will overpower you. How can this thing be?’ He shook his head. ‘Tsk! The white man fights like old women.’
To his father the only honourable way to fight was up close, with the words of an individual’s praise-poem spurring him on to such a frenzy that the thought of death only applied to the enemy. Wilson knew that the traditional old man despised the long-range methods of the white man in battle. He spoke quickly, before his father worked himself up into a rage. ‘If I am to learn how the white man thinks, Father, then I must learn how he fights.’
‘Ah, so it is. ‘The explanation pleased his father. ‘The war is now ended and the English are well satisfied,’ he stated.
Wilson nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘There are those in this country who have sadness about this.’
Wilson’s father was referring to those Afrikaners who had sympathised with Germany and who, at the orders of the British, had spent the duration of the war interned in camps. Wilson respected his father’s knowledge of political affairs in South Africa. It had been his father who urged Wilson to join the African National Congress. However, Wilson was not particularly interested in white man’s politics. ‘They quarrel between themselves like children,’ he said dismissively.
‘And we do not?’ his father asked gently, smiling a little.
Wilson inclined his head. His father was right, Zulu history was littered with quarrels.
‘How was the battle?’ Fighting and killing was part of a tradition. His father wanted details.
‘There were many battles. I do not like the white man’s way of fighting. Many die but there is little blood on the spear.’
His father nodded. ‘They do not change. There is no honour in killing when you do not stand chest to chest with your enemy.’ His father spat on the ground. ‘It has always been so. The ways of the white man are sometimes strange. They pretend friendship yet, in their hearts, there is nothing but greed and treachery. They call us savages and treat us like dogs and yet they pray to a god who they say is just and kind. But who can see this god? If he is such a good person, why then does he not teach his people to show kindness? We have shown them nothing but courtesy and where has that led? Pah! We should have killed them all when they first came to our land.’
Wilson knew that his father could go on for hours about the mysteries and misdoings of the white race so he sought to shorten the conversation. ‘Tell me, Father, what of Inkatha ka Zulu?’ He already knew that when the ANC lost its direction the Zulus had formed their own organisation, naming it after the inkatha yezwe, the sacred coil of grass symbolising unity of the Zulu kingdom. But it too appeared to have failed. The aim of Inkatha, to improve the lives of Zulu people through the purchase of land and by developing recognition of the royal house, had been equally corrupted by misuse of funds. Instead of being used to acquire land, some of the money – which had been raised by increasing taxes within the Zulu nation – was spent on a memorial to Shaka but most had been wasted on King Solomon’s addiction to alcohol and on his lavish lifestyle.
Before he went away Wilson had grave fears for the continuance of Inkatha. On his return, h
e learned of its fate. However, his father would expect him to ask and so that is what he did, prepared to wait patiently for a carefully formulated reply.
‘Finished,’ his father spat out contemptuously, shaking his head. ‘Now we have the Zulu Cultural Society.’
Again, Wilson had learned of this in Durban. But he asked, ‘What does that do?’
His father hawked and spat again. ‘Like Inkatha, they want recognition. They’re trying to establish a Zulu identity but it is becoming difficult. Pretoria gives us white magistrates who take power from the chiefs. If a man does not like his chief’s decision he goes to a magistrate. If the magistrate’s decision does not please him, he goes to his chief. These magistrates do not understand our ways and make bad decisions. The old ways are going.’
His father looked angry. ‘Some of us think this thing is being done to divide us. If this is so, even if we win recognition, there will be nothing left to recognise.’
Wilson had resigned himself to a long discussion when his mother, realising how he must be longing to hear of his own family, uncharacteristically intervened. ‘Husband, these matters you speak of trouble all of us. Our son will learn of them soon enough. It is likely that the things he wishes to hear of are closer to home.’
His father looked disappointed but, when he saw the smile spread over his son’s face, realised a political discussion would have to wait. ‘Come, we will sit.’ He led Wilson to the shade of a tree and the two of them sat on small, handmade wooden stools. His father spent some time fussing to find the most comfortable position. ‘You will not have heard of the Bantu Purity League?’ he asked suddenly.
Wilson hadn’t, and said so.
‘Times are changing. Many amakholwa now live among us.’ Wilson’s father was referring to the Christian converts who had been lured away from traditional values to adopt the white man’s ideals. ‘There is much trouble among them. The young girls leave and go to find work in the towns. They bring back isifo sabelungu – the white man’s disease – and they bring back babies before they take a husband. Those of us who respect old traditions have become concerned.’ He glanced sharply at Wilson. ‘It is yet another way in which our culture is being eroded by the white man. Many of our women have decided it is time to take action and they try to teach the amakholwa the old ways. It is a difficult task for the young do not wish to listen. Still, the decent women among us do not give up. Nandi is one such believer. She has joined those who founded the Purity League.’
Wilson was rocked. Nandi, although as traditional as he, had never had any need to protect or promote the traditional values by which she lived. Things must be bad for her to do such a thing. ‘Is she here?’
His father pursed his lips. ‘No. She has taken your son and now lives on a sugar farm near Empangeni. She is the local representative for the league.’ While he obviously approved of the league’s aspirations, Wilson’s father undoubtedly disapproved of Nandi’s actions. A woman’s place was in the home, especially the wife of his son.
To some extent Wilson shared his father’s feelings but he was a man standing with one foot planted in tradition while the other took root in progress. The difficulty was trying to preserve the best of the old ways while remaining receptive to the new. It was a necessary juggling act. The purity of Shaka’s day, where Zulus ranged far and wide across a land which they had paid for in blood, was gone forever. Not even the most hopeless dreamer could imagine it would ever come back. The trick was, in this era of change, to somehow keep intact what was left.
Wilson had seen enough of the world to realise that the Zulus weren’t the only ones trying to deal with this situation. He had listened to Australians, white South Africans, Scotsmen and New Zealanders in the Western Desert speak of change and how the older generations resisted it. But it seemed to Wilson that the matters of which they spoke were of their own making. The Zulus didn’t have that luxury.
And now it was his own wife who, despite being motivated by the ideals of traditional behaviour, had broken with tradition herself. It was not up to Nandi to make a decision as important as the one she had and move from her husband’s village, irrespective of whether it be right or wrong. In that regard, Wilson was angry with Nandi. On the other hand, he was proud of her as well.
‘You will bring her home,’ his father stated flatly.
Wilson hesitated. It was a question he could not readily answer. He wanted to more than anything else in the world, but reason told him such a commitment was not possible. In the short years they were together Nandi had proven time and again that she had a mind of her own, and a good one at that. It was a sign of the times that Wilson was prepared to accept this and question only what was for the best. Someone had to act, someone had to care enough to try and bring back dignity and self-respect to his people, before they lost it altogether. ‘I do not know,’ he spoke quietly. ‘It is too early for me to tell.’
With that, his father had to be content.
The night was spent at his own fire, visited by all members of the family and many friends. Talk ranged from cattle to old clan quarrels and, within a very short time, Wilson felt he had never been away. But when he tried to raise more profound issues, it was obvious that Wilson and his father were the only ones with any interest in political matters.
When the women and children finally left and it was only the men sitting around, Wilson found himself comparing the experience with many during the past five years. Men, in the company of other men, talking, laughing, smoking and getting a little drunk. He remembered a rangy Australian he’d met in the desert saying, in that peculiarly nasal tone which had taken months to understand, ‘Yeah, mate. Nothin’ like a keg, a few mates and a good yarn.’ Here he was now, back home, and while they didn’t have a keg they had something better – fine home-brewed beer, milky and bittersweet to wash down the dryness of ‘a good yarn’.
‘We’re all the same,’ he reflected as the talk flowed over him. ‘We’re men and we’re all the same. Why then are we so different?’
Later, as he rolled onto a sleeping mat, he knew that the silence of a dark Zululand night was the best sound he had heard for five years.
Before he left the next morning to make the long walk back to Empangeni, Wilson paid a visit to the village sangoma seeking both spiritual guidance and advice. ‘I saw you coming three full moons ago. What delayed you?’ were the diviner’s opening words.
Wilson dropped to his haunches in front of her. ‘I was delayed in Durban.’
She watched his face for a few seconds, a long looped wig, threaded with white beads, framing her face. ‘There is nothing there for you,’ she said finally. ‘Not yet. The day is coming but it is a long way from now. You are not yet ready.’
Wilson was watching her headdress carefully. The loops were said to be strung in such a way that the spirits had somewhere to sit while they were speaking into the sangoma’s ears. Surely there would be some movement when they sat down. But nothing stirred.
The sangoma’s eyes gleamed approval when he didn’t speak. ‘The choice is yours,’ she said suddenly. ‘The spirits offer you two paths. One is littered with the bones of things now out of reach. If you tread that way you will discover peace but you will also find that the way ahead is blocked. The doors of our past have closed and they cannot be opened again.’
Wilson kept his face impassive. The sangoma was telling him what he already suspected. The past was the past. ‘Tell me of the other path,’ he said quietly.
The sangoma closed her eyes. She smiled to herself, then jerked and sat still. ‘The other is new, strange, with much to confuse and frighten a weaker man. The doors are difficult to open but that does not mean they cannot be opened. If you choose this path you will need to be strong.’
‘Strong?’ Wilson wondered. ‘Or foolish?’ The sangoma had given no indication of which he would choose, although he suspected she knew.
She opened her eyes and looked directly at him, though they were glazed and he d
idn’t think she could see him. Her voice was soft and singsong when she spoke again.
‘Each day brings with it a gift. It is our choice whether to take it or not. If we accept it, no matter how small it might be, nothing will be quite the same as it was yesterday. If we do not take the gift it will leave with the day. But if we try to take more than the day offers, we break the rhythm of patience. That which grows slowest, lasts longest.’ She fell silent, rocking slightly.
‘That’s all very well,’ Wilson thought, waiting for her to speak again. ‘But the tortoise only makes progress when it sticks its neck out.’
The glazed look was leaving her eyes. ‘What else do you need to know?’
‘Please,’ he said, careful to be polite, ‘can you tell me where to find Nandi?’
She unrolled a springbok skin in front of her and arranged a number of items on either side. They were mainly bones, though there were some human teeth among them and a small ceremonial spear. Placing the smaller items, the bones, shells and stones into a leather pouch, she shook them out onto the skin and studied where they fell for a long time. ‘Find the place where the sea and uBejane live side by side,’ she told him finally. ‘It is near to where the people of the bad omen settled,’ the sangoma added, naming the area known as Kwa Mbonambi. ‘There you will find Nandi.’
People of Heaven Page 8
