‘What are you doing you sweaty fat pig?’ Outrage lights up my eyes.
He smiled mischievously and threw two sticks at the bottom of my feet. The smile quickly transformed into a fierce and intense grimace, with his piercing eyes hungry for war. I was furious at the senseless act wielded upon the royal ants. I threw caution to the battlefield. Dambuza was all over me like a possessed demon, swinging his sticks with lightning speed. My defences had to be firm to stave off the onslaught. Once, he caught me off guard and flogged my ribs. I remained calm; this wasn’t only my fight, in my mind I was fighting for a higher cause defending the underdog. The other boys gasped in amazement as the intense battle unfolded in front of their eyes under the all-watching heavens. I remained on the defensive as Dambuza was in a hurry to swing victory his way. He tried to hit me on my left ankle but I blocked him and delivered a blow to his ribs. He smiled at the fact that I managed to outmanoeuvre him this once. The battle was balanced. Pride was at stake and time stood still. We both had good defensive abilities. The other boys cheered, urging one of us to deliver the killer blow. Dambuza shuffled back, forth and sideways impressing the crowd with his footwork and a group of his close allies whistled in acknowledgement of his flair. He managed to break my defence once again and hit me on the left knee. He flashed a crooked smile and came forward with much more zeal to end the battle once and for all. He circled me, looking for another opening with surety in his eyes. He pounced on me in a rapid action, swinging the sticks in a concerted assault but I stood my ground and defended with all my might. He retreated to catch his breath. Heat overwhelmed his hippopotamus frame and sweat dripped from his forehead, blurring his eyesight; for a moment he dropped all concentration and attended to the salty itch in his eyes. I stepped forward and delivered a blow to his right ankle. I delivered another one to the left and he came crashing down and bellowed a stinging cry like a little child. The other boys were initially surprised that the mighty Dambuza had fallen but a chorus of laughter cascaded thereafter.
All hail the underdog; the triumph is your crown. Blessed are the meek and the egoless, for they inherit the divine power.
Amen.
Three
IN THE COURSE of my multiple existences I’ve learnt to trust more what can’t be seen. I am wiser and far more in tune in the dream state. I’ve come to realise that the dreamworld is more concrete than the world of form and one cannot trust the physical senses to provide a true and comprehensive sense of reality. The dream state allows me the freedom to move through the thin veils of the different worlds. I visit the lands where immortals reside and bathe in their wisdom. The dream-self carries the memories of past existence and opens the path to the infinite. I ‘travel’ to many other levels of existence in order to fulfil my other duties. In essence, I am a messenger. I’m the voice who speaks without a tongue of my own.
All the knowing is within reach but I cannot claim all the know-how in unlocking the astounding supremacy of the wise sage within; Nomkhubulwana acts as my guide to unravel the deeper truths. She shares holy privileges and experiences in this world of the walking dead. She once took me up the notorious mountain gorge of Mount Zibonele. The ravine is known to have swallowed many men, and even warriors, of the surrounding villages. Many have gone up in an attempt to conquer the mountain and dig for its everlasting secrets but have fallen short of their quest and never came back. No efforts were ever made to rescue those who were stupid enough or brave enough to venture into the belly of this beast. Everyone in the vast land knows that they mission in this no-go zone at their own peril.
The misty mount hummed a troubled tune the day the old wise woman of the tribe took me up for a life-changing experience. The tranquil melody of birds was non-existent as we undertook our great trek up the mountain cliffs. The sound of the crashing water from the nearby Mpelazwe waterfall overpowered the echoes of the uneasy day. The dense forest at the face of the mountain told stories of many tongues; stories never told to ordinary men. Nomkhubulwana won me over with her great calmness and so fear never took refuge in my heart. She exuded a demeanour of the goddess mother as if the whole world was her creation. I saw exotic animals and it seemed that the higher we went up the mountain the more unearthly the animal kingdom became. A snake with two heads looked at us curiously from a tree above and was awestruck by the confidence in our stride. An antelope with three endearing eyes blew kisses in exhibition of its great kindness and purity. It was as if I was deep in the land of fairies. Snails with shells that glowed all the colours of the rainbow flew by clumsily; they kept bumping themselves on the trunks of the tall trees as if they were deprived of vision. It was a fantastic sight of great proportion indeed. Nomkhubulwana remained mum throughout the journey; we spoke a language devoid of speech. We shared the holy experience, devoured it and digested every meaning.
When we finally reached the summit, we were greeted by a big blue lake that stretched as far as the eye could see and seemed to kiss the horizon at its furthest point. The lake was calm but full of mysticism; knowledge deep in all ages seemed to be lying deep in its depths. Nomkhubulwana led the way and sat on the edge of the gigantic cliff overlooking the faraway lands and dangled her feet. I followed suit and was awestruck by the beauty surrounding us. A few white butterflies danced above the lake, exhibiting all things holy. The shattering beauty manifested all heavenly glory. I found myself breathing heavily as the magnificence of it all surged through every vein in my body. I was spellbound. Nomkhubulwana looked at me and whispered in the tenderest voice that made my heart melt.
‘You are different to others,’ she said in her angelic voice.
‘Yours is a special journey, a messenger of great truths from beyond,’ she continued while staring at the vast blue lake.
‘My time is running out; my mission is nearing its ultimate purpose but the work undone is still great. There is a sense of elation as I feel “death” knocking at my door; it is coming to announce a completion of a purpose. I have always been aware of my inevitable physical demise and I always saw it as an opportunity to learn from my immediate past life. I always found my “deaths” highly enlightening. There is a pronounced sense of modesty and yet a great sense of ecstasy knowing that true freedom is nearing; it is a process of becoming.’
She turned and looked me straight in the eyes and pierced my soul. My very being was arrested by the overwhelming emotions in her heart. I was showered with the fountain of wisdom deep in the reservoirs of her being.
‘The hour is growing late, the world and its perception of form is on its last legs. The source begs us to listen; humanity has to take a leap of faith. The natural kingdom groans in pangs for God’s sons and daughters to take a conscious evolutionary leap. The walking dead cannot anymore assume the perishable norms and walk on the thorny plains like there’s nothing astounding unfolding. We, the ones who see, the children of the star, are here to reveal the great truth staring humanity in the face but that seems forever blind to its brightness.’
For a moment the self and the other were one in every fibre.
I listened with the ears of my soul and let it all sink in. She continued to dish out pearls of wisdom.
‘Human beings do not know that they are sons and daughters of gods so they themselves are gods. They live under the illusion that they are lesser than what they truly are. They don’t know that the kingdom awaits them to sit at the throne and unlock all the knowledge within and all the untold stories deep in all ages. Ours is to release the wise sage in all the walking dead.’ A single glistening tear fell down her left cheek.
Nomkhubulwana suddenly knelt and prayed in three languages. It wasn’t a structured language of ordinary words, she was in communion using the language of old as if addressing the very beginning of time; at times she hissed guttural and grunting sounds full of emotions with profound spectacle. She was reaching out to the god of gods, deep in the ten gates of eternity. She was deep in the pious act when I noticed her levitate inches from the g
round. A white unicorn with an elegant flowing mane and tail ran magically in impressive grandeur across the lake to the furthest point and disappeared into the blue horizon. Rain fell at that moment; it drizzled and blessed the day with awe and rejuvenation, and then a rainbow so magnificent hovered above the majestic lake. I was lost in a dream. The messages opened every valve of emotion in my heart. These are messages from beyond that I now carry.
Be humble to the supreme; there’s power in complete surrender. Everything else is secondary. You are connected to the source.
Four
BEING BORN INTO THIS world of mortals was a trauma I never fully recovered from. Though it was my living wish to come into this land of the walking dead, nothing prepares us, the children of the star, for the abrupt separation from the warm world of dreams. My earliest memory was the overwhelming love my mother showered me with. I was the apple of her eye, a miracle baby who cheated death, a baby who wanted to live despite the curtains of forever-night closing in on her. Mama always tells me that I’m a blessed child; a child who came with rain when there was drought in the village.
The cock crows in the wee hours of the morning; Mama is already up grinding a dry tobacco leaf for her snuff. The smell of the burning everlasting plant, impepho, circulates in the hut.
‘Good morning my child,’ Mama greets.
‘Morning Ma,’ I woozily reply.
‘Wake up my child, an early bird catches the freshest worm,’ she says.
‘Yes, Mama,’ I reply.
In an instant, I wake up, fold my blankets and hang them on the thread attached to the left side of the circling interior wall. I roll up my reed mat and place it at the north end of the room.
‘Prepare porridge quickly Nkwenkwezi, we need to go to the maize fields and remove the nuisance weeds as the break of day greets. I have a feeling that it’s going to be a scorching day and we don’t want to be weathered by the unmerciful sun, especially you my child,’ she instructs.
I make my way to the hut where meals are prepared to fetch a bucket to collect water from the nearby stream. I love the tranquillity of the early hours of the morning. The breeze caresses while the three-quarter moon is completing its lap. The morning dew on the path sobers me to a more awake state. The calmness of the day soothes the spirit. My mind moves to all seven corners of time without really settling on one thought. I’m lost in the seven winds. A brass band of frogs bellows melodramatically as I approach the stream while the crickets add their musical prowess to the early morning orchestra. The moon and the stars reflect magically in the water as if heaven has visited our land. I wash my face in the flowing water and take a sip. I collect the water with the bucket and balance it on top of my head on my way back to the homestead. The sound of a stone grinding the dry tobacco leaf still echoes in the big hut when I arrive back home; one can be sure that the process of making her snuff in the early hours of the morning is meditative for Mama. I take the axe from the shed and make myself useful by splitting the logs to appropriate chunks for the fire.
‘I’ll need to get thinner wood from the forest later today.’ The thought flashes through my mind.
I wash one of the three-legged cast-iron pots and prepare the fire to boil water for the porridge.
‘Nkwenkwezi?’ Mama calls from the big hut.
She is the only one who calls me Nkwenkwezi; I know that she is in a good mood when she does so.
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Pick up some nice lemons for me; you know that I like my porridge sour.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
I dash to the garden in front of the semicircle of huts to pick the lemons. I also pick ripe peaches for us to eat while we are working in the maize fields. I serve the porridge to Mama moments later.
‘Go wake up your Aunt Nontsebenzo and your sister, they must eat; we need to get going soon.’
‘Okay Mama.’
The birds sing a beautiful melody in their waking hour as the light begins to lift the veil for the start of a new day. Aunt Nontsebenzo and my sister Zimasa join us in the big hut. I quickly dish up and serve them porridge.
‘Oh, I had an awful dream, my sister,’ Aunt Nontsebenzo begins to tell the nocturnal tale while she stirs her porridge.
‘What was the dream about, my little sister?’ Mama asks inquisitively.
‘Light another impepho and tell me more about it,’ Mama instructs Aunt Nontsebenzo.
She always insists that impepho is lit when we relay our dreams early in the morning. She says that the ancestors were so kind to visit us at nightfall to pass on holy privileges and we should return the favour and invite them back when telling our nocturnal ventures.
‘I dreamt a wildcat came to our home at night and attacked the chickens as they slept in the shed. The unusual thing was that it wasn’t eating the spoils but kept unleashing death until all the chickens lay dead on the floor,’ Aunt Nontsebenzo narrates with perplexed emotions on her face.
‘What could this dream possibly mean, sisi?’ she asks Mama in distress.
Mama ponders the truth in the meaning. She takes the burning impepho and inhales the smoke and whispers to her ancestors, calling them by name to untangle the riddle presented to her. She looks at Aunt Nontsebenzo and shares her divination.
‘The ultimate meaning will probably be revealed in time; the departed ones work in unknown ways; sometimes they are not in a rush to reveal the deeper truth. You must burn impepho before you sleep this evening and ask the all-seeing of old to reveal the full meaning of this dream,’ Mama tells Aunty.
We sit in silence for a moment; the sound of the spoons touching the plates is thick in the air.
‘Let’s go now, the lord of day has protruded the horizon. We need to start working to keep up with earth’s heartbeat,’ says Mama as she stands to her feet.
‘Get the hoe from the shed, Nwelezelanga. Zimasa, wash the dishes quickly and join us at the maize fields when you are finished,’ instructs Mama to my sister and me.
Many nearby families make their way to the maize fields as the sun rises to do the same job of hoeing and plucking the weeds that surround the crop. It’s a necessary task for the maize to blossom without any inhibitions. The work is also contemplative in a way and connects family units deeper. We work in unison with the same goal of an envisioned good harvest. There’s little talking but much is being communicated in a language free of speech. The hoe does the talking and doing in turning the earth and plucking the weeds. Jokes do fly around at times; that’s one of the tricks I observe Mama use to make us not think too much about the hard labour at hand as strength ebbs and tiredness takes its place.
The sun rises and dominates the day. We work in rhythmic unison, focusing on the work at hand. The exertion takes its toll and beads of sweat fall off the faces of the women at work. We continue hoeing without any conversation connecting us. It seems that everyone has visited a world deep in the forest of their subconscious mind. The sun begins to make me uncomfortable as I start to scratch. My straw hat is no match for the domineering sun. I take a breather, putting the wood handle of the hoe under my armpit and leaning on it while it’s planted on the soil. Mama looks at me for a second then continues with her work. Aunt Nontsebenzo and Zimasa seem tireless and full of zest even after the great effort to date.
‘Go to the shade now, Nwelezelanga, you know that the sun is unmerciful to you,’ Mama instructs with kindness.
‘But Mama! Nwelezelanga is up to her old tricks again. There’s nothing wrong with her, she is just lazy!’ Zimasa interjects and cries foul.
‘You know that your sister cannot take the harsh gaze of the sun for long; it blinds her and makes her itch as her skin is very sensitive,’ Mama says, coming to my aid.
‘She is just too lazy to work, that’s all, and you swallow her excuses,’ Zimasa wails at Mama with a defeated voice.
‘Zimasa, let’s not go back and forth with this; this is not a discussion,’ Mama responds in a punitive tone.
‘
Go and rest princess!’ Zimasa says to me condescendingly.
I don’t respond. I silently make my way to the big yellowwood tree in the middle of the maize fields. I fall on the ground in utter exhaustion. The itch begins to fade as the cool breeze soothes my skin. I close my eyes to suppress the burning sensation and sleep calls in an infectious hum that seduces me to its temple.
I find myself surfing the twilight zone deep under the ocean floor, the inexplicable land of paramount earth. There are festivities and jubilations as the chosen ones prepare to take a journey to the land of mortals. The high spirits paint the scene with holy messages. All preparations are done to acclimatise those who are taking the momentous journey of being born. There are speeches made by the old wise ones about the journey ahead and much is being said in silence that speaks volumes. The rituals are meant to impress the very souls of the spirits taking the journey to the land of the walking dead so as not to forget their divine selves and also prepare them to swim without self-doubt in the sea of ignorance. A voice from the all-knowing Qamata ricochets in all corners of the known and unknown world.
‘The passage you are about to embark on is not an easy one. Many see this journey as a fall from grace; however, you have the task to untangle the mysteries of existence and share your wisdom with fellow men as part of your development to higher plains,’ the booming voice echoes.
‘The greater part of this journey is to remain true to what you truly are; sons and daughters of the supreme.’ There’s much emphasis behind the words.
‘Always remember that you are spiritual beings suspended in momentary physical existence; ignorance to your divine self will be your greatest sin.’ The all-knowing Qamata plants the message deep in their souls.
Nwelezelanga: The Star Child Page 2
