Nwelezelanga: The Star Child

by Magubeni, Unathi

  A flashing blinding light accompanied by a thunderous clamour follows as the spirits take the earth-shattering passage through the seas to the world of form. I don’t know how long I was among the all-seeing of old before I hear Mama calling my name.

  ‘Nwelezelanga!’

  ‘Nwelezelanga!’ Mama calls out a second time.

  ‘Why are you sleeping in the maize field, huh?’ Obvious anger boils her temper.

  ‘You know it’s a bad omen sleeping during the day, let alone in the maize field.’ She gives me a patronising look accompanied by the spirited force of the words.

  In an instant I sit up straight, feeling mortified.

  ‘Bring that jug of amarhewu; we are thirsty and dying of heat.’

  I oblige as instructed. I also take the peaches that I picked earlier in an attempt to be on Mama’s good side. Everybody takes a break and sits down, munching the peaches and quenching their thirst. The break breeds light-heartedness as everyone momentarily forgets about the hard labour. Mama begins to tell a story as is the ritual when everyone is feeling tired.

  ‘There was a maiden called Maqalazive who was the gossip-mongering queen of the village; she knew everything that happened in the vast land,’ Mama tells the tale of yore.

  ‘Anyone who wanted to know what was happening in the village would invite her for a cup of tea, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to hold back on the latest gossip and would jump at the chance to run her mouth off about the dealings of other people.’ Mama gets us eating out of the palm of her hands with each word.

  ‘The gossip queen wasn’t too particular with facts but was obsessed with the attention she was getting as the conveyor of the bush telegraph. On one occasion she visited her new neighbour for the first time and after the formal exchange of pleasantries, without any invitation, she let loose on the latest gossip. She told the new neighbour about a woman who killed her husband because she loved the older brother of her husband,’ Mama narrates with dramatic exhibition.

  ‘She didn’t realise that the lies she was peddling were to the sister of the widow.’ Mama’s face lights up.

  ‘The neighbour asked her meticulously about the details of her narration and was disgusted and angry at the fabrications that came from the wild motormouth. She quietly took a whip that was hanging behind the door and began beating the gossip queen without telling her the reason for the royal beating. The woman ran outside crying foul and the new neighbour was in hot pursuit so as to continue whipping her. Maqalazive didn’t know why she was beaten but later found out via the village gossip mill.’ Mama leads a chorus of laughter.

  Everyone joins in and the moment is filled with nonchalance. The sun dances and smiles, seemingly enjoying the task of lighting and warming up the day. Swallows fly effortlessly with flare and easy flamboyance in the clear sky. Villagers in the nearby homesteads work tirelessly in their maize fields.

  ‘Let’s pluck out the weeds in three more rows and then we can call it a day; we’ll continue with the rest of the work tomorrow morning.’ Mama rings the bell to go back to work.

  We all pick our hoes up off the ground and get back to work for the last stretch of the day.

  ‘Inyoka!’ Zimasa exclaims upon seeing a snake.

  ‘Yoh, yoh, yoh!’ Aunt Nontsebenzo cries out and leaps away from the slithering reptile.

  ‘Where is it?’ Mama asks Zimasa.

  ‘There it is!’ Zimasa points at the snake.

  ‘Where?’ Mama asks again with her eyes fixed on the area Zimasa is pointing to.

  ‘There, by that dry patch. Look, look, it’s moving!’ Zimasa points at the moving snake.

  Mama sees the snake and approaches it slowly with the stealth of a seasoned predator. She takes two more steps towards it with her hoe held high above her right shoulder and with a rapid movement smashes the snake in the middle of its spine with the back of the hoe. The snake twists and turns in agony and Mama hits its head twice.

  ‘Got it,’ whispers Mama under her breath.

  The snake is dead but the tail twitches sporadically. Mama kneels and takes out the snuff from her pouch. She sprinkles some on the head of the snake and then sniffs it into both her nostrils; her eyes water. She says to the ‘dead’ snake, ‘By the power vested in me to slay you; I shall also be slayed by the more powerful.’

  She thanks her ancestors, calling generations and generations of those of yore by name in a deeply respectful act.

  ‘Come see Nontsebenzo; a dead snake cannot bite,’ Mama makes fun of Aunt Nontsebenzo.

  ‘Yhu, sisi, you know me and snakes are not friends at all,’ says Aunt Nontsebenzo with fear glistening in her popping eyes.

  ‘Oh come on, it’s dead!’ says Mama with spirited force in her voice.

  Aunt Nontsebenzo cautiously walks closer to the snake with her eyes full of distress.

  ‘It’s dead, Aunty,’ Zimasa says, putting Aunt Nontsebenzo at ease.

  ‘Yoh, it’s big!’ shouts Aunt Nontsebezo upon seeing the snake close up.

  ‘It’s not that big, you coward,’ Mama shoots back.

  Mama picks up the dead snake with a stick and inspects the breed with her trained eye.

  ‘I’ll use it for my medicine,’ she says with a delighted smile.

  ‘A correct dose of poison mixed with other herbs can be a healing medicine,’ she says wisely.

  ‘Let’s finish for the day, my children. Nwelezelanga, carry my hoe and take that jug with you, Zimasa,’ Mama instructs.

  Mama leads the way, carrying the dead snake with the stick. The work for the day is complete. Mama says we work in order to grow and keep up with the earth’s heartbeat. She says that the earth is for our sustenance. We don’t own it, we are of the earth. The red soil of the hills and valleys of the land communicates with us about pertinent matters of the heart. She says in working with the soil our spirits are purified.

  Tread softly on the ageless soil; listen with the soles of your bare feet. Camagu!

  Five

  I CHOSE THIS LIFE with all its pitfalls because I was becoming too blasé in the world of the spirits; I was too cushioned. I no longer paid much attention to the true experience the land of the living dead provided. I was slowly forgetting the power of suffering, and while suffering isn’t necessary for redemption, it is true that suffering makes us grow. When one realises that the ‘lowest point’ is actually the ‘highest point’; acknowledging that in the midst of the ‘unfavourable situation’ lies the deepest truth, magic happens.

  We, the children of the star, have crossed so many rivers, sailed in the wayward high winds of the great oceans, have been born in the obscurest dwellings and died so many ‘deaths’ in order to be born again. We are the willing explorers into adversities and we transmute the adversities into magnificence. We seek the light and the light introduces us to darkness so that we shed the light with more meaning. We collide with experiences not willing to be brought into existence and they ask us to incubate them before their earth-shattering birth. We are the charmed sacrifice because we said, ‘Yes, savuma’, we said ‘yes’ to the calling and enlightenment wholeheartedly. We wander down the road less travelled to feel more and contribute more. We chose the road and the road chose us. Our hearts yearn for the unchartered terrains. We plunge into notorious riddles in order to untangle the hidden wisdom. Pain knows our hearts and we know pain as the necessary friend in growth. Wavering intensity of emotions fills our hearts to give us zest to move forward with indomitable passion. We are the alchemists, turning suffering into joy; a true magnificent manifestation of the philosopher’s stone. We embrace the fullness of life and have all the scars to prove it. This is the life that chose us. We have a purpose to serve and our feelings act as a compass to shed more light. In following our purpose, we realise that we are creating paths in virgin territories that can also be used by others.

  ‘Nwelezelanga!’ Mama calls from outside.

  ‘Maaaaa,’ I reply from the big hut.

  ‘Bring
me a small knife, my child,’ she asks.

  I find Mama sitting in a patch of grass near the kraal. I pass the knife to her and she cuts the snake down its side, starting at the corner of its mouth, down to the tip of its tail. She opens it up, exposing all the insides. She cuts out all the inside fat and puts it in the jar adjacent to her. She then cuts out the bile and puts it in a separate jar. A whole mouse is still lodged in the intestines of the snake. Mama takes it out and puts it in another jar.

  ‘We are not going to throw away the mouse; it has some of the medicine we need as its body is riddled with poison.’

  Mama takes the snake and hangs it on a pole near the entrance of the kraal in order for it to dry out to use to make medicine.

  ‘It will be good medicine for protection and once I mix it with other herbs my enemies won’t come near me,’ says Mama with a childish gloat.

  The cows moo in the kraal.

  ‘Take the cows to the grazing field, Nwelezelanga, they are hungry,’ Mama tells me softly.

  ‘Are the chickens fed? Where’s Zimasa?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know Ma, I think Zimasa went to the nearby stream to wash clothes,’ I reply.

  ‘Please feed the chickens then, my child, before you let the cows out.’

  ‘Okay, Mama.’

  I oblige and dash to the big hut to get some maize to feed the chickens.

  ‘Kuuuuk, kuuuuk, kukukukukuk!’ I call out to the chickens.

  They come running from the different corners of the homestead, flapping their wings and jostling to fill their stomachs with the corn I’ve scattered on the ground in front of the semicircle of huts. They eat in a frenzy as if it’s their last meal in this life.

  I let the cattle out of the kraal on our way to the grazing field near the hills overlooking the Vezinyawu forest. I love the docile beasts, they are humble and calm with eyes revealing their deepest emotions. They bring ease to my spirit as if I have been touched by the hand of the old wise one. We understand each other and communicate in a language we both know. They teach me about the deeper essence and share holy privileges. They have taught me that patience is the friend of the wise. Most herdboys seem to be blind to their hidden wisdom though; some boys are forever beating the cattle, screaming instructions, thinking that they are lazy and stupid.

  I marvel at the wilderness and all things holy as the cattle graze; the natural kingdom is a great teacher in many ways. I’m fascinated by the different birds and their arch of connection which makes them tranquil in flight and telepathic in communication. I watch the swallows fly with fine flamboyance and flaunt the divine essence with grace, finesse and deep passion. My spirit lets go and flies to the different corners of the soul sphere. I watch the clouds tell prophesies in abstract symbols full of meaning and sense. It’s as if I’ve been cast over by a spell as the morphing clouds hold my absolute attention seeking to reveal messages from beyond. It is a struggle to decode some of the messages locked in symbols. The forest is calm yet vibrant in telling stories never told; stories that speak directly to the matters of the heart. The tall trees whistle gentle melodies of the different ages in the book of life. The mood of the Vezinyawu forest invokes the essence. The feeling seduces my very being and I somehow wish I could be lost in its embrace forever. The trees pass messages that are urgent and of utmost importance while being rooted in their wisdom and humility. I see a flashing shadow image of one of the children of the star coming to existence and disappearing into thin air. I wonder if I’m hallucinating as a result of missing them too much. A moment later, I see some ghost images of those I recognise from the playground of eternity behind the fat trunk of a baobab tree. I run towards the tree to expose them from their hiding place. They vanish as I approach them and I hear their chorus of chuckles merrily swept away by the impartial winds. The scents from the different flowers flavour the moment with pure innocence. I chase the butterflies up and down the hills but it seems that they are purposefully leading me to discoveries. I tumble down the hill like a log into a shrub of lilies and then a bold voice comes from the lilac tree not too far away.

  ‘There is nothing to matter at all; it’s all spiritual. Do not gravitate the essence to a dense state thereby making things matter. It’s all spiritual in essence. Even the rock you are sitting on is no matter, it is energy; it is formless in its truest essence. It’s all spiritual; rise and realise that there is nothing to matter.’ The flowering shrub with fragrant violet flowers speaks profoundly.

  I am awestruck by the validity of the moment. I am free to experience the celestial because my heart of hearts yearns to be swept away by feelings never experienced in the deeper corridors of the soul sphere. I delight in the majestic pleasures of the higher order. A stern voice from the flowering shrub echoes once again.

  ‘Only by going to the deepest depths of self to feel and perceive the true nature of your being can you glimpse the nature of all that is.’

  I’m reminded of my past reincarnation as a baobab tree; I delighted in the simple pleasures, indulging in relaxation for more than a century, yet creating the forest in which I grew. I was bare and open, willing to share for the better. I honoured the divine and connected with the deeper essence which made possible the fulfilling of the true spiritual force within.

  The sun lowers in the distant horizon and prepares to set. The changing winds blanket the planes with chilly bites and messages from the faraway gods. I make my way down the hill to round up the cattle; some of them have disappeared in the lush forest while others still graze at the foot of the hill. We follow the setting sun on our way back to the homestead. The other herdboys also make their way back home with their herds of cattle. The sun sets behind the Mojaji mountain but the golden glow of its rays paints the horizon with magical undertones. A column of smoke from the different homesteads reaches up for the sky as the village women prepare supper on outside fires. I arrive home as the dark veil of night begins to cover the land. I put the cattle in the kraal and close the entrance. My stomach growls in anticipation of the evening meal. I make my way to the big hut.

  ‘Did you manage to bring back the whole herd, my child?’ Mama asks.

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ I reply in a low weary tone.

  ‘You look tired my child; take your plate of food from the table before these naughty cats steal your meat.’ Mama offers me supper.

  ‘What’s the occasion? Why was a chicken slaughtered?’ I enquire curiously.

  ‘I don’t need a reason to slaughter a chicken. I can do so whenever I want,’ Mama replies defensively.

  ‘Don’t you want the meat, Nwelezelanga?’ Aunt Nontsebenzo butts in.

  ‘I’m just asking, Aunty; you know Mama hardly slaughters anything without a ceremonial reason,’ I emphasise my point.

  ‘And she loves her precious domestic fowls more than us,’ Zimasa chips in.

  ‘You girls want to eat up all my livestock,’ Mama lashes out jokingly.

  ‘Ningamazim!’

  Everyone dissolves into laughter. A jovial mood circulates the big hut before Aunt Nontsebenzo cuts the atmosphere with breaking news.

  ‘Have you heard the rumours going around about Nwelezelanga, sisi?’

  ‘You know that I’m too busy to keep up with the petty gossip of this village, Nontsebenzo.’ Mama is dismissive yet interested in what Aunt Nontsebenzo has to say.

  ‘Okay, let me fill you in, sisi. The herdboys say that your precious daughter has been seen talking to shrubs and shades of nothing like a demented lunatic while the cattle graze.’ Aunt Nontsebenzo shares the gossip.

  ‘Oh, the people of this village can talk and talk until they are blue in the face, they don’t know that this child has rare gifts,’ Mama says in my defense.

  ‘What do you mean, sisi?’ asks Aunt Nontsebenzo.

  ‘Nwelezelanga is not like other children; she sees things that no other people see,’ Mama continues in her persuasion.

  ‘Ay, I don’t follow, my sister,’ says Aunt Nontsebenzo mystif
ied.

  ‘Nwelezelanga feels and acknowledges the life in everything, even the rock that you think is dead, she can speak to its life form. She is a clairvoyant child capable of telling future histories; she is sensitive to her most inner self, ithongo lalo mntana linzima.’

  ‘Oh Mama, you love this child of yours too much and are willing to find excuses for her demented ways,’ Zimasa joins the conversation.

  ‘Hawu, why are you talking about me like I’m not in the room?’ I finally exclaim.

  ‘We are not talking to you, we are talking about you. Deal with it!’ Zimasa interjects harshly.

  ‘One day it will be one of you who’ll talk to shrubs and you will know what I’m talking about,’ Mama carries on.

  ‘Never!’ Zimasa cries out.

  ‘I know they say that one must never say never but I will say never,’ Aunt Nontsebenzo states unequivocally.

  ‘Never is a long time, Nontsebenzo. I’m a sangoma and I see more than an average person and I’m telling you that this is a blessed child. She brought rain when there was drought in the land.’

  ‘Yoh sisi, I rest my case. I see this beloved daughter of yours has cast a spell on you,’ says Aunt Nontsebenzo in a defeated voice.

  ‘I understand you my little sister, you don’t know what you don’t know,’ says Mama finally.

  There’s a recognisable heavy silence in the air. Mama unexpectedly bursts into song in the tenderest voice that makes my insides quiver. She stands up and slowly moves in a rhythmic motion, feeling every note of the melody. She gets lost in the song.

  ‘Where is the drum?’ she asks while her eyes remain wide shut.

  The drum has always spoken profoundly to me before I could talk and walk. I always felt a release to higher plains the moment I heard the booming sound of the ancient musical instrument of the land. It told the history of our tribe; stories that carry us to this day.

  Zimasa joins the song and dance with the drum and a wild savage exhibition ensues. Mama stamps the ground with passion, feeling the booming sound of the drum; her whole upper body shakes as if possessed by alien spirits. She spins and spins like a top as if she could lift off into the night sky. We clap with more zeal to lift her higher and higher to higher planes. She leaps up and then stamps the ground with gusto. The singing and dancing uplifts energies. The essence has taken over and raises the spirits. All matters of the world don’t seem to matter. The gravitational force that is dense in matter is overpowered by the supreme force of lightness. We rise in song; the booming sound moves through the veins. The dance exudes the highness and lightness of spirit. Mama’s feet are almost not touching the ground; her personality changes like waves of light showing off supreme charisma, grace, humility, love and lightness of being.