I collect cow dung from the kraal on my return and coat the floor of the big hut. Zimasa waters the vegetable garden in front of the semicircle of huts. Aunt Nontsebenzo goes to the stream for another refill. Mama grinds corn on a stone in preparation for the traditional brew. We work to stay alive and keep up with the earth’s heartbeat.
‘Nwelezelanga! Let’s go and collect wood!’ Zimasa shouts to me from outside the hut.
‘Uyiphethe inkatha?’ I remind Zimasa not to forget to take a cloth to cushion her head from the wood.
‘Yes, I’ve got one,’ she confirms.
We make our way out of the homestead. Mabhulu wags his tail as he gallops ahead of us. Zimasa sings her favourite song. I join her in the chorus and back her as we cross the nearby stream. We chase the playful butterflies along the way.
‘Nomtha!’ Zimasa calls her friend as we approach her homestead.
‘Nomtha!’ she shouts again.
Nomtha steps outside the hut to answer the call.
‘Masiyotheza!’
‘I will meet you on top of the hill,’ Nomtha replies.
We carry on walking towards the top of the hill, singing in the open fields. There is freedom in the air and a lightness in our mood. We skip and dance our way up the hill. We search for mushrooms as we wait for Nomtha at the top. She comes a moment later carrying a machete to cut the wood; she is singing a melodious tune as she approaches us. Zimasa picks a mushroom and shows off her find.
‘Look, it’s so big,’ she gloats to make me jealous. ‘Where’s yours?’ she adds insult to injury by rubbing in the fact that I haven’t found one.
‘Did you have to bring her?’ Nomtha asks Zimasain displeasure.
‘Don’t start now Nomtha; leave her alone,’ Zimasa says in my defense.
‘She must go and herd the cattle with the boys.’ Nomtha rolls her eyes. ‘Zimasa, we can’t go with her; she is a big gossiper this one. She tells the boys our private conversations,’ Nomtha protests.
‘Leave her alone; there’s literally no wood at home; we need the extra hands,’ Zimasa insists.
We make our way into the forest. There is always a festive mood when we go to the forest. It’s as if it’s a celebration of the loosening grip of the hands of the grown-ups who dictate the terms at home. We pick wild berries and other wild fruit along the way. Zimasa suddenly sprints ahead to pick another mushroom before any of us notice it. She gloats yet again.
‘You’re not getting any,’ she says to me, proud of her find.
The conversation quickly changes to the favourite topic Zimasa and Nomtha seem to like more than any other when they are away from the ears of our mothers; they go on and on about the cutest boys in the village.
‘My friend, who’s more handsome between Qhawe and Mpondo?’ Nomtha asks Zimasa.
‘It’s Qhawe, my friend, without a shadow of a doubt,’ Zimasa readily answers with excitement.
‘I don’t know what you like about that ugly swine with a big forehead,’ Nomtha shoots back. ‘Mpondo is the one; he’s got royal blood.’ She points out her favourite.
‘Pleeeease, you should tell him to wash his armpits; he stinks like a rotten cabbage,’ says Zimasa with disapproval written all over her face.
‘Jealousy doesn’t suit you, my friend,’ says Nomtha.
‘What do you think, Nwelezelanga?’ Zimasa asks for my opinion.
‘We don’t need her lousy input, she’s a boy; this one will die alone.’ Nomtha taunts me as always.
We look for dry bushes to cut wood and I soon spot a fallen tree.
‘There’s a tree we can cut,’ I say to the girls.
Nomtha takes the lead and cuts off the branches of the tree with the machete. Zimasa and I look for dry bush in the surrounding area. We find some and start breaking off pieces and putting them in a pile. While we’re busy with the task, I hear a curious bird call.
‘Did you hear that?’ I ask Zimasa.
She ignores me and carries on collecting wood. The singing echoes behind the myriad forest sounds. It is both beautiful and mesmerising in an unearthly manner. The call seduces me like a moth to a flame. It stops for a moment and other forest sounds appear after being overshadowed by the mysterious bird call. Before I can digest what is happening the bird sings a harmony that penetrates the heart and fills it with awe. I follow the melody with caution and hesitation in my stride. Curiosity leads the way. The magical adventure wakes every fibre of my body. I walk down a winding footpath, moving in the general direction of the sound. The sun dances and sparkles as the wind caresses the vegetation. I stray away from the path into the untamed territory of the forest. The singing calls in a definite voice. I reach an opening in the growth and it leads me to a patch of land with no grass. I see a curious circle of lit candles on the floor of the forest. The flames of the candles dance with the wind in a magical exhibition. There are crystals placed in the middle of the circle. Awe and fascination fill my heart. A man with a white robe appears from nowhere. He has defined facial features. The small eyes, the square forehead, dark lips and somewhat pointy nose make him alluring. There’s a calming presence about him.
‘I see you, Nwelezelanga.’ The voice quenches my thirsty heart.
I stand still, entranced by the moment.
‘Sit down, my child,’ the man says with caring authority.
He gestures with his hand that I should sit in the middle of the circle. I sit in the centre surrounded by the burning candles and I feel a surge of lightness in my being. He sits down at the north side. He begins to tell me a folk tale about the beginning of time; his voice transfixes me, it is both fantastic and alien. I hear him but I somehow can’t digest the meaning of the words. It is like listening to a song and not understanding the words. As I look into his eyes, I feel drawn to him somehow; he hypnotises me into the depths of his soul. He continues to speak in this beautiful language I don’t understand. He steals my essence. I’m paralysed by the effect of his spell. There are stories across the land of children who are stolen and turned into zombies to be playthings for their masters. He offers me a ‘magic potion’ that he says will give me everlasting youth and I drink it without question. The potion renders me motionless and I feel sick. I collapse to the floor and my body begins to seize. My stomach churns in pain. I feel the strength ebbing out of my body. I progress to a vegetative state. I see the luminous bright light coming from the world beyond. The phosphorescent-like glow draws me. I get glimpses of the land of origins; the children of the star call with a definite voice and ask me to let go and free myself from all the earthly heartaches. They beg me to embrace the gift of death and join them in the playground of eternity. A part of me misses the freedom and carefree nature of being completely spirit. The man addresses me in his authoritative voice.
‘You are mine. You are my zombie. Your soul is my plaything and I can will it to do whatever I want,’ he roars with surety in his voice.
‘Hahaha, you thought you were invincible. They say you are the special one, look at you now,’ he scorns.
‘Hahaha.’ His evil laugh echoes through the forest.
I lie suspended on the forest floor paralysed, unable to move but very much conscious and sane.
‘I am the true diviner and prophet of the land. You thought I’d sit and watch while you stole my shine?’ he shouts. The killer instinct glistens in his eyes.
I don’t understand what the man is saying; he mumbles uncontrollably for a while.
Suddenly Mabhulu appears and barks at the man, sensing his evil intentions. Zimasa and Nomtha call my name. The man is startled and quickly slips away into the bushes. The girls arrive at the scene; Zimasa wails upon seeing me.
‘Yhuuuu, child of my mother! What have they done to you!’ she cries and shakes me violently.
‘Nwelezelanga!’ she shouts my name with deep distress in her voice.
‘Nwelezelanga!’ she shakes me yet again, begging for my response.
I wish I could respond and release
the pain in her heart. I look at her without expressing any emotion. I am no different to a statue. Zimasa puts me on her back and starts walking home.
Seventeen
MAMA FEEDS ME awful-tasting concoctions every few hours while I lie on the reed mat. There’s a saying among traditional healers that a serious malady is cured with a bitter medicine, and I can testify to that. The air that circulates the hut is humid, stale and sickening. There is little cool air coming in through the wide-open door and windows as the sun beats down outside. I feel hot and uncomfortable. There’s a damp cloth on my forehead to keep my temperature down. Mama parries away the flies on my face with a cloth.
Anxiety is thick in the air as Mama tries to remedy the situation. Aunt Nontsebenzo and Zimasa help where they can. The mood is hijacked by the depressing atmosphere. Mama feeds me yet another concoction of medicine in her attempt to bring me back to the apparent reality. The paralysis renders me motionless. Beads of sweat stream down my face. Mama takes the cloth that’s on my forehead, dips it in water, squeezes it out and wipes away the sweat on my face and neck. She rinses the cloth yet again, squeezes it out, folds the cloth into a square and puts it back on my forehead.
The sombre mood continues to suffocate and Mama lights some impepho to chase away the dense and unwanted energies that circulate. She mumbles low under her breath. She increases the volume of her voice and begs with passion for the all-knowing one to put a healing hand over me.
‘Oh Mvelinqangi, the great Nkulunkulu, I bow to your might. Oh Thongo lam, knowing ones of old, please hear me. Please remove the shadow of death hanging over my precious daughter,’ she prays. ‘Please breathe strength into her joints and will her to stand on her feet. Let this medicine heal her to her old self,’ she pleads.
Mama takes the impepho and circles the room while praying for a ‘miracle’. She snorts and speaks in twisted tongues. She comes closer to me and hovers the burning everlasting plant close to my nostrils.
‘Get well my child,’ she whispers. ‘Oh Nkwenkezi, my dearest child, wake up.’
She looks at me with endearing and rheumy eyes; tears break and fall down her cheeks. Zimasa enters with a bowl of porridge in her hand.
‘It’s still hot,’ she tells Mama.
‘Put it on top of the table for it to cool down a bit, my child,’ says Mama. ‘Is there warm water by the fire?’ Mama asks Zimasa.
‘There is hot water that I was going to use to make tea and wash the dishes,’ responds Zimasa.
‘Bring it my child; I want to wash your sister before she eats.’
Zimasa steps outside to the middle hut and brings the hot water inside.
‘The washbasin is under the table,’ Mama tells Zimasa upon her return.
Zimasa puts the small three-legged cast-iron pot on the floor and takes the washbasin from underneath the table. She pours the water.
‘Please clip a few leaves of lavender for me, my child.’
Zimasa goes outside to clip the leaves from the lavender plant next to the entrance of the homestead. Mama puts the washbasin down next to me. Zimasa comes back with the lavender leaves and Mama takes some of the leaves and places them inside my pillow. She then puts some in the hot water. She rubs the lavender leaves in her hands and hovers her scented hands close to my nose. The smell evokes a feeling of calm and I’m lost in the heavens of the heart for a moment. Mama adds a bit of cold water to the washbasin to make the water mild and ready for my bath. She lifts me up and makes me sit against the wall and then takes off my kanga. She dips the cloth in the water and washes my face and neck. She lifts my arms and washes my armpits. She breathes heavily as a result of the physical exertion. Beads of sweat form in her nose and on her forehead. She washes my chest, breast and belly. She struggles when turning me around to wash my back. I feel sorry for her and I feel like a nuisance for putting her through this hardship. She washes me from the waist down and then takes the washbasin and throws the dirty water on a patch of grass outside.
I feel refreshed and light in body as if layers of oppressive energy have been lifted. The heavy burden on Mama is evident for all to see. She presents a strong demeanour to all so no one loses hope, and it’s admirable, but I cannot escape the guilt that haunts me for the burden I’ve caused.
‘Please bring me that porridge, Zimasa,’ she asks.
Zimasa obliges as instructed and Mama feeds me the almost-cold porridge. She is patient with me as I take long to swallow. She wipes my mouth thereafter.
I become weaker and weaker. My temperature drops. I feel cold and start to shiver. My teeth chatter. Mama covers my body with a blanket. Worry chokes me. I will myself to wake up but the effort is in vain. I summon strength yet again but the status quo remains. Mama feeds me another revolting medicine that shocks my taste buds. A surge of burning energy sweeps through my body. I suddenly feel hot and begin to sweat. Mama wipes the beads of sweat and removes the blanket. I vomit the porridge I ate earlier. I choke and cough violently.
‘My child!’ exclaims Mama.
She lifts me and props me up against the wall. I continue to cough violently. She pats my back repeatedly.
‘Phuma Mthakathi.’ She calls upon the evil spirits to leave me.
She holds my head with both hands and swings it in all directions to shake off the spirits that have possessed me.
‘Get out you spirit of darkness. Go away you evil spirit. Disappear to the trenches of forever-night.’
She pours me a glass of water and holds the back of my head with her left hand and makes me drink the water slowly. I try to drink but most of it spills down the sides of my mouth.
‘Zimasa, please bring me that reed mat and that blanket.’
Mama wipes my mouth and moves me on top of the clean blanket that Zimasa has brought. Mama takes the soiled blanket and mat outside and comes back with warm water which she pours into the washbasin. She washes my upper body to get rid of the stench of vomit that lingers. She then smears my body with scented oil and wraps me in a clean kanga. She gives me another cocktail of medicine in order to clean my stomach and release the waste in my bowels. Aunt Nontsebenzo enters the hut.
‘Do you need help, sisi?’ Aunt Nontsebenzo asks kindly.
‘Please take the dirty blankets and wash them in the river,’ says Mama, ‘and ask Zimasa to cook sweet potatoes for Nwelezelanga,’ Mama asks Aunt Nontsebenzo as she’s about to step out of the door.
Mama piggybacks me to the long-drop toilet. I am introduced to a new level of love that knows no end; a love I never knew existed. Mama still carries a lot of pride in this seemingly hopeless situation. She puts me on the toilet. My stomach growls; the medicine has worked and my stomach is loose. I flush the waste in my bowels down the long drop. Mama grinds her teeth and cringes as she wipes my behind. Tears fall down my face from the humiliation of it all. Mama piggybacks me back to the main hut. She lays me on top of the blanket.
Another day passes as evening falls in the rural heartland of Dingilizwe. Life has become a drag in our household. Zimasa serves samp and beans to Aunt Nontsebenzo and Mama. She brings me mashed sweet potatoes.
‘Thank you, my child,’ Mama offers gratitude to my older sister.
Mama feeds me before she eats. Everyone is quiet and the buzzing mosquitoes fill the silence. The sound of the spoon touching the plate tells the story of our lives. The mood is gloomy and uninspiring. Mama eats her food once she finishes feeding me. Zimasa stands up to put her plate on the table.
‘Here Zimasa, take my plate,’ says Aunt Nontsebenzo.
She takes the plate from Aunt Nontsebenzo and places both the plates on top of each other on the small table in the north end of the room. She then goes out to the middle hut and comes back with a bucket of water and puts it on top of the table. She scoops out some water with a cup and drinks in one long gulp.
‘Can I also have some, my child?’ Mama asks.
Zimasa brings Mama a cup of water.
‘Thank you, my angel, please put it
here.’ Mama points next to her.
‘Your eyes look reddish, you must be tired.’ Mama shares her observation.
‘I am, Mama,’ responds Zimasa as she walks sluggishly to the bed.
She climbs into bed, tucks herself under the covers and falls asleep; Aunt Nontsebenzo follows soon thereafter. Mama burns the leaves of a dry sage plant. She then fiddles around looking for something at her altar. She finds the candle she was looking for, lights it and brings it to my side. She also has a tiny razor and a small bottle of powdered medicine at hand. She goes back to her altar and finds some liquid medicine. She gives me three spoons of the unpleasant-tasting remedy. She unwraps my kanga and makes tiny razor incisions all over my body, with emphasis on the joints. She then rubs the powdered medicine in the cuts.
‘Phila mntan’am,’ she whispers under her breath.
A tingling sensation circulates under my skin. Mama wraps me with the kanga once again and covers me with a blanket.
‘Sleep well, my dear child.’
Mama prepares to sleep. She drinks the glass of water next to her and blows out the candle and rests. I lie awake in the dark. I want to let go and release myself from this burden. I oscillate between wakefulness and the world of dreams. I see the beautiful ones of yore and they smile and giggle, calling me to come and play with them. The children of the star beg me to answer their call. They don’t understand my attachment to the land of the walking dead. They lure me to the world of spirits but I still have links to this world.
My biological mother suddenly appears in my dreams. She is full of suicidal thoughts but at the same time has a great yearning to see me. I want to release her from the self-inflicted pain so she can find peace in her heart. I’m caught in these different worlds. I want to let go and be swallowed by the highways of eternity but intuition tells me to connect with my biological mother and release her from the pain she carries with her. I pray for strength and a miracle.
Nwelezelanga: The Star Child Page 9
