Thwala

Thwala

Thwala

Eve Clayton

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Copyright © 2017 Eve Clayton

Published by Eve Clayton Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

‘Thwala is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.’

I would like to thank all of my readers and those who supported me along the journey of Thwala, especially Rob, Nicola, Diana, Steve, Dot and Annette. Particular thanks to my colleague Sindiswa Zibi who assisted me in Xhosa linguistics and in pushing to completion, along with Rosi and James, who helped me believe I could get there. Lastly, a huge thank you to Philippa Irvine for her genius cover design.

1

It was still dark when Zanobuhle rose in the morning. Khanya woke as she felt him shifting, throwing the blanket back and sitting up in one smooth motion. Without a pause, he rose and headed for the kitchen, bare feet silent on the lino floor. She heard the scrape of the bucket as he lifted it; took outside to the tank for water; the squeak of the door as he opened it, letting in the silver wash of the setting moon to slice the dark of the living room. It was time.

She wrapped the blanket round her naked body and shuffled through to Nosuthu’s room. The girl was still in a deep sleep, her arm defensively curled around the soft, smooth, shadowed profile of her face. She paused for a brief moment to wonder what the day would bring, blinked back the strange, unbidden tears that caught in her eyelashes and gently shook her daughter. ‘Nosuthu… Nosuthu wake up. We have far to go.’

Nosuthu’s eyes flashed open and then closed again as she realised what day this was. She muttered and turned away, trying to find again the bliss of unconsciousness. But Khanya again and again shook the girl’s shoulder until she had no option but to turn and face her mother, eyes blinking open. Khanya reached for the light switch of the bedside lamp and flooded the room with harsh light. ‘Get up now, and dress.’ She rose, awkwardly holding the blanket to her breast, and turned to the shelf that supported a row of cup hooks from which the girl’s clothes hung. She selected a dark school skirt and white blouse. From on top of the shelf she took a pair of pantyhose, clean underwear. ‘There,’ she said. ’Put it on.’ She paused for a moment to be sure that Nosuthu would comply, and then shuffled back. At the kitchen table, she stopped to pour a little of the water Zanobuhle had brought in into a basin, allowing the blanket to drop to her waist as she splashed her face and neck; took a mug and brushed her teeth outside the door, and then returned to her room to dress.

Zanobuhle buttoned up the stiff, white, collared shirt and reached for his tie. This was an important outing. Already, he had abandoned any attempt to speculate about what would happen when they got to Tshuka’s place. His only concern now was to get there. It did not occur to him to wonder if he should try to contact the man and make an appointment. He would go, and when he reached his destination, he would wait until Tshuka could see him. Igqirha would most likely expect his arrival in any case. Transport was the biggest hurdle in his calculations. He would have to go to the main road and wait until a driver came by in a bakkie or better still, a canopied van, with space for the three of them. It never occurred to him to go to Ncoko the white man and ask for help, in spite of the role he had played. His mind was fixed on the steps he needed to take. He picked his money up from its place next to the bed leg, slipped it into an embroidered cloth bag that he used as a purse; coerced the fat wad into his back pocket; buttoned it firmly down. At least the skies were clear to start with, at any rate: it was good weather for travelling. His hat and mnqayi, the special ceremonial stick that was passed through the smoke when he became a man, were ready at the door and he was anxious to start. While the women dressed, he put the kettle on, took half a round loaf of heavy pot-bread out of the biscuit tin on the dresser, and placed it on the table where he began to slice long, thick slices. He laid three on the lid of the biscuit tin and took out a plastic packet to wrap up the remaining bread and forced it into his jacket pocket. Who knew where their next meal would come from, or how long it would be before they succeeded in getting a lift?

The kettle was boiling by the time Khanya and Nosuthu emerged from their rooms, both gleaming smart and spotless, faces fresh, Khanya’s with an intricate pattern of white dots that proclaimed the traditional nature of this outing. On her head, her best paisley patterned headscarf was twisted up into a regal turban arrangement. The girl looked suitably demure, in spite of everything. Nothing was said as they ate the simple meal with unaccustomed haste, for indeed, food was something one could never take for granted. But they had a long way to go, and it was best to start with something in your stomach.

It was four kilometres to the tarred road, and Zanobuhle walked in front, armed with his mnqayi in anticipation of any danger. He could never understand why white men made their women walk ahead, the first to face a stranger on the road, a vicious dog, or a dangerously driven motor car. Surely these perils were more likely than an attack from the back. He set a brisk pace, hampered to some extent by the shoes worn by his wife. Khanya had chosen her smart black patent leather heels with silver buckles and straps at the back of the ankles. They were soon covered in dust and hurting across the breadth of her feet, but she was accustomed to the discomfort and pressed on uncomplainingly. Nosuthu wore her school shoes, the laces comfortably loose, so she was able to maintain the pace easily.

Not a word was spoken. The task ahead of them loomed inexorably, too big for Zanobuhle to begin to contemplate. Khanya had placed her trust entirely in her husband’s hands, and she knew that whatever happened today would be completely out of her control. He might choose to discuss it with her later, but she would have no say at all in the decisions that would be taken. She felt fear, that nameless furball of fear that always clung in the gut when one visited Tshuka or any gqirha – the fear of the unknown, of calling on the mysterious powers of the ancestors when their guidance was sought. It was not something one would undertake lightly. Indeed this visit was unduly rushed, but the condition of Nosuthu, and the options that were open to them demanded it. She knew that Tshuka would understand. Indeed, he very likely was already aware of their mission. Her complete conviction that this was their only option at this stage, stilled her fear. The white man, Ncoko’s offer to pay she did not take seriously, but it hovered at the back of her mind. If they needed money, she would go to him with the debt. It could be something for the future. Or, if Tshuka demanded more than Zanobuhle could afford, Ncoko would be visited as a last resort.

Nosuthu, walking at the back of the trio, lacked the stoic faith of her parents. For her, this journey was like walking across a plain invaded by fearful creatures - jakkals and hyenas, perhaps, if tales of the ancestors were to be believed, that snapped with fearsome teeth at her soft belly, watching her with slitted, yellow eyes, waiting for their evil opportunity. She was afraid; deeply afraid of igqirha Tshuka and his power, terrified of the voices of the ancestors, and most of all, anguished for her child. Her body moved like an automaton but her mind writhed and squirmed as she tried to imagine what lay ahead, never quite fixing on any one thought, but leaping from one thing to the next. What would this old man (he surely had to be an old man) say to a girl who was pregnant? With a white child? Would he know it was a white child? What would he know of her life, growing up with nothing certain except the fluctuations of her body and the knowledge of Eve? She knew very little about the ancestors except that they were present at all family occasions and had to be appeased by the slaughtering of animals. She was not a young boy who would be taken to the bush and taught the secrets of adulthood when he was circumcised. She had never thought to ask her mother about these things. It was men’s business and women, especially girls, remained in the background when they were discussed. Certainly, her mother had told her nothing. She knew she had no power to resist what lay ahead, and she was afraid.

When the sun glowed on the horizon, they had already covered the first three kilometres, and could hear the motor cars speeding along the main road. Zanobuhle knew the worst part of the journey lay just ahead. It was the relentless waiting for the right vehicle to come along. There was no telling how long this would take. Sometimes it was less than an hour – sometimes half the day or more. All he could do was wait.

They reached the grey strip of tar at the turn-off. To go to the village you would turn right, but to get to the town near Tshuka’s home, they would have to go left, and for many kilometres, into tribal land. The journey would take three hours or more. Without being told, Khanya knew that she and Nosuthu should wait a few metres back from the road, while Zanobuhle stood up to hike in the traffic, his thumb erect, his eyes staring into the faces of the drivers as they approached. A small acacia tree would provide shade when the sun loomed higher. Now, the grass beneath it was still pearled with dew and so they stood beside the tree, patient and dignified, as the cars roared past.

It was mainly white men driving, and very fast. Occasionally, there would be a female face at the wheel, desperately clutching on as she sped through the early morning light, and Zanobuhle was more inclined to try and flag down these than the racing men. But he was not hopeful. Now and then a young and impressionable student might stop to pick up hikers, but the chances were slim: there were three of them, and although their only luggage was a large bag carried by Khanya; it was a considerable load for a small student car. Sometimes it would be a white woman – perhaps someone like Nolulwane the bat, wife of Ncoko, when she first came to the farm – that would stop and smile, but not today. Zanobuhle’s best hope was one of the professional black transporters who drove the road for money, picking up people like himself, and the women.

It took about an hour before one came along. An old, pale blue Toyota Stallion with a canopy on the back, stopped after first driving speculatively past them for about thirty metres, before it crawled to a halt, causing one of the racing men to blare his horn and swerve his silver car angrily around the braking vehicle. Zanobuhle ran down the road to confer with the driver, followed by Khanya and Nosuthu, jogging up expectantly in his wake. Zanobuhle gave the name of Tshuka’s home to the square jawed tata with course grey stubble round his chin, sitting majestically behind the wheel, his eyes glinting behind steel rimmed glasses. ‘Three of us.’

‘I’m not sure,’ the driver answered, ‘it depends on how many people want to go there. But get in, my friend. I will take you at least part of the way.’

‘It is family business,’ Zanobuhle explained, and the driver’s eyes flashed down to the mnqayi that sloped easily in his hand. Immediately he had an inkling about the nature of this journey. Understanding dawned on his face. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘It will be R30 each, if I go all that way.’ He opened his door and stepped fearlessly out onto the tar with the vehicles flashing and roaring loudly past him. Completely unworried, he sorted through his keys until he found the one that opened the swing door at the back of the vehicle. These swinging doors were treacherous things, Zanobuhle knew, and it was always better to lock them than to trust the mechanism of the handle. One could never guess when they might fly open and throw your suitcase down onto the hard tar, scattering your belongings far and wide.

There were already five people in the Toyota Stallion, and it took quite some fussing and arranging to get Khanya and Nosuthu in. Small two-legged wooden plank stools, shiny with the patina of use, lined the sides, all occupied except for one, which Khanya politely accepted when it was offered to her. Zanobuhle sat on the floor at the door, his back to the side of the vehicle. Nosuthu had to make do as best as she could, leaning against the bag in the middle of the circle of patient faces, silently accepting their discomfort with resolute stoicism. She knew that the journey would not be easy, but it was always so.

The driver locked the swing door from the outside and returned to his seat, lurching out once more into the rush and roar of the traffic, ignoring the blaring of the horns: he knew very well that everyone could see the blue Toyota. They would find a way round him.

The journey took longer than expected. On every hill the Toyota would slow to half of its normal speed, black smoke spewing from its exhaust. Zanobuhle knew from his work with Ncoko that the rings needed replacing. This was a job he had witnessed many times when the tractor mechanic came out to the farm to service all the machines, but this knowledge did not dampen his faith that the vehicle would reach its destination. His need to reach Tshuka was in the hands of the ancestors, and they would surely see to it that he arrived. The passengers were quiet but not silent, exchanging pleasantries and making enough conversation to know who you were the next time you saw each other, where ever it might be. The intended visit to Tshuka raised everyone’s curiosity, but they knew better than to ask what it was about. That kind of business was private, although some may have guessed it was something to do with the pretty daughter.

The driver stopped at every town, to allow the use of toilets and to change passengers if anyone had to disembark. The use of the old Whites Only Toilets was a new thing to some of them. Just a year or two before, these amenities had been completely separate, and it was only with the much talked about release of the great man, Nelson Mandela, that people had begun to grow accustomed to walking into these toilets, their signs painted over in grey paint, and sitting on those white plastic seats, which the white people seemed to like so much. In the towns it was easier, they said, and some of them even used their umlungukazis’ toilets. But in the rural areas things took time to change.

With every stop Nosuthu’s trepidation grew, and with each leg of the journey her discomfort increased, but there was no remedy, and when at last at about two o’clock in the hot and balmy afternoon, the family was deposited at the side of the road, not far from the great Tshuka’s house, she could not be sure whether the fear or the relief from being out of the Toyota was the better emotion. At any rate, she and her mother collected themselves, pulled their rumpled clothing into some semblance of order, and prepared to walk the last leg of their journey. Khanya and Zanobuhle had weathered the trip well. Zanobuhle’s suit looked none too creased and Khanya’s turban stood proud and tall, the white dots of her face painting still clear and precise. Nosuthu’s blouse had escaped from the skirt; the zip would not close, and her shoes were scuffed and dull.

At the side of the road was a trio of small piccaninis, the abakhwetha begqirha. Their daily entertainment and self -appointed duty was to wait for people to come and visit their important uncle, Tshuka, and lead them the final two hundred metres to his house. They watched in silence as Zanobuhle, Khanya and Nosuthu gathered themselves together, and when the visitors were ready, wordlessly skipped tantalizingly ahead, leading the way unbidden to a well-worn brown gravel path that led off the road and into the bushes. Zanobuhle nodded encouragingly at them as they turned and waited where the path left the road. Barefoot, they wore scraps of clothing and their faces were impish and carefree as they watched the new arrivals. They had seen many interesting people in the days they spent waiting. Many very sick people, many rich people and many very ordinary people, like these. Not a day passed without someone being coughed up onto the side of the road. Sometimes they parked their very smart cars here at this spot, and then walked in their fine clothes and shiny shoes down the path to Tshuka. Sometimes they arrived dusty and hungry, having walked for miles, and sometimes, they just arrived, seemingly from nowhere: but every day there were people. Surefooted as goats, the abakhwetha begqirha skipped down the path to the house of Tshuka.

Once again Zanobuhle led his family, and Nosuthu trailed fearfully, her face drawn into a frown close to tears, her fingers pinching at the well worn twigs that lined the sides of the broad path through the bushes. The surface was bare, the odd stone poking through the smooth hard brown soil; not a blade of grass had withstood the constant passage of feet on the track. It sloped and twisted with the angle of the terrain, meandering a few hundred meters down the hill to the cluster of huts that formed Tshuka’s homestead. About fifty meters from the dwellings, Zanobuhle stopped in the shade of a large, untidy, grey olive tree, to get his bearings. Twice before, in his life, he had found himself at this spot. Nothing had changed. It was as if he was a boy again, in the company of his father, anxiously seeking the guidance of the ancestors after the tragedy of Makoyi. He stood still for a moment under the curling pale green branches of the tree, reliving the fear that had coursed through his body when he first felt the power of Tshuka, the certain knowledge of his wisdom. Time had taken nothing away, Zanobuhle was certain. He had done the right thing to bring the girl here. Tshuka would advise them as he had before.

He was a youth of fourteen when he had first been brought to Tshuka by his father, thirty years before. At the time he had been young and irresponsible, and guided by his elder brother, Makoyi, Zanobuhle had found himself involved with a group of thugs who found pleasure in scavenging the countryside, causing mischief. They would waylay young girls alone on the road, or make casual sorties into unoccupied houses where they would steal liquor and food, and other small items like radios and fishing rods. It had been a game which spun out of control one evening when the ramshackle house that they entered was occupied by an old white man. When they realized it, they should have turned and found another target, but buoyed up with excitement, they had attacked the old man. It was a foolish thing to do, and had ended in tragedy. Makoyi took a bullet through the eye which killed him outright, and two others were wounded before they retreated.

The police did their work well and arrested all of the boys. Deep in Zanobuhle’s mind, the memory of his father’s anger and pain still burned: the old man had been forced to confront the death of one of his sons, the conviction of the other. The boys had all been carrying knives, in the way of youths, and were deemed to have had the intent to murder. Zanobuhle’s age (at fourteen he was the youngest by two years) and the good impression his father had made on the judge had saved him from a life in prison. His father had pleaded for leniency and the alternative sentence of Reform School rather than jail, and this had been granted on condition that Zanobuhle was circumcised the moment he had completed his year at school. The early circumcision and passage into manhood would mean two things: firstly he would no longer be able to carry a knife, for traditionally, at that time, it was not considered an honourable weapon suitable for a man; and secondly, he would have to learn how to behave like a man in Xhosa custom. He would learn the true meaning of respect, ubuntu, and how to conduct himself with decency and honour. But that was not all. Zanobuhle’s father had volunteered, with the consent of the court, to beat his son, and it was something which in itself had very nearly killed him. A rawhide rope had been placed round his neck, slung over a beam in the house, and, grasping this in one hand, pulling it viciously so that it almost strangled him, Zanobuhle’s father had taken his fighting stick to the boy, beating him to within an inch of his life. Ribs were broken, his head scarred with cuts from the thrashing, but Zanobuhle survived as a changed human being. And part of the metamorphosis had been a visit here, to Tshuka, to try and divine the way ahead for the young boy. His father’s actions had been guided by this man and his communion with the ancestors, and Zanobuhle’s life, so nearly wasted, had been set on a new course.

The second time was when Khanya was unable to conceive. This was a heavy burden for a young couple to bear, and the reason why it was common practice to produce at least one child before marrying. Zanobuhle would have done so, but Khanya’s father was a staunch Christian and insisted upon wedlock before allowing his daughter out of his sight. Once married, (a proper Church wedding with Khanya in a shiny white dress and he in this very same black suit) Zanobuhle and she, joyously at first, and then with an increasing sense of desperation, had exercised their marital duties until they realized that no amount of kneeling and praying and singing in church would grant them the desired child. It did not seem to be His will. Khanya became sick and thin, morose and tearful, and Zanobuhle realized that his only recourse was igqirha, and of course, it was to Tshuka that they travelled, weighed down with the stigma of infertility. If there had been no success, he would have had to divorce his young bride because of the father’s insistence on the Christian custom of not having two wives. But it never came to that. Tshuka had consulted with the ancestors, assured them that indeed, it was their lot to perpetuate the family dynasty, and sent them away with certain powders and instructions that were assiduously followed, and the result was the arrival of Nosuthu, less than a year later.

Although they both still religiously attended the Church services every Sunday, it was a social gathering. Church meant there was always something to do, funerals and weddings to be catered for, beautiful singing and praying. But when the service was over, and the preacher with his briefcase had boarded the rusty little Ford Escort that was his transport back home, then the big drum would come out (a forty four gallon drum, sliced in half and covered with cowhide at the hollow ends) and the singing and dancing and clapping would start up, and the ancestors would celebrate with them till well into the night.

Thus it was not surprising that Zanobuhle and Khanya, when they stood on the slope behind Tshuka’s pale turquoise and white clutch of thatched houses, had complete confidence that here, their problems would be solved. A way forward would be found.

For Nosuthu, it was different. As a young girl, she had been inducted into very little of the outmoded tribal traditions that underpinned the fabric of her existence. At sixteen, she was too young, too headstrong, and not at all inclined to listen to the advice of her mother. Tradition hovered round her like the shadows of the ancestors that were buried ten or fifteen meters from the front door of the house, and most certainly, if asked, she would expect that Zanobuhle would receive some sort of lobola when she married, but the once strong ties of custom had been so eroded by time, so twisted by the brutal hand of apartheid, that she had scant respect for the kind of behaviour that would have been prescribed for earlier generations. Zanobuhle expected obedience from her, and superficially at least, she gave it. But the very reason for their presence here was a result of the deviation from tribal values in the modern world. And yet she did not doubt that the ancestors were still amongst them, and suspected that she had offended them grievously. She was filled with fear of what would transpire when they met with Tshuka.

Standing in the patch of shade provided by the scrubby wild olive, Zanobuhle paused to allow the piccaninis to run down the slope to Tshuka’s large square house. He removed his hat and wiped his perspiring face with his handkerchief, the only indication of the tension that he felt. Not a word was spoken between him and the women.

It was not long before the piccaninis returned, solemn now, with the burden of a message. One was clearly the leader and marched just ahead, the other two jostling for position in his wake. They stood directly in front of Zanobuhle.

‘Molweni,’ Zanobuhle greeted them now.

‘Molo, Tata,’ were the first words from the little captain of the trio, his voice surprisingly gruff for one so young, his bony little chest puffed up with importance.

‘Tshuka says he knows you.’ Zanobuhle was not surprised. The gqirha would have known from the ancestors exactly who was in need of his guidance, would have sensed from the presence of his mnqayi who he was.

Wordlessly, Zanobuhle, Khanya and Nosuthu followed the little boys down the last few metres of their journey, to where the worn path levelled out behind the house. They made their way around the thorny kraal hedge of dwarf aloes to the open front door. The piccaninis stood aside and Zanobuhle paused, removing his hat and wiping his sweating face once more. He reverently set his mnqayi against the wall, next to his hat, beside the doorway, and he bent to remove his dusty shoes. Likewise, Khanya carefully lifted her turban from her head and placed it in the worn spot against the wall and leant down to remove the scuffed black shoes, unrecognisable since this morning. Nosuthu deduced at once that she should do the same and followed suit. With all the unnecessary impediments to the channels of communication between themselves, Tshuka and the ancestors thus set aside, Zanobuhle led the way, stooping to enter through the small door into the gloomy cavern of Tshuka’s house. The women hesitated for a moment and then followed.

Zanobuhle’s eyes took time to adjust to the dark, smoky interior of the room, but he knew that Tshuka would be sitting beneath the tiny, high window in the back wall, merging into the shadows. A small fire smouldered in the centre of a circle of stones, creating a veil of pungent white vapour that snaked its way between them and up into the thatch. He heard the man’s voice before he could make out the shape of the portly figure of Tshuka, planted firmly on a small three legged stool. ‘Come in, ‘ the voice said. ‘Come in, all of you.’ Higher and thinner than before, this was nonetheless the voice he remembered, the authority clear and controlling. He knew already, Zanobuhle felt it in his bones, Tshuka knew that this visit was about the girl.

He respectfully murmured a greeting to Tshuka, his eyes now adjusting enough to make out the scruffy white, short-brimmed hat on Tshuka’s head, the white flashes of cow’s tail necklace and strings of white beads round the folds of his neck, the spotted wild cat tails and bangles on his arms. His chest and stomach were bare, rising firmly from the wings of a white waistcoat. Zanobuhle swallowed nervously.

‘Molweni,’ came the cracked high voice of Tshuka, and Zanobuhle heard Khanya’s soft reply but Nosuthu could only move her lips soundlessly. ‘Sit down.’ They arranged themselves in a circle round the fire, and Tshuka began to enquire about their health and the journey, and then the state of things back home. The leader of the piccaninis slipped in the door with a jug of Oros for the visitors, his two deputies holding glasses which they filled. The three visitors drank gratefully. By now it was evident that Tshuka knew exactly who Zanbuhle and Khanya were, for he turned the conversation unexpectedly on Nosuthu.

‘So you are the child?’ he asked genially. She was so surprised at being addressed she could do nothing but nod tentatively, her eyes fixed on the floor. But her parents murmured the soft, affirmative reply, setting up the ebb and flow of statement and affirmation that would eventually lead them to the truth, and reveal the answers that they sought. After some time, he came back to the girl. ‘Sixteen years old, and a blessing for your parents?’ Nosuthu’s reply was a whisper, Zanobuhle’s inaudible, but Khanya answered affirmatively. Zanobuhle’s silence spoke volumes to the old man. ‘Not yet married and not wanting to marry?’ A sob escaped from Nosuthu’s trembling lips. The rhythm broke. He paused in his questioning. He hadn’t really expected it to be that simple. This was a long way to come for a simple matter of an unruly daughter who would not obey her parents. He stared into the fire, his agile mind leaping and springing to all the possibilities that presented themselves. Pregnancy was the obvious reason for their presence. Unwanted pregnancy. But more than this. There was a burden here too heavy for these people to bear. An unsuitable pregnancy. Zanobuhle, he knew, was an honourable man and was most likely blameless in this case. It was the woman, with her obvious support of the girl, who could unlock the problem for him. He focused on Khanya as he picked up the thread again, murmuring softly until the question slipped out.

‘She is a good daughter to you?’ his voice soothed.

Khanya swallowed as they muttered the affirmative, ‘Siyavuma.’ The acrid smoke curled into her nostrils and caught in her throat, almost causing her to choke.

‘Do not be afraid, Sister. Anyone would be proud to have such a good and beautiful daughter.’ He paused, his eyes seeming to stare right into the woman’s heaving heart. A high moaning sound came from Khanya, and tears squeezed themselves from between her eyelids. He was certain of the pregnancy now, and he concentrated on the girl, allowing his vision to blur as the ancestors showed him the form of a white man, with penetrating blue eyes, his body gaunt and emaciated with a hunger that food could not satisfy. The same one… it was the same image he had seen so many times… the white man stealing the youth and vibrancy from his people; the white man raping and ravaging his young nation, a youthful maiden taken in unholy thwala, her gifts used and exploited until she was broken and empty. Tshuka groaned with the intensity of emotion that filled the room, begging for confirmation and release. As if in response, a thick, creamy wisp of smoke curled within itself, foetus-like, and hung motionless above the fire.

Nosuthu gasped in disbelief. ‘White, the white one!’ was all she could say. From his stool above the three of them, Tshuka watched as Khanya and Zanobuhle locked glances and the girl’s eyes flashed up to his in confirmation. Now he understood. He gasped as the ancestors loosened their hold, and then he spoke to Zanobuhle.

‘You know who the father is.’ It was a statement, made as his right hand reached into a crafty inside pocket of the waistcoat, emerging with a few brittle leaves which he crumbled over the smoking fire. Zanobuhle nodded, the smoke clutching at his throat and disorientating him slightly.

‘Ncoko.’

Tshuka knew of Zanobuhle’s employer, Andrew Christy, or Ncoko, the know-all. He had heard that he was a fair and decent white man. The old man’s eyes took on a faraway look as he appraised the situation. This was not the first time he had dealt with this very problem. On many occasions in his life, he had been confronted by impotent people, driven by the flux of men’s appetites to this particular corner of the world, seeking respite. And mostly, his advice was the same. Unable to help by taking the life of even an unborn child, he would turn the person away. It would be out of his hands if they chose to deliver it from the bondage of a human life without anchor or succour; the life of a mongrel animal, a dog to be kicked and beaten, to seek the scraps at every table and never know a place. His advice had always been that the ancestors would be displeased: they had no wish to see the pure blood of the mighty Xhosa people defiled in the mixing. It would then lie with the parents of the girl to save the child and family from grief and humiliation. Tshuka himself, a healer and diviner, refused to defile his sacred duty by assisting them. They would go away empty handed, knowing that their next source of help would have to be a witch, a dispenser of spells and medicines that would take the stomach out. Usually the girl would be ignorant of this dark and drastic step.

But something in the power of his vision held his tongue and stayed his pronunciation: something in the clean completeness of the foetal shape they had all seen in smoke, told him to listen before he spoke.

He let the silence stretch until it became the sobbing of the mother. ‘He knows,’ she uttered haltingly. ‘He knows and he cannot deny it. He said he will pay.’ That was good, and highly unusual. Could the woman be right? This was the first time he had heard of something like this. It was true that things were changing in the country – after all, he saw so many people, and had in fact seen unbelievable riches in the future of some of his clients, but surely a simple rural family like Zanobuhle’s would not be affected by the shuddering of Africa as she gave birth to this strange new nation, this new way of life that threatened the substance of his trade. So he would pay, this Ncoko. It meant that something of that payment should by rights come to him, to Tshuka, if he gave good advice. He embraced the hushed whimpering of Khanya and allowed his thoughts to wander at will. A vision came to him of the changing future ahead of them, a balancing of the forces of the earth that would somehow return their birthright to his people. North would become North again. Direction would return. He did not wholly believe it, but supposed it to be possible, just as Nelson Mandela’s freedom had turned from an impossible dream into reality. And perhaps in this new world there would be a place for a mongrel child, in spite of his personal distaste for them. They were people after all, and a few had even come to him, in his long life, seeking to find a place with their ancestors. Perhaps the time had come to withhold the sacrifice and let the child go out into the world. He sighed, wondering if the ancestors would see fit to allow him the time to witness his people’s transformation from the emasculated plough ox to the fierce