There are people who transform the sun into a simple yellow spot, but there are also those who create the sun itself out of a simple yellow spot.
—PABLO PICASSO
Everyone in this world lives in one unique place and one unrepeatable time. Everyone except us in Nkokolani. Like the bats in the legend, we lived at a crossroads between worlds. An invisible, unbreachable frontier traversed our souls.
This duplicity would manifest itself on the morning Uncle Musisi woke up earlier than usual, tied the most formal of cloths around his waist, and adjusted the coat his father had sent him from the mines over his bare torso.
His body was thus assuming the trappings of two worlds. In his goatskin satchel, he put a handful of mafura fruit, and left without saying goodbye to his wife. He was going to visit Binguane, intending to request what he had refused to request from the Portuguese: protection against Ngungunyane’s warriors.
* * *
On his way there, Musisi recalled the last time he had been in Binguane’s domains. On that occasion, he was accompanying Grandfather Tsangatelo, who was visiting the great nkosi to ask for his support in getting back his wife, Layeluane. The matter was a delicate one and needed a widely respected negotiator to deal with the Crown authorities. Tsangatelo had left to join the Portuguese military forces who were facing rebellion in the vicinity of Lourenço Marques. He thought he would be away for a month or two; he was away for nearly a year. The indunas, or officials, from Inhambane turned up to collect taxes. Layeluane was unable to pay and explained to the collectors the reasons for her husband’s absence. They didn’t believe her. They arrested her and took her away as a guarantee of payment. She was what the Portuguese termed “taxes in arrears.” When the men were absent and families couldn’t pay, the women and their children were taken away until their husbands turned up to pay their ransom. The moment he arrived from the battlefront, Tsangatelo paid what he owed, but no one in the Portuguese administration knew of his wife’s whereabouts. Grandfather was hopeful that Binguane might use his influence.
Musisi recalled Tsangatelo’s deference when presenting himself to the chief, Binguane. At the entrance, there were large straw baskets known as xirundzo, which showed how good the harvest had been and, above all, revealed how the country folk had been generous with their gifts. While waiting to be seated, Grandfather stood there on tiptoe. It was said the chief hated short people. I want men capable of seeing beyond the plains, he proclaimed.
Opening his arms over the great baskets, the chief commented with pride: This year, we’ll dance the ngalanga.
Then he closed his eyes and remained like that, as if he had suddenly fallen asleep. Grandfather realized he needed to explain the reason for his visit without further delay. When he had finished, Binguane assured him that he would not only intervene by contacting the Portuguese personally but would also send his men to question the indunas who had taken her away. Don’t worry—your wife will be here within a couple of days. Let us talk about another matter. I’ve been told that you are negotiating with the Portuguese military to furnish them with a caravan of porters.
I was also going to ask you whether I should trust them, after what they did to Layeluane. Tell me, nkosi, do you think I can trust these Portuguese?
Do you trust your own race?
How can I? Look at the case of the VaNguni …
And do you trust those in your own household?
You know only too well I can’t. I can’t even trust this son-in-law of mine who has come with me.
Do you know why I trust you? Because you are pretending to be taller than you really are. You want to please me. This was why I spread the rumor that I hate small men, so I can assess their willingness to please me, rather than concern over their size. You can stop stretching yourself, my friend.
I am grateful, Binguane.
I trust you enough to tell you this: I want you to treat the Portuguese well. We haven’t got any other, more useful allies. Ask them to pay me in guns. And let them leave these guns here in our village. I’ll settle up with you afterward.
Tsangatelo took his leave, but Musisi lingered behind. Taking the opportunity to satisfy a long-felt curiosity, he addressed the chief:
Tell me, Binguane. You have just visited Ngungunyane. I’ve always wanted to know what he’s like. What is Umundungazi like?
And what’s the point of knowing about him?
People say he’s a bad man, and that his top teeth appeared before his bottom ones. That was why he was given his name. Do you know what Umundungazi means in their language?
I’ve already said there’s no point. You give this man too much importance. That is how an enemy gains greater stature.
They both knew: Umundungazi means “the destroyer of the nation.” That was why the elders of the court had changed his name. For Binguane, the change could have been avoided: the original name could have given us a good reason to like him. Who knows, maybe he would have helped us destroy his own nation?
* * *
This conversation was still clear in Musisi’s memory. But he had a doubt: would Binguane still recall it? At this point, he heard a violent roll of thunder that caused the ground to shake. The sky was clear, and Uncle wondered what the reasons were for that roar tearing through the firmament. He even paused for a minute in his plan, but then resumed his journey. When he was halfway there, he was startled by a loud uproar. He caught a glimpse of various Nguni regiments marching back from battle. From the thicket of ironwood trees, he had a clear view of the soldiers marching in line. They wore a white feather on their foreheads, a sign that they had killed enemies. And they whooped like animals in heat. Grandfather Tsangatelo was right when he said: Soldiers must be encouraged to shout. Their shouts prevent them from paying heed to their own fear.
In the thick foliage where he was hiding, Musisi feared for his life; even the sound of his breathing seemed too loud. If they noticed his presence, the tattoos on his face would reveal his identity straightaway, and he would be summarily executed. He was one of those whom the invaders called “the ones with cut faces,” not even considered a person. He would be killed like an animal, without pity, without burial.
The soldiers disappeared into the distance, and Musisi continued his journey stealthily toward Binguane’s village. When he got there, he dropped to his knees as if his legs had lost their ability to support him: the village was in flames, the ground littered with corpses. A group of women was gathering the wounded and covering the dead with mats and sheets of cloth.
Where is Binguane?
There’s nothing left of him, they replied.
Where is his body?
There’s nothing left, we’ve already told you.
This is what had happened: In despair at the weight of his defeat, Binguane took down the Portuguese ensign from its flagpole. He gazed lingeringly at the golden crown in its center. It was said that this crown symbolized gold. But what he saw was a blazing sun, and he waited while its glow flooded his eyes. Then he tore the cloth in half and rolled himself in the blue half. Having covered himself in this way, he sat on a barrel of gunpowder, in an effort to blow himself up.
A mishap sullied the nobility of his act. Before he could set fire to the barrel, it fell over because of Binguane’s weight. The gray powder that leaked from it took away the breath of those who wanted to help. Binguane didn’t give up. He set fire to the cloth wrapped around him, and then hugged the barrel as if it were his most cherished wife. It was then that the most deafening explosion occurred. And night fell, both within Binguane and outside him.
* * *
I awoke with a start at the distant roar of thunder. The same things had happened to me that would happen in my father’s nightmares: I remembered the iron birds swooping across the heavens. Day was breaking. I peeped through the curtain. There was a faraway glint that looked as if it might be the red flame of a bushfire. I went through the house to make sure the windows were closed. A strong wind had blown during the night, and the floor was covered with dark specks. For sure, it was the soot from the fires, and I swept the floor with a broom. I contemplated the burnt cinders, black and twisted, as if I recognized the same matter I was made of. Powder and ash. And I reverted to my original name.
* * *
Within hours of his death, Binguane had become a legend. At night, when stories can be told, the old recounted the true reason for the great warrior’s death to their young listeners. And this is how the story went:
There was once a king who didn’t believe in the existence of clouds. He argued that clouds only existed in our eyes.
I can only believe in what I am able to touch. This is what he said. And he ordered a ladder to be built that would be tall enough for him to climb up to the cloudy altitudes. It took years to build the ladder. When the king was summoned to see it, he looked up at the top and was unable to make out all the rungs.
I am going to climb it, he announced.
He climbed and climbed, and grew ever more tired. Swallows would stream past, puzzled at such clumsy company. When the king was already dizzy and gasping for air, he saw that he was surrounded by clouds. He stretched out his arms to touch them, but his fingers passed among those billowing vapors as if they were rays of light penetrating water. And he smiled, happy. He had, after all, been right all along.
As he descended, he announced: I didn’t touch them. They don’t exist.
As he climbed down, he noticed he was becoming lighter and lighter. By the time he was near the ground, he was having to hold on tightly. The slightest breeze caused him to flutter like a flag. When his feet touched the ground, the king had turned into a cloud. All that was left of him was the ladder that takes the unbelievers up into the heavens.
* * *
People say that, on that very night, Binguane returned to collect his ashes. But some of them had already been blown away by the wind. He could therefore put only half of himself together again. This is why he wanders through time, incomplete and riddled with holes: half warrior, half Chopi, half hero, half vanquished. It is also said that our great-grandchildren will have forgotten this half of their past. And they will conceal their names for fear of being made to shoulder the burden of other people’s defilement.
And things will remain so until another Binguane comes forth. And he will be a new kind of warrior, for he will teach us to overcome the boundaries that have divided us. Then we shall be able to visit the two halves of time known to our ancestors.