Malangana was as drunk as a little bird that overindulged on the nectar of garingboom flowers. He sat on Magistrate Hamilton Hope’s bench giggling and belching. Occasionally he shouted ‘Silence in the court’ and hit the bench with a gavel. He paged through the Book of Causes and pretended to read the names of culprits, their crimes and their sentences as enumerated in the book. But the blue squiggles from the magistrate’s nib did not make sense to him. He had learned to speak some of the white man’s language, but not to read it.
The Tears of Queen Victoria were burning in his belly and sending tingling sensations to his head.
It all started when he arrived in the morning to clean the House of Trials. It was his weekly assignment as a prisoner to sweep, scrub the floor and dust the furniture in the courtroom. On weekdays he did the same at The Residency and also tended the garden, comfortable jobs that were envied by the rest of the inmates of Qumbu Jail who had to dig quarries and haul rocks for stonemasons. A man who worked at the home of the magistrate was likely to see bits and pieces of delicacies find their way into his stomach, courtesy of maids and nannies. Or to get tipsy once in a while if the master had been careless enough to leave his brandy lying around.
And that was what had happened today. When Malangana walked into the courtroom followed by a Mfengu warder armed only with a baton, Hamilton Hope and Major Scott, a fresh-faced blond soldier in the uniform of the newly minted Cape Mounted Riflemen, were sitting at the desk of the Clerk of the Court in front of the bench. They were arguing spiritedly while drinking Inyembhezi zikaVitoli that Hope kept on pouring into enamel mugs from a hip flask.
‘You’ll change your tune when you’ve been here long enough,’ Hope was saying. ‘The natives will keep you on your toes and you’ll sing a different song, my friend.’
The white men paid scant attention to him as he dusted the magistrate’s bench. The warder wandered away. Malangana belonged to that class of prisoners that didn’t need to be guarded all the time. Why, sometimes he was released early from his chores, walked all by himself back to prison and banged at the gate with his fists until the warders let him in.
‘Pacification in British Kaffraria is far from being attained,’ added Hope. ‘We must undermine traditional power.’
‘I do not dispute that,’ said Scott. ‘But I think the best way to undermine it is to win it to our side first and then subdue it.’
That was the problem with these upstarts fresh from military academy. They thought they knew more than the faithful servants of the Queen who had years of field experience. Hope did not really like Scott but had to tolerate him because he was sent by the new prime minister and colonial secretary, Gordon Sprigg, to plan the development of suitable defence systems. Granted, he had been part of the team that led the militarisation of the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police into the more efficient Cape Mounted Riflemen. It irked Hope no end to admit how brilliantly that task was accomplished. What irritated the magistrate most was the young man’s lack of modesty about his academic achievements; he never forgot to write B.A. (Oxon) after his name, even after his signature. And here now he was impudent enough to argue with him on how to deal with the natives.
‘While suppressing insurrections against the Queen we need to address the insurgents’ legitimate concerns,’ said Scott.
He took a swig from the mug and then grimaced as if he had just swallowed poison. Malangana kept stealing a glance at him and shook his head; this fire-water burned the throats of powerful men and made them wince, and yet they continued to drink it. He himself had become partial to it when he was still a free man. Oh, how he would like his throat to be burned by the tears of the great queen of the white man!
‘What legitimate grievance could there be when we have brought the native civilisation?’
Obviously Oxford and Sandhurst had made Scott stupid.
‘Still we need to deal with these half-civilised races tactfully,’ he said.
‘These were wholly savage tribes,’ said the magistrate, pounding the desk with his fist. ‘Magistrates like me are responsible for that half-civilisation you’re talking about.’
Who was he to teach him about tact? Malangana could see irritation written all over his face.
Hope was an expert at dealing with the natives. That was why he was posted to Qumbu among the amaMpondomise from Lesotho where he had subdued Moorosi, the so-called king of the Baphuthi people – the natives reimagined their chiefs in the guise of kings, another important thing Hope needed to correct. He knew what he was doing and didn’t need lessons from someone who was in nappies when he started serving in the colonies. His expertise was born of hard-earned experience, not of some anthropology degree from Oxford.
Tact? He was a master of tact. He was so tactful he made friends with their chiefs. He had even dined with Mhlontlo on occasion.
‘According to Callwell, we’ll only subdue the native if we address his grievances,’ said Scott, turning red. Malangana could not say whether it was from the brandy or from the debate with a dismissive magistrate.
‘What are you looking at?’ Scott snapped at Malangana.
‘Oh, leave the bleeder alone, Scott. It’s not his fault you’ve lost your marbles.’
‘Callwell says . . .’ said Scott turning to Hope.
‘I know, I know, you never tire of reciting Major Callwell’s small-wars theory of counter-insurgency,’ said Hope, chuckling derisively. ‘What you and Callwell need to understand is that tribesmen don’t follow any theories. They are apt to be seized by madness and break into war at any time.’
Hope abruptly stood up and made to go. He limped towards the side door.
‘You’re still new,’ he added before exiting. ‘Soon you’ll learn.’
Major Scott would not give up that easily. He rushed after him, leaving the flask and the mugs on the table.
Malangana could see the two men through the window walking towards The Residency, still arguing. He tiptoed to the desk and poured himself a shot. He pressed his eyelids together tightly as the burning sensation slid down his throat. He coughed drily, and then took another swig directly from the flask. He took the flask to the bench and perched himself on the magistrate’s own throne. He paged through the Book of Causes between swigs.
His name was there too. As were the names of the other men who were fellow prison inmates. If only he knew how to read them. He pretended to read in the nasal accent that amaMpondomise associated with the English.
He was Hamilton Hope.
He read out the names of the men from Sulenkama who had been sentenced to a year in prison for torturing a man who had been smelled out as igqwirha, a person who harmed others through the use of witchcraft. And there in the Book of Causes another squiggle representing the diviner who was in charge of the witchcraft-smelling ritual, now also an inmate of the Qumbu Jail. He recited the names of those who had been sentenced to various terms for housebreaking, for stock theft, for assault, and for the non-payment of hut tax. The latter was a major grievance of the amaMpondomise people. Though the tax was not introduced by Hamilton Hope but by those who came before him, the new magistrate was enforcing it with gusto since his arrival seven months ago. He was collecting arrears dating back to 1875, and a number of men were in prison as a result. Malangana surmised that more than half his fellow inmates were there because of the hut tax.
And then he came across his name. It had to be his name. The squiggles were shapelier and were in black ink instead of the blue that was used on the rest of the pages. The rest of what followed must be his record – the whole story of how one Sunday morning he woke up with a thirst that could only be quenched by gourds of sorghum beer and a craving for something salty that could only be satisfied by an open-fire-roasted chunk of beef. He knew immediately those desires were pointing him to Gxumisa’s homestead, Mhlontlo’s uncle who had organised a feast for the boys who had graduated from the school of the mountain and were entering manhood with poetry, songs and dances. He had participated in the slaughter of a fattened ox the previous evening and he reckoned this morning the women would have already prepared and boiled the head – the part of an animal that was reserved only for men – and the men were already gathering to sink their teeth into it.
He was sitting under a tree with five other men, basking in his own freshly minted manhood – he had graduated a month or so before – the ox’s brain melting in his mouth when a group of mounted policemen came to quell the festivities. Hamilton Hope had banned drinking on Sunday and therefore a feast of this nature was illegal. It was tantamount to a riot in the eyes of the Government. Gxumisa must have known this, and yet he organised a feast in defiance of the law.
Malangana read in the Book of Causes how the men of the amaMpondomise had grumbled while obeying Hope’s orders and how he, Malangana son of Matiwane, had stood up in front of the leader of the policemen and told him that no British magistrate had the right to interfere with the customs and traditions of his people.
‘It is an insult to uTat’uGxumisa, the king’s uncle, to come to his homestead and tell him that he cannot hold a feast,’ he shouted at the Qheya sergeant.
‘You are drunk already,’ said the sergeant. ‘If you don’t join your tribesmen and leave we’ll have to arrest you for drinking on Sunday.’
‘I am a Mpondomise man,’ said Malangana. ‘I refuse to obey laws that do not come from my king.’
The policemen laughed. Surely the man was drunk to think he could stand in defiance of the Queen of England. They grabbed him, handcuffed him and frogmarched him in front of their horses. Not a single man of the amaMpondomise lifted a finger to help him nor raised a voice to protest against his treatment. They just walked away from Gxumisa’s homestead, their heads bowed in shame.
The graduates in their new loin cloths of many colours, cotton handkerchiefs and chiffon scarves fastened on white or red blankets with iziqhobosho pins and round mirrors reflecting the sun on their chests, cowered near the kraal.
Though these policemen were black men except for the Qheya sergeant, Malangana decided they couldn’t be amaMpondomise. They must have been recruited from other nations. Otherwise they would not have scoffed at the customs of amaMpondomise and insulted the king’s uncle.
The policemen were going to deposit Malangana in the holding cells until the next day when he would appear before the magistrate. But as his misfortune would have it, when they entered the town of Qumbu they chanced upon Hamilton Hope on a horse ride with two of his trusted aides, Warren and Henman.
‘What do we have here?’ Hope asked.
‘This native was drunk and rowdy on Sunday,’ said the sergeant.
Malangana yelled back that he was not rowdy. No man would tell him he could not drink on any day of the week when he wanted to drink.
Hope dismounted.
‘Paqama,’ he said, asking Malangana in Sesotho to lie on the ground face-down. He had not yet learned the language of amaMpondomise.
Malangana stood before the puny man defiantly. The magistrate’s nostrils flared, which reminded Malangana of Gcazimbane. Two policemen forced him to the ground. Hope’s eyes protruded and his lips twitched, making his full beard vibrate as he gave Malangana a few lashes with a cat-o’-nine-tails.
Malangana would not flinch. He would not give this white man the pleasure of his screams. After all, he had graduated from the school of the mountain where he had been trained to take pain like a man. Hope’s face reddened as he lashed out with greater vigour. He would not let an impertinent native destroy his reputation which preceded him even before he assumed the magistracy at Qumbu. He had acquired it when he was the magistrate among the Baphuthi people of Lesotho. Their King Moorosi had told his close friend Mhlontlo about Hope’s cruelty and penchant for flogging grown men, even chiefs, with his trusty cat-o’-nine-tails. When the amaMpondomise first saw him they didn’t think the tiny man with a deformed leg could be capable of any cruelty. Soon they learned that the king of Baphuthi knew what he was talking about.
Still Malangana would rather die than give him satisfaction. Hope instructed the sergeant to lock the rebel up in jail and bring him before the magistrate for trial first thing in the morning.
The next morning, still boiling with resentment, Malangana was brought to the House of Trials where Hope summarily sentenced him to a year in prison as a lesson to all those natives who were disrespectful and stubborn. But he tempered justice with mercy. There was the option of a fine: ten pounds.
As he paged the leaves of the Book of Causes Malangana recalled how Mhlontlo refused to pay the fine. Malangana was an impetuous young man, he told the messengers. He had no business picking a fight with Hamilton Hope. He should therefore take his medicine like a man.
‘He has betrayed me,’ said Malangana. ‘My king and brother has let me down. Tell him when I am released from the white man’s prison I will pack my things and seek asylum from Mditshwa.’
Mditshwa ruled over a rival branch of amaMpondomise across Itsitsa River in Tsolo, about nineteen miles from Qumbu.
By the time the warder returned to take Malangana back to the Qumbu Jail the hip flask was empty, he had become bored with the Book of Causes and was staggering about pretending to be dusting the furniture.
The warder was not blind. Malangana readied his buttocks for an impending encounter with the cat-o’-nine-tails.
‘I would have kept quiet if you had shared those Tears of Queen Victoria with me,’ the warder said repeatedly. ‘Ngoku awulibonanga!’ You will bear the consequences.