iPaseka, which included Good Friday and Easter Monday, had intervened and the acolyte said she could not introduce Malangana to the owner of the drum. She did come to the general dealer the next day, but without the drum and without the owner. She refused to say who the owner was. She could only say the owner of the drum was also her owner, and as igqobhoka she was not available during iPaseka because Jesus Christ, the one who was a baby on Christmas, died and was nailed on a cross and amagqobhoka mourn his death on Friday, even though they know that he will wake up again on Sunday and walk to heaven after some forty days. It was not the first time Malangana had heard this tale. These were the kinds of stories the tree-planting young men should be making fun of, not his war stories.
For a number of days after that the acolyte kept coming with excuses: her owner was sick or her owner had travelled. Malangana on the other hand kept showing her the money which she would be paid only after introducing him to the owner of the drum. The acolyte had finally to confess she could take Malangana to the owner only when both the man of the house and his wife were away at the same time, which didn’t happen often because the owner of the drum, who happened to be the man’s aged mother, lived a secret life that involved the drums.
Throughout April, the month amaMpondomise call uTshaz’iimpuzi, the month of the withering pumpkin, Malangana went to the general dealer’s store and sat on the stoep waiting for the acolyte. She came quite faithfully, for money has a powerful magnetic pull when the eyes have seen it. Sometimes she brought some victuals, which he nibbled just a little bit. She thought he was fussy for an emaciated man. She did not know he was wary of looking too well-fed. His body had to be a true reflection of his years of anguish.
The tree planters have long dismantled their camp and left to civilise other landscapes. On that slope on the site of their camp Malangana has constructed his own shelter with grass and leaves and branches of bushes without even asking permission from the headman who he is certain is some interloper imposed by Government. The headman and the village council, on the other hand, just let him be because they think he is mad.
Today the acolyte comes. She is excited. Today is the day. The man of the house will be away for the whole week. He has gone to Umtata to consult with Government. He is a very important person of Government. His wife has gone to Qumbu for the day to visit her own relatives and to buy a few things at the shops. The acolyte knows that she may even return the next day since the husband is away.
Malangana is taken aback when he realises that the path leads to the site formerly occupied by Mhlontlo’s Great Place. He can hardly recognise it though, with all the tall pine trees instead of the umsintsi that used to surround the place.
It is an expansive homestead of whitewashed rondavels and four-walled ixande houses. The acolyte tells him it is the homestead of Rhudulu who is the only Mpondomise of substance remaining in Sulenkama. Malangana remembers him. Like him, he was an ordinary soldier in Mhlontlo’s army. But he does not remember him in the War of Hope. He wonders how he became so wealthy.
The acolyte takes Malangana to one of the houses where an old woman is lying on a mattress eating roasted pumpkin seeds from a bowl. Even though she has greatly shrunk and years have furrowed her face he can recognise her. She was one of the diviners who nursed the queen when she was sick. She was robust and matronly then but nguye lo. She is the one.
‘I have a visitor for you, makhulu,’ says the acolyte, addressing her as grandmother.
‘Who are you, my child? Even though my eyes are weak you look like you need some healing and a lot of feeding too. You bring me visitors, you know that Rhudulu does not allow me the work of the ancestors any more, you silly girl,’ says the old woman.
‘I am Malangana, makhulu. You will not know me. But I remember you.’
‘I don’t divine any more, my child. Ever since my son found Christ he separated me from heathen things even though the spirits of my ancestors still move me.’
The acolyte is eager to conduct business and get it over with. This opportunity may not avail itself again.
‘He wants to buy one of your drums, makhulu,’ says the acolyte.
‘How does he know about my drums?’
‘I told him about them. He is a good man, he won’t talk about them. His ancestors led him to one of your drums in his dreams and he told me about it when I met him at the intlombe.’
The old woman gets panicky. No one must know about the drums. When the spirits of the ancestors possess her the acolyte and a few friends assemble secretly in her room and beat the drums and bavumise bacamagwise – perform the sacred rituals of diviners – until the spirits calm down. This means that whether her son likes it or not she is still a diviner; the spirits of her ancestors are refusing to leave her alone and hand her over to her son’s religion. She can don the red-and-white uniforms of the Methodists on Sundays and struggle on with her dondolo walking stick to church, but when the spirits call the drums must sound.
‘Bring the drum,’ says Malangana.
The acolyte dashes out.
‘I remember you from the days of Mhlontlo.’
The old woman becomes agitated. ‘Don’t even mention that name. It’s a good thing he is where he is now. I hope he rots there. I hope they kill him dead.’
Malangana is shocked to hear this from an elderly woman of the amaMpondomise people who used to be a traditional doctor at the king’s court.
‘My child, azange abenobuntu laMhlontlo,’ adds the old woman. That Mhlontlo never had any humanity. ‘After killing poor Hope he left his body to be eaten by wild animals. It was my son, Rhudulu, who broke ranks with his army and rode all the way to Maclear to warn Government of Mhlontlo’s treachery. It was too late. Poor Hope was killed. After the war it was also my son who helped that white man – I think his name was Leary – find the skeletons of the poor white men and bury them right here at Sulenkama.’
She keeps on talking, which is what old folks who are usually starved of company do once they have an audience. Her son was rewarded with five hundred morgen of land and a pension of five pounds a year, which he still enjoys to this day because Government never turns against its word and never forgets its people. And now her son has introduced geese at Sulenkama. He has many geese and has employed many people to look after them.
‘Were it not for Rhudulu, Hope and his clerks wouldn’t have had a decent Christian funeral,’ adds the old woman with much emphasis, while impatiently beckoning the acolyte to come in and not just stand at the door.
The acolyte comes in with three drums; Malangana wonders whether she no longer remembers which drum she had stolen for the intlombe or whether this is just a ruse to confuse the old lady. He points at the drum he wants, and immediately beats it. At first slowly, and then in a faster rhythm.
‘I have heard that sound. There is no sound like that anywhere. It reminds me of the death of the Queen of amaMpondomise,’ says the old woman.
‘It was played by a Mthwakazi who was your acolyte,’ says Malangana.
‘There was a Mthwakazi,’ says the old woman vaguely.
‘Where is she? I am looking for her.’
‘I don’t know. It was many years ago.’
‘But you have her drum. How did you get her drum?’
‘How would I know? All these drums and imbhiza zethu were in the divination house during the war.’
When the Red Coats besieged the village various doctors and diviners took whatever they could of the sacred drums and medicinal paraphernalia – imbhiza zethu – to save them. She had taken the drums that are presently in her possession and had kept them safe for all these years. Most of them just stay there in the room; no one ever plays them for no one knows what spirits are embedded in them.
‘This drum belongs to Mthwakazi,’ says Malangana. ‘I am taking it. You can’t stop me because your turncoat son doesn’t even know that it’s here.’
As he walks out he hears the old woman say to the acolyte: ‘Look what you brought to my house. He calls my Rhudulu a turncoat.’
The acolyte comes running after him. He gives her a one pound note. It is a lot of money for a drum. The price of a cow. But it is a very special drum, and he wouldn’t have found it without her and her thievery.
As he hobbles under the pine trees he can hear honking and screeching sounds. It must be the geese. He beats the drum.