When I came to live here grandfather had already lost some of his marbles, after an assassination attempt by a man called Gazi who stabbed him in the head with a knife. Apparently Gazi had been unhappy about one thing or another in grandfather's administration. After the stabbing Charles was no longer the grandfather I remembered on earlier visits, years before. The grandfather who sat in the shade of a gigantic boulder across the gravel road surrounded by his councillors, settling community disputes; who rode his horse Gobongwana, while singing its praises; who sat at his iron sewing machine making leather shoes while still singing praises to Gobongwana (we were proud that he was not just a cobbler who fixed soles like the old man on the veranda of Cretchley's store; he created shoes right from scratch); who stood in front of
ixande
in his brown riding breeches and gave sweets to a queue of grandchildren whenever he came from meetings in Sterkspruit; who never forgot to give a brief caress to his twenty-year-old dog Ngqawa, as it slept at the door; and who regaled us with stories of our revered ancestor Mhlontlo.
According to him, our clan, the amaMpondomise people, originally came from Qumbu in the eastern part of the Cape Province â the region that was named Transkei by subsequent colonial governments. Then one day Mhlontlo, who was a paramount chief in that area, killed the British resident magistrate. It happened in 1880, the very year my grandfather was born. First, Mhlontlo invited the magistrate to a ceremony at Sulenkama, the seat of the amaMpondomise kingdom. The magistrate, a violent and arrogant man called Hamilton Hope, set off with much pomp, thinking that he was going to be the centre of the ceremony, only to discover too late that the ceremony was about his own ritual murder. My ancestor, who was also a reputable medicine man, conducted the ritual in which parts of Hope's body were to be used as medicine to strengthen his armies. The whole ceremony involved a theatrical performance: Mhlontlo and his people rode back to Qumbu, thirty kilometres away, took over the magistracy and improvised a play where Mhlontlo took the role of Hamilton Hope. Turning over the pages of the big book on the magistrate's bench and adopting a nasal tone in his Anglicised isiXhosa, he mimicked Hope sentencing people.
Well, that theatre didn't last for long. The British forces came to arrest Mhlontlo, but he and his followers escaped to Lesotho, where they were given refuge by Chief Moorosi of the Baphuthi clan.
My grandfather was a baby on his mother's back during that long journey of nearly six hundred kilometres. His parents and the hundreds of Mhlontlo's followers felt very safe because he had strong medicine that protected everyone. Both the British and the Boers feared him; he could make their guns spew water instead of bullets and their cannons explode in their faces.
After some time a white trader lured Mhlontlo with new blankets from his Lesotho refuge to the Telle River that bordered South Africa. He was captured by the British troops who took him back to Qumbu for trial. Grandfather never told us the details of how Mhlontlo won the case, but he did. It must have been his strong medicine at work.
Many of Mhlontlo's followers decided against returning to Qumbu. That is why there are many Mdas in Lesotho today. My great-grandfather â Charles' father, that is â the Feyiya Mda who I mentioned in relation to the orchards, decided to cross the Lesotho border back to South Africa and to settle at eKra Village in the Lower Telle area.
By the time I went to live with my grandfather he could no longer remember the story of Mhlontlo. He had become a cantankerous old man who would tap a tyke's head with a walking stick for no apparent reason. We stayed out of his way.
He could no longer work in his fields either. Grandmother did all the farming with the help of the other villagers in work-parties known as
ilima
. But we were spoilt. We were never allowed to work in the fields like other village kids or like some of her older grandchildren. My siblings â who were already staying with my grandparents even before my banishment â and I were greatly distressed that we could not go to the fields.
Ilima
was so much fun â with food, songs and dances. Once we went with people who were taking food to the workers, but grandmother shooed us away.
âGo away,' she said. âYou, children of Solomzi, will be scorched by the sun.'
We took this as a punishment for being my father's children. After
all, we had seen how partial she was towards her other grandchildren â especially those who were the children of her daughters rather than of her sons. We had seen how she used to hide chunks of pork in her apron pockets for Cousin Bernard, while we had to eat porridge with peaches. We knew that Bernard's mother, who had left the village for Johannesburg many years ago and never came back, did not send any money for his upkeep. Only my father sent money which my grandmother used to support hordes of grandchildren whose parents didn't bother.
That was why I told my father when he paid us a visit once that we were suffering and my cousins were getting preferential treatment at our expense. That afternoon he went to drink brandy with his friends and came back late in the evening. He was drunk and knocked at grandmother's door, yelling that she did not treat his children well.
The next day he was sober and remorseful. He apologised to grandmother for yelling at her, and then upbraided me for telling lies about his dear mother who was sacrificing so much to look after us.
But that was not the end of that story. When my father's younger brother, Uncle Owen, came visiting from Johannesburg many months later he punched me in the face and kicked me in the stomach even though I was already writhing on the ground, for lying about his mother to my father. And indeed my father's oldest sister, Aunt Nontsokolo, who owned a general dealer's store at 'Musong a few miles away, gave me a few choice words about my lies. Aunt Nontsokolo could afford to be self-righteous because she was the only one of my father's five siblings who did not at any stage dump her children with my grandmother but was bringing them up herself.
How could we not take our prohibition from
ilima
as punishment when we were forbidden even from looking after cattle? Granted, our grandfather no longer owned any cattle since the assassination attempt. Only disused kraals remained as evidence of his cattle-owning days. But we so much wanted to join herdboys from neighbouring homesteads in the fun and games that we knew took place out there in the pastures. As it was, our schoolmates who herded cattle after school and during weekends took us for sissies. Worst of all, we were not privy to their
insider jokes and dirty stories whose settings were the great meadows and gorges where the cattle grazed, and the rivers where the boys moulded cattle from clay as the animals drank.
I could only console myself by roaming within the confines of the estate and spelunking the caves that were only a short distance from the rondavels. I was fascinated by the Bushman paintings that were still vivid and I tried to reproduce them in my notebook. This was an illegal act according to my teachers, because notebooks were meant for nothing but notes. I was constantly punished for it â a few whacks on my knuckles with a ruler.
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THE REASON FOR RETURNING
to this pink mountain is not to relive the past â though one cannot escape a little bit of nostalgia â but to visit the beekeeping project that I started with the village women a few years back. Gugu and I come here occasionally to see the Bee People, as we call them, and to admire the progress they have been making over the years. After taking us on a tour of the hives, especially the two supers that are in an enclosure of aloes between the graves of my grandfather and one of my aunts, we bid the Bee People goodbye and get into my car.
The mountain road is rough and narrow. A Mercedes Benz sedan was not built to negotiate boulders on what passes for a road, and often the rocks that stick out cannot but scrape against the bottom of the car. Fortunately this is not a busy road; otherwise I would be at a loss what to do if another car approached in the opposite direction. I dare not move to the side for fear of rolling down the slope. There are no railings, and already I can see skeletons of cars that must have rolled down over the years. No one could have survived the impact on the rocks hundreds of yards below.
There is a sigh of relief when we reach the village at the foot of the mountain.
It is more like a township than a village really, with modern bungalows, schools and shops. The biggest of the shops belongs to my
Uncle Phakamile, or Press, as we call him. It combines a general dealer's store, a restaurant and a tavern. The villagers call it eRestu. We use it to hold our meetings with the Bee People whenever we visit from Johannesburg or, in my case, from the United States where I now teach creative writing at Ohio University. Sometimes we just hang out to soak in the wonderful atmosphere created by drunken old ladies and various village characters, and by the smell of fish and chips and fat cakes deep frying in oil.
Some of the inhabitants once owned homesteads on the mountain we have now turned into an apiary â at Goodwell. But the Boers â and when we talk of the Boers we actually mean the apartheid government of the time â forced them down from the mountain and resettled them near the Telle River. It would be easier to govern them there and to ensure that they did not hide guerrilla fighters, or terrorists if you like, in their midst.
We branch off to eRestu to say goodbye to Press and his wife as we'll be driving back to Johannesburg. It is a six-hour drive and the earlier we leave the better. I hate driving at night.
âHow are the bees doing, son?' Press asks. He is only six years older than me at most, but basks in the glory of being the son of my grandfather's brother. According to tradition, he is a peer of my father's and therefore I am his son.
âThe bees are doing fine, Press,' I say. âAlthough last winter's snow was not kind at all. The harvest will be small.'
âI do not know why you waste your time doing this honey business from which you gain nothing. You should have invested the money in my shop here. All I need is ten thousand rands to fill these shelves with goods. You would get your money back with a lot of profit.'
He has said this before. We Mdas have worked hard to get where we are. Why should we care about these good-for-nothing villagers?
âIt is my time that I put into this honey business and of course my expenses to travel here from Johannesburg occasionally,' I explain to him. âBut many other people have contributed to its success.'
âJohannesburg? But I hear you now live in America,' he says. And he asks one of his daughters behind the counter to give us cold drinks of our choice and some biscuits.
âYes, I work there now. Just like the migrant workers who go to the mines in Johannesburg. After every few months I return to see my mother. I may as well use that time to see how the Bee People are doing as well.'
Press is a hard-working business man who toiled in the mines in his youth because he did not have any education. To this day he is illiterate. He saved his money, and after a few years he came back to his home village to establish this business. Since he lifted himself up from poverty until he became the richest man in the village, he cannot understand why anyone should waste his time trying to pull others up.
âYou see, Press, that beekeeping project will enrich you too,' I say, half-jokingly. âWhen the villagers have money they will spend it in your store.'
âI hear you, child of my brother, but still â¦'
âBut still we must go now, Press. We have a long way to drive.'
The stretch of dirt road from Qoboshane to Sterkspruit never fails to flood my mind with memories. That is why I turn to look at Gugu and say, âYou know, I am a creation of women. Not only because for nine months I was part of a woman's body, but for the simple reason that every woman with whom I have intimately interacted has contributed something in the moulding â for better or for worse â of who I have become.'
We are driving past St Teresa Roman Catholic Mission about sixteen kilometres from Qoboshane. A minibus taxi in front of us leaves a cloud of dust in its wake, and it remains hanging in the air for quite some time. The buildings look distorted through the combination of dust particles and the heatwaves, creating a very eerie image. I can see twisted nuns in black habits, ghosts of the past, walking silently in the grounds; pacing to and fro; muttering things to themselves; perhaps reading beads on their rosaries.
Among these apparitions I can see Sister Eusebia. She is the only one whose name I can remember, for she was the principal when my father taught at this secondary school from January 1948 to June 1955. She is the one who is still smiling in black and white photographs in my father's album â my only material inheritance from him. That and a number of LPs of Frank Sinatra, Marian Anderson, the Beatles, King
Kong (the South African musical), Ella Fitzgerald, Satchmo, Handel's Messiah, Dark City Sisters, Jim Reeves, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, the Singing Bells and thirty or so others that he collected when he was a member of a record club from 1963 to 1966. The photo album is the only thing that I still have. The music albums went with my furniture and books when an ex-wife sold my stuff after an acrimonious divorce.