The Rising Sun

THE RISING SUN

It was still dark, but not quite pitch black. You could not at this point tell a man from a woman, but you could tell whether it was a beast or human out there. The trees looked like a massive thick grey-black cloud. Soon something or someone began to stamp their authority on the universe slowly but convincingly. Figures began to take better definition. An orange-reddish band began to appear in the distance. The sun was reclaiming the territory that it had lost the previous night. The toddlers began to jostle for position. There were about six grandchildren and three of their cousins gathered at Silwane’s home. Silwane (Lion), as his name suggested, was something of a monster. If you did not love him, then you feared him. His grandchildren simply wondered why anybody would have trouble getting along with him.

What’s the matter? they said. He gives us sweets.

I was standing here before.

No Moses, I was here. You were over there next to Liseli, protested Luba.

There was much pushing and shoving until the big brother Mdala threatened:

Now, I am going to have to use a stick if this racket doesn’t stop.

Relative calm prevailed only to be soon replaced by incessant whispers.

Silence please, barked Mdala. There was a sustained quietness.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, there it goes! exclaimed Thabani.

Ah! No. It looks the same to me, complained Jobhi.

Something wrong with your eyes, replied Mdala.

I can see it too. I can see it too. Moses was over the moon.

I told you so, replied a delighted and beaming Mdala.

At last the toddlers had experienced one of the most significant phenomena—the sun dancing for joy whenever it rises on Christmas Day. The dancing only occurred for a short time. To experience the phenomenon, you had to observe carefully as the sun started to peep over the horizon on Christmas Day. You also had to stand still like a statue. The euphoric kids dispersed, each eager to report the great news to mamma or grandma Mzambiya. Christmas was indeed a big day. No other day came near. Ages and time were reckoned by the number of Christmases that have passed since.

We ’re going to have bread and butter today, whispered Moses.

Butter? What’s that Moses? asked a puzzled Jobhi.

Apparently it is something you put on bread to make it tastier.

Is it sweeter than the red jam in silver tins?

Liseli, I have not tasted the stuff myself. I heard that Uncle Fofofa brought some. He was given by his Khiwa back in Mutare.

If the Khiwas eat it, it must be nice, concluded Liseli.

Tea was served. The boys and girls could not believe their eyes when they were each handed about a quarter of a gallon of tea, in big mugs normally reserved for serving traditional beer.

Is there enough sugar in here? inquired Mpholisa.

Yes. More than enough. It’s actually a bit too sweet because we poured one whole packet of sugar into the tea bucket, explained Mazo, the old maid.

And Mazo, what was that funny creamy stuff that you poured in the tea? I know it changed the colour of the tea to white but I think I prefer real cows’ milk.

Mazo was a bit slow. She frowned a little, turned her nose up and then raised her head. Just before she could open her mouth, Ntombi came to her rescue.

That stuff is called condensed milk and it’s sweet like sugar. Here is an empty tin, I ’ll let you taste some of it that is stuck on the sides of the can, explained Ntombi. The boys each took a turn and they all loved it. They licked their fingers clean.

Ntombi, can’t we get a full tin so we can feast on it? Come on, today is Christmas. This stuff makes Christmas so different, this is really sweet, pleaded Jobhi.

What I tasted was so little. It didn’t even reach my throat. Just dissolved in my mouth, Mehlo continued to talk as he also licked his lips.

I can’t wait for the day I ’ll be grown up.

Why Liseli?

I ’ll buy myself a full can, make two holes at the top, and then suck its entire contents into my stomach.

Me too. Me too, and so all the other kids exclaimed.

Hahaha, laughed Ntombi.

Tea was actually served with bread. Each slice was a large grotesque shaped section of Lobels Bread, with one side covered with a generous cushion of the popular red SUN JAM, resting on a layer of Stock Margarine. This was a dream come true, a yearlong desire of every child at Sawmills. There was so much more to anticipate. The kids also awaited the order to chase one, two, or three chickens perhaps. They could not outrun a chicken, but they could outperform the chicken in terms of endurance. Today, would be the day for the annual or biannual rice and chicken meal, none of that daily sadza and delele stuff.

From the infants to the geriatrics; everybody knew how to dress the part. You put on your new clothes or you stood to be very embarrassed if you dared venture outside your homestead. Besides, for most children, this was the one and only time they were bought a new item of clothing. If you got nothing for Christmas then you knew you had to wait another harvest and another ploughing season for the next turn. Such was the position of the overwhelming majority. Many of the older men proudly spotted homemade traditional sandals. The affluent were seen polishing their treasured pair of shoes early in the morning.

By late afternoon, most kids had bulging tummies. Half empty tea mugs lying around the homestead bore testimony to a day of incomparable abundance. The most welcome dessert to every kid was the twin varieties of the famous heart-shaped sucker on a stick, and the toffee manufactured by Arenel of Bulawayo. Song and dance came much later in the day, well after the mid-day meal. Droves of people drifted along from homestead to homestead shouting the slogan Christmas! The homestead owner, usually the woman of the home, would respond by giving out generous helpings of rice, chicken, lamb or roast beef. Older people particularly appreciated beer. Every homestead slaughtered one or more chickens. Some homes slaughtered a cow, a pair of goats or sheep. If your neighbour slaughtered a cow, you would be sure of being invited to help skin the beast. Invariably you were rewarded with a huge chunk of meat called amantshontsho. In fact, if you could not be generous at Christmas, you probably shared a surname with Lucifer himself. However, such a breed was as rare as the sighting of Halley’s Comet.

THE PARTING OF THE YEARS

The New Year’s holiday came and went without much fanfare. No one celebrated New Year’s day. There was no fuss. There was however one significant point of interest around this particular day. Everybody knew. Everybody waited. They waited anxiously for the last night of the year. It was a most momentous occasion. At midnight, there would be a tug-of-war between the passing year and the New Year. The old year pulls in one direction and is met with equal resistance from the new one. The tension builds up to a climax as midnight creeps closer and closer. At midnight, the old year summons all its remaining reserves of strength, and with brute force, makes one final attempt and the stubborn multi-strand jute rope snaps in the middle. The dynamite-like sound released, is of cosmic proportions. It shatters the uneasy silence of the night and echoes throughout the whole universe. Everybody who is awake hears the enormous sound of the passing year as the new one simultaneously proclaims its arrival on the scene. The sound emanates from the south and travels swiftly towards the north, at the speed of sound.

Most toddlers miss this phenomenon because at that particular time they would be dreaming about bogey creatures commonly known as the nhunu, chasing them up and down the forest, or ambushing them in the dark as they walk through the black-ebony imposing dongas of the Mguza River. This particular year, they vowed to experience the breaking of the year, as it was colloquially known. The fire crackled. The flames danced back and forth like rain-dancers competing for accolades from an enthusiastic crowd. An occasional spark flew right into the atmosphere and then disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared like a shooting star. Conversations around the fire were animated. Sihle kept her ears tuned in to two or three conversations at a time while dexterously holding her own with Thembela. Everybody was talking to everybody.

Uncle Nhe and Feeva were engaged in what appeared to be a more serious exchange in low tones.

Eh, exclaimed uncle Nhe suddenly slapping both his palms on his thighs, his mouth wide open.

What?

I wonder if the boys got the instruction to bring the firewood nearer?

Yes uncle, we did, and it’s all here, next to Gogo Bumba’s hut, responded Moses.

All of it Moses?

Uncle, you should see the stock pile. It stands higher than Gogo Mabhena’s shoulders.

Everybody burst into laughter. Gogo Mabhena was a midget who lived across the river.

The kids played a variety of night games. They danced, leaped, and bounced tirelessly around the locus of the fire light. All the teenagers were also gathered at Silwane’s. They came all the way from downstream Skula as far upstream as Mawila. They were all determined to experience the arrival of the New Year together.

Excuse me, I need to have a wee behind that bush. Please stop the game, for a moment, pleaded Liseli. He eventually braved it as he had been under pressure for a while but could not bear to leave the game when it was at its best. Three times, he had struck the huge rolling bulb right in the middle with his makeshift wooden spear. He was getting good at this. No one else struck it today. Everybody else seemed to be having a bad day. I am the master of the insema game, he thought. He pinched himself in the thigh and rubbed his hands in excitement and then proceeded to position himself behind the mtewa bush. With a naughty boyish smile on his face, he looked left and right and then aimed high to let the urine fly over the bush. This was his pet habit when over the moon. Just as the nerves, muscles and all the control points, got the release command, a little elderly woman approached from nowhere. Liseli ran off to another bush.

That was close, he muttered to himself.

I can see you? exclaimed a little girl who was hiding behind the second bush.

Shut up! What on earth are you doing here? barked Liseli as he took off and headed for another place of refuge. Frustration was beginning to build up to uncontainable levels. This time he picked on tree with a huge trunk.

Liseli, Liseli, Liseli. You’ve been away too long and you are going to lose by default.

No No, please just let me finish… .

No chance, not a chance, you ’re taking forever. Look old boy. I will personally drag you back to the game. We ’re not waiting all day for you.

The fellow pulled Liseli by the shorts without showing any regard for the process at hand.

Wait, hold on, wait! Liseli fought back helplessly. He tried to hold back the offending hand but the intruder proved invincible. As he woke up, Uncle Nhe was pulling him by the trousers. He led him out into the nearby bush, out of sight of any people at the homestead. The left side of his shorts was already wet.

The peeping sun over the horizon of the Maraposa Forest was bad news for Liseli.

So Uncle Nhe, the New Year, is it here? Why didn’t you wake me up?

Don’t worry Liseli. At the right age you will be able to sit through the vigil and get to experience the breaking of the year.

Ah no. This is terrible. So you heard the sound of the New Year and all?

Of course.

And all you kids were snoring and releasing all sorts of undesirable gases… .

No Uncle. No. He sped off.

Boys—Liseli and Moses, can you just let the calves graze around till the cows come back from the bush. Now, no more riding on the calves. Hear me alright? You break its back, I break yours too. These creatures are tender and still growing. Anymore trouble and I will ban you from visiting this place. You will forever be confined to your parents. Clear?

Yes, Grandpa, we will keep the calves around Uncle Fofofa’s garden.

Yes but nowhere near the crops. Hear me?

They nodded and then raced each other to the calf pen. Silwane gave instructions and never wanted to be interrupted when talking. No, not even to confirm or agree with him. You had to shut up until you were sure that he was done.

Riding the calves was one of the boys’ favourite pastimes. The cows and indeed all the other cattle were sometimes led away to graze very early in the morning in the Zanqola Forest or down at the Esigodini Valley, and then also sometimes right on the lush green grass on the river bank. At this time of the year, the shepherds were spoilt for choice. Thick grass was everywhere.

I want to ride the white one, Mathanda’s calf.

I will ride the red one, Bhelekazi’s calf.

Well, let me just warn you about Bhelekazi’s calf. That one is very wild. It shrugged Ntozonke off its back the other day. You know they call it Majika.

That is precisely why I must ride it. Let’s see who the real man is between you and me.

Liseli was having the ride of his life. He traversed the fallow garden quite a few times before he remembered that he had company.

I wonder if Moses has gone for a pee? he thought.

He turned around and spotted an irregular figure moving up and down on the ground behind a little tree stump.

Balo, Balo, Balo, he affectionately called to the dog, snapping his fingers in anticipation.

Balo did not respond.

I wonder why she’s ignoring me. Must be busy tearing up some prey, he thought to himself.

He edged closer. It was not Balo. It was Moses. He had grazed his knees badly. He was twisting his body and groaning continuously. His back was hurting too. His arm was throbbing. His face was covered in dust and he had minor lacerations on the face as well. He was spitting continuoulsy but fortunately for him, there was no blood in his mouth. His head had just managed to clear the tree stump.

But you can’t afford to laugh. I think I ’ve broken a bone or two, cried Moses.

Are you okay? I ’m sorry but I didn’t really mean to laugh. But then you see I warned you about Majika.

Well, that’s past. I’ m in pain now and it ain’t funny.

There was dead silence. Liseli helped him up. In the meantime Majika was spotted celebrating her hard won freedom, galloping along the field with two or three other calves.

The boys resorted to a much safer pastime, moulding objects out of the popular soft black clay. A stone’s throw from the homestead, the terrain changed from thick soft grey sand to hard, brown, loam soil, and then it was black clay soil everywhere till you reached the banks of the Mguza River. They moulded cows, bulls, wild animals, plates, pots, men and women and even cars. They were competing to see who would come up with a bigger variety of objects. Eventually Liseli struck a brilliant idea. He moulded a life-size smoking pipe. Moses copied the idea and they decided to sneak home for a smoke break. At the homestead, they approached Uncle Fofofa.

Fofofa, can you light up my pipe for me please? asked an overzealous Liseli. Uncle obliged and extracted two small glowing ambers from the fire and placed them in the cup of the pipe. No tobacco was placed in the pipes but the lads were nonetheless ecstatic. However, when Liseli tried to place the pipe in his mouth, he inadvertently tilted the pipe and the two coals rolled along the right side of his bare stomach. He let out a long sustained scream reminiscent of a passing express train that goes louder and louder as it approaches, and then eventually dies down in the distance. Moses immediately flung his pipe into the small bushes across the wooden fence. Eventually the cows came back home. As for the bruises on Moses’ knees and legs and face, they could be explained because every little brave boy around here did hurt himself. In fact, a boy with smooth legs and without injury marks was considered feminine, a coward and good for nothing. Unless you broke a bone, nobody quite cared to know what happened. As for Liseli, the story of the ingenious way of creating a stomach tattoo became a popular folk tale for years to come.

UNCLE JOHN AND THE BOYS

Okay listen up kids. Ntozonke to my left, Ndaba to my right.

Jobhi opened his eyes wide, started to walk backwards and then whispered,

Oh no? I am out of here, He took to the heels.

Where is he off to? inquired a puzzled Uncle Brighton.

Phila looked squarely at Uncle Brighton, put on a brave face, and shrugged his shoulders.

Okay, let’s carry on, Foni to my left and Federation to my right, Uncle Brighton continued.

What’s going on Uncle? inquired an anxious Phila.

We ’re going to play hide and seek so I want to make two teams.

Now the kids were delighted. This was their number one game. There was a scramble to join either side. Eventually the teams were formed. The left hand team were first to go into hiding. Uncle Brighton and his team spotted all of them in record time and soon it was his team’s turn. He instructed everybody else where to hide, but Liseli.

And what about me Uncle?

Just follow me. Got an idea for you my boy, he whispered reassuringly.

They slipped quietly into Auntie Mandi’s hut. There were not too many places to hide in here. There was a table and a bed. Anybody would have guessed anyone hiding in here would be huddling under the bed. There was also a large cow hide hanging from the roof alongside the wall.

Perhaps I will just stand behind the hide, Liseli thought out loudly.

Shush, came the response from Uncle Brighton.

Uncle Brighton then proceeded to open a large red and white suitcase that was lying on the table. To Liseli’s delight, the boy was whisked up into the suitcase and told to lie still until told to come out. The large suitcase was then shut and the latches pinned shut from outside. Liseli could hear the receding footsteps of Uncle Brighton as he slipped out to get himself his own hiding spot. In the meantime, Liseli began to experience a new world altogether in the suitcase. He felt like he was carrying a large object which was excessively heavy for his little frame. He began to shout for Uncle Brighton, but nobody was within earshot. Besides, he could not tell if that sound could get through the suitcase material. He began to sweat profusely. He tried to stretch his legs in order to ease the level of physical discomfort, but the suitcase contained him. The heat increased, his strength diminished, sweat oozed out, and breathing became increasingly, an effort. Once more he tried but could only manage a whisper.

Uncle Brighton. Come take me out of here.

The time seemed to stand still. In Sawmills, time was not measured in minutes or hours. It was measured by how long it took to boil a pot of water, or to milk a cow with a small or big udder. Liseli could not tell how long he had been or would stay in Hell. That did not matter. He could not wait but he then had no real alternative. He longed to hear the signal to come out of the suitcase. None came. In vain he tried to push the suitcase top open. He was hemmed in. The top was too tough or he was too weak. Either way he was condemned to some unknown fate. He lay there and wondered what this was all going to lead to. At last, a glimmer of hope came. He heard what appeared to be the gentle stroking of someone’s palm on the suitcase. By this time he could not quite tell direction. The sound could have been coming come from the top or even bottom of the suitcase. He could no longer remember whether he was standing on his head, being cooked in a pot, or buried in a shallow grave. The sound disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

Oh, no, Uncle Brighton has vanished again, so he thought in desperation. He waited yet again.

Suddenly Hey, Ginyithole, out!

The suitcase cover flapped open. Cold air rushed in. The toddlers and young teens roared in laughter. By strange contrast, the hero lay flat, motionless, unpeturbed by the euphoria and the eulogies generated by his exploits.

Ginyithole! Uncle Briton shouted again.

Liseli