The path grows more level, it goes by the little stream that runs by the church. Kumalo stops to listen to it, but there is nothing to hear. The stream does not run, my friend. It has been dry for a month, umfundisi. Where do you get water, then? The women must go to the river, umfundisi, that comes from the place of uJarvis.
At the sound of the name of Jarvis, Kumalo feels fear and pain, but he makes himself say, how is uJarvis? He returned yesterday, umfundisi. I do not know how he is. But the inkosikazi returned some weeks ago, and they say she is sick and thin. I work there now, umfundisi.
Kumalo is silent, and cannot speak. But his friend says to him, it is known here, he says. Ah, it is known. It is known, umfundisi.
They do not speak again, and the path levels out, running past the huts, and the red empty fields. There is calling here, and in the dusk one voice calls to another in some far distant place. If you are a Zulu you can hear what they say, but if you are not, even if you know the language, you would find it hard to know what is being called. Some white men call it magic, but it is no magic, only an art perfected. It is Africa, the beloved country. They call that you are returned, umfundisi. I hear it, my friend. They are satisfied, umfundisi.
Indeed they are satisfied. They come from the huts along the road, they come running down from the hills in the dark. The boys are calling and crying, with the queer tremulous call that is known in this country. Umfundisi, you have returned. Umfundisi, we give thanks for your return. Umfundisi, you have been too long away.
A child calls to him, there is a new teacher at the school. A second child says to her, foolish one, it is a long time since she came. A boy salutes as he has learned in the school, and cries umfundisi. He waits for no response, but turns away and gives the queer tremulous call, to no person at all, but to the air. He turns away and makes the first slow steps of a dance, for no person at all, but for himself.
There is a lamp outside the church, the lamp they light for the services. There are women of the church sitting on the red earth under the lamp; they are dressed in white dresses, each with a green cloth about her neck. They rise when the party approaches, and one breaks into a hymn, with a high note that cannot be sustained; but others come in underneath it, and support and sustain it, and some men come in too, with the deep notes and the true. Kumalo takes off his hat and he and his wife and his friend join in also, while the girl stands and watches in wonder. It is a hymn of thanksgiving, and man remembers God in it, and prostrates himself and gives thanks for the Everlasting Mercy. And it echoes in the bare red hills and over the bare red fields of the broken tribe. And it is sung in love and humility and gratitude, and the humble simple people pour their lives into the song.
And Kumalo must pray. He prays, Tixo, we give thanks to Thee for Thy unending mercy. We give thanks to Thee for this safe return. We give thanks to Thee for the love of our friends and our families. We give thanks to Thee for all Thy mercies.
Tixo, give us rain, we beseech Thee
And here they say Amen, so many of them that he must wait till they are finished.
Tixo, give us rain, we beseech Thee, that we may plough and sow our seed. And if there is no rain, protect us against hunger and starvation, we pray Thee. And here they say Amen, so that he must wait again till they are finished. His heart is warmed that they have so welcomed him, so warmed that he casts out his fear, and prays that which is deep within him.
Tixo, let this small boy be welcome in Ndotsheni, let him grow tall in this place. And his mother His voice stops as though he cannot say it, but he humbles himself, and lowers his voice.
And his mother forgive her her trespasses.
A woman moans, and Kumalo knows her, she is one of the great gossips of this place. So he adds quickly Forgive us all, for we all have trespasses. And Tixo, let this girl be welcome in Ndotsheni, and deliver her child safely in this place.
He pauses, then says gently
Let her find what she seeks, and have what she desires.
And this is the hardest that must be prayed, but he humbles himself.
And Tixo, my son
They do not moan, they are silent. Even the woman who gossips does not moan. His voice drops to a whisper
Forgive him his trespasses.
It is done, it is out, the hard thing that was so feared. He knows it is not he, it is these people who have done it. Kneel, he says. So they kneel on the bare red earth, and he raises his hand, and his voice also, and strength comes into the old and broken man, for is he not a priest?
The Lord bless you and keep you, and make His face to shine upon you, and give you peace, now and for ever. And the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you and abide with you, and with all those that are dear to you, now and forever more. Amen. They rise, and the new teacher says, can we not sing Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika, God Save Africa? And the old teacher says, they do not know it here, it has not come here yet. The new teacher says, we have it in Pietermaritzburg, it is known there. Could we not have it here? The old teacher says, we are not in Pietermaritzburg here. We have much to do in our school. For she is cold with this new teacher, and she is ashamed too, because she does not know Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika, God save Africa.
Yes, God save Africa, the beloved country. God save us from the deep depths of our sins. God save us from the fear that is afraid of justice. God save us from the fear that is afraid of men. God save us all.
Call oh small boy, with the long tremulous cry that echoes over the hills. Dance oh small boy, with the first slow steps of the dance that is for yourself. Call and dance, Innocence, call and dance while you may. For this is a prelude, it is only a beginning. Strange things will be woven into it, by men you have never heard of, in places you have never seen. It is life you are going into, you are not afraid because you do not know. Call and dance, call and dance. Now, while you may.
The people have all gone now, and Kumalo turns to his friend. There are things I must tell you. Some day I shall tell you others, but some I must tell you now. My sister Gertrude was to come with us. We were all together, all ready in the house. But when I went to wake her, she was gone. Au! umfundisi. And my son, he is condemned to be hanged. He may be given mercy. They will let me know as soon as they hear. Au! umfundisi. You may tell your friends. And they will tell their friends. It is not a thing that can be hidden. Therefore you may tell them. I shall tell them, umfundisi. I do not know if I should stay here, my friend. Why, umfundisi? What, said Kumalo bitterly. With a sister who has left her child, and a son who has killed a man? Who am I to stay here? Umfundisi, it must be what you desire. But I tell you that there is not one man or woman that would desire it. There is not one man or woman here that has not grieved for you, that is not satisfied that you are returned. Why, could you not see? Could it not touch you? I have seen and it has touched me. It is something, after all that has been suffered. My friend, I do not desire to go. This is my home here. I have lived so long here, I could not desire to leave it. That is good, umfundisi. And I for my part have no desire to live without you.
For I was in darkness
You touch me, my friend.
Umfundisi, did you find out about Sibeko’s daughter? You remember? Yes, I remember. And she too is gone. Where, there is not one that knows. They do not know, they said.
Some bitterness came suddenly into him and he added, they said also, they do not care. Au! umfundisi. I am sorry, my friend. This world is full of trouble, umfundisi. Who knows it better? Yet you believe?
Kumalo looked at him under the light of the lamp. I believe, he said, but I have learned that it is a secret. Pain and suffering, they are a secret. Kindness and love, they are a secret. But I have learned that kindness and love can pay for pain and suffering. There is my wife, and you, my friend, and these people who welcomed me, and the child who is so eager to be with us here in Ndotsheni so in my suffering I can believe. I have never thought that a Chr
istian would be free of suffering, umfundisi. For our Lord suffered. And I come to believe that he suffered, not to save us from suffering, but to teach us how to bear suffering. For he knew that there is no life without suffering.
Kumalo looked at his friend with joy. You are a preacher, he said. His friend held out his rough calloused hands. Do I look like a preacher? he asked.
Kumalo laughed. I look at your heart, not your hands, he said. Thank you for your help, my friend. It is yours whenever you ask, umfundisi. Stay well. Go well, my friend. But what road are you going? The man sighed. I go past Sibeko s, he said. I promised him as soon as I knew. Kumalo walked soberly to the little house. Then he turned suddenly and called after his friend. I must explain to you, he said. It was the daughter of uSmith who said, she did not know, she did not care. She said it in English. And when uJarvis said it to me in Zulu, he said, she does not know. But uJarvis did not tell me that she said, she did not care. He kept it for himself. I understand you, umfundisi. Go well, my friend. Stay well, umfundisi.
Kumalo turned again and entered the house, and his wife and the girl were eating. Where is the boy? he asked. Sleeping, Stephen. You have been a long time talking. Yes, there were many things to say. Did you put out the lamp? Let it burn a little longer. Has the church so much money, then?
He smiled at her. This is a special night, he said.
Her brow contracted with pain, he knew what she was thinking. I shall put it out, he said. Let it burn a little longer. Put it out when you have had your food. That will be right, he said soberly. Let it burn for what has happened here, let it be put out for what has happened otherwise.
He put his hand on the girl’s head. Have you eaten, my child? She looked up at him, smiling. I am satisfied, she said. To bed then, my child. Yes, father.
She got up from her chair. Sleep well, father, she said. Sleep well, mother. I shall take you to your room, my child.
When she came back, Kumalo was looking at the Post Office Book. He gave it to her and said, there is money there, more than you and I have ever had. She opened it and cried out when she saw how much there was. Is it ours? she asked. It is ours, he said. It is a gift, from the best man of all my days. You will buy new clothes, she said. New black clothes, and new collars, and a new hat. And you will buy new clothes, also, he said. And a stove. Sit down, and I shall tell you about Msimangu, he said, and about other matters. She sat down trembling. I am listening, she said.
31
KUMALO BEGAN TO pray regularly in his church for the restoration of Ndotsheni. But he knew that was not enough. Somewhere down here upon the earth men must come together, think something, do something. And looking round the hills of his country he could find only two men, the chief and the headmaster. Now the chief was a great stout man in riding breeches, and he wore a fur cap such as they wear in cold countries, and he rode about with counsellors, though what they counselled him to, it was hard to understand. The headmaster was a small smiling man in great round spectacles, and his office was filled with notices in blue and red and green. For reasons of diplomacy Kumalo decided first to go to the chief.
The morning was already hot beyond endurance, but the skies were cloudless and held no sign of rain. There had never been such a drought in this country. The oldest men of the tribe could not remember such a time as this, when the leaves fell from the trees till they stood as though it were winter, and the small tough-footed boys ran from shade to shade because of the heat of the ground. If one walked on the grass, it crackled underfoot as it did after a fire, and in the whole valley there was not one stream that was running. Even on the tops the grass was yellow, and neither below nor above was there any ploughing. The sun poured down out of the pitiless sky, and the cattle moved thin and listless over the veld to the dried-up streams, to pluck the cropped grass from the edges of the beds.
Kumalo climbed the hill to the place of the chief and was told to wait. This was no strange thing, for if he wished a chief could tell a man to wait simply because he was a chief. If he wished he could tell a man to wait while he idly picked his teeth, or stared out day-dreaming over a valley. But Kumalo was glad of the chance to rest. He took off his coat and sat in the shade of a hut, and pondered over the ways of a chief. For who would be chief over this desolation? It was a thing the white man had done, knocked these chiefs down, and put them up again, to hold the pieces together. But the white men had taken most of the pieces away. And some chiefs sat with arrogant and blood-shot eyes, rulers of pitiful kingdoms that had no meaning at all. They were not all like that; there were some who had tried to help their people, and who had sent their sons to schools. And the Government had tried to help them too. But they were feeding an old man with milk, and pretending that he would one day grow into a boy. Kumalo came to himself with a start and realized how far he had travelled since that journey to Johannesburg. The great city had opened his eyes to something that had begun and must now be continued. For there in Johannesburg things were happening that had nothing to do with any chief. But he got to his feet, for they had summoned him to the presence of the ruler of the tribe. He made his greetings, and put as deep a respect into them as he could find, for he knew that a chief had a sharp ear for such things. And what is it you want, umfundisi? Inkosi, I have been to Johannesburg. Yes, that is known to me. Many of our people are there, inkosi. Yes. And I have thought, inkosi, that we should try to keep some of them in this valley. Ho! And how would we do it? By caring for our land before it is too late. By teaching them in the school how to care for the land. Then some at least would stay in Ndotsheni. Then the chief was silent and alone with his thoughts, and it is not the custom to interrupt a chief who is thus occupied with his thoughts. But Kumalo could see that he did not know what to say. He commenced to speak more than once, but whether he checked himself, or whether he could not see to the end of the words that he had in his mind, Kumalo could not say. Indeed a man is always so when another brings heavy matters to him, matters that he himself has many times considered, finding no answers to them.
But at last he spoke, and he said, I have thought many times over these heavy matters. Yes, inkosi. And I have thought on what must be done. Yes, inkosi. Therefore I am pleased to find that you too have thought about them. And with that there was more silence, and Kumalo could see that the chief was struggling with his words. You know, umfundisi, that we have been teaching these things for many years in the schools. The white inspector and I have many times spoken about these things. I know that, inkosi. The inspector will be coming again soon, and we shall take these things yet further.
The chief ended his words in a tone of hope and encouragement, and he spoke as though between them they had brought the matter to a successful end. Kumalo knew that the interview would now be quickly finished, and although it was not altogether proper to do so, he summoned up courage and said in a way that meant he had other words to follow, Inkosi? Yes. It is true, inkosi, that they have been teaching these things for many years. Yet it is sad to look upon the place where they are teaching it. There is neither grass nor water there. And when the rain comes, the maize will not reach to the height of a man. The cattle are dying there, and there is no milk. Malusi’s child is dead, Kuluse’s child is dying. And what others must die,Tixo alone knows.
And Kumalo knew he had said a hard and bitter thing, and had destroyed the hope and encouragement, so that the matter was no longer at a successful end. Indeed the chief might have been angered, not because these things were not true, but because Kumalo had prevented him from bringing the matter to an end. It is dry, umfundisi. You must not forget that it is dry. I do not forget it, said Kumalo respectfully. But dry or not, for many years it has been the same.
So the chief was silent again and had no word to say. He too was no doubt thinking that he could have brought this to an end with anger, but it was not easy to do that with a priest.
At last he spoke, but it was with reluctance. I shall see the magistrate, he said.
/> Then he added heavily, For I too have seen these things that you see. He sat for a while lost in his thoughts, then he said with difficulty, for such a thing is not easy to say, I have spoken to the magistrate before. He sat frowning and perplexed. Kumalo knew that nothing more would come, and he made small movements so that the chief would know that he was ready to be dismissed. And while he was waiting he looked at the counsellors who stood behind the chief, and he saw too that they were frowning and perplexed, and that for this matter there was no counsel that they could give at all. For the counsellors of a broken tribe have counsel for many things, but none for the matter of a broken tribe.
The chief rose wearily to his feet, and he offered his hand to the priest. I shall go to see the magistrate, he said. Go well, umfundisi. Stay well, inkosi.
Kumalo walked down the hill, and did not stop till he reached the church. There he prayed for the chief, and for the restoration of Ndotsheni. The wood-and-iron building was like an oven, and his spirit was depressed, his hope flagging in the lifeless heat. So he prayed briefly, Into Thy hands, oh God, I commend Ndotsheni. Then he went out again into the heat to seek the headmaster of the school.
Yet there he was not more successful. The headmaster was polite and obliging behind the great spectacles, and showed him things that he called schemes of work, and drawings of flowers and seeds, and different kinds of soil in tubes. The headmaster explained that the school was trying to relate the life of the child to the life of the community, and showed him circulars from the Department in Pietermaritzburg, all about these matters. He took Kumalo out into the blazing sun, and showed him the school gardens, but this was an academic lecture, for there was no water, and everything was dead. Yet perhaps not so academic, for everything in the valley was dead too; even children were dying. Kumalo asked the headmaster how some of these children could be kept in Ndotsheni. And the headmaster shook his head, and talked about economic causes, and said that the school was a place of little power. So Kumalo walked back again to his church, and sat there dispirited and depressed. Where was the great vision that he had seen at Ezenzeleni, the vision born of such great suffering? Of how a priest could make of his parish a real place of life for his people, and preparation for his children? Was he old then and finished? Or was his vision a delusion, and these things beyond all helping? No power but the power of God could bring about such a miracle, and he prayed again briefly, Into Thy hands, oh God, I commend Ndotsheni.