Acacia - Secrets of an African Painting

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR - GATSHENI HURRIES TO THE LUPANE

  Gatsheni hurried along the track towards the village of Nkayi. Before he reached that tiny settlement though, he left the road and headed off into the bush. He wanted to choose his killing ground ahead of time to be sure of a clean kill, far from prying eyes.

  It had always irritated him that no one knew the location of the treasure. He was sure that Mboku must have possessed the knowledge and passed it on to his son, but somewhere in the passage of time, that knowledge had become confused. The only time he could remember his father looking for the place, the search had resulted in weeks of wandering in the bush digging here and there, but with no success. He wondered how such important information had been lost and cursed the stupidity of his ancestors for losing it, for not listening and not telling the story as it should have been. The Lupane was the only clue he had ever had, but that was a big area of hundreds of square miles.

  It never occurred to him that perhaps Mboku had deliberately misled his son as to the treasure’s whereabouts, or even perhaps that the haul of diamonds had not existed in the first place or been discovered in the long years since it was first hidden. The power of the oral tradition of storytelling was, to him, sacrosanct and every word was to be believed as truth, unquestioned, and unquestionable.

  So now, more than one hundred years later, Gatsheni, had no idea where the stones were buried, or even the location of the cave in which they were released from the rocks brought up from the great mines south of the Limpopo. However, he worried that the white man did know and was more determined than ever to stop him.

  He had spent the time since the indaba well, cajoling and encouraging his people and convincing them of the need for action. He ignored the laughter behind the hands of some of them at his arguments, instead, concentrating on those who gazed at him with respect, deserved of the wisdom of years and his standing in the community as one of the last indunas. He told them of the proud history of their tribe and their ancestors. How their warriors would wash their spears in the blood of their enemies and how those victories brought great respect to their families. There would be hundreds of warriors present at the kill, they had promised him they would come and he believed them. The cause was just and the fight was a good one. He knew he had persuaded them with his smooth oratory. He had visited the shabeens and the churches, the villages and the markets seeking out the young men to fight alongside him and they would come, he could feel it deep inside. They would come and then the white man and his woman would bother them no more: he would have his revenge and the stones would be safe, the future of the nation ensured.

  He walked through the bush looking for the ideal spot in which to finish the story, choosing in the end a wide clearing in a shallow valley. There were low hills all around and acacia at one end, mixing with some great baobab trees, standing solidly, their stubby branches unmoved by the stiff breeze. The ground was ideal for hiding warriors, covered as it was with long yellow grasses, and mopane trees . The entire aspect of the place would allow the bull’s head to forge its way along the length of the valley floor, while the horns encircled from the valley sides, storming down upon the enemy giving no chance for escape.

  He was happy with this place and for some time, stood at the spot where it would all end, visualising the battered bodies of the white couple at the centre of a crowd of cheering warriors, happy to have washed their spears at last. He envisioned a new start for the amadoda, a return to the old ways when the King would throw his war spear at the end of the festival of the bull, marking the direction of the next raids. He grinned at the thought and saw himself sitting at the right hand of the King, elevated to the status of senior induna, the power and the glory of it washing over him as he stood, arms raised to the spirits, shouting the warrior’s chant, jee, jee, the sound echoing around the hills, striking fear into all those who heard it.