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Join Date: Apr 2004
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The Letter
The Letter
Yalele looked up from stirring the thick maize porridge that was the mainstay of her family’s diet. Little Umphumu, her grandson by her third son’s second wife, was panting on the threshold to the hut, gasping for air as if from a long run. His dark face was streaked with red sweaty mud. Barely six years old, Little Umphumu was naked, his little round belly slightly bloated. A white envelope stained with red ochre was clutched in one grubby hand, while the other held onto the frame of the doorway.
“What is it child?”
“A letter!” he gasped out amidst his galloping breath.
“Why did you bring it to me? You know I cannot read.” Yalele’s voice was rough with the smoke from years of cooking over an open fire pit.
“Papa said to bring it to you. You would know what to do.” Little Umphumu’s eyes widened with awe. “A white man in a motor car brought it. Drove all the way from Thohoyando. He said something but I didn’t understand. Old mother, he was white. White as the root of a radish. Does he have a disease? Did the gods punish him, is that why he is white?”
“Shush little one, the whites are like us but live far away. They are very rich and powerful. Now why would your papa send me this letter?”
“O, that’s right, he said…” The boy screwed up his face. “Papa said that…that since you took care of the last letter we got, you would know what to do.” He grinned proudly at remembering such a complicated message.
“But that was fifteen years ago.” Yalele paused to stir the porridge in the pot. It was white and grainy, and thickening swiftly: almost ready to be set aside to cool. “Here, give me the letter, Umphumu. I will think on this.”
The little boy crept into the kitchen hut and gave his grandmother the letter very reluctantly; such a rare thing, the boy did not want to part with it. He watched his grandmother turn it over in her hands, knowing what she felt, just as he had when he had received it from the pale skinned man in the motor car. It was smooth, like wood, only not hard. It bent like the buffalo grass that the cows grazed on in the fields. In a corner was the biggest wonder of all: an elephant in a tiny box, so real it seemed about to move. Little Umphumu felt sure magic had shrunk the animal to fit. There were even patterns—a square, a rectangle and triangles on the back—just like what the Ngoma would draw in the ash of the fire-pit before throwing the bones. He watched the old woman stuff the letter down her shift. Disappointed, Umphumu slumped his shoulders and turned away. Then he bounced with a thought: Jandwa would burst when he heard that Umphumu, his little brother, had spoken with a white man—and saw the motor car. The little boy bolted from the mud hut and ran out of the woman’s quarters in search of his brother.
Yalele shook her head at her grandson’s energy and returned to her cooking. Her husband would be expecting his vhosa hot and easy on his tongue (he had lost all his teeth years ago). Her duties were few now. Her son’s wives did most of the cooking for the large family, as well as most of the beer making, although Yalele would often oversee the making of the beer; it was one of the few things her sons permitted her to do for them. Was a time when she had been preeminent in the kraal; now she was old, her husband was old, and her sons maintained the household—and their wives. Only when something from the Outside intruded did they need her. She snorted and pulled the pot from the fire.
The old woman stepped out of the hut, ducking below the loose straw that was beginning to escape the thatch ties. The sun was barely above the mountain in the east. It would be another hot day; already the flies were tormenting the dogs. Yalele ignored them—she smelled of smoke and ashes, which was sufficient to keep most insects away. She was tall for a Venda woman, and still quite robust. Her waist had thickened with time, but her breasts were flat and bare, a reminder that she was too old to have another child. But she was content; she had daughters with babes of their own. She still took care of them while their mothers worked: gathered firewood, cooked, cleaned, repaired the mud huts, or fetched water from the river. Just as she had done in her youth. And as she had done in younger years, she must again journey to the large village of her half-sister, a days travel alone, to have the letter read for her by the schoolteacher there.
Sweat rolled through the short wiry curls of her ashen hair and down the back of her neck. It was a hot day and she wore little clothing: a loin cloth about her hips, her breasts tied down with a strip of cloth, the letter ensconced safely within. At her side bounced a gourd full of rainwater, covered with a leather cap. Her callused feet raised puffs of dust with each step, her fist clenched tight on her walking stick. Beside the path stretched the wide savanna, its long buffalo grass ruffling in the breeze like the shimmer of heat waves. Yalele plodded on, watching the land around her for warning signs. She was hot and beginning to tire; it had been a long time since she had walked this far. She raised her hand to her brow, shading her eyes as she surveyed the land around her—no sign of life beyond the vegetation: no birdsong, no chatter of cicadas or rasp of locust. With trepidation, Yalele quickly looked for the nearest tree and ran experienced eyes over its length: an acacia, large with branches starting a few feet above her head—too high for her to climb in a hurry. Beyond that squatted a baobab tree, it’s fat branches stretched out like roots, as if it had been planted upside down--too easy to climb, any animal with claws and hunger might follow her up. No, she needed something else, something...
Yalele began to run. The blood pounded in her ears as her feet ripped through the grass, heedless of the striped cuts from the blades of buffalo grass. Yalele ran with all her old might. She could feel her heart hammering beneath her ribs, suddenly too fragile to maintain this desperate pace. Behind her: a thrashing, then a howl—many howls—a pack had found her. The baobab tree would have to do. If she could get to the upper branches, the beasts would not be able to get to her. She would be stranded, but alive.
The wind of her passage was a roar in her ears as she reached the great tree. Sobbing for breath, Yalele dropped her cane and with a spring that belied her age, the old woman took to the branches with a skill borne of desperation. Panting hoarsely, she climbed as high as she dared, defying the creaking thinner branches, before turning to look down and behind her.
At the base of the thick trunk gathered the wild dogs. There were seven of them, pacing the grass at the foot of the great tree, claws scrabbling in the bark of the trunk. Saliva dripped from panting tongues and gleaming ivory fangs. The dogs bunched around each other, yipping and howling in excitement, their black and pale yellow hides gliding below her like a disturbed beehive. Yalele sighed with relief. Her gambit had worked. The dogs would not be able to follow her up the tree. All she had to do now was wait. She stood on a branch as thick as her arm, her hands bracing her stance by holding onto the smaller branches. Carefully she examined each clump of foliage around her. Her eyesight was still good, and served her well; little more than an arm’s length from her coiled a long green snake, its bright scales almost florescent. She caught her breath at the sight and froze. She watched with wide eyes as the snake flicked out a split tongue in her direction. She was sweating profusely from her desperate run, and her breath was barely under control. The snake continued to test the air, its head raised, weaving slowly from side to side. Yalele’s knees began to ache, a muscle in her left thigh twitched uncontrollably.
After what seemed an interminable length of time, the snake seemed to lose interest and moved swiftly away, disappearing into the foliage. With a sigh, Yalele sank to her haunches, slowly releasing the death grip that had held her frozen in place for so long. Below her the dogs sat in the shade, tongues lolling out over their oversized teeth; several chewing on her discarded cane. Waiting. The old woman wasn’t too worried. The pack would soon wander off; their hunger would not allow them to stay here for very much longer.
The moon was high up in the sky and cast a silvery gleam over the dust that coated Yalele’s legs and feet. Before her were the ruts of a rudimentary road. It had taken a long while for the dogs to leave; all afternoon she sat in the crotch of two thick branches. She had known the snake was still in the tree, but the dogs kept her from leaving. The sun had turned crimson, setting the horizon on fire by the time Yalele climbed stiffly from the Baobab tree. By the time she reached the road, the ancestor’s eyes were shimmering in the night sky. In the distance she could see the light of campfires flickering between the branches of a boma blockade. When she reached the thorn fence, she walked around it to the kraal gate. There was a tin can hanging on a wire. Yalele shook it. Pebbles inside rattled around, loud in the still air. It didn’t take long before someone answered her summons.
As villages go, it was not very large, but to the old woman, it seemed huge. Over seventeen families lived in this village, all related in some way to each other. They even had a small trading post and church here. The preacher was the only literate person in the town. He was also the only teacher, which was why he had been allowed to stay. He was not Venda, but of the Matabele tribes in the north, ancient enemies of the Venda. Now, he preached the one god to the Venda—he was having very little luck. The chief’s brother was the Ngoma of this village and between them they held sway over the beliefs and traditions of the clan. Yalele soon found herself in front of a fire with the chief’s wives. They flocked around her like chicks around a brood hen, bombarding her with food, drink, and questions.
“Have some vhusa.”
“Here, try my sauce--it has onions and tomatoes in it.”
“How is it with you, Yalele?” This from an older woman: her half-sister.
“It goes well with me, Banala. And with you, how are your children?”
“O, they are all grown up with husbands and wives of their own.”
“Do have some tea. The trader said that it is what the white folks drink.”
“Is there something wrong, Yalele, that you come to us alone and late at night?”
“Ah, Banala, you have asked the right question. No, nothing is wrong. I came to have a letter read by the teacher. My grandson Little Umphumu did not ask the white man who delivered it to read it, but rushed away in his excitement and fear. So I was told to take care of it. So I came, only, I was kept in the old man tree for a long time by a pack of wild dogs. That is why I come here so late.”
“Ahh, brave Yalele. To walk the bush land alone and at night.” Yalele could almost hear the unspoken words as well, those of ‘foolish stubborn woman,’ but she was a guest and her hosts were very well mannered.
“Yes well, bravery can also mean stupidity as well. I am getting too old to walk all day, run away from beasts, climb trees and then see the devil of the trees. It would be better that my sons or their wives do this next time.”
The woman paid much attention to Yalele, but when she mentioned the tree devil, they all stopped what they were doing. Some gasped in horror, the older women nodding grimly to themselves. It was a bad omen to see the tree devil, but even worse to be kissed by one. So in a way, Yalele was very lucky to have only been seen by the tree devil. The women discussed this with loud voices and were soon very agitated. Yalele could feel the cold drip of fear trickle down her back. She had forgotten the portent of the snake, but now, in the relative safety of the fire and the food and the kind people, Yalele was suddenly very anxious.
“We must send for the Ngoma. He will throw the bones. I myself will give him a chicken. We will soon find out what must be done to draw away the eye of the tree devil.” Banala had offered her own property for Yalele’s benefit and she felt tears gather in the corners of her eyes.
Yalele watched with shallow breath as the Speaker For The Spirits crouched in front of a small fire. He wore jackal skins about his waist, the tattoos that carved his ebony skin coming alive in the twisting glare of the flames: here a crocodile snapped its inked jaws, there a snake hissed with gleaming fire-yellowed fangs. His ash colored locks hung about him in coils. His skin was shiny with the boiled fat of baby monkeys. Through hooded eyes he watched the embers in the fire settle. Around him the villagers squatted with fascinated gazes. No matter how often they saw the representative of their ancestors in action, they could not avoid the delicious shiver that swept their frames: at the stamp of his spirit-calling dance, at the squawk of the sacrificial chicken spurting blood in sacred patterns in the dust, at the terrifying supernatural colors that sparked in the fire when he scattered his magic powders about him.
“O Spirits of Venda, give us refuge; intercede for this woman.” He motioned for Yalele to step into his conjuring circle. “This our kinswoman has been noticed by the snake who carries the devils of sky, and of the ground below. The Tokeloshi has her face before him and evil is in his eye, evil is in his look. Give her your protection.” The fire spurted blue flame into the air, singeing Yalele who shrieked and stumbled back.
“Aiee! The spirits have spoken. It is too late, the devils have stamped her with their evil. See, she has been burned by the sacred fire. The ancestors have spoken.”
Abruptly the fire was extinguished, and the dark crowded in. Overhead the stars seemed dimmed and distant. Yalele crouched in shock, her burned arm held close to her belly.
Yalele sat in the dark. The companionship of the women gone but for a cold ache beneath her ribs. Soon after the declaration of the witchdoctor, she had been abandoned in the square. She heard some footsteps in the dark. It was Banala.
“Come Yalele, come back to my husbands kraal. We will shelter you tonight.” Yalele could only nod silently. Stiffly she rose on tired legs and followed her half-sister. When they got to the kraal, Banala sat Yalele down among her daughters by the cooking fire. She sat listless, stern shoulders slumped. Only this morning she had been with her loving family, safe in their comfortable kraal cooking breakfast. Now the world was at an end—the terrible Unknown had turned it’s fearful face to her, flicked her lips with pronged fate and claimed her life. She was dead, her body just didn’t know it yet.
She remembered when she was only a little girl, before her blood began to flow, the Ngoma had condemned her mother’s brother—he had been a man in his prime, the son of a chieftain—and two days later a lion had mauled him, licked the skin from his face, ate his cheeks and lips and left the body to the hyenas. They had found him before the spotted beasts could ruin him much further. He had been buried there, away from the kraal, away from the ancestor burial ground. Cursed, he could not remain in the company of the benevolent spirits of his forebears, separate from his kin—for eternity. Yalele shuddered. It was the worst thing she could think of. Now it was her turn. She only hoped she would get a chance to see her family once more: hold her squalling grandchildren to her fragile breast, watch the older ones squirm and run away to play; to hear her husband grumble and complain, to feel his gaze on her back like a comforting arm as she stirred his meal.
“What is this nonsense about tree devils?” A large man stepped out of the dark and into the firelight. He was dressed in white man’s clothes and had a round white collar that looked like it would choke the man at any moment. Indeed, his face was angry, mottled with emotion, as if the collar was choking him already. “I come here because one of the children tell me of a woman who needs me to read a letter for her. Now I hear you screaming and moaning about a snake.” His voice was deep, the thick accent of the Matabele lacing his words like salt at the edges of a river.
“It is true, Kepo, she was nearly kissed by the tree devil,” cried one of Banala’s sister-wives. “Then the Ngomo came, and Yalele was burned by the sacred fire. She is doomed!”
“Be quiet woman. You speak with ignorance. It was only a snake. Now, give me the letter before I lose my patience.”
Yalele slowly pulled the wrinkled envelope from her breast. She didn’t see why it mattered now but handed the damp letter to the man anyway. He snatched the letter from her and ripped it open. The women around the fire quieted down to watch. The man’s brow wrinkled as he studied the letter in the flickering light. After a while he began to frown.
“What does it say?” asked Banala, conscious of her half-sister’s oppressive silence.
“It is from the government. It says that the land your family lives on is outside the Venda homeland borders. That means you must move your livestock and goods off the land. It belongs to the Government. They are extending the fences of the Kruger National Park to cover all of that area and you must be gone from there in thirty days. If you have not moved by then the soldiers will come and move you by force.” Kepo looked up from his reading and glanced at Yalele with sad eyes. “This is bad news indeed.”
Yalele felt cold. She would soon be dead but what about her family? What did he mean: her family must move? And what was this park that will live on the land of her ancestors? “What does this mean, Kepo?” asked Yalele, finally reaching beyond the dark chasm that stretched before her spirit.
Kepo sighed. He looked ill at ease in his rumpled black suit and white collar. “It means, Yalele, that you can no longer live by the Crocodile river. It means you must move away, over here somewhere. The white man will come in thirty days. There is no way out of it.”
“But we cannot leave. Our gardens, our homes, the graves of my father and his fathers, what will happen to them? No, my husband will never leave. And my sons will not either.”
“Yalele, you have no choice. If you don’t leave, the white man will come with his guns and force you out. People will get hurt. Your children might die because you stay. No, this is a very serious thing.”
“My husband will not leave. He will bring this matter before the council of chiefs. He will not leave without a fight. He is old, and even more stubborn than me. And my sons, they are just like him.”
“The chiefs will tell you the same thing. Years ago, many Venda were moved closer to fit into the homeland. It would seem they missed your family then. The Venda will not fight the white government over this. Legally it is their land. You will have to move. I am sorry.”
“I do not understand. How can it be their land? They do not live there, they do not farm it, breed their cattle there, raise families there, bury their dead there. How can they take it away from us?”
Unvoiced was the coldest question of all and it lay like a sluggish serpent in the pit of her stomach: how would the ancestor spirits find them if they moved?
Kepo just shook his head. The gaggle of women had settled into a stony silence. They didn’t have to say anything. Even Yalele knew what they were thinking, because she herself was thinking about it too--the omen of the tree devil, the blue fire that left it’s mark on her arm, the harsh voice of the witchdoctor with hands colored red. This was why the snake had only looked at her; it had known she carried poison at her breast this whole time. The tree devil did not have to kiss her. She and her family were doomed by the white letter delivered by the white hand of a white government.
Yalele began to rock back and forth, humming a dirge. She knew what she had to do. She had to die and be buried in less than thirty days. She might be alone in the afterlife, but her sacrifice for her family would make it all worthwhile. Her spirit would remain by the crocodile river; where she would entreat her ancestors to follow her family to their new home.
She stood silently, pulled the blanket close around her, nodded her head to her half-sister, and stepped out into the gray light of dawn. She walked to the fence of thorns, dragged it open and stepped through—she was going home.
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