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Short Story
The Old Chief by Phyllis Owen
Chief Namandla would often sit on a flat rock on the top of the hill and
look down at the beehive-shaped huts where his people lived and at the many
cattle, his pride and joy. The kraal was
protected by a ring of thorn bushes that kept out the wild animals. It was also enjoyable for him to watch the
small children running hither and thither at play. Now and again one or two women would make
their way to the stream that circled the base of the hill to fetch water. Then there were the fields of mealies growing
tall and strong that swayed in the breeze and he could often hear the strains
of kwela music played on a pennywhistle. Far away to the east where the sun
rose, he could see the faint sparkle of the Great Waters where no frogs
croaked, the Indian Ocean.
He smiled when he thought of the
meeting he recently had with the leaders of the surrounding tribes who, over
many years, had raided his kraal, trying to steal his cattle, but were
unsuccessful. Instead, he and his
warriors, always alert, would attack them with assegais and chase them back to
their homeland, returning with a few of
their cattle.
A sense of pride came over him and
his face lit up. He was a rich man for
he owned many cattle, had six wives, and plenty children. A warm feeling came flooding through his body
as he looked at the six beehive-shaped thatched family huts around the large
council chamber. Each hut represented a
separate wife and family. His first wife
and his dearest companion lived alone in the first hut. She, like him, was now old. Their seven sons had wives and families of
their own. When he had problems or the
tribe had problems, he talked to her first.
She was as wise as his wise men, sometimes wiser. But most of all he
liked her gentleness.
Frowning, he bit his lip
thoughtfully. He was concerned about
Kumala, leader of the young warriors.
There was a restlessness about him that could mean trouble.
Unbeknown to the old chief, Kumala
was holding a meeting in the dense forest on the next hill. ‘The old chief has become soft,’ he told the
warriors. ‘One of these days the other
tribes will come to fight us and take all our cattle. We can’t sit back and wait for this to
happen. We still have the power. Greatness is won on the field of battle.’
The warriors agreed, stamping their
feet in unison.
‘Yes,’shouted Tembu, a particularly
nasty young man who always resorted to bullying if he didn’t get his own
way. ‘It is time to rid the tribe of an
old chief. We need a young warrior to
take his place.’ He frowned. ‘But we can’t kill him. One does not, indeed one cannot kill a
chief.’
They all became thoughtful and
spoke among themselves.
A few minutes later Kumala shouted,
‘Quiet!’
Silence fell over them as they
waited to hear what more Kumala had to say.
Waving his fist into the air he
shouted, ‘I have found the answer. At the next meeting in the council chamber I
will make the chief look foolish in front of his wise men.’
‘How will you do that?’ asked
Tembu.
‘Wait and see,’ Kumala snapped.
For a moment there was dead silence
and then the warriors let out a roar of approval.
A few days later an indaba was
called. Shortly before noon the people
made their way to the council chamber.
It became filled to overflowing, all talking in loud voices.
When the chief and his wise men
arrived the people became silent as they turned their eyes towards them. The chief, tall and erect wore an impressive
head-dress of coloured feathers and beads.
Behind him walked Incwethi, the wisest of them all, bent almost double
with age. Following them, were the wise
men. The chief sat down on a mat against
the far wall, facing the people and the wise men sat on either side of him.
‘Noni and Siziwe come to the front
and bring the baby,’called the chief.
There was a shuffling at the back
and then two young women, one carrying a baby and with eyes downcast, they
walked to the front and stood before the chief and his wise men.
The chief pointed to Noni. ‘If we can decide who is the true mother of
this child we shall know which one of you is lying.’
There was a grave nodding of heads from
the crowd.
‘The baby’s mine!’ Siziwe
shouted. ‘Her baby died. She sneaked into my hut when I was sleeping
and changed her dead baby for my live one.’
She burst into tears. ‘You are
the chief, make her hand my baby back.’
‘She’s lying, O Great One,’cried
Noni. ‘Her child is dead and my one
lives.’
Chief Namandla shook his head. His deeply lined face was a mixture of
sadness and perplexity. Then looking at
Incwethi, the wise one, he asked, ‘Who does this baby belong to?’
A twitter of alarm rang though the
crowd. Incwethi stood up and walked
slowly forwards. His eyes went from one
woman to the other, shaking his head as if in amazement. Then his lips moved silently before saying
quietly, ‘I must use the wisdom of Solomon.’
When he spoke only a few teeth showed behind his lips.
Incwethi, proud of the fact that he
had been educated at the mission school, could often be seen sitting at the
door of his hut reading the Bible.
‘Bring me the Great Book,’ he
commanded. In spite of his age his voice
was loud and echoed around the council chamber.
One of the warriors left the
chamber to return a few minutes later carrying a large Bible bound in black
hide. Carefully Incwethi took it from
him and slowly began turning the pages.
A deep stillness came over the
council chamber as they watched the old man.
Even the birds had stopped their singing and the gentle breeze that had
blown into the chamber through the doorway, ceased. All waited expectantly.
He opened the Bible and turned a
few pages before exclaiming, ‘Ah, here it is.
The Wisdom of Solomon. My reading
is from First Kings, chapter three, verses twenty-three and twenty-four. ‘Then said the king, ‘The one says, this is
my son: and the other says, No, your son is dead, my son is living. And the king said, ‘Bring me a sword. And they brought a sword to the King.’
He closed the Bible and handed it
back to the warrior. Clearing his throat
he went on, ‘King Solomon was a wise man and today I’m going to stand in his
sandals.’ Pointing to one of the men he
demanded, ‘Get me a long knife.’
‘Ayee!’ A murmur of shocked surprise went up from the
crowd.
The man soon returned with the long
knife. The sunlight coming in through
the doorway glinted on the steel.
‘Like Solomon, the great king of
old, I say to you, one of you says, ‘This child is mine,’ and the other says,
‘No, she’s mine.’ O Chief I say, cut the child in two with the knife and give
half to the one woman and half to the other.’
Incwethi spat on his hands and rubbed them together as if congratulating
himself on a job well done.
The crowd gasped in horror.
‘Yes,’ shouted Noni, giving Siziwe
a smug look. ‘You are indeed the wise
one. Let the child be divided into two.’
Siziwe screamed. ‘No!’ she pleaded. ‘You can’t do that. Let her keep the child. I would rather she live than be slain.’
There was a slight pause then
Incewthi pointed to Siziwe and said to the chief, ‘O Great Chief, this is the
real mother. Only an evil woman would
agree to her child being cut in half.
Give the child to Siziwe, Noni.’
For a moment Noni gripped the baby
tightly to her chest. Then, as if she
realized she had indeed lost, handed the baby to Siziwe who took it and
tenderly clutched it to her. Turning,
she smiled broadly, and rushed out of the chamber.
A roar of approval went up from the
crowd and the women began ululating and dancing.
‘Silence!’ Chief Namandla’s voice boomed. ‘Noni, you know you have done a bad thing,
but I am a just man and will have mercy on you because your child has
died. If you are caught doing anything
to harm Siziwe or the baby, you will be driven from the village forever.’
Noni fell to the ground, crying,
‘I’m so sorry. Thank you, O Great One,
for your mercy and kindness to me.’
Rising slowly from the floor she made her way back to her seat.
It was then that Kumala jumped up
and boldly walked to the chief with his hands clasped in front of him. He bowed low to the chief and, sneering,
asked in a loud and confident voice, ‘O Chief, O Wise One, tell me, what is it
that I’m holding in the palms of my hands?’
All were silent as they waited
expectantly.
The chief was quiet as he pondered
over the question. Then he replied, ‘My
son, you know and I know that in your hands you are holding a bird.’
The young man nodded and then asked
again, ‘Tell me, O Chief, O Wise One, is the bird that I’m holding dead or
alive?’
The chief turned and looked at his
wise men who were gazing intently at him.
He then looked at the young man and said, ‘My son, why do you ask me
this question when you are holding the answer in your own hands. The decision is yours, my son, as to whether
the bird will live or die. If I say the
bird is dead you will open your hands and let it fly away. If I say the bird is alive you will squash it
between your hands and prove that the bird is dead.’
Kumala, at a loss for words, stood
there, eyes wide. The people muttered
angrily.
‘Banish Kumala,’ someone
shouted. ‘He’s no good.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ echoed the crowd.
The chief held up his hands. ‘Quiet!’
Looking at Kumala he said, almost in a whisper, ‘I am saddened by the way you have tried to
trick me in front of my people, to turn me into a fool. You are now banished from the tribe.’
Kumala swallowed hard and with head
downcast, and still clasping the bird in his hands, he slunk out of the
chamber.
A hum went through the crowd.
‘Silence!’ called the chief. ‘I want all the young warriors to take part
in a stick-fighting competition and the winner will be the new leader.’
A man stood up and called out, ‘You
are truly a wise chief.’
The crowd rose to their feet and cheered,
then slowly made their way out of the chamber talking animatedly to each other,
satisfied that the chief had, once again, solved their problems.
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