STICKS AND STONES
My sticks are ready.
I am ready to
fight.
Mabuza is not
happy. He is angry. I know this because he has been tugging at the grey pebbles
of hair on the left side of his head like a dog scratches at a tenacious flea.
He avoids my eyes when I look at him, especially when I am busy polishing my
“donga”, my dlala ‘nduku, my playing sticks.
There are two
sticks. One is longer than the other. The longest I will grip in my left hand
to parry the blows and the shorter will be in my right for attacking. Both
sticks I have chopped from the Wild Olive tree. I have soaked them in cooking
fat that I have stolen from the kitchen. This, and many hours of sunbathing
have helped harden the wood.
I am fighting
Galpin. He is one of the many sons of the Induna (Chief) that lives across the Matsapa River. There was no throwing
down of the gauntlet, no challenge. It is just an accepted ritual. We are both
of age. It is our time.
He pointed at me. I
pointed at him. We shook hands, and that was it. We will fight behind the
General Dealer Store.
I think Galpin will
probably go for my knees first. I have seen him fight before. Or he will feint
a move to the left as the right stick goes for the side of my head.
I am prepared for
this. I have stolen a dishcloth from the kitchen. This I will wrap around my
head like a bandanna for protection. It is the norm. Galpin, will, of course,
wear a traditional bandanna of local cloth. It will be embroidered with either a
lion or a fleet-footed antelope.
My bandanna is
embroidered with the word “Sunlight” which is a well known brand of soap.
I have been
practising down at the dam, away from the eyes of the brood. My target has been
imaginary, or I have taken to beating at the clumps of reeds that grow down
there. I parry and thrust, sink low on my haunches, stab and defend. My enemy,
in return, showers me with soft seeds that glisten like flakes of gold in the
sunlight.
I have consequently
made an enemy of the Cape weaver birds that are in the process of nesting
amongst the reeds. I try to think of their angry tirade as applause.
“This is the game
of children.”
“No. This is the
game of warriors!”
“Pah!” Scoffs
Mabuza, followed by a lump of phlegm to the ground. “There are better ways to
be a warrior.”
“Like what?”
Mabuza taps the
side of his head twice.
And with that,
Mabuza went back to stabbing the garden fork into a weed infested flower bed
and I am suddenly, briefly, wondering what you, Dying Father, would be telling
me at this juncture of my life. The moment is fleeting. More of a spasm, then it
has gone and shelved itself away amongst the other odds and sods that have
briefly, over time, asked for reasons and advice, and then crept away scorned.
I think of
decorating my sticks. Perhaps with a few coils of copper wire, like the great
warriors of King Chaka’s people.
“Are you now a
maiden?”
I am rebuked.
I trundle away to
the dam in search of applause from the cape Weaver birds.
There are no noises
of the night on the night before the fight. There are none only because I do
not sleep. My calf muscles are taut as I lie on my bed, cramping with a
nervousness that first began as something heavy in my stomach. A squirming
something, not unlike that wriggly bastard worm, that is sometimes warm,
sometimes cold. I think it is what they call fear.
Hurry dawn’s light.
My sticks are
ready.
Watch me, Meneer
Gerber.
I am to be a man,
Dying Father.
I am The Sunlight
Boy.
I pedal away from
the house as it sleeps. I have managed to put my two sticks down the back of my
shirt. I am a Samurai on a bicycle, off to defend what? This I do not know. It
is a tradition. So that must be it. This is my rite.
I take the tar road
to the General Dealer store. The road is void of traffic. There is cow shit on
the rise, and I dodge it. The tarmac shimmers like a snake’s skin in the dawn’s
light. A slight mist envelops the pineapple fields to the left and right. The
plants stand aloof and sharp. It is a hostile plant for reasons only Nature
must know.
I ride the road and
avoid the potholes.
Mabuza stands at
the turn-off to the General Dealer. I see him from a distance, and I ease off
on the pedals. He stands where the red dust meets the tarmac, where the old
meets the new. His chest is bare. He wears a loincloth, his tin cup attached to
a riempie (thong) of leather about
his waist. He holds, loosely, a knobkerrie (wooden
club) in his hand. As I approach him, he nods once and breaks into his
customary trot to cross the road.
We say nothing.
I pedal after him,
his warrior gait light, and he barely rustles the red sand beneath his naked
feet from its slumber.
The tailor with the
milky eye is setting up his sewing machine on the porch of the store. There is
not much activity yet. The Store is still closed. A hen with a clutch of chicks
works the soil close to the wall where I park the bicycle. The hen fluffs her
feathers and the chicks respond like sharks to offal. I remove my sticks from
under my shirt and from my trouser pocket I pull out my Sunlight bandana.
I think of the
reeds and the angry Weaver birds as I wrap the dish cloth around my head. I
fold in the corners. I bounce a stick off my scalp. Numb and dumb.
Mabuza is watching,
but he is not.
Behind the General
Dealer Store where the grass is well trodden, Galpin stands with a small group
of people. I recognise some of them from the kraal. His father, the Induna will
referee. That was already decided.
There is only
Mabuza behind me, and he is yet to speak to anyone.
Galpin and I
square-off. There is no ritual or celebration. It is straightforward. He
attacks and I parry; the Wild Olive wood in my hand shuddering on contact and
sending electric shivers down my arm.
He feints left and
the next second I am on my knees. The pain comes later. It is a quick blow to
the area behind my right knee. I stand up.
....and will the Sunlight Boy win? On his road to adulthood...read Mark Roper's inspiring novella to discover the consequences on +Amazon.com
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