AMABHACA: THE LAST OF AN OLD RHYME By Asithandile Gxumisa

All about us old rhymes are drowned out in the cacophony of modern life, the jarring rumble of which rises by the day. One such old rhyme, not long for our world, is the ancient character of the life of a little known folk in an obscure corner of South Africa. Unlike their Bushmen neighbours, they are not so few as to pique the curiosity of activist conservators of 'cultural rights', the amaBhaca people. Nor are they numerous enough to be mistaken for the tribe of the Republic as their Zulu or Xhosa brethren often are by outlanders. This peculiar fact is, in part, to blame for their long-standing obscurity. Natheless, to the North and East of the erstwhile Transkei, upon the highlands of the Great Escarpment that runs through the country in the likeness of a horseshoe, amaBhaca have dwelt for many ages of Men amidst cold dales. Nothing much is written about the history or the ways of life that have long sustained the communal living of this people. In an Age where oral lore has thoroughly been supplanted by print it is no surprise that this too has worked to keep them little known in the popular consciousness.

However, upon the authority of the few men of letters who have shown interest in the humble ways of this people, their origin can be traced all the way back to the North of the Pongola River, in the vicinity of the Lebombo Hills, a reputedly beautiful land that today forms part of the boundary between Mpumalanga and the Kingdom of Swaziland. During this time in their early history, the core of this politically disparate people were the Zelemu and the Wushe clans, the former later becoming mainly the people from whom amaBhaca as a politically united nation emerged. During and after the tumultuous Mfecane Wars (1815 - 1840) the amaZelemu, a remnant of the amaWushe and other smaller tribes were brought together by the charismatic and awe-inspiring leadership of Madzikane kaZulu, the founding father and first Chief of amaBhaca. All things begin and end in mystery so wrote an American sage once. So it was with the "one crowded life" of this mighty man of arms. Born to one of the women of the Royal Houses of the Swatis of aMalambo, Khalimeshe's most unlikely son grew to be a renowned master at herbal lore and warfare - at the former, according to oral tradition, matchless.

It is very likely that isiBhaca, the fascinating phonetic tongue of amaBhaca, owes its quaint Swati warble to Madzikane's filial bond to his mother's kindred. When he had come of age, one tale goes, Madzikane wandered about clothed in the hide of a calf and came to the Great Place of Macingwane, Chief of the Cunus. This Macingwane had a savage dog that attacked all strangers coming to his Great Place but, to his amazement, the beast fawned upon this eerily-garbed stripling. This unlooked-for quirk was enough to convince Macingwane that a Chief, a compeer worthy of all the honours befitting chieftaincy, had come. Thereupon, he sent for his cattle and slaughtered a cow in Madzikane's honour. Rulers of yesteryear were chosen by powers that stir wondrously and inexorably beyond the Veil, or so the ancients believed. How much better they were, on the whole, than these rootless wanderers of a decadent epoch who serve at the mercy of fickle mobs! It was at this fateful encounter that Madzikane kaZulu was initiated into herbal lore, the likes of which would strike terror into the hearts of Chiefs who would stumble across him in his pilgrimish sojourns. Doubtlessly, if oral lore is anything to go by, it was not the hand that could wield the assegai deftly but the hand adept at maneuvering with herbal charms that decided the last clash between the pursuing Zulus and the fleeing Bhacas upon the Mount of Ntsizwa.

His right to chieftaincy over the people of his father confirmed beyond all doubt, Madzikane would go on to lead the wayfaring nation. And fairly nomadic were amaBhaca in their early history. For before Madzikane's time the amaZelemu (before they were called amaBhaca) must have left the hilly Lebombo for the lush vales that lie beneath the shadows of the Drakensburg heights. From about the 1730s to the 1800s they set off from this verdurous haven in an easterly direction, often keeping out of sight in the dark woods of the Nkandla Forest. For some time they tarried along the coastal lands of Zululand, a realm which they called home for many a year. The eventual departure of Madzikane's folk out of Natal was consequent upon Tshaka's growing suspicion and envy roused by the spreading fame of Madzikane's skills and powers of enchantment. He was especially rattled by the latter, this bloodthirsty Zulu usurper; and, seeing in Madzikane a budding rival to his power, he vowed to snuff out his light by fair or foul means. A sinister message from the Zulu King, a series of unfortunate incidents that subsequently befell the Wushe, Ntlangwini and Cunu tribes finally convinced Madzikane that his people had outlived their welcome in the newly-minted Zulu Kingdom. He set off with his people in a southerly direction, toward what was once called the Transkei.

With him went fugitives who had been scattered hopelessly in the South of Natal by the Mfecane Wars. Among them were the Chiya, Dzana, Mbanjwa, Juta and Bhovu tribes (from whom, if clan names are anything to go by, my father's family must have come). To the South they wandered, Tshaka's ruthless army hot on their travel-worn heels. The first ever halt by the wayfarers was made near what is today called Richmond where the Kalalo chiefdom was attacked and brought under the rule of Madzikane. Then he led them to the valley of the Umkomazi River, by the sea, but it was immediately clear that this was no safe resting-place, and so a journey was made to Umzimkulu, not far from Ixopo. A great number of amaBhaca linger at Ixopo to this very day, but these are such as were content to be counted among the unlucky subjects of the Zulu usurper, Tshaka. Those who are now firmly settled KwaBhaca are known as amaBhaca aseMbondzeni by this Zulu-speaking lot, after the name of the Great Place established by Madzikane out of Natal. Their much-needed rest was cut short by the sudden appearance of the Zulu army. It is very likely that those who decided to remain behind at Umzimkulu lost all hope that amaBhaca could forever eschew the long and grasping hand of Tshaka kaZulu.

Confronted by a prospect of a direct Zulu attack, the Bhaca people took off once more. This time they resolved, once and for all, to go beyond the reach of their implacable Zulu foes. So they made their long and gruelling way across the hilly plains of the former Transkei and came to settle between the Intsizwa and the Mganu Mountains upon the tree-clad banks of the Umzimvubu River, a marvel to the eye. At long last their pursuers, the Zulus, gave up all hope of capturing them, or so they believed. It was at this time that, in what appears to have been a foul attempt at disgracing the wayfaring nation, they gave them the name "amaBhaca" meaning "those who run away and hide". However, in all fairness to the hunted people, running and hiding was far less ignominious than kowtowing to a murderous usurper in Zululand. Anyway, this is more likely than the version that the people were thus named after Madzikane's grandsire, Bhaca. At some point after their arrival and stay in the hinterland between the Umzimvubu River and Umzimkulu, for lingering fears that the Zulus might still be coming, amaBhaca were compelled to cross the tawny Orange River, setting up camp upon its banks, not far from its source.

However, King Moshoeshoe beyond the Drakensburg Mountains did not take kindly to the arrival of yet another fugitive nation blown about by the winds of the Lifaqane. Already he was barely breathing amid the warring amaNgwane of Matiwane and amaHlubi in the valley of the Caledon River. So in fear that he might be hemmed in, he gave amaBhaca an ultimatum, demanding that they leave forthwith. Retracing their steps back to as far as the great valley of Umzimvubu River, he finally settled along that stretch of country that lies between the Rhode about the grassy feet of the Ntsizwa and the Mganu range which is today the district of Mount Frere (KwaBhaca), which is where my ancestral home, almost within sight of the Royal Place, stands. It was round about this time that amaBhaca finally enjoyed lasting peace, building many villages, and tilling the fertile soil. So did their cattle multiply, not merely through the ordinary course of nature but also, according to oral lore, the freebooting practices of Ncapayi, Madzikane's most trusted and able son. An unsung marvel the high pilgrimage of amaBhaca! Behold them scaling the impassable skirts of the lofty Drakensburg, wading through the rumbling waters of the Orange River, now summiting the dour cliffs of the Ntsizwa. The mouth of the once fordless Umzimvubu River by the Indian Ocean they know all too well; and they have heard the thundering roar as of subterranean archangels in hellish agony as its rushing waters finally flow into the Deep Blue.

So desperate was their plight in flight that among them evolved a rather curious habit called "ukufukuthsa" meaning "raw-meat eating" (only of edible animals). Oral lore has it that amaBhaca, fleeing from the Zulu army and not knowing how far behind it might be, would polish off a portion of their meat raw. Naturally, as I can vouch for them, they are quite skillfully selective as to which parts should go into their bellies uncooked, this being mostly red meat. Anyhow, news of the newly-found wealth of Madzikane's folk spread far and wide - darkening once more the very councils of the Elders of Zululand. According to one man of letters, at about 1822 an army was dispatched from Tshaka's dominion to "eat them (cows) up", following a failed attempt in the previous year in which a Zulu spy had his eyes gauged out by a firebrand by order of the usurper-king, Tshaka. Sadly for Tshaka's men, this time Madzikane and his men had had enough of fleeing. It was to be the last deathly struggle between these sworn enemies. So, one day at the start of Winter the war-cry was wailed aloud from all the hilltops: the Zulus were come at long last for one last dance on the battlefield. Women and their young and cattle were led away into the stone-bleak country that lies to the North-west of the Mandileni Basin. Through that forlorn land winds the Kinira River, breaking from the steep foothills of the Drakensburg.

"Umkhosi wakaZulu mina ngowushaya ngesandla esisodwa" (meaning "I will smite the Zulu army single-handedly"). Thus, upon the authority of oral tradition, did Madzikane kaZulu speak in the assembly of his war generals. All men come to that fateful hour in which all things - of their yesterday, their day and something of their tomorrow - come to a head. His tumultuous pilgrimage through the rugged heart of South Africa, his acquired prowess at herbal lore and the prudence picked up through the trying experience of leading his father's people had all geared him up for this hour of doom. All things had come to a head. So, on a clear wintry night, under a dome of stars, while the Zulu men bivouacked upon the mountaintop, a wind arose out of the Sea, moist-laden clouds riding on its wings. It was not long before the whole mountain was enveloped - from its craggy top to its rock-choked base - in a snow-storm of unparalleled severity. Oral tradition has it that about the time when the clouds gathered about the Ntsizwa Mountain a pall of smoke, rising from Madzikane's ritual fire, was caught up into the storm-clouds out of the Sea. Gxumisa, the amaBhaca war-doctor and the lost sire of this article-writer, was with him.  I will smite the Zulu army singlehandedly. The deed was done.

More than half the Zulu "impi" (army) perished in the freakish snow-sleet storm. In the morning, when the Sun had arisen, "dark specks" could be descried scrambling down through the glistening snow. Bodies of men were found lifeless in the crevices of the boulders where they had crept for shelter; and those who awoke unscathed in the snow-bright dawn, the "dark specks", were frost-bitten and palsied by the cold. Proceeding to put the surviving Zulu warriors to the assegai, the hunter became the hunted. Only a handful of the warriors returned to Zululand, possibly to an end worse than their fallen kin if Tshaka had anything to do with the manner of their reception. AmaBhaca had worsted their mortal foes in what was one of the Zulus most thoroughgoing defeat ever. Ever since that day amaBhaca have attributed their unusual stroke of luck to the fabled enchantments of their greatest Chief, Madzikane kaZulu. The Ntsiwa Mountain, so named on account of the "iintsizwa" ("young men") of Zululand that gave up their ghost atop its summit, still stands there to this very hour, strong, proud and elephantine: a living memorial to the high hope of amaBhaca. An enchantment of wonder, mightier than the charms of a mere herbal loremaster, broods heavily over that Mountain, and it has enthralled me over these few dull years of my life.

All things begin and end in mystery. Not long after his celebrated victory over Tshaka, in the year of the eclipse, 1824, Madzikane also gave up his own ghost in an hour of mystery. For during the battle in which he died, the Sun vanished and a doleful shadow fell across the land. The ancients were convinced that Madzikane's magic was behind this cosmic quirk. I suspect a more prosaic explanation is highly plausible. But life, if it is to be worth living, must often be leavened with the yeast of  myth. A giant of a man, furry as the grizzly bear, almost as tall as the cedars of Lebanon, and nails as long as the talons of an eagle, amaBhaca would never see his kind anew. His people were always no more than a smattering of exiles in this country bestridden by amaXhosa and amaThembu, and so their eventual crushing defeat at the hands of amaThembu must have made them realize sorrowfully that the coming Age would have little room for the nations of minorities. And so, upon the counsel of the dying Madzikane, they would often seek refuge under the Chiefs of the more numerically strong nations. Still, AmaBhaca survive to this day, sadly becoming, in the democratic Age of the mass man, less and less distinct.

Their phonetic tongue, with no written literature, quaint as their cold dales, with a flow as swift and smooth as Umzimvubu thundering down to the Sea, and shot through with a note of gloom redolent of their adventure of trial and exile in the Wilderness, is almost extinct. The last of an old rhyme. Their architectural heritage which, admittedly, they share with the rest of their Nguni neighbours is also almost undone. The picturesque rondavels of thatched roofs, annular walls of mudbrick that once popped up like colossal, polychromatic blossoms upon the sloping hills have given way to an "architecture of servitude and boredom", a conformist dreariness only of steel, glass and corrugated iron. These architectural novelties are cold as the dead of Winter, unimaginative as the uninspired 'artisans' that design them, and stifle the life of the spirit. It is often comically befuddling to find that the men who are laying waste to their traditional homesteads to make way for the shoddy surbaban monstrosities are Pan-Africanist ideologues forever bemoaning the unfortunate "Westernization" of Africa. One can only laugh and forgive this hopeless lot, their heads brimming with tragicomical notions from moderns like Frantz Fanon, Malcolm X and Bobby Seale. Anyway, amaBhaca are not far gone in their embrace of the architecture of deadening uniformisn, and so they can still keep to an architecture which is on the humane scale and which also does not utterly break with their past.

However, this will need men and women who are resolved to keep in touch with their roots, not like the insensate type who will ostentatiously slaughter some animal in honour of his sleeping forebears only to thumb his nose at his living elders. It is high time that we put this thoughtless and unreflective handling of our past behind us and, while we are at it, seeek a more sophisticated veneration of the enduring wisdom of our foresires. For the powers that move the wheels of this earth are determined to efface all vestiges of traditional life and restyle every land after the manner of the lonely, woefully individualistic Megalopolis where Men, to my great horror, are always apart side by side, comfortably housed yet homeless, well-nourished yet ever grasping, rootlessly and speedily wandering on and on in their "mechanized caravans" to Nowhere. The combers of the evangels of progress will sweep us all up into the cold forgetfulness of the future until what is left of us is no more than a swarm of "the flies of the summer", the trials and struggles of our forebears in the Wild becoming only the rumour of a half-forgotten folktale out of the childhood of the race of Men, and sinking as we do already into the anonymity of the all-embracing globalist monoculture.

Perhaps, there is still some hope for the survival of the smaller peoples, whose humble doings only leave faint echoes in the great affairs of the world. For, after all, even the wisest cannot see all ends. Still, in many ways, my father's people, as they sit today cowering before a Flu out of China in their Wintry dales, are the last of an old rhyme - not long for our world. In the melodious stillness of the proud Ntsizwa heights, which I have summited on two wondrous occasions, something of the old rhyme can be heard in the high winds. Who tells you that the ghosts of Men cannot sing?