NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter/Spring 2012 | Page 14

“Forget about the silk, mukomana.
It is not what I wanted to see you about.
I am sorry I even mentioned it.”
He invited Chata into his house, but
not before hollering to one of the wives
to send a calabash of beer. They sat
on stools carved out of baobab trunks,
and in no time a girl of about eight,
Rendani’s daughter, knelt before her
father and placed a calabash of foaming
marula beer and two gourds on the
floor in front of him. Rendani scooped
the beer with his gourd and drank.
Chata did likewise with his. His face
brightened with each gulp.
“The hand of your wife is still excellent,
Rendi,” said Chata as he wiped the foam
from his lips and chin with his palm.
The compliment tickled Rendani.
“You’d be enjoying such pleasures too if
you grew up and became a husband.”

12

It was the same refrain that Chata heard
from everyone. He didn’t understand
why his marital status seemed to bother
people—not only Rendani who could
claim some form of kinship with him,
but also total strangers. But then a
bachelor at his age was not the most
usual thing in Mapungubwe. Rendani,
who was the same age as him, give
or take a month or two, had already
spawned sons and daughters, the oldest
a son in his mid-teens.

Townsfolk believed that Chata did not
marry because he was too selfish to share
himself with anyone else. How did a
man survive without a woman in his
life? Leaving aside the lack of conjugal
pleasures, how did he manage to go
through his day cooking for himself
and cleaning after himself? And to cook
for himself, remember, he had to place
the millet or the sorghum on the large
guyo grind-stone and then mill it with
the smaller huyo grind-stone, and no
man’s hands were ever known to have
acquired expertise in that physically
exerting labour. Chata, however, did not
see how these chores could be beyond
his capabilities. He had two hands and
strong arms and a firm back as well as
any woman in the land. He managed
quite well, thank you, while at the same
time mining gold for both, his livelihood
and for his pleasure. He did not farm,
but his hozi was full because he exchanged
gold ingots for food and bartered tools
and implements that he forged from
iron and tin and copper for the oxen that
he occasionally needed to slaughter for
the ancestors. He still enjoyed a good
hunt and most of his meat came from
game—the warthog, the kudu and
the wildebeest abounded in the plains
south of the town.

Occasionally, perhaps once or twice a
week, he was spoilt silly by Ma Chirikure,
the old lady who lived in the dilapidated
house next to his and who had a soft
spot for Chata because she knew his
mother when they all worked for the
master carver and blacksmith, Zwanga.
Ma Chirikure had this habit of
announcing herself with a clay pot full
of sorghum or marula beer early in the
morning, which she would leave outside
Chata’s door. Or sometimes she would
surprise him with a steaming bowl of
bean stew. In return Chata shared some
of his corn with her and gave her some
of the meat after a successful hunt.
So you see, Chata didn’t need to have a
wife in order to have a regular supply
of good beer. And Ma Chirikure had a
beautiful hand too. Her beer was potent
and had the stinging taste that remained
singing in the mouth long after the
last swig. She did not confine herself to
sorghum and marula too; in season, she
fermented baobab fruit and even leaves
to make the kind of beer that left the
heads of men buzzing and spinning just
after a few gulps.
“I want to talk to you about the
palisade,” said Rendani.
It was that time of the year when the
palisade surrounding the house with
the rainmaking medicine at the Royal
Palace had to be replaced with freshly
carved pales. The last time this ritual
was performed Chata was being tossed
by the st