NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter/Spring 2012 | Page 19

“What imagination! Your mind is a
wonderful place to be,” said Zwanga
softly, as if to himself.

This did not make sense to Rendi.
Hands did what you wanted them to
do. What good would any carver be
if he were to be controlled by his hands?
Surely Zwanga would not be the
master carver and blacksmith he was,
respected in all of Mapungubwe and
beyond, if he allowed his hand to go
rampant and shape any silly thing they
wanted to shape? But Chata’s hands
refused to see reason. He tried to
reproduce the strange animal that was
destroyed by the herdboys the previous
day. But it could not be exactly the
same, though it had the three legs, the
beak and the wings on the tail. This
new one had more horns even on its
flanks. Rendi moulded a raging bull
that looked like a raging bull.

“I’ll ask him to do mine too,” said Chata.

“You dream such dreams? Who taught
you to dream like that?”

Rendi knew that his father would never
waste his time by baking such an ugly
creature. He did not say so though
because he did not want his friend to
feel bad about his lack of talent.

He could not tell Zwanga that his
mother taught him to dance himself
into a trance during which he interacted
with spirit worlds where even more
fantastical creatures pranced about.

The boys gave their creations to Zwanga
and Rendi was surprised that his father
didn’t break into a paroxysm—be it
of laughter or of anger—when he saw
Chata’s creation. Instead he stared at
it with awe on his face. He took a quick
look at Rendi’s ox and said, in what
Rendi interpreted to be a dismissive tone,
“This is very good, murwa, but I expect
no less from you. You are, after all,
a descendant of master carvers and
blacksmiths who have been honoured
by kings from the days of your
great-great-grandfather.”

“I don’t know. It just happened. My
hands just shaped it. I am sorry about it.”

But his eyes quickly went to Chata’s
monster.
“Chatambudza, where did you see an
animal like that?” he asked.

“He won’t do it again,” said Rendi
trying to protect his friend. “It is not
his fault. It is the fault of his hands.”
“Stop prattling, boy,” said Zwanga
abruptly. “I want to know how
this phuli boy got to have such
wonderful dreams.”
Chata was so rattled by the fact that
Zwanga called him a slave that he missed
the part that declared his creation
wonderful. But that did not escape Rendi.
Wonderful? How could this monstrous
creature be deemed wonderful?

In the evening when Zwanga’s wife
brought food and Rendi brought a
gourd of mopane beer, the man was
still staring at the fantasy animal.
Something was wrong with Zwanga,
Rendi thought. He was rather irritated
that it was not his well-shaped ox
that had mesmerized his father but an
animal that never existed anywhere in
the known world. A tinge of resentment
began to grow in him. Resentment
against his father. Against Chata.
Against all the !Kung people of the world,
for who else but the !Kung woman
could have taught Chata to bewitch the
master carver with a silly-looking
animal? This last bit was implanted
in Rendi’s mind by his mother, for she
and her son did discuss Zwanga’s
strange behaviour when they got back
to her house. She had a very simple
and straightforward answer: witchcraft.
The !Kung woman must be responsible
for it. Her solution was that Rendi
must stop playing with Chata.

BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE

“In my dreams, father,” said Chata.
His tone was very apologetic.

Zwanga was lost in thought. He just sat
there and stared at the fantasy creature.
The boys stood there for a while. Rendi
was hoping he would have further
comments about his ox. When he didn’t,
Rendi said, “Please, father, fire my ox
in your kiln so that it can last forever.”
But the man didn’t stir. It was as if he
had not heard his son. His eyes were
fixed on the fantasy creature. The boys
quietly left the house.

17

“I am going to ask my father to bake
it in his kiln so that it lasts forever,”
said Rendi.

Chata did not want to reveal that it
was memory rather than imagination
that was responsible for his creation.
These were creatures he had seen
when he had gone into a trance and
had visited the dimension of the dead
and the unborn. He had moulded
them as he remembered them. In any
event, who could truly make a clear
distinction between imagination
and memory?