“Kwa ’Sipanga?”
“I remember. Atyisayo is thy name. ‘Hot water.’ And I warned thee not to get into any more hot water—as the whites say.”
He laughed at this—but evilly, and no further word could I get out of either of them.
But if they would reveal nothing there was another who would, and that was Jan Boom. Him I had refrained from questioning until we should be all quiet again.
The police, with the exception of three men, who had been detailed to remain on the spot and keep their eyes and ears open, started off that same evening with their prisoners. Later, Jan Boom came to the house and gave me to understand he had something to tell me. The family had just gone to bed, and Kendrew and I were sitting out on the stoep smoking a last pipe.
“Nkose, the time has now come,” he said, “to tell you what will sound strange to your ears. I would not tell it before, no, not till the Amapolise had gone. The Amapolise are too fond of asking many questions—foolish questions—asking them, too, as if they thought you were trying to throw sand in their eyes when all the time you are trying to help them. Now is that encouraging to one who would help them?”
I readily admitted that it was not.
“So now, Nkose, if you will come forth with me where we shall not be heard—yes, the nephew of Nyamaki may come, too—for my tale is not for all ears, you shall hear it.”
We needed no second invitation. As we followed him I could not but call to mind, in deep and thankful contrast, his revelation of two nights ago—made in the same way and on the same spot.
“You will have heard, Amakosi,” he began, “of the tribe called Amazolo, or the People of the Dew, which flourished in Natal before Tshaka’s impis drove the tribes of that land into the mountains or the sea.