“No more? Now why, Udolfu?”
“Because I am going—going away.”
“Going away? Now that cannot be.”
“It can and it is. There is no longer room for me here. There is a cow at hand who will give you more milk than I can, but not such milk as this—oh no!”
“Ha!”
“It is Iqalaqala who is the cow that lows at the gate. Iqalaqala does not trade in strong drink—neither will he bring you any guns or cartridges or powder and lead. His trade is the trade for women—beads, coloured cloth, and such.”
“M-m! Why then, Udolfu, there is still room for you here, for Iqalaqala can do the women’s trade and you can still do that for men—guns and cartridges—and drink like this—like this—which warms—ah, ah, which warms,” added the chief finishing his allowance of “square face” and pushing his calabash meaningly towards the other.
“But I will not. There is no room for two here. I will have all the trade or none.”
Mawendhlela’s face fell. He was a man who liked his comfort and the enjoyment of a daily modicum of “square face” gin, or Natal rum had become essential to this. As a chief he was not unmindful of certain plain hints on the part of those very high up indeed in the councils of the nation, to the effect that those under them were required to obtain the weapons of the white man as far as this could possibly be done. Yet here was the man who supplied him with both, threatening to withdraw. He saw the loss of his beloved drink with dismay, and with even greater dismay he contemplated the disfavour into which he would fall with those in high quarters, if his people showed but a poor muster in the way of firearms. The while Dolf Norbury was reading his thoughts, and could gauge their drift exactly. He knew, too, that personally Mawendhlela and many of his people would gladly see the last of him—but, the above considerations were potent.
“We cannot both trade here,” he repeated. “Iqalaqala must not be allowed to come. That’s all.”