By Veldt and Kopje

by W. C. Scully

Mangèlè knew well that he was smitten with the incurable disease of which his mother had died. He became solitary in his habits and would sometimes sit on a stone outside his hut the whole night through. And the sombre, leonine look deepened upon his face with the passing of the months.

At first Mangèlè had, as is usual in such cases among the Kaffirs, put down his own as well as his mother’s illness to the malevolence of an enemy, and believed that if he could counteract the spell woven against him, he would recover his health, but he no longer deceived himself on this score. The Kaffirs are, as a rule, utterly ignorant of Nature’s laws as such affect the human body, but Mangèlè was intelligent to a degree far above the average of his race. Moreover, his sojourn among the Europeans had given him enlightenment. Recently the dire significance of his situation had struck him to the heart. Now and then he would appear among his fellows at a “beer-drink” or other function, but as a rule he remained at home and brooded in solitude over his doom.

A Kaffir “beer-drink” is a very curious and distinctive feature of South African native life. One peculiarity of the “beer-drink” is that the drinkers pass through several definite stages corresponding with the amount of their potations. In the earlier the utmost good-humour prevails. Soon, however, comes a period of boasting which, if different clans are represented at the gathering, shortly changes into one electric with possibilities of strife, for vaunting leads to irritation, recrimination, and eventual blows.

A fierce quarrel may arise from something utterly trivial; any two men present who dislike each other never being at a loss for a casus belli. The mere mention of an old garden dispute, or a lawsuit of half a century back between the respective grandfathers of two men who have reached the critical point, is quite enough to set the sticks whirling. Indeed, beer seems to act like a kind of sympathetic ink in bringing every ancient and half-obliterated grievance to the surface.

After the quarrelsome stage succeeds one of torpor, and from this the revellers arise with appetites which only meat, and plenty of it, can assuage. Then, unless the giver of the feast be rich and liberal enough to kill for his guests, the flocks and herds of the stock-owners in the vicinity are apt to suffer.

The stage of boasting had been reached when Galada and the headmen returned to the banquet. On different sides men were declaiming loudly of the wealth and greatness of their relations, ancestral and contemporary—several talking at the same time. Galada’s eye at once sought out Mangèlè, the son of Makanda, who had just been mentioned to him as being a leper. Mangèlè was a most splendid specimen of manhood. As he lay naked on his blanket in the bright sunshine, his splendid torso and muscular limbs seemed to be the very embodiment of health and reposeful strength. Looking more closely, however, the Sergeant was able to notice the signs of the disease which had been mentioned by Rolobèlè. Superficially, all that was wrong with the knee was a slight thickening on the outside—so slight, indeed, that Galada would certainly never have noticed the thing had his attention not been drawn to it. Mangèlè’s left hand was, however, distinctly swollen and distorted. He kept it concealed as much as possible, hiding it under a fold of the blanket he lay upon.

Mangèlè’s voice was not heard among those of the boasters. He lay silent and abstracted, slightly apart from the others, drinking deeply and apparently taking no notice of the Babel around him. For an instant he looked up as Xaba joined the circle, and the glances of these two seemed to flash at each other like spears. Then Mangèlè took another long draught of beer and bent his head lower than before.

“We of the Radèbè,” shouted ’Mzondo, a fierce-looking savage, who had a heavy ivory armlet above his left elbow, “hau—there are none like us; we are the black cattle of the pastures. My father was a bull with a strong neck and I am his calf. Look at our sticks in a fight—look how the strangers come to seek our daughters in marriage. Wau—but we are a race of chiefs—a great people.”

“We of the Amahlubi,” shouted one ’Mbulawa, “were never tillers of the fields of the Amagcaleka, nor were our daughters taken as concubines by the sons of Hintza. We were bulls when the Radèbè were oxen.”

At this reference to the captivity of the Radèbè, half a century previously, all present of that clan leaped to their feet and seized their sticks. Rolobèlè, however, managed to restore tranquillity. The majority of those present were Hlubis. The headman rebuked ’Mbulawa for his rudeness. Then, in the course of a long and eloquent speech, he adroitly led the thoughts of his guests to an episode in which both clans had equally covered themselves with glory. Thus was the anger appeased and the danger of a breach of the peace averted for the moment.