“My sons, for whose sakes I have striven, leave me lonely at the hour of my death. There is Songoza, my ‘Great Son,’ whom I have asked the Government to recognise as chief in my place. I made him rich and now he is poor. I filled his kraal with cattle, and he has filled his huts with women until to-day his kraal stands empty. There is Gonyolo, eldest son of my right hand. I gave him the cattle of his house last year and told him to keep his mother in comfort till she died. One by one the cattle are driven to the village and sold for brandy. They tell me his mother has to go to a neighbouring kraal to beg for a drink of milk. When I went to visit Bawela a few months ago, I found him drunk with beer. He and his friends mocked me to my face. The bones of cattle were strewn around the huts, and a fat cow had just been slaughtered. And Philip, that I sent to school and kept there until he had learned nearly as much as a Magistrate—does he not ride around amongst the people telling them not to listen to my words? Nomtsheke—Zoduba and the others—all children, though men in years. And now I am near my death, and none but this poor little Gqomisa is near me. Come here, boy.”
The mother half arose and pushed forward the little boy, who shrank back at first; then crouching down on his face and knees at his father’s side, he began to cry.
Old Dogolwana seemed to divine what the old chief wanted. He lifted the powerless arm from the elbow, and let the hand rest on the back of the crouching child.
After another sip of water, Umsoala recommenced speaking. He now addressed the Magistrate:
“You have always been a father to me and to my people, and your coming now makes my heart lighter. We have known each other for many years, and the knowledge has brought trust. This little boy Gqomisa is my youngest child. There sits his mother Notemba, the daughter of Dogolwana. I wish to tell you, so that all may know, that the herd of black cattle here at my ‘great place’ belongs to Gqomisa, and is left in charge of his mother, old Dogolwana, and Dogolwana’s son Kèlè. I have paid out their shares of cattle to Songoza and to all my other sons, and if they should try to take what belongs to this boy, I want the strength of the Government to shield him from wrong. Will you promise to protect him?”
“I will protect him,” replied the Magistrate.
“He is such a little child. It is true he has Dogolwana, and Kèlè who is the bravest and strongest man of my tribe, to protect him, but his enemies will be many. I ask the Government, in its strength, to stand on his side. I took the side of the Government when the Tshobeni raised the war-cry in the great rebellion, and the Governor himself told me that I dammed the flood of war, and that my services would never be forgotten. I only ask that the Government may now keep my little boy from harm.”
“I will be his father,” said the Magistrate.
The Magistrate and the District Surgeon had far to ride, so they arose to take their leave of the dying chief. He was past all possibility of recovery, and had only a few more hours to live. The Magistrate bent down and spoke in a voice broken by emotion, holding the time Umsoala’s cold and lifeless hand.
“I leave you now because I must return to my duties. We will never meet again unless it be in that land beyond the grave. We have worked together all these years, and my heart is heavy at parting with you, my old friend. I only hope that your son Songoza will follow in the ways of his father.”