A Fish Out of Water

By Sebenzile Abigail Sikhosana

In this stay-up-all-night novel find out about the origins of Xenophobia, its intricacies and discover the repercussions of prejudice targeted towards foreign nationals .The protagonist, Fernando Langa, who is originally from Mozambique; is exposed to the worst kind of prejudice. Langa has a strong will to survive but will he be able to defy the odds while living in a society engulfed by Xenophobia? The story is set in Swaziland (aka Kingdom of Eswatini) in the 1990’s. It depicts a heart-pounding narrative of how one man tries to fight his demons. Find out, in this gripping novella, why human beings can be so malicious towards another fellow human being, Overall, this novel is a protest that Xenophobia , if practiced anywhere around the world; is unscrupulous , immoral, unethical and violates basic human rights , therefore it must come to a stop henceforth!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789555998

Book preview

poetics.

Chapter 1

Throngs of people gathered at the chief’s kraal or dwelling place. Men, women, grandmothers, grandfathers, sisters and brothers – everybody. Only children stayed at home to prepare something palatable for their parents. It was a long walk to the chief’s kraal in the early morning since most of the villagers felt that it was of paramount importance to be at the meeting. That particular day, all roads led to the chief’s domicile. So important was attendance that none of the villagers felt the need to make any detours. Most villagers were walking in groups of three, four or more but they were a few solitary ones. Fernando Langa and his best friend Sipho Smelane were also tracking to the chief’s homestead. With them were a handful of other villagers; some in the rear and others in front, all on the pathway leading to the chief’s kraal.

Fernando Langa had been living in Swaziland for the past three decades, otherwise, he was born in Mozambique and therefore of Shangaan descent. He arrived in Swaziland at the age of eighteen, as a refugee, during the civil war in Mozambique and after five years he was given citizenship. Having acquired a Diploma in electrical installation and engineering from SCOT (Swaziland College of Technology) he was a qualified electrician in his own right. Tall and emaciated he was but physically fit with a few small muscles protruding from his very dark skin. He was of the Shangaan clan and always kept his head shaved and so did his friend Smelane who was walking besides him deeply engrossed in the tête-à-tête the two friends were having.

The Shangaan was the traditional tall, dark and handsome… an Adonis. As they walked by, they made sure that they did not trip their feet on the rubble scattered all over the pathway. They also made sure that their sandals were not dampened by the dew. The dew itself fell on the grass kissing it tenderly and caressing the fertile ground below. For it was a dewy morning and a narrow pathway. However, it was obvious that it was going to be a lovely sunny day, maybe isolated thunder showers later. The village called Mtsambama was situated on a valley with fertile soils and green grasslands. There was also a gorge that beautified the landscape; having all kinds of feral trees. In the far south was an extinct volcano and some hot springs and several plunge pools in the vicinity. Otherwise the landscape showed a network of other pathways leading to various homesteads, which appeared like arteries and veins. Way down at the village circumference was a dirt road.

Placid cannot even begin to describe the atmosphere in the village. Everything was quiet except for a soft breeze that blew over the placid landscape and the footsteps of the villagers. The footsteps of the villagers were noisy but not in an irksome way. They gently drummed on the narrow pathway like ancient drums of some drummer beating to the rhythm of traditional dancing. The kind of traditional dancing that was vigorous, spectacular and captivating. That whole morning, the footsteps of the villagers tapped on the network of pathways like soft summer rain. The rhythm of the footsteps was enticing and intriguing to the ear. When this rhythm got into the ears of the goats, it made them bleat blithely. As soon as it mingled itself into the waters of the various streams and fountains; the waters lapped for joy.

When the horses in the village heard the rhythm, they neighed with great enthusiasm. Reaching the cattle byres, the rhythm of the footsteps made the cattle low softly. It was early morning and the children had already made fire in the huts. The rhythm got into the morning fire and sparks began to fly. In this wild countryside the same rhythm got into the wild fruits and they thrust out fruit. As soon as it was detected by the wild flowers, they all went into bloom. Children who were playing on the yard heard the rhythm of the footsteps and their faces beamed with exuberance. Calves suckling from the cows in the cattle byres heard this rhythm too, and began gamboling with untold vigour. When this rhythm got into the ears of the feral birds in the forest, they began to render sweet madrigals.

Furthermore, this rhythm had the unique ability to calm a nagging wife, lull a screaming baby to sleep and set the veld ablaze too. It seemed as if it was the magic in the rhythm that changed the four seasons of the year. Such a rhythm continued to linger in the ears of the crickets making them chirp excitedly to greet the dusk. Perhaps, it was it that made the summer breeze whisper softly in the villager’s ears. None of the village herd boys ever forgot this rhythm. It continued to linger in their memory until it propelled them to rush to the veld in search for lost cattle.

Girls in the village could hear this rhythm, even at dusk when they went to collect water by the river streams. It continued to echo in the minds of the villagers giving them oomph during the planting and weeding season. Perhaps, it even drove the engine of tractors in the planting season. During the weeding season, it got intertwined with the rhythm of the hoeing hands, making a tune so awesome. In spring, it turned the grass green and in autumn the leaves brown. It was it that had the capability of bringing a cyclone, a terrible drought or a bountiful harvest. Late at night this very rhythm worked its magic as a lullaby and at the crack of dawn it shook the villagers from their slumber. A powerful but faint rhythm, loud but soft, awakening but lulling. Crooning like a sweet lullaby, thundering to awaken the sleeping hills and drumming the earth to create permanent routes on the ground. Oh! What a rhythm it was – the rhythm of the footsteps of the villagers.

Upon entry at the chief’s kraal the villagers sat themselves down on the dewy grass. The women were carrying wrappers which they spread on the grass to sit on. The men did not mind sitting on the grass without spreading anything to sit on. Waiting for the elders and the chief to appear, they wiped the film of sweat from their brows and greeted each other in muffled voices and broad smiles. Some shook hands, others smiled from ear to ear, greeting the rising sun from the east.

The chief’s homestead was a large one with several structures – quite impressive infrastructure. There was a modern three-bedroomed house with roof tiles, in the heart of the yard; and other numerous small huts all around it, which huts were thatched with grass. There were also a number of bee-hive huts, all around the homestead. Then at the far end of the compound were three very large barns and way down were several restrooms or ablutions. The lavatories were kept spick-and-span by the womenfolk. Near the entrance of the homestead was a gigantic cattle byre. The homestead had a fence and several grain fields stretching down to the vicinity of the gravel road.

Just as the sun was rising on the mountain horizon the members of the chief’s inner council emerged with the chief in their midst. They appeared in all their splendour and glory. The members of the chief’s inner council were ten in all. They were men of great honour and stature - men of a certain pedigree. The chief was an old man in his seventies dressed in loin skirt with grey hair and a grey beard. He moved with such majesty, now and then, rearranging his regalia. The stage was already set and the chief sat down on the leopard skin that was spread on the well-cut grass. Members of his inner council sat down too, making a semicircular sitting arrangement beside the chief. All the people were now attentive.

One member of the chief’s inner council stood up to chair the meeting. He was a macho man of medium height with a bright complexion – a revered elder. As he stood up he made several gestures like brushing his whiskers with his fingers. Then he cleared his throat and began to speak. He presided the meeting in a sophisticated and orderly manner. People of Mtsambama village, I greet you. There was a big round of applause and cheerful responses from the villagers. The man continued, Thank you very much for your attendance of this meeting. It just goes to show how much you love and respect your chief. We are very grateful that the chief has graced us with his presence today. The burning issue on today’s agenda is community development projects. As you all know, this involves the rural water project as well as the rural electrification scheme. Without any further ado, let me allow the chief to greet you.

The member of the inner council sat down and the chief stood up amidst cheers and applause. He was an old man in his seventies but still going strong. He carried a wooden sceptre and spoke in a clear voice. More than anything, he was, no doubt, a revered icon, famous for being judicious. Just as he began to speak there was dead silence. My people, I greet you all. There was once again loud applause and cheers. Thank you very much for coming to the meeting, given the fact that all of you had very busy schedules. I hope you shall bring in very constructive ideas that will develop our community and help us and our children leave more comfortable lives. You all know how strenuous it is to fetch water from the river and we can all imagine how easy life could be if we could have electricity installed in each homestead. So we will deliberate on these issues today and come up with a good plan-of-action together. My people we are here for the logistics.

Then he sat down and the chairperson stood up again. He reiterated the chief’s words and reminded the people to report all disputes to the chief’s inner council. He also reminded the people to continue to pay tribute to the chief in terms of weeding his fields and bringing gifts to him. Furthermore, he said that those who failed to pay tribute must not be sorry when the inner council refuses to give them permission to bury their deceased kinsmen in the village. For, paying tribute to the chief was not a matter of choice but a matter of must.

After this he allowed various villagers to speak on the issue of