Before the Big Rains

By O. H. Kopole

The twins destiny was decided by an age-old tradition long before they were born, but it was somehow altered through the application of wisdom and intellect by human intervention. The abnormal in society was normalised by custodians of tradition and the rule of customary law, councillors, and respected village elders vested with authority and the power to decide and act. Giving the twins a lifeline and letting them live when they should have been killed without any second thought about who their father is amounted to nepotism and infringed on the right of the one whose destiny was decided in an unorthodox way. This was an unforgivable violation of an ancestral practice, a grave transgression with dire consequences which pitted brother against brother, paving a path of dark hatred, witchcraft, and ultimately, murder in the guise of darkness with no witnesses.
With the chiefs wife barren, leaving the clan without a leader, the throne without an heir was apparent and the inheritance shone brighter and larger in the direction of the perpetrator. If Makgabeng was destined to be in Seras hands, then the gods had surely erred in their judgement. How could they have sacrificed Paramount Chief Thaga at the altar of conspiracy, greed, and corruption? Would Lefa live to see the day and his rightful throne?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524676322

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© 2017 O. H. Kopole. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/30/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7631-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7630-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7632-2 (e)

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter One

T HE FIRE WAS SLOWLY DYING out. The happy flames that had danced so merrily earlier could not hold out through the night, their fiery spirit succumbing to the hungry fangs of slumber. They, too, were tired. The logs still glowed, dimly and out of breath, giving nothing away in the near-empty dwelling. An old wooden bench in one corner, a spear, and a few animal skins were the only valuable items in the hut, nothing more. No trappings of gold or silver; a thief wouldn’t walk out smiling. The warmth of the fire had been richly and extravagantly distributed in the mud hut, keeping its lone, frail occupant’s blood warm. This was the only thing worth stealing. It wasn’t winter, but the fire was an utmost necessity under the circumstances. A dark blanket hovering outside had enveloped the entire village, plunging it into complete darkness. Mewing sounds and crickets’ melodies occasionally broke the deafening silence as the night wore on, capturing the drowsy village. The time for nocturnal activity had once more, without fail or hindrance from nature and humankind, presented itself. Creatures of the night, owners of dusk, and all that thrived under the guise of darkness crawled out of their holes to take charge. Sunrise had given way to sunset, light to the dark. It was their turn. Good and evil live side by side in every normal society. It is nature’s way of striking a balance.

Mud huts stretching from this end to that characterised the entire village. Big and small kraals separated the rich from the poor. The size of a man’s kraal spoke volumes of the man and provided a measure for his wealth. The smell of wet cow dung still hung in the air, a reminder of a heavy hailstorm just two days earlier. Planting season had started well with good rains, and those who had eagerly waited for the heavens to give the signal immediately put seed into the ground. Bulls that had been through it all their years knew what was coming, so it made sense to them to be led to the fields and suffer the consequences of being bulls, and the wrong sex. Their sex was not something they had negotiated or asked to be. Neither could they plead their case or request the two-legged master to be considerate as they went about labouring and kicking dust in the scorching sun all day long. All kinds of thoughts went through their minds as they laboured in the sun, their shiny hides wet with sweat. Not far off to the west was a small stream with a bed of tantalising, waist-length green grass, the animals’ only solace. Before midday, they’d be unharnessed and led down there for feeding and then allowed to wet their throats and lie down for a while before being driven back to the field. The poor animals hated every planting season, but they could not have negotiated their way out of it even if they had the means to do so.

The gods must have been happy indeed. This was the promise of yet another good harvest. Male voices could be heard somewhere in the darkness as they gradually faded away into the night with each step. The unmistakable touch of a well-fermented brew stuck to the breath like glue; inseparable. One could smell the beer on their breath from a good distance away. These were just two souls returning from a drinking spree on the other side of the village, something they always engaged in when they had nothing better to do with their miserable lives. They were traditionalists whose daily existence revolved around three pillars: working the land from sunrise to sunset during planting season or until noon otherwise, herding livestock, and going to the kgoro to listen to village matters or attend to a reported case. All three inevitably ended with a calabash of beer. And if none of these activities should be possible, then drinking was what they’d gladly and willingly do. No particular day held any significance to them, except when sacred rituals must be observed. Apart from this, every day was a drinking day. Loafers had a ball at just doing nothing with their energy except wasting it on cheap village gossip, loitering, slandering, stealing, and drinking… and life just went on. Boys knew their chores. Young maidens did, too, and so did married women. It was their way of life from sunset to sunrise – their tradition.

A sentry posted outside the Chief’s dwelling shifted restlessly. His limbs were numb from sitting in one position for too long, and his bladder was about to burst. The pressure building inside the overworked organ needed urgent attention. His fellow guard and friend, another young brave from his regiment, snored passionately from his post in the dark, subconsciously enjoying the sound he was making. Theirs was the kind of royal, dangerous errand that they enjoyed most. It was an honour for them to protect the safety of the man sleeping inside the hut. He depended on them; no one other than his wives was allowed anywhere near him, especially at night. Everyone else was a suspect, man or animal.

At the sound of the first rooster each morning, one of the sentries brought the fire within the hut back to life. This has been the practice for two weeks, ever since the incident – an attempted murder no one had witnessed. It was not winter time in this concealed village, it was right in the middle of an African summer. The village was entirely cut off from Western civilisation and its temptations, one of villages missionaries had not yet discovered. Even if they had discovered it, they would be rewarded with many grey hairs for their troubles before a single soul could swap the ways of their ancestors, their sacred customs, and traditions for a knife and fork, a pair of shoes, a hat, a Bible, and a Western education. The people led uncomplicated lives of simplicity. They were primitive, ignorant, and superstitious. They had their own religion and their own gods, who provided when they felt like it, and withheld when they did not feel like it. Every occurrence and function had a story to it, an ancestral connection, and answers in abundance. When the rain did not fall when expected, then there was an abomination in the land or the gods were angry about something. Animals would lose their lives, rivers of frothy traditional beer would flow, and rituals would be performed – all in the name of cleansing in order to appease the gods. This was Makgabeng, another village, another journey of discovery.

*    *    *    *    *

Ngwakoana had made sure her husband was comfortable and as warm as possible before retiring to her sleeping quarters for the night. She had rekindled the fire, throwing a few dry logs in, and when the flames started attacking the logs, she had tended to the wound that had become septic. She was a good, caring, and loving wife; strong-willed, well-cultured, and well-fathered. She was every man’s dream. She had her good moments and her bad ones, and right now was one of those bad moments. The pain she felt was intense, and she felt she could no longer endure it. It was deep, this silent hurting. Her beloved husband was in a state of sheer helplessness and in great pain. He was not just any man, he was a great leader and warrior. A once-strong man, he was now reduced to a weak, bedridden invalid. His condition was far from satisfactory, but she was amazed by the man’s sheer will to hang on to life. Merely by looking at him every day, she knew it was a miracle that he was still alive. Inside, she felt as though she was dying alongside him, and suffered as her husband suffered, fearing that his life was slowly being sucked away with each passing day. As her soft hands lovingly caressed his chest, gently cleaning the wound with warm water lightly mixed with a traditional herbal disinfectant, her mind was anxious, her soul deeply troubled. Silently rubbing and touching the hairy chest she knew so well, she was reminded of intimate moments spent staring at the muscular chest hovering above her, and how she’d felt so loved and safe in his strong hands. She felt lost, frustrated, and then angry. She appealed to the gods of the land and the ancestors to intervene and spare her husband, to save him for her and her young child, and for the people of Makgabeng. She also appealed for her husband’s assailant to face the full wrath of the gods and ancestors. Someone somewhere knew something, yet no one had come forward with information that could lead to the prosecution of the perpetrator, the faceless night intruder who had attempted to murder her husband in his sleep that fateful night two weeks ago. Was someone being protected at the cost of her dear husband’s life? Yes, it felt that way to her, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was. Paramount Chief Thaga was a good man, a loving husband and father, a good leader. In all his life, he had made very few enemies, and knowing the kind of man he was, her instincts had ultimately led her to the identity of her husband’s attacker. It could only be one man, a man who had everything to gain by her husband’s death and nothing to gain through his continued breathing and existence. The suspect had all the reasons and motives for killing, and the glowing flames of his hard-to-conceal hatred were stronger than that of hellfire, its stench stronger than a dead skunk’s.

The frail figure who lay before Ngwakoana had been a very strong, brave man. He had fought many battles, killing more men than anyone else in his regiment of young braves, and his name had been on every villager and young maidens’ lips more often than he cared to remember. It was no lucky feat. Paramount Chief Thaga was disciplined in his prime and well-mannered, an exact replica of his late father, Paramount Chief Madubaduba of Mathakgala clan.

*    *    *    *    *

Since being stabbed in the chest as he slept by his own twin brother, Sera, two weeks ago, Paramount Chief Thaga’s health had deteriorated. A medicine man for the royal kraal had tried various treatments, applied different herbs, leaves and roots all known as best remedies for ailments and cuts, to no avail. Nothing was working. Before the attack, Paramount Chief Thaga still had many good years ahead of him. He could have fathered a few more children with his four wives, and lived to watch them grow into young men or women. Still on the good side of fifty, Paramount Chief Thaga had been blessed with seven daughters and one son, fifteen-year-old Lefa, the only child birthed by the Chief’s favourite wife, the beautiful Ngwakoana.

Paramount Chief Thaga had aged rapidly in the past few weeks, small tasks had become a great effort to him, and when he tried to speak, the words were nothing more than mere whispers.

Immediately after the unexpected attack, two strong young men had been placed on guard outside his sleeping quarters to prevent anyone, especially his attacker, who had not been meticulous, from finishing him off. Paramount Chief Thaga was an honest, clever man, and a master tactician. A man of sober habits with a witty mind and alacrity complimented by an ear for advice. His listening faculty was as functional and able as his skill for oration. During his days of good health, he was eulogised in every corner of the land as a great man, a peace-lover, a peace-maker and a firm believer of using words before blows. Loving and sleeping with the enemy was his philosophy, and because of this, his enemies found it difficult to get to him. He was as cunning as a fox, and just as deceptive when he wanted to be. Unpredictable and observant, authoritative and shrewd, a disciplinarian yet down-to-earth. Alas, as the saying goes, even the strongest of men have weaknesses. Paramount Chief Thaga was no exception. He was only human, after all. Strong men’s weaknesses are their enemies’ trump cards, and because of this natural balance of forces, Paramount Chief Thaga paid the price. Sera, his twin brother, was his exact identical physical copy, but inside was the exact opposite. They shared the same height, build, skin colour, and the blood flowing through their veins. Apart from a shared respect for their parents, neither liked nor loved the other much. Sera had grown to hate his brother, just as one would hate an enemy, and never made it much of a secret.

*    *    *    *    *

Sera was a ruthless, senseless, power-hungry man who wouldn’t think twice about selling his own soul to the devil, all in the name of achieving his goal. A mean character, it was said he could even sell his own child to the highest bidder, or murder anyone who dared to cross his path. Nothing but power mattered to him, and he hated being opposed. One was either with him, or against him, and being against him wasn’t the best option for anyone, especially for ordinary villagers. Supporting his causes, however, also led to uncertainties and manipulation. A lover of underhand tactics, his feeble-minded supporters and enemies feared him alike, except for one – his number one enemy, his brother Paramount Chief Thaga.

This wasn’t the first time Sera had plotted against Paramount Chief Thaga. He had tried to dispose of his brother in the past, failing dismally each time, but thanks to his two virtues, steadfastness and patience, he persisted, employing different methods, including witchcraft. The entire land was full of his endless tracks as he travelled far and wide searching for the medicine man who could relieve him of his brotherly burden for good. Sera had parted with a few good cattle over the years, knowing Paramount Chief Thaga’s death would benefit him tremendously. With Paramount Chief Thaga out of the way, he would be sworn in as the interim Paramount Chief in his brother’s place, standing in for his nephew Lefa who was still underage. Customary law held that, at fifteen, Lefa was still a minor, and besides, the boy hadn’t even been to the mountain to become a man yet. Only when he satisfied the customary obligations and traditions would he be able claim his rightful place as heir to the throne. Until then, Sera was the right man to take his brother’s place in the event of his death or incapacity, for whatever reason. The throne was undeniably his in his brother’s absence, and he had plans to cement his stand-in status.

Sera’s wife Mokitlana, the driving force behind many of his deadly plans, endlessly urged him on the path to supremacy. Besides her own craving for power and ambition, she was prompted by her jealousy of Ngwakoana, who was both beautiful and of royal blood, a princess by birth. Mokitlana was just an ordinary village woman who had been fortunate enough to be married to the Paramount Chief’s twin brother. She was like a deadly poison flowing in her husband’s veins.

*    *    *    *    *

The bad blood began many years ago when Paramount Chief Madubaduba’s wife Medupe gave birth to an heir to the throne. Instead of bringing one son into the world, she gave birth to twin brothers. Giving birth to twins was considered a bad omen, a taboo, an abomination even, which spelt disaster for the entire clan and the land. It was also considered a curse to the nation, that would bring drought, infertility amongst the women, famine and bad luck. The whole village was gripped by fear at the news of the twins’ birth. The Chief’s most trusted advisors all knew, understood and respected tradition, and as such, they had known exactly what had to be done under the circumstances. The Chief had to uphold tradition by doing the right thing, and the right thing to do was to follow tradition to the letter… and eliminate the twins. A cleansing ceremony would then follow, including the offering of sacrifices, to please the ancestors and the gods and avert their wrath. Husband and wife were devastated. There would be no heir to the throne, but as the Paramount Chief and leader, he had to lead by example. Traditional law had no exceptions.

I’m really worried, said poor Medupe. We face the bad favour of the gods, and yet my spirit refuses to accept it. Maybe it’s because I’m the one who carried the twins for all those months, only to innocently deliver them to their death. If I had known I was carrying twins, maybe I’d have done something…

What exactly do you mean by that? her husband had asked.

Maybe I’m just confused, she had responded evasively.

I know what you are going through right now, dear wife, believe me, I do. Sometimes I wish that some of these foolish practices never existed, but what can we do? It’s an old, sacred practice from the days of the ancient ancestors, and you know better than to undermine them. They can get really angry, and their anger is always very disastrous, he remarked woefully.

Neither do I wish to undermine them or invite their wrath… It’s just that it’s all so unreal, especially now that it has happened to me. I must confess that I have never seen this practice with my own eyes, or heard of it. It’s as if we are the first victims, protested Medupe.

Tradition must be followed, and I’m neither the first nor the last Chief who must obey our old laws, said Paramount Chief Madubaduba to his wife.

Can’t you influence the decision, Chief? Surely there must be something that can be done! We are both getting older by the day, Medupe pleaded.

How can I influence this when I’m expected to lead by example? My conduct might invite the gods’ wrath!

My Chief knows what is best then, tradition shall be upheld. I shall leave the Chief alone now and attend to other things, replied Medupe, taking her leave. She felt dejected, and had resigned herself to the fate that awaited her twins; they would be killed.

The thought of having to eliminate two well-deserved boys gave them both sleepless nights. The royal couple had worked so hard to give the clan an heir as required, but instead of one, two came at the same time. As per traditional custom, any woman who gave birth to twins, an albino, a deformed or crippled infant, then that infant must be killed, as any deviation from the norm was regarded as a bad omen with deadly consequences for the land and its people. No one was spared from the practice, hence Paramount Chief Madubaduba could not entertain it for his wife’s sake. As Paramount Chief, he was not exempt from tradition.

On the fateful day, every one of Chief Madubaduba’s advisors had been present. The men about to have a royal meeting with the Chief were the respected elders of the village, men well-versed in the laws and traditions of the land and ancestors. They represented Paramount Chief Madubaduba’s law and reign in the land, guiding and advising him in all important matters. Some were his peers, some older, while others were younger. Their experience in traditional and ancestral matters was incomparable and highly valuable, honed towards resolving complex situations, social problems and any other issues the Chief could not tackle alone. They were his council of advisors. Their faces were relaxed, not showing any outward signs pertaining to the serious nature of the matter which had prompted them to gather that morning.

Welcome again to the royal kraal, we may proceed, said Chief Madubaduba to his counsellors.

As was tradition, the Chief always nominated someone to relay everything to those listening, and as such, the man chosen was Nkoko, a witty and an outspoken counsellor, had passed the royal greetings to the council. Murmurs followed by nodding of heads indicated the greetings were well-received, and the stage was set for the crucial matter at hand. The advisors were faced with a unique case, a first at the current royal kraal. It was indeed a sticky situation they were faced with, something that required dedicated focus and care, without compromising their integrity, or showing any form of nepotism. The fact that they were sitting there, discussing something that didn’t deserve debate, except of course, the day and time for the required deed, was questionable. Paramount Chief Madubaduba sat silently as his advisors consulted amongst themselves, waiting to hear when his twins would be killed. Maybe it wasn’t too late for Chief Madubaduba to try his luck one more time, after all, a man would always be a man as long as he had the seed for planting. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said about Medupe, his wife. After the twins’ birth, she had appeared to have slipped into the first stages of menopause, and asking her to provide an heir now might have been the same as expecting a bull to go into labour.

Kota, one of Paramount Chief Madubaduba’s advisors, broke the eventual silence that fell many hours later, saying: Chief, the council has discussed the matter, and I must say that it has not been an easy task. It has been four days since the birth of the twins, and as we all know, tradition stipulates that the infants must be killed within seven days of their birth. This law makes no distinctions, and therefore, is applicable to every family in the land. It nearly took all night to discuss when to carry out the law, and when it appeared that we could not agree on a day, one of us came up with an idea, Kota broke off to take some air into his lungs, looking at the serious faces as if he was expecting someone to say something concerning the issue, but no one had anything to say, especially not at the moment as he had chosen to say something of substance. As he continued without interruption, Chief Madubaduba listened attentively, greatly interested in what worthwhile solution might save the day.

None of us understood this idea at first, but as we gave much thought to it, we began to understand it very well. This idea was prompted when considering the ages of the Paramount Chief and his wife Medupe, and it was the best decision we could all come up with after our lengthy discussion. After careful consideration of all possibilities, and our obligation to the nation as upholders of tradition, as well as the Chief’s advisors, our conclusion is a mutual decision. Age is the enemy, and as it stands right now, the nation might not be able to receive another heir. The throne belongs to the clan, so only the chief wife may provide an eligible heir. The council has unanimously decided to let the male twins live. This, of course, means that an ancestral rule must been broken, but for good reason… We have devised a plan where one of the twins can be the heir to the throne, which, the gods and ancestors help us, may not have fatal consequences tomorrow, Kota concluded, amid a deafening silence.

Chief Madubaduba sighed with relief, thanking the gods and his ancestors silently, and wishing that Medupe was present. His heart soared, but outwardly he remained calm and unmoved. He had not expected anything like this. All he had been waiting for was to hear when his sons would be killed. Although I wasn’t expecting any kind of leniency or intervention, as I know, understand and respect our traditions, I’m relieved. I have considered the implications of this decision, and you have done the clan a favour. As you’ve already indicated, it hasn’t been an easy decision. However, I must unequivocally state that the credibility of the decision will be questioned, your integrity will be at stake… but at the end of the day, it is worth it. Makgabeng will have an heir, and this is all that matters. Now, your plan with the twins, shall I be briefed now?

Kota had then explained to the nodding Chief Madubaduba a detailed plan, an interesting plan, easy and well-thought out. The good news surely called