Flash Fiction
Song Of KwaZulu
by
Liesl Jobson
Every year, when the red earth shows the first green hair of the sorghum plant, the recently bleeding virgins entered the lunar display. Thus they were prepared to meet the king. In all the villages from the sea to the mountain, in the valleys and the hills, young maidens wove their hair into tight braids, they rubbed a mixture of fat and clay into their skins to soften it and make it shine. Their mothers put on the woven bands and beaded fringes they had lovingly, but laboriously prepared with their daughters throughout the preceding winter.
"Wa thint'abafazi, wa thint'imbogedo…"
(Proverb: You strike the woman, you strike the rock)
In the time of my grandmother's grandmother, before the colourless ones came from across the sea, the people lived in great happiness. There were not many sicknesses of beasts or men, and the people were seldom hungry in a plentiful land. This, my child, is the story I was told by my mother; who heard it from her mother. Listen carefully, that we may find the rib to which you belong, and let us call on all the grandmothers to honour your song.
May his tongue be soft
His hand gentle
His sex hard
His mind alert
His temper sweet
His appetite strong
His mother kind
His seed keen
May he always remember -
You strike the woman, you strike the rock!
As they threaded beads, they chanted together a plea. With each stitch a request, the ancestors lingering in the reeds near the river watched the breeze blow the prayers over the water and they heard each woman team's song.
The greeting of the king was what every girl longed for. From amongst the maidens, the king selected a new wife each season. The most beautiful were appointed to the bravest of warriors and chiefs. Each girl was to be opened by a man. The pain, it was said, was not severe - like grass cuts your finger, said my mother, inside your sacred place. The thought made a girl excited, said my mother. Do you not already feel the wetness like a running nose between your legs? Yes, you do! Good. That wetness is my tears, my girl, my tears of joy and sadness. I will be happy you have become a woman, even as I am sad you will go to another clan.
My tears between your legs will prepare the way of the king, the entry of his sword. Do not be afraid, my daughter. You will be presented with a husband, you will be blessed with a child. You will find in the child, the spirit of the ancestors and you will never be alone. Pinch your nipples girl, to make them long; pinch your nipples girl to open your heart for your king.
Although now, the river's fish can no longer be eaten, the men bring AIDS and the children's bellies are fat with water over stick-thin legs. Perhaps the song will yet be heard, so that I may find my rib, and the ancestors will bring a healthy child.
Today, before I go down to the river with the other maidens from my village, my mother and I will sing the song:
May his tongue be soft
His hand gentle
His sex hard
His mind alert
His temper sweet
His appetite strong
His mother kind
His seed keen
May he always remember -
You strike the woman, you strike the rock!
Liesl Jobson lives and works in Johannesburg as a musician, psychic, copywriter and editor.
Her recent fiction has been published in Flush Fiction Magazine and Burning Word .
You can contact her via jobson@freemail.absa.co.za.