Ill-begotten
by
Vuyokazi Ngemntu
At first, they were mistaken for normal children. They arrived in the night like marauding spirits, cradling themselves in the crooks of the arms of barren women, filling their tear-stained pillows with a sweet aroma of newness from their cherubic bodies.
“Hallelujah! My prayers have been answered,” shouted the first woman. The second woman had been fasting for twenty-one days when she was woken up by an infant's cries. Convinced it was a gift from above to console her for the recent loss of her mother, she rejoiced.
“My ancestors have done it. They have sent Mama back!” she said, ululating before taking the child to her flaccid breast.
And so it was with the third: found sucking its thumb greedily, resting on a widow's chest. Roused by the warm bundle, she named it something to denote the comfort it had brought her.
There were nine in total, spread across the village of Ncome so that if you were to map the houses they had appeared in, they would trace an enneagon across the map.
The village was ecstatic. A meeting was called and all gathered at the royal kraal.
“My people. We have been blessed. The curse of barrenness has been banished from our land. Praise be to the gods!” the king announced. He ordered that each family bring a fattened calf to slaughter. Burnt offerings were laid at the altar of Nomkhubulwane. Mirth and jubilation were the order of the day.
When every household granary ran out of supplies for the first time, the villagers blamed rats and set about laying mouse traps, determined to exterminate the vermin. Nobody correlated it with the children growing full sets of milk teeth after six months of life. Even when their milk cows yielded nothing but colostrum, it was just attributed to the drought. The hens went from laying eggs according to their daily schedules to producing one or two twice a month. Nobody noticed the babies had grown limbs supple enough to rival those of warriors. Instead, everyone spoke of how blessed the village was and made more offerings to the goddess of fertility.
At age seven, the children had developed the bodies of adults. And how beautiful they were, with their glistening ebony skin, their pearly white teeth, and regal height.
Meanwhile, their mothers aged rapidly and grew more feeble by the day. None were above the age of thirty when the children arrived, yet in their seventh year of motherhood, they all looked haggard. Those whose backs were not bent to the shape of umbrella handles by arthritis had hair as grey as cooking pit ash. Their eyes grew foggy with cataracts.
The women grew distressed, constantly short of provisions to feed their ravenous children. At first, they worked harder, pooling together what they had and cooking communally. Each of the nine would bring something to contribute, and huge cauldrons of stew would be cooked. Instead of gratitude, the children showed them disdain.
“I don't want mutton stew; bring me snoek!” one shouted.
“I want paap and beef!” another sneered, hitting the giant plate his mother placed before him, sending the stew spilling on the floor. Frightened, the mother apologized and went from door to door, begging for beef.
Another took a loan from the village chief to pay a hunter to bring her eiland meat, since her daughter woke up claiming to have dreamt of it and refusing all other foods. Grateful to have discarded the stigma of infertility, the women bore the brunt of their children's insults silently. They hardly ate or slept, determined to please. The more irascible the children became, the more agitated their mothers, the more ridiculous the demands. The women's bodies grew gaunt with lethargy, dark circles coloring their eyes in gloom. Trying to make these monstrous children happy was no different from travelling miles on a dirt road to fetch water from the river with a sieve.
The men, instead of instilling discipline, left their wives to toil in service of the children, and were often found congregating under the shade of fruit trees, drinking umqombothi and smoking tobacco with their friends. If anything, they congratulated each other on siring giants!
“See how majestically my son stands,” one would say to the other.
“Please, my daughter could swat him like a tsetse fly and send him to the land of the dead instantly,” another would challenge.
When some of the children became immobile due to excessive weight gain, their mothers carried them on their breaking backs. Their fathers built them stronger, wider beds when they broke the original ones, which they hardly left except to parade around the village, soaking up the praise and admiration of neighbors.
Exhausted from their thankless labour, the women marched to the royal compound, demanding an audience with the chief.
“Bayede Nkosi!” they saluted him with the customary platitudes.
“Sanibonani, makhosikaz’ amahle. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
“Our people say it takes a village to raise a child, is it not so?” began the one selected as spokesperson.
“Correct, MaShezi!”
“We need the village’s help to lessen the burden of raising those children—”
“And fine children they are!” interrupted the chief.
The women sucked their teeth and shook their heads.
“Only in appearance. For the most part, they are lazy and ungrateful. If things continue like this, they will eat us out of our homes,” the spokeswoman said, throwing her hands in the air.
“You're exaggerating. All children eat a lot. Their growing bodies need sustenance,” he said.
“Ndabezitha, have you seen my son? He could wrestle two elephants and knock them out!” shouted one woman. The chief found this amusing until another woman made similar claims.
“My husband has no more livestock left. We had 30 milk cows, a hundred goats, and forty-nine sheep. Speak nothing of the chickens. All gone,” she cried.
“I haven't had a bath in days, constantly running around to meet the demands of mine!” cried another.
“Look at my hair, all matted. Even my dresses have turned to rags,” said another, throwing herself at his feet, wailing.
One woman showed him the blisters on her legs, scalded by porridge she was making at midnight, roused from her sleep by her hungry daughter. The chief was alarmed.
“I didn't realize things were this bad. Please give me a day or two to consult with the village elders.”
He instructed his servants to serve the women food. Some were offered water to bathe and a change of clothes. Another had her hair washed and plaited elaborately. They cried, overwhelmed by being pampered.
They left full, rested, and glowing from the scented tallow they were given to moisturize their skin.
They reached their homes just before evening. None of them noticed the bats sitting on the thatched roofs of their sleeping huts. Each walked in smiling, humming happy songs, and greeting their children and husbands with cheer. Suspicious, their husbands accused them of infidelity. This angered the women. Instead of complimenting them, the men were adamant they would send them packing and demand amalobolo back from their wives’ families.
Arguments broke out across all nine households. The women stood their ground, unphased by the torrential threats.
“I'm hungry!” demanded one child, pulling her mother by the apron strings.
“You see? Neglecting your child, busy trying to look like a young bride,” said the husband.
The child’s tantrum escalated. She thrashed about on the dung floor, soiling the white frock that her mother had peeled her fingers washing.
The woman flew into a fury, rushing out of the house and banging the door behind her.
“I’m off to my mother’s house. As you can see, I'm not taking any food and pots with me.”
Similar incidents took place in the other eight households. The bats flew off unnoticed. The women met at the edge of the village entrance by night and fled to the forest.
Frightened, they braved the pitch darkness and eerie nocturnal sounds, pivoting their way to the cave reserved for prophets and savants.
Large bats accosted them, nearly flying into their faces. A thunderous voice roared from within the cave.
“Who dares step into my home?”
“Siyaxolisa. We needed a place of refuge.”
“What from?”
The women narrated their woes in a tearful chorus.
The voice made appropriate sounds of sympathy.
Asked when their children were born, they all gave the same date. They mumbled incoherently when asked for specific details about their birthing experiences.
“Well, I didn't exactly give birth,” said one woman.
“Same here. Mine was—”
“A miracle!” they all said together.
The voice laughed so hard that the cave reverberated the sound until the walls threatened to collapse.
When the laughter finally died down, they were asked to explain the exact circumstances under which they came to have children.
“So, what you all have in common is being berated by your in-laws and husbands, being called amadlolo?” asked the voice.
“Yes,” they answered.
“Don't you get it? Those are not children. They are borne from your shame, the pain it caused you, and the bitter curses of your in-laws and husbands.”
A collective shriek filled the cave.
Some admitted they remembered the sadness gnawing at their bellies every night. Others confessed to wishing so hard for babies that they dreamed they were nursing when they fell asleep and woke up with sore nipples. Another had been shunned by her husband for months, only to dream every night that she was making love to a handsome man who showered her with gifts and compliments. She'd wake up moist, still smelling of her dream lover’s musky aroma. This made the cave voice sigh deeply.
Without any warning, a mysterious light bathed the cave in its brilliant sheen. A larger-than-life woman appeared in the center of the cave. Her reflection appeared more enormous on the cave walls painted with ancient symbols. Logs appeared before her, and she knelt and blew gently into them. Fire. Her eyes were a piercing amber color, her aura so radiant, her leopard skin kaross may as well have been spun from gold. Beads covered her chest, sea shells, porcupine quills, stones, and bone fragments adorning a head of dreadlocks that flowed all the way to the earthen floor.
The women stood with gaping mouths and wide eyes, transfixed by her spectral beauty.
“Sondelani,” the crone said, beckoning them towards her. They seemed hesitant at first.
One by one, the nine complied. They all sat around the fire, warming themselves. A gourd of amasi appeared and their hostess picked it up, drinking before offering it around the circle. Next, a platter of amadumbe, boiled chicken, and ujeqe, which she offered. The women were happy to partake.
They passed the time by telling each other stories and singing. Satiated, they reclined in leisure until they fell asleep.
Isalukazi woke them up abruptly after midnight and ordered them to help prepare umuthi for their bath.
“What for?” asked their leader, yawning. The old woman turned her head sharply and squinted her eyes. Lightning struck inside the cave, barely missing her aggressor and instead shattering the rock she'd used as a pillow into fine stones. Everyone gasped.
“Nxese, Gogo,” the woman said, genuflecting.
“Move! Unless you want to continue raising demons.”
One was instructed to grate umaphipa, while the other soaked the bark of unukani in warm water. This mixture, added to intelezi and umlahlankosi in a bucket of water and allowed to steep, was used to cleanse them. The women grumbled at the sting of umuthi, which they were assured was a sign of its potency. Once done, they all professed to feeling lighter… “like something has been lifted off me,” they each agreed.
They were served umdokwe and milk for breakfast, given small sachets of izinyamazane and tiny bottles of a green decoction, then sent off with instructions:
Do not be quarrelsome when you get home, otherwise umuthi will lose its power. This, you will pour into your children’s food. Lock all doors at night and burn this. Whatever happens, don't be afraid. Command what is not of you to depart from your home!
They were about to utter thanks when the bats flew at them, chasing them out. Looking back when they reached the mouth of the cave, they were astonished – it was empty.
That morning, the women entered the village with purpose in their strides. Other villagers whispered, speculating on where they'd been. Nobody dared ask, including their husbands. As usual, the children were grumpy, demanding food. The women obliged them, pouring drops of the decoction into the food.
Evening came, and each prepared supper. They fed the children and lay with their husbands. In the cover of darkness, each burnt her powdered extract, ensuring the fumes reached the children's nostrils.
The children convulsed, groaning in their sleep. Remembering the crone’s instructions, the women continued chanting:
“Let what is not of me depart from my home!”
At first, they grew scales. Then, their bodies turned long and slithery. Some green, others brown, some black, others grey. They whipped their tails about, sending tables and chairs crashing against the walls of the small huts, hissing and advancing towards the women, who stood their ground and continued chanting. Nothing shook them, not the pink forked tongues, the beady green eyes, or the snarling fangs. They held their throbbing hearts in their throats and steadied their shivering legs, bakhalima. The smoke strangled the lungs of the giant snakes, which twisted about in agony. Their terrible screams woke the neighbors, some of whom hid under their bed covers, knowing better than to interfere in the nocturnal affairs of fellow villagers. Those who came knocking were ignored. One by one, the snakes vanished. At first, they were there, screaming and thrashing, then POOF!
The men slept right through it. When morning came, each hut smelt of smoke. There were no demanding children in sight. The chief called on each homestead but was assured the women no longer needed his intervention. He left confused.
Seven days later, the bats returned to the nine roof tops. The women all awoke with the same dream and reported it to the chief. A meeting was called in the royal kraal. The husbands were to bring their families.
“I have called you here on a serious matter. These women are never to be called names for something beyond their control,” he started. When he was done, each husband was made to pay a fine to his wife, while the in-laws had to apologize by giving the women land and livestock to farm for their personal benefit. Under the chief's decree, no utterance was even made of the greedy giant children.
They grew wealthy over the years. Thanks to the vanquishing spell, their bodies were gradually restored to an age-appropriate youthfulness. Despite being considered past their prime, those that could, birthed children in their late forties. From then on, records were kept, listing parents, time of birth, and at least three witnesses to each birth.
Occasionally, the nine women travelled to the forest to lay offerings of thanksgiving at the mouth of the cave.