Amid a community’s resistance to the government’s plans to annex their sacred land, a young woman learns that the man she loves has been sentenced to death, and decides that she too will slip away from the light in which she lives every day with pain and profound sadness.
For the people of Rhwasha, the hills are a connection to the past, a spiritual link to the ancestors. This land is sacred. So when the government decides to develop the area, the people of Rhwasha rise up in defence of their heritage.
This is the plot of Lucas Ledwaba’s first novel, a story of defiance, love, tragedy and betrayal. Read an excerpt below.
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During the cold winter months, it does not often rain in the Rhwasha valley. But on the final day of Lebone’s trial, residents woke up to an incessant drizzle soaking the land. It was as if the heavens too were weeping for a son of the soil who stood in the shadow of the valley of death that day.
A thick blanket of fog engulfed the land.
Those who walked to the royal homestead appeared like apparitions in the soggy streets. The old men wore long overcoats and covered their heads with umbrellas, protecting small battery-operated radios underneath their armpits from the falling rain. Women, enveloped in blankets, raincoats and umbrellas, walked silently in groups. The young men moved about in small groups, some singing the praises of the clan and of Lebone and his comrades in Mokopa. By the time the court proceedings got underway in Pretoria, the hall and outbuildings of the royal homestead were vibrating with the tension of village residents who had come together in solidarity to wait. Arrangements had been made that at lunchtime, Nkhulu would find a telephone and call the post office in town. One of the men from Rhwasha worked there as a delivery boy. He would then relay the news to another man who had been sent there in Nkhulu’s bakkie to receive it. They would then immediately return to the village and relay the lunchtime message from Nkhulu. The man who worked as a delivery boy at the post office in town would then wait for Nkhulu’s call again at half past four that afternoon, and then, on his arrival home by bus in the early evening, go straight to the royal homestead to relay the news. News of Lebone’s trial had been broadcast sporadically on Radio Lebowa since the trial started four weeks earlier. But the reports had been irregular and sometimes could not even be broadcast after a day or two. The people of Rhwasha decided they were not going to wait for a radio broadcast that could never come or wait to receive the news from Nkhulu when he returned late at night long after the trial had ended. But some of the men carried radios anyway, just in case. The women and some of the old men gathered in the main hall of the royal homestead, singing hymns and praying. The youths and some of the men milled around a huge log fire under the mokgalo tree, singing songs of defiance and often pausing to chat.
At the stroke of every hour, a hush descended on the royal homestead as people gathered around small radios to listen to the news. There were news items about Prime Minister John Voster addressing parliament in Cape Town, about a bomb explosion that destroyed a power station somewhere on the Reef, and about the arrest of suspected terrorists in Durban. But there was nothing on Lebone or Rhwasha. Yet at the stroke of every hour, the people tuned into the radio to listen to the news. Just after 3pm the man who had been sent to town to get the message from the one who worked as a delivery boy arrived carrying bad news. A commotion had ensued as the bakkie, driven by the community’s messenger, drove into the royal homestead.
“Ubuyile! Ubuyile!”
The people pressed forward, anxious to hear news of the latest developments in court.
“Banru be khethu!” the man announced to the gathered crowds.
“Because of the rain, we are told, the phone lines in town are down. So we cannot receive the news from Nkhulu.”
The people never left the royal homestead that day. All day they sat, sang, spoke, prayed, and waited. At 5pm they gathered around the radio once again. This time, they heard the announcer mention the names of their village and Lebone Gegana. And then he had, in a somewhat emotionless tone, announced that he had been found guilty and sentenced to hang by the neck until he was dead. After a brief stunned silence, women broke down in hysteric emotion, some throwing themselves on the floor, others raising their voices with their faces buried in their hands. The old men shook their heads in disbelief, tears silently coursing through their rugged faces. Some stood up and wept openly, walking about the grounds of the royal homestead in a trance. The young men sat in angry, fearful silence, blaming themselves for not having done enough to save one of their own from the gallows. The rain fell harder, and the thunder rumbled. A thick blanket of mist swept down from the great hills. The wide, sandy streets turned ghostly and eerie. Morongwa sat on her bed, watching tiny droplets of rain softly kiss the window. She had stayed indoors all day. She remembered that this was the very window where Lebone would sneak into her room under the cover of darkness during the good times. But now she was inconsolable. From the distant wailing of the women and the deep emotion in the singing that followed, she knew that her worst fears had come to pass. She saw it even in the eyes of her crestfallen mother, who arrived shortly afterwards to be with her, that Lebone would never sneak through that window ever again. Maphuthi was not able to convey the news to her. She had simply walked into her room and collapsed into the arms of her weeping daughter. Morongwa had screamed and hugged her mother tightly, engulfed by the worst feeling of fear she had ever experienced. The gnawing longing for Lebone had become Morongwa’s silent, constant companion. It was an ever-present shadow that followed her, even where shadows dared not venture. Now she knew it was going to be a permanent companion for the remaining days of her life. Morongwa wept silently back in her room later that night, after her mother joined the crowds that had now gathered at the Gegana household. The pain of many months past had finally found an outlet through her bloodshot eyes. In her heart, she wished the love of her life was by her side, the sweet tenderness of her body lost in the firm comfort of his hard hands. The soft, penetrating sound of each droplet kissing the window reminded her of the sweet, soft kisses he often planted on her lips and cheeks.
Outside, the thunder rumbled, sending a cold shiver down her spine. She reached for the pillow and hugged it tightly. Its softness lacked the reassurance of his body’s hardness and the warmth of his breath. Tears flowed down her cheeks into the pillow’s softness. With cruel indifference, the walls stared back at her. The bed seemed to grow ever bigger, further widening the emptiness in her heart. She felt the weight of her loneliness press hard against the bed. The thunder rumbled, lighting up the sky outside, so for a moment, it seemed she saw his bright smile light up the room. And the pain gnawed away at her already broken heart. Outside, the rain fell harder, its pelting droplets drowning out her sorrowful sobs. On the bed, Morongwa crouched on her knees. The candlelight flickered on the bottle that was to be the end of her troubles. If its contents could kill a rat, then she figured there was a good chance she could also end it all with a generous dose. She had not a single photograph of Lebone, the man to whom she lost innocence and one she could never stop loving. If she had his photograph, she would have taken one last look before ending it all. She felt the salty taste of tears on her tongue as she rose to pick up the bottle. It could have been blood or human excrement she was feeling on her tongue, but she didn’t care anymore. Slowly, she opened the cap and raised the bottle to her mouth. But as she was about to swallow, she remembered to take one last look at the letter on the opposite side of the bed. She rolled sideways and picked it up. Even she was not sure why she was looking at the letter she had written earlier that night yet again. She had decided that, if indeed Lebone was going to cross over into the darkness of death, she too would slip away from the light, where she lived every day with pain and profound sadness.
She turned the letter towards the dim candlelight and began to read it one last time. When she was finished reading, she turned her attention to the bottle. Softly, the rain fell. The soft sound of its drops against the window soothed her soul. Slowly, she felt the strength slowly drain away from her. The thunder rumbled. Morongwa felt an electric bolt of pain pierce through her stomach. Her fingers went numb. Impulsively, she rolled from the bed clutching the source of her pain, landing on the floor in a thud. “Mmaaaaaa!” her scream of agony remained trapped in her throat. She shrunk into a foetal position on the cement floor, her arms tightening over her knees. Outside, the rain fell ever harder, and the thunder rumbled and grumbled, a haunting lullaby carrying her far away into the darkness of death. DM
Lucas Ledwaba is the author of A Desire to Return to the Ruins, Broke&Broken – The Shameful Legacy of Gold Mining in South Africa, We Are Going to Kill Each Other Today – the Marikana story. He has also contributed to anthologies including Black Tax – Burden or Ubuntu, Hauntings and Joburg Noir. He is a journalist and the founder and editor of Mukurukuru Media.
The Sacred Hills can be purchased by email or by order; R280, excluding courier costs.