The Village of Zinthwa

A Short Story

by

Dingiswayo Allan Sambo

(Abridged Version)

The Village

R

esplendently set between three hills, one to the north, one to the east and one to the west and a meandering river that flows silently across the south side, the Village of Zinthwa can confidently be called a beautiful place. Its summer sheens cloth the lazy afternoons with golden light and its winter rains bring down the clouds from the hills and envelope the village peacefully in ghostly mists. The lush vegetation and crops obscure the houses, swallowing somewhat the light of the sun at ground level. A prominent footpath from the forbidding handmade bridge across the river divides the Village into the Leftside and the Rightside as it snakes between the village and up into the northern hill.

In the evenings, after a day’s hard work, the villagers gather around a campfire to dance; they dance for the seasons, they dance for weddings, they dance for funerals, they dance for various festivals, they dance, they dance, they dance. And sometimes…they dance for the latest sacrifice made…

And the spirits come and dance with them. At these dances, the inhabitants of the Leftside and the inhabitants of the Rightside come together and become…the evil, malevolent Village of Zinthwa.

The Feud

P

eople remembered Chembuje Nantha and the Honourable Sunthu as bosom buddies back in the days before the rift, when they had both been in their sweet twenties. Their friendship had been so strong that a few of the people who had been with them in those far off days never failed to associate the two and compare them ever afterwards. It was disheartening to those people (but also maybe cause for delicious gossip) that such a friendship could end so tragically and leave one of them permanently embittered. Of course, everyone knew that the Honourable Sunthu had not borne his ex-friend any ill will. Privately the Honourable had not given a fig for Chembuje most probably because he had gotten the better deal of whatever had separated them. But for Chembuje, the rift was a festering wound that bled hatred and spite and his thoughts towards his one-time friend were always diabolical.

Well, no one ever found out for certain because in their lifetimes the two antagonists never disclosed the cause to anyone.

Chembuje Travels

H

e surveyed the handmade bridge and the silent slithering water flowing under it in deep dismay. It looked deep, the water and … he couldn’t swim. What if the bridge failed and he fell in? The Honourable would laugh all the days of his filthy life for sure! The mere thought of the Honourable brought with it the bile into his throat and he swallowed his fear and moved to step forward.

‘Gogo Singini lives on the Rightside.’

He started violently and turned to behold a regal, elderly woman with a clay pot in her hands. She was eyeing him, straight into his eyes, which was a very odd thing for a village woman to do. He squirmed.

‘How…how do you…?’

‘We know.’ She cut him short. ‘You are not here to admire the beauty of our village, for certain. You are here to get the desire of your heart.’

He shuffled, uncomfortably, on his feet.

‘Greet first Gogo Tuntufye on the Leftside before you proceed to Gogo Singini on the Rightside. Once you cross that bridge you must not talk to anyone until you have greeted Gogo Tuntufye.’

‘Ah! Alright,’ he managed, embarrassed. ‘Gogo Tutunfye, left. Gogo Singini, right. But why?’

She didn’t answer but continued to look him straight into his eyes, her countenance slowly acquiring a sad expression. He squirmed all the bit more and then, to his relief, she turned about abruptly and walked away.

He looked at her receding form in puzzlement. Then he looked once more at the bridge. He moved forward with dark determination.

The Honourable Visits 

T

he Party had organized the campaigns and that was how he found himself in this miserable backward corner of his country. Imagine he had had to cross a handmade scary bridge just to get to this village! He surveyed the people dancing and ululating as they escorted him back to where they had packed their cars across the river. There seemed something off about the people; they looked at him strangely and their smiles at him chilled his spine. His fervent spirited speech on behalf of the Party had fallen flat but any references to himself seemed to excite ripples of amusement through the crowd.

He was about to cross the bridge, the rest of his entourage already ambling across, when an old man, who looked to be a shaman, stepped forward and, very abruptly, the entire crowd fell very quiet. The old man presented to him a black he-goat, which was bleating very peculiarly. Its whine seemed to be the only sound left in the world, so quiet was the crowd. There was no ululation or cheering from the crowd who were all staring at him with . . .  was it amusement? He thanked the old man profusely.

And he could feel the numerous pairs of eyes boring into his back as he led the docile yet oddly bleating goat, across the bridge.

Epilogue

T

he disappearance of Chembuje Nantha baffled a lot of people who knew him. It should be understood Chembuje never disclosed his malicious trip to a single soul.

Of course, as can be expected, people silently accused the Honourable of his nemesis’ disappearance and suspected some foul play to have been committed on his part. No one could prove it, though. Indeed, it would have been very difficult to prove because the Honourable himself spent the rest of his days in total bafflement and extreme unease for he had not a clue where his nemesis had gone.

Eight hundred kilometres away, the devious and evil people of Zinthwa keep their secret. As they will tell you, always be extremely careful when dealing with the devil you have no idea about. And if one has the cunning and deviousness to match that of these people, you will find out that the names of their two sub-villages came about by facing, not North, but South...