Little Suns Read Online Free PDF Page B

tact. He was so tactful he made friends with their chiefs. He had even dined with Mhlontlo on occasion.
    ‘According to Callwell, we’ll only subdue the native if we address his grievances,’ said Scott, turning red. Malangana could not say whether it was from the brandy or from the debate with a dismissive magistrate.
    ‘What are you looking at?’ Scott snapped at Malangana.
    ‘Oh, leave the bleeder alone, Scott. It’s not his fault you’ve lost your marbles.’
    ‘Callwell says . . .’ said Scott turning to Hope.
    ‘I know, I know, you never tire of reciting Major Callwell’s small-wars theory of counter-insurgency,’ said Hope, chuckling derisively. ‘What you and Callwell need to understand is that tribesmen don’t follow any theories. They are apt to be seized by madness and break into war at any time.’
    Hope abruptly stood up and made to go. He limped towards the side door.
    ‘You’re still new,’ he added before exiting. ‘Soon you’ll learn.’
    Major Scott would not give up that easily. He rushed after him, leaving the flask and the mugs on the table.
    Malangana could see the two men through the window walking towards The Residency, still arguing. He tiptoed to the desk and poured himself a shot. He pressed his eyelids together tightly as the burning sensation slid down his throat. He coughed drily, and then took another swig directly from the flask. He took the flask to the bench and perched himself on the magistrate’s own throne. He paged through the Book of Causes between swigs.
    His name was there too. As were the names of the other men who were fellow prison inmates. If only he knew how to read them. He pretended to read in the nasal accent that amaMpondomise associated with the English.
    He was Hamilton Hope.
    He read out the names of the men from Sulenkama who had been sentenced to a year in prison for torturing a man who had been smelled out as
igqwirha
, a person who harmed others through the use of witchcraft. And there in the Book of Causes another squiggle representing the diviner who was in charge of the witchcraft-smelling ritual, now also an inmate of the Qumbu Jail. He recited the names of those who had been sentenced to various terms for housebreaking, for stock theft, for assault, and for the non-payment of hut tax. The latter was a major grievance of the amaMpondomise people. Though the tax was not introduced by Hamilton Hope but by those who came before him, the new magistrate was enforcing it with gusto since his arrival seven months ago. He was collecting arrears dating back to 1875, and a number of men were in prison as a result. Malangana surmised that more than half his fellow inmates were there because of the hut tax.
    And then he came across his name. It had to be his name. The squiggles were shapelier and were in black ink instead of the blue that was used on the rest of the pages. The rest of what followed must be his record – the whole story of how one Sunday morning he woke up with a thirst that could only be quenched by gourds of sorghum beer and a craving for something salty that could only be satisfied by an open-fire-roasted chunk of beef. He knew immediately those desires were pointing him to Gxumisa’s homestead, Mhlontlo’s uncle who had organised a feast for the boys who had graduated from the school of the mountain and were entering manhood with poetry, songs and dances. He had participated in the slaughter of a fattened ox the previous evening and he reckoned this morning the women would have already prepared and boiled the head – the part of an animal that was reserved only for men – and the men were already gathering to sink their teeth into it.
    He was sitting under a tree with five other men, basking in his own freshly minted manhood – he had graduated a month or so before – the ox’s brain melting in his mouth when a group of mounted policemen came to quell the festivities. Hamilton Hope had banned drinking on Sunday and therefore a