Nuptial headhunting

There is a Xhosa saying, “Intonga entle igawulwa”, which loosely translated means that if you want a stick of quality wood, you must travel far and across rivers.

The stick the Xhosas are referring to, of course, is a wife.

I’ve noticed a similar attitude among the Jewish people. Almost always where the patriarch’s son needed to marry, he would summon his most rusted servants, give them strict instructions to cross deserts and travel vast lands to look for a wife that his son might marry.

May favourite criterion is that whereby the servant was instructed to choose a girl who will not only offer the visitors water for themselves but also for their animals. It’s clear to see that one was looking for a kind and generous heart that goes beyond the call of decorum and kindness to strangers. Is it any wonder that we later find her crying inconsolably, because Israel’s children were murdered by a cruel king?

I’m sure that if the Xhosa’s knew there would be those of us who take their adage as a personal challenge – to the extent of going as far as Scotland – they would have thought twice.

What is it with Xhosas and Scots anyway? If you recall, it was mostly Scottish missionaries who founded the schools that eventually led the Xhosa nation to become the avant garde of black liberation struggle against colonialism and apartheid. I’m talking about places like Lovedale and Fort Hare. Also, still today you find Xhosa diviners and amagqirha having dreams of finding Hintsa’s head in Scotland.

By the way, Hintsa ka Khawuta (born 1789) was the fourth paramount chief yamaGcaleka, sub-group of the Xhosa nation from 1820 until his death on February 12, 1835. He was captured by the British during the 1835 Cape Frontier war, and then shot dead by British soldiers. His body was subsequently dismembered by the troops in search of grisly mementoes of teeth and all. His head was preserved and taken back to Britain.

The Xhosa rate this barbarity against their king as the lowest point in their history, and have never really managed to forgive the British for it. They are still looking for Hintsa’s head and say the nation can never rest until the skull of its king is returned and buried in dignity.

Hintsa’s head is believed to be somewhere in Scotland. Perhaps, if we get the chance, we shall double up our honeymoon with a paeleontological quest for Hintsa’s head. Then my bride Helen and I shall be not only heroes to my people, but somehow stepping stones towards building a bridge that will eventually reconcile both our nations.

Be that as it may, this is me signing off to my old bachelor life. The next time you read this column, I shall have been hitched, and most hopefully be more fulfilled and happy.

I had always thought that when this day came, there would be signs all over to confirm my choice and all of that. But none of that has happened – not yet anyway. Is it because I have no asses to drive to the well? But the sense of trust and deeper assurance of the light which leads kindly is there, and that’s enough for me.

I can almost taste that desperate plea from another wanderer, who, wrestling with God in the desert as his head rested on the rock exclaimed: “I will not let you go until you bless.”

And so, in Bl John Henry Newman’s language: “Keep thou feet; I do not ask to see/the distant scene; one step enough for me…/So long they power hath blessed me, sure it still/will lead me on./O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till/the night is gone,/And with the morn those angel faces smile,/which I have loved so long since, and lost awhile!”

So long as they power hath blessed! So long as thy power hath blessed us!