The Power of One Read Free Page B

returned to his chair on the stoep.
    Nanny, who had rubbed earth on her forehead like all the other women, finally spoke. “Lord, the women have brought food and we have beer freshly fermented.”
    Inkosi-Inkosikazi ignored her, which I thought was pretty brave of him, and ordered one of the women to untie the cockerels. Two women ran over, and soon the chickens were untied. They continued to lie there, unsure of their freedom, until the old man raised his fly switch and waved it over them. With a sudden squawking and flapping of stunted wings, all but one rose and dashed helter-skelter, their long legs rising high off the ground as they ran toward open territory. The old cock who looked like Granpa rose slowly, stretched his neck, flapped the bits of wing he had left, his head darting left and right, slightly cocked as though he was listening; then, calm as you like, he walked over to the heap of corn and started pecking away.
    â€œCatch the feathered devils,” Inkosi-Inkosikazi suddenly commanded. “Catch an old man’s dinner tonight.”
    With squeals of delight the women rounded up the chickens again. The ice had been broken as five of the women, each holding a chicken upside down by the legs, waited for the old man’s instructions. Inkosi-Inkosikazi squatted down and with his finger traced a circle about two feet in diameter in the dust. He hopped around like an ancient chimpanzee, completing five similar-sized circles, muttering to himself as he did so.
    The incantations over, he signaled for one of the women to bring over a cockerel. Grabbing the old bird by its long scrawny neck and both legs, he retraced the first circle on the ground, this time using the bird’s beak as a marker. Then he laid the cockerel inside the circle, where it lay unmoving, its eyes closed; a leg protruding from under each wing. He proceeded to do the same thing to the other five chickens until each lay in its own circle in front of the crowd. As each chicken was laid to rest there would be a gasp of amazement from the women. It was pretty low-grade magic, but it served well enough to get things under way.
    Inkosi-Inkosikazi moved over, squatted cross-legged in the center of the indaba mats, and beckoned that I should join him. It was the first time he’d acknowledged my presence, and I clung fearfully to Nanny’s skirts. She pushed me gently toward him and in a loud whisper said, “You must go, it is a great honor. Only a chief can sit with a chief on the meeting mat.”
    The old man had the strong, distinctly sweet smell of African sweat, mixed with tobacco and very old man. After all I had been through in the smell department, it wasn’t too bad, and I too sat cross-legged beside him with my eyes glued to the ground in front of me.
    Inkosi-Inkosikazi leaned slightly toward me and spoke in Zulu. “Tomorrow I will show you the trick of the chickens. It’s not really magic, you know. These stupid Shangaans think it’s magic, but they don’t deserve to know any better.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” I said softly. I was pleased at the notion of sharing a secret. Even if it was only a trick, it was a damned clever one that might confound the Judge and the jury if I could get my hands on a stray chicken at school. My confidence in his ability to change my status as a pisskop was growing by the minute.
    Inkosi-Inkosikazi indicated to Nanny that she should begin the matter of the night water. Two women were quickly delegated to start the cooking fire and the rest of the field women settled down around the indaba mats, taking care not to touch even the tiniest part of the edge.
    African stories are long, with every detail cherished, scooped up for telling a thousand times over. It was a great moment for Nanny as she stood alone in the rapidly fading twilight and told her story. She spoke in Shangaan so that all could share wideeyed and groan and nod and sigh in the appropriate