Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Thirty-One Brothers and Sisters

The South African veld, with its gentle rolling hills and soft green meadows watered by many streams, is the background for this unusual story about Nomusa, daughter of a Zulu chief.

Nomusa is warmhearted and generous and affectionate; she loves all her little brothers and sisters and enjoys helping to care for them. But she is strong and brave and daring, too; she feels that girls’ work is dull and boys’ work is much more exciting, and much more fun.

More than anything else, Nomusa yearns to go with the men on the annual elephant hunt. But she knows this is impossible. As her mother says, “Girls never go on elephant hunts!”

After Nomusa’s adventure with a fierce wild boar, her father, Chief Zitu, rewards her bravery. In a final climax, Nomusa realizes that being a girl has its own rewards.

A sympathetic, engrossing story about a primitive civilization of today. Nomusa is a heroine whom girls will envy and boys will admire.

REBA PAEFF MIRSKY

Thirty-One Brothers and Sisters

Illustrations by W. T. Mars

Wilcox AND Follett company      CHICAGO

Copyright 1952, by Reba Paeff Mirsky

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publishers, except for brief quotations used in connection with reviews in magazines or newspapers.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To the late John Dube of Ohlange

and my other Zulu friends

PRESENTED ANNUALLY

For Worthy Contributions

to Children’s Literature

Thirty-One Brothers and Sisters

ONE: A Morning Adventure

Although it was morning, inside the straw hut it was still dark. Nomusa lay on her little bamboo mat, stretching and scratching her lean, naked body. She yawned and thought to herself:

Yo, I am still so sleepy! If only I did not have to get up to fetch water from the stream! Why must I leave my comfortable mat when Mdingi and Kangata may still sleep? Zulu boys have all the fun, and they don’t work nearly so hard as the girls.

Nomusa rolled up her mat, moving quietly so as not to wake her baby sister and her little brother. They lay sleeping on a larger mat next to her mother, Makanya.

As Nomusa passed the iron pot, she picked out a piece of cold sweet potato to eat on the way to the stream. Taking a clay jar in one hand and holding the sweet potato in the other, she crawled out of the low opening of her hut.

Coming out from the darkness of the hut into the brilliant sunshine made Nomusa’s eyes blink. She took a deep breath of the fresh air. What a wonderful day!

She stood for a moment looking about the kraal. There were six other huts in the enclosure, each shaped like a huge beehive. Five belonged to the five other wives of Nomusa’s father. The sixth hut, which was the biggest, was where her father, Chief Zitu, lived. The seven huts were in a circle on a hillside overlooking a wide, lovely valley.

As Nomusa stood there she saw no sign of anyone stirring in the other huts. Usually she saw some of her half sisters, many of whom were about the same age as herself, crawling out of their huts to go for water too. It was more fun going together. But today Nomusa’s father was coming to visit their hut, and everything had to be ready earlier than usual.

She left the kraal and walked quickly down the well-worn dirt path leading to a clear stream in the valley. As she hurried along, Nomusa looked toward one of the other hills to see if any smoke was coming from the kraal of their nearest neighbor. Yes, there was a thin wisp of smoke curling up from a hut. That meant some of them were already awake and cooking. Nomusa wondered if the smoke were coming from Damasi’s hut. There was much work to be done in his kraal, too; for tomorrow all the children from Nomusa’s kraal would go to a party in Damasi’s.

For a moment Nomusa forgot she was in a hurry and stood there thinking as she chewed the last bit of sweet potato. She gazed dreamily into the soft green meadows of the valley, encircled by rolling hills and watered by many little streams. It was the season after the heavy rains, and now the mimosa trees were covered with yellow blossoms and feathery green leaves. The thorn bushes looked softer with their new thick foliage. In some of the trees orchids, green and brown, clung to branches by their thick stems. The sandhills beyond, usually so bare, were now blanketed with grass and wild flowers so that one hardly knew there were jagged rocks beneath.

With the water jar on her left hip and her right arm hanging loosely by her side, Nomusa looked like an ebony statue, her body slim and strong, her hair a mass of short black curls covering her head. She looked as much like a boy as a girl. Her snub nose and smiling mouth were only a little different from those of her father’s other children, but there was something special about her intelligent brown eyes.

Nomusa hurried to make up for stopping, and reached the swollen stream in the valley warm and out of breath. What if her father arrived in their hut before she returned with the water? What a disgrace that would be!

She began sloshing her jar back and forth in the stream to fill it. Much as she wanted to, she would not take time now for a dip in the water. Perhaps there would be time for a swim when she came for water again at noon.

No sound broke the morning calm except the gentle splashing and sloshing of the water as Nomusa pulled her jar from one side to another. Then a sudden screech coming from one of the trees overhanging the stream made Nomusa look up. Above her head she saw two parrots sitting side by side. Their brilliant feathers bristled stiffly, and they shifted uneasily on the branch. What was worrying them, she wondered?

The parrots flapped their wings, and again they screeched, this time more insistently. A long scarlet feather slowly fluttered to the ground, and Nomusa dashed out of the stream to catch it before it landed. She did not want it to get wet and bedraggled on the moist ground.

But it was not easy to clamber over the rocks and stones. The feather fell into the deep grass beneath the tree before she could catch it.

Just as she was about to grasp it, there was a shriek from the parrots and a loud hiss. Nomusa jumped back and almost fell into the stream as she stumbled against a tree stump. She jumped up on the stump and looked fearfully down into the grass to see what had hissed at her.

It was the imamba, one of the most dreaded snakes. Its body was a bright flame color; as she watched, the creature raised its head from the ground and spread out the brilliant skin on its neck so that it looked as if it had a hood.

The imamba turned toward Nomusa and hissed again. Nomusa knew that this meant the snake was about to strike. She could see its short fangs, its back-curved teeth. Its lidless eyes were round and cold and cruel.

Nomusa broke into a cold sweat as she saw the snake’s long, slender tongue, forked at the end, waving like an antenna to detect the odors and vibrations in the air. The imamba was looking for her so that when he spat his poison at her he would make a direct hit. She knew just how he would do it.

He would throw his body forward, and two jets of his venom would shoot out from the ends of his fangs. If this poison reached so much as scratch on her skin, it could kill her. If it got into her eyes, it would blind her, perhaps forever.

There was a large stone nearby, but Nomusa knew that her people never killed snakes, no matter how dangerous they were. Snakes were full of evil spirits that would avenge themselves on the killer.

Nomusa wanted to run, but she knew better. Instead, she stood without the slightest movement, so as to keep the snake from striking. The imamba swayed his head slightly in a rhythmical motion that made Nomusa almost dizzy as she watched.

How long, she wondered, would they remain staring at each other before something happened? If she made the least move now, the imamba would surely strike. A few drops of sweat oozed down her nose and made the tip of it itchy, but Nomusa dared not lift a finger to scratch it.

The parrots had now grown unusually still, as if they were watching the outcome of the contest. Why did they no longer shriek or screech? All at once there was a swift blur of an object that flew to one side of the imamba, causing the snake to turn quickly in that direction.

Nomusa made a mighty spring from the stump, landing in the stream with such a noisy splash that the water rose over her in foaming bubbles.

She was safe!

TWO: A House with One Room

When she returned with the water, Nomusa saw her little brother Themba rolling in the dust in front of their hut. His chubby body was covered with dirt, and he looked like a brown gingerbread boy covered with gray powdered sugar.

“What a story I have for you, Themba!”

But Themba spied the water jar. “I want a drink. Give me a drink! Give me a drink, Nomusa!”

Nomusa brought the edge of the water jar to her small brother’s eager lips. Water ran down his chin and over his fat body as he drank noisily.

Nomusa’s dog, Puleng, came running out of the hut. He showed his happiness at seeing Nomusa by running around her in crazy circles.

“Thirsty, Puleng?” Nomusa cupped her hand and poured some water into it for the dog to drink.

Just then Nomusa heard a voice behind her.

“Sakubona, Nomusa!”

It was her half sister, Sisiwe, who lived in the hut next to Nomusa’s. They had the same father but not the same mother.

“What is the story, Nomusa?” Themba broke in eagerly. If his sisters began talking, he might never hear it.

“Well,” Nomusa began, showing them the beautiful red and green feather, “it all began with this.”

Sisiwe exclaimed over the parrot feather, but Themba clamored for the story.

Nomusa described her encounter with the imamba with lively words and gestures. Her audience was much impressed.

“And you went back for the feather!” said Sisiwe. “I should never have dared.

“You are lucky to have escaped—and to have the beautiful feather,” Sisiwe said, touching it admiringly.

“I have something else,” added Nomusa. She opened the little deerskin bag that hung about her neck. This bag was her only pocket, and into it went all Nomusa’s small treasures.

She took out a golden-yellow pebble, smooth and round, about the size of her thumbnail.

“How lovely!” Sisiwe exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

“I found it on the ground as I returned from the stream.”

“The most exciting things always happen to you, Nomusa,” Sisiwe said. “How did you happen to be so early today?”

“I am early because our father is coming to visit us today, Sisiwe.”

“He visited our hut yesterday. He wore a new belt of wildcat tails and looked very handsome,” Sisiwe said proudly.

Nomusa was very proud of their father, too. Zitu was one of the most powerful Zulu chiefs, and head of the Zulu king’s council. He was rich, rich enough to have six wives, and this was why Nomusa was lucky enough to have thirty brothers and sisters.

“I heard our father talking to my mother about the elephant hunt,” Sisiwe went on. “This time he is taking some of our older brothers with him.”

Nomusa’s brown eyes grew big with excitement. “Oh, Sisiwe, how I should love to go! Do you suppose I could?”

Sisiwe opened her eyes in astonishment. “A girl go on an elephant hunt? Who ever heard of such a thing? Why, Nomusa, you talk as if you were our brother Mdingi!”

“It is true that I do not like girls’ work,” Nomusa said sadly.

“Nomusa!” Makanya called out sharply from within the hut.

“I am here, my mother,” answered Nomusa, quickly crawling through the low opening of the hut. A delicious smell of food cooking enveloped her as she entered. Corn mush and bananas were steaming in a pot over the fire.

After the dazzling sunshine outdoors, it took one’s eyes several seconds to be able to see inside the dark hut. It was just one large room; on the long pole extending from one end of the hut to the other hung baskets, wooden milk pails, gourds, and other things used in the vegetable gardens.

There was a saucerlike hole in the middle of the floor. Here they made the fire for cooking. Nomusa and her mother had gone to great trouble to pound a mixture of ant-heap sand, clay, and cow dung into the dirt floor, pounding and rubbing it with large smooth stones so it would gleam and glisten. She hoped her father would notice that they were good housekeepers.

“What kept you so long, my daughter?” asked Makanya. “I have been waiting for the water. Did you forget your father is coming to visit us? Stir the fire while I feed Bala.”

Nomusa’s mother gently laid the baby on a mat while she took an earthenware jar from the cool earth on one side of the room. In this jar was milk that had been left to sour into thick, large clots. The milk was cold and curdlike. Then Makanya picked up Bala and held her on her grass-skirted lap. The fat baby began to coo expectantly, holding up her brown, dimpled hands to her mother. Like a bird she opened her mouth, uttering cooing sounds. Makanya slowly poured some of the clotted milk into the baby’s mouth. Bala began to smack her lips happily, but suddenly her expression turned into one of disappointment and disgust. She did not like her new food, and she would not swallow it, but began spitting it out as fast as she could. The clotted milk dribbled over her chin and down her chubby body.

But the thick sour clots were good for babies, and Nomusa’s mother was determined that Bala should swallow them. She tried again to pour some of the nourishing clotted milk into the baby’s mouth. This time Bala held her lips tightly closed.

Looking on anxiously, Nomusa thought it a pity that the baby did not yet have sense enough to know how good clotted milk tasted. She and her brothers loved it and did not get it half often enough.

“Nomusa!” called her mother. “Hold Bala’s arms.”

“Oh, Mother, I do not like to do this,” said Nomusa. She was always unhappy when her little sister cried.

Makanya pinched together Bala’s nostrils so that she could not breathe. At once the baby opened her mouth for air, and when she did so, her mother quickly poured in some of the clotted milk. Bala choked and spluttered, but finally she had to swallow what was in her mouth. Frantically she struggled, and tiny as she was, she showed a strength that grew out of terror and desperation. She let out a fierce cry of rage which almost brought tears to Nomusa’s sorrowful eyes.

“Yo, I am glad that’s over,” said Nomusa.

By this time Bala was covered with white splashes, and some of the clots had fallen on her mother’s skirt.

“Here, Puleng!” called Nomusa.

Into the hut he came running, followed by Themba, who was not yet tall enough to have to crawl in through the low entrance of the hut, but did it to imitate the older children and to show he was grown up.

The dog did not have to be told what he had been called for. Without delay, he began licking off the milk splashes from Bala’s naked little body, leaving her skin smooth and moist. The baby seemed to enjoy the dog’s warm tongue on her body. It soothed her and made her forget how miserable she had been.

“Now the water, Nomusa,” said her mother.

Nomusa brought it to her. Her mother took a large mouthful of the water, held it in her mouth a little until it was warm, and then squirted it on Bala. She did this over and over again until the delighted baby was thoroughly washed. She was then laid on her mother’s mat, where she promptly stuck two fingers in her mouth and fell asleep.

Seeing that the clotted milk jar had not been put away, Themba begged softly, “I’m hungry, Nomusa. Me, too.”

Nomusa poured some of the milk into his mouth.

“Here, little greedy. But then you must let me wash you.”

She filled a hollow gourd with water and held it high over Themba’s head, letting the water trickle over him. Themba danced up and down holding his hands over his head and shouting, “It’s raining, it’s raining!”

“Tula!” warned his mother. “You’ll wake the baby.”

Nomusa began rubbing her hand up and down his sturdy little body to clean him. She loved all her little sisters and brothers, even those belonging to Zitu’s other wives.

“I’m going to eat now, Themba. Run outdoors. When I have finished and done some work for mother, I’ll come and play Hlungulu with you.”

This was Themba’s favorite game; so he ran out of the hut, forgetting in his haste that he should have crawled out if he was to be thought grown up.

THREE: A Visit from the Chief

Nomusa took up a little grass basket into which she put some of the food cooking in the pot.

She picked out pieces of corn and banana, putting them into her mouth and sucking the juice from her fingers with great relish.

As she ate, she watched her mother getting ready for her husband’s visit. Makanya was busily greasing her body so she would look clean and shiny.

She rubbed her arms, then her legs, then her whole body, with fresh, sweet-smelling butter. It had been made the day before from cream from Makanya’s own cows.

“Nomusa, when you have finished eating, I should like you to help me comb my hair.”

“I have finished now, my mother.”

“Then here are the porcupine quill and the comb.”

The comb was a wooden one which Makanya had made herself. “Remember to comb my hair straight up into a peak,” she said. “Some day when you are married you will wear your hair the same way.”

Nomusa combed her mother’s short, thick hair up from the back of her neck, shaping and slanting it backward from her forehead. To look proper, the hair had to end in a peak just back of the top of her head.

Every little while Nomusa had to rub grease into the hair so that it would stand up stiffly and stay in shape. With the porcupine quill she picked at the hair to keep the strands in place. It took patience and much combing and greasing to make the hair stay where it was supposed to.

After a while, Makanya carefully ran her hand over her head to feel the shape of her hair.

“Well done, my daughter,” she said.

“What skirt will you wear today?” asked Nomusa.

“I shall wear the new oxhide one,” said Makanya.

“Oh, you will look beautiful!”

Nomusa knew it was only a very special occasion that would induce her mother to wear the oxhide skin instead of her short grass skirt. For days and days she had watched her mother water-soak the skin, which had come from one of her own cattle. When it was soft, she had helped her mother pull out all the hairs. It had been long and tedious work. After that, they had both used sharp thorns and scratched and scratched at one side of the skin until it was as soft as a baby’s ear.

Part of the skin became a skirt, part was used for Nomusa’s best neck-pocket. Another part was used as a sling in which her mother carried the baby when she was working in the vegetable garden. The rest of the skin was saved until it should be needed.

Finally Makanya took from the rafters of the hut some bead bracelets and a necklace she kept hidden there. These she put on while Nomusa stood to one side, marveling at her mother’s beauty. Makanya was tall and well-shaped. Her muscles were firm and strong. When she laughed, her white teeth glistened, making her smooth skin look darker still. No wonder Nomusa’s father had had to give ten cows in order to get her mother as a wife. She had heard that none of his other wives had cost that much.

“You are beautiful, my mother!” exclaimed Nomusa admiringly.

Just then they heard the sound of a man clearing his throat in front of the entrance to the hut.

“He is here!” said Makanya excitedly, a slight pink color appearing under her skin.

The small amount of daylight which came into the hut through the entrance was blocked as a large figure came crawling in.

“Sakubona,” Zitu greeted them, smiling. The Zulu chief was magnificent in a belt of wildcat tails and a necklace of blue beads around his neck.

“Usaphila,” answered Nomusa and her mother.

Always a little shy with her father, Nomusa partly hid behind her mother.

Makanya said, “Nomusa, get your father’s mat.”

Nomusa got out the new bamboo mat her mother had made especially for him and unrolled it on the smooth floor. On this Zitu squatted. He took out of his belt the horn of an ox and some tobacco. After stuffing the horn with the tobacco, he took an ember from the fire and lit his pipe. Silently he began smoking.

Nomusa’s mother now brought out all the good things she had made for her husband to eat. On a large grass plate she put chicken, pumpkin, yams, mealies, roast bananas. Then she brought beer. On Zitu’s lap Makanya placed some tobacco she had grown especially for him.

At first, Nomusa’s father pretended to be indifferent to the food, but the tantalizing smells proved too much for him. He laid down his oxhorn pipe and began eating with great gusto. He ate noisily, smacking his lips and belching from time to time. Nomusa and her mother did not utter a word while he was eating. They sat quietly, moving only when they had to take away his empty plate and fill it again. The Zulu chief ate and ate. Nomusa wondered how he could eat so much. From time to time an extra loud belch came out of him. Then Nomusa and her mother exchanged happy glances. They heard and saw that Zitu was enjoying their food.

Finally he licked his fingers thoroughly, showing he had finished. He looked at Nomusa and her mother smilingly. That was all, but it was enough to make them feel repaid for all the effort they had gone to in order to please him.

Zitu sat on his mat, a strong handsome figure. His muscular legs looked as though they could walk forty miles a day easily. Nomusa had heard that he often walked that much when he was out on a hunt. She wondered, as she kept her shining eyes on her father, whether he would say something about the elephant hunt. She waited and hoped.

Suddenly the chief spoke, pointing to the sleeping baby. “She looks as if she would be worth five cows.”

“Ay, she will be worth more,” answered Makanya proudly. “And Nomusa here, who helps me so well, is worth seven cows already.”

Zitu looked at Nomusa appraisingly; then, taking hold of her firm arm, he said, “She is a strong girl, almost as big as her older brother. I hear she can do anything a boy can. If she were a boy, I would take her on the elephant hunt when we leave at the full moon.”

At the full moon! thought Nomusa, her heart beating excitedly.

Inwardly she began counting the number of days to the full moon. About ten sleeps away, she said to herself. There will be time for one more visit from my father. How can I make him decide to take me? What can I do that will prove to him that I am more courageous than other girls, that I am strong and have no fear?

Half dreaming, she began to leave the hut.

“Where are you going, Nomusa?” asked her mother.

“To play Hlungulu with Themba,” she murmured. “I promised him.”

FOUR: Nomusa and Her Brothers

Hardly had Nomusa’s head appeared at the entrance of the hut when Themba pounced on it, trying to get astride her neck, shouting, “My calf wins the race!”

“Get off, Themba!” Nomusa protested, though she had to laugh at him. “I’m no calf. And who told you about calf races? They are absolutely forbidden.”

“Kangata told me. He said they have fun with calves in the pasture.”

“How well I know it!” said Nomusa. “I wish I could spend my days in the pasture and have as good a time as my brothers do!”

“When I am big, I shall go to the pasture,” said Themba proudly.

“Yes,” Nomusa replied. “You are very lucky to be a boy. Girls’ work is no fun at all.”

“Play Hlungulu,” begged Themba. “You promised.”

“Very well, sit down over there,” said Nomusa. “Now put your feet towards me.

“Hlungulu, hlungulu goduka

Amas omnlawana wakho adlive

Adlive yig wababa

Gwababa, gwababa goduka

Ubuye ngezotwasa.”

“Crow, Crow, go home.

Jackdaw has eaten

Your babe’s clotted milk.

Jackdaw, Jackdaw, go home.

You will come back at the new moon.”

Themba giggled as Nomusa acted out the song with grimaces and dramatic gestures. Before she had actually finished he was already begging, “Again, again!” When she had sung Hlungulu for the third time, he placed his wide, bare feet on Nomusa’s lap and said, “Now sing me ta-yi-ya-ne-lo.”

Putting her thumb and forefinger on the big toe of his left foot, she began softly giving each toe a gentle squeeze. From the beginning of the song to the end, Themba’s face was one delighted grin. As soon as she squeezed the last toe, he laughed and said, “More, Nomusa, more!”

At last it was time to stop. Nomusa had to grind the corn for the mealie mush they would eat later. Usually it was her mother who ground the corn, because it took strong arms; but since Nomusa knew her mother was busy entertaining her father, she decided to do it for her.

She picked up a small round stone lying next to a larger one which was scooped out in the middle. Into the scooped-out stone she threw a handful of hard kernels of corn. Then, using the small round stone like a rolling-pin and flicking a little water into the hollow stone, she ground and ground the corn until it became a coarse corn meal. When it was ground she poured it into a basket where it would be ready when her mother needed it for porridge or corn cakes. Part of it would be brewed for her father’s beer, as well.

Nomusa went on pounding and rolling the corn. She grew tired and wiped off the moisture on her face with the back of her hand. She wondered how her mother managed to pound and pound for such long periods without stopping. As she rested a moment, she heard someone call, “Yo, Nomusa!”

She looked up and saw Sisiwe entering the kraal with a basket on her head. The green tops of vegetables showed above the top of the basket.

“Tired after the elephant hunt?” teased Sisiwe.

“I see you have been weeding your mother’s garden,” Nomusa remarked, ignoring the teasing.

“Yes,” said Sisiwe. “And now I have to fetch water again. I’ll never get ready in time for Damasi’s party. I haven’t even ground my paint yet. Have you?”

“No. I’ll go with you to fetch water. Perhaps we’ll find the right paint stones on the way.”

Nomusa went back to finish grinding the corn while Sisiwe carried the basket of beans and sweet potatoes to her hut.

Soon Sisiwe came out again, looking more cheerful. This time she was carrying an empty water jar and eating something. Nomusa picked up a jar lying next to the thatch of her hut and walked over to meet her half sister, who offered her a piece of melon. Side by side, one with the water jar on her left hip, the other with it on her right, the girls proceeded to the stream.

“Our father has come,” Nomusa said. “Ay, Sisiwe he is as you said. We saw the new belt of wildcat tails.”

“And did he speak of the elephant hunt?” asked Sisiwe.

“Yes,” replied Nomusa unhappily. “He said that if I were a boy he might have taken me along. If only I were! He will certainly take my brother, Mdingi. Well, at least I shall have the fun of taking the cattle to pasture while he is away, for Kangata is too young to watch them all by himself.”

Nomusa began to grow excited at the prospect of taking the cattle to pasture and for a moment even thought it would make up for not being allowed to go on the elephant hunt.

“Oh, Nomusa, why must you always be so eager to do what boys do? You should be content with being a girl. Girls are worth much more than boys. No Zulu girl can be had for a wife unless she is paid for in cattle. We are valuable.”

But Nomusa’s mind was no longer on what Sisiwe was saying. Her eyes were searching the ground to right and left, seeking the stones with which to make the paint. Halfway to the stream, Nomusa and Sisiwe placed their empty jars under a mimosa tree and left the path to look for colored stones that were soft enough to grind.

“Here’s a white one,” called Nomusa to her sister. “And here’s another. If we find two more white ones, we’ll have enough for white paint.”

When they had gathered all the stones they would need, Sisiwe said: “We’ll leave them here in a pile until we come back from the stream.”

“The water is much lower than it was this morning,” Nomusa remarked. “How thirsty the sun must be to drink so much every day. Well, anyway, there’s still enough for a good dip; and here I go!” In she dived, the pink soles of her feet gleaming. Sisiwe laughed and plunged in after her.

The two girls began to splash and pull each other under the water with so much shouting and merriment that birds nearby grew frightened and flew away. The monkeys hiding in the boughs lifted their heads and stared in wonder as the girls played in the water.

After a while, Nomusa and Sisiwe filled their jars with water and covered them with leaves from the bushes. They placed a cushion of rushes on top of their heads before balancing the jars on their heads. Then they rose carefully, first one knee, then the other, without spilling a single drop.

When they reached the spot where they had left their paint stones, the girls picked them up one by one with their nimble toes, passing them to their hands.

When they got to their kraal, Nomusa and Sisiwe left the water in their huts. Then they sat in an open space near the huts, with their piles of stones before them. With a hard stone they pounded the soft red, black, and white stones, putting the different colors in separate piles, on leaves. Umpondo, Sisiwe’s little brother, only a few days older than Themba, sat between his sisters, picking up the little pieces of soft stone as they pounded away. Nomusa said to him, “You may have some of the stones if you wish, little brother,” and she pushed some of them toward him.

The soft paint stones crumbled to bits easily as Nomusa crushed and pounded them. After the pieces were small enough, she ground them until they were fine as dust. Nomusa and Sisiwe worked silently for a time. Then Umpondo said, “Nomusa, Themba said you know good stories. Do you know about Uthlakanyana?”

“Oh, yes,” said Nomusa. “Mdingi has told me many stories about that dwarf and his magic. I don’t know which one to tell you.”

“Any one,” begged Umpondo.

Without stopping what she was doing, Nomusa began, “Za puma zenke izilwane, za li dhla; la ngobuhlunga bezinyoka, nezinyosi, naofezela neninyovu. La kala, lakala ke, la ze la fa.... Once upon a time Uthlakanyana took a bag to the forest. Inside of it he had a giant cannibal whom he had fought and defeated. As he walked along he found a snake, then a wasp, then a scorpion. All these biting and poisonous things he put into the bag with the giant. The giant said, ‘Let me out, let me out. They are biting me.’ They bit and bit him until he died. So he died.”

“Do you know any others?” asked Umpondo eagerly.

“Yes, but not now.”

Nomusa had now finished grinding her stones. She looked at her three little mounds of red, black, and white powder. “That’s done,” she said to Sisiwe. “We shall have enough to paint our whole bodies.” Then she called out, “Look! Our brothers are already returning from the pasture. Hau! Mdingi, Kangata!”

Her own brothers were the last of the boys leading their mothers’ cows and calves into the cattlefold inside the kraal. This was fenced off from the circle of huts by a thick wall of boughs and twigs. All the drainage from the huts flowed down to the cattlefold which was on the lower side of the sloping hill where the kraal was situated. In this cattlefold were also the mealie and grain pits where the corn was stored by the various wives after it had been stripped from the cobs. Nomusa’s mother had told her that the fluids from the cattle percolated into the ground and turned the corn and grain sour. This prevented the weevils from eating it up.

As Nomusa proudly watched her mother’s cows walking single file into the cattlefold, she noticed that her mother’s favorite, Nyawuza, was not among them.

Where could she be?

Nomusa ran toward the cattlefold just as her brothers were entering it.

Mdingi saw her and called, “Go back, Nomusa! You know it’s bad luck for girls to be here when we milk the cows.”

“Yes, I know,” Nomusa answered, looking at the cows to make sure she was not mistaken. “But did you bring back all of our mother’s cows? I do not see Nyawuza.”

Kangata stood next to Mdingi, looking solemn. Silently he gazed at his elder brother and sister. Mdingi’s face was a study of misery and fear.

Nomusa knew something serious had happened.

FIVE: A Lost Cow

At first Mdingi stood silent. Then he confessed.

“While we were resting after playing games, I began to think about a song. Sometimes when I do that I forget about everything else. It was like that today. When I looked for the cows, they had wandered off. I ran to drive them back, but I could not find Nyawuza. I left Kangata with the others while I searched for her. I looked and whistled until we had to come home. But I could not find the cow.”

“It is my fault, too,” Kangata said, stoutly. “I fell asleep. Oh, this is the worst thing that could happen! When Tahle lost a calf once he was punished severely.”

Nomusa felt very sorry for her brothers, especially for Mdingi. Kangata might be scolded, but the cows were Mdingi’s responsibility. If Nyawuza were not found, he would certainly be punished for his carelessness.

It was especially bad because Nomusa knew that their father frowned on Mdingi more often than on any of his children. Zitu himself was very strong and brave, and a great warrior and hunter. He was often disappointed in Mdingi. It was no secret that Mdingi liked making up songs and telling stories more than anything else.

Nomusa’s heart filled with pity as she saw Mdingi’s misery. She began to think of what might be done.

“If we wait till morning, Nyawuza may be killed by some animal. That would be a disgrace for you always, Mdingi.”

“It is true,” Mdingi acknowledged dejectedly.

“She must be found,” Nomusa declared. “I shall go right away to look for her.”

“But, Nomusa, it is growing dark! You would not be safe. Some wild animal might attack you!”

“I must find Nyawuza,” Nomusa said firmly.

“Then I shall go with you,” said Mdingi.

“No, no! You must milk the cows. And say nothing about this. Our father is in our hut now; if he hears what has happened he will be very angry. My work is finished; I shall not be missed.”

“I cannot let you go alone,” Mdingi protested. “Nyawuza knows my whistle.”

“Show me how you whistle,” directed Nomusa.

Mdingi whistled, and Nomusa imitated him. After a few tries she could do it exactly like Mdingi. Here is one more thing Nomusa can do as well as I, Mdingi thought bitterly. She should have been the boy.

“Do not say anything about the lost cow,” Nomusa cautioned. “Tomorrow is the day of Damasi’s party, and we might not be allowed to go.”

Out of the kraal flew Nomusa like a small wild thing, her neck pocket bouncing as she ran. Her brothers watched her go, now worried about Nomusa as well as the cow.

“I should not have let her go,” muttered Mdingi to Kangata as they went to the cattlefold to do the milking.

Nomusa ran along the deeply marked path which the cattle had made on their way from the kraal to the pasture. She wasted no time, but still her keen eyes saw signs that told what her brothers did in the pasture all day.

There were the remains of a fire. They must have caught some birds and roasted them. And perhaps they had taken some yams from their mothers’ vegetable gardens. What a good time they must have had, thought Nomusa.

She could see large worn-out banana leaves on a small clay slope. These the boys had used as sleds for coasting. What fun it was, and how easy to find another banana-leaf sled when the old one was worn out!

Under a tree lay a large ball of leaves, twigs, and moss. Nomusa knew what that had been used for. Her brothers, lined up on two sides, had hurled pointed sticks at the ball as it rolled swiftly downhill.

Small wonder that Zulu boys grew up to be such great hunters with their spears and bows and arrows. Even little Themba had a toy bow and arrow with which he played at hunting. But he used the chickens and dogs around the kraal as targets, much to the annoyance of his father’s wives.

Nomusa came upon some long sticks standing against the trunk of a tree. She had often seen the boys play this game in their kraal in the evening. Standing opposite his opponent, each boy would try to strike the other’s body, holding the stick in the middle so that a large piece extended on each side of him. The boys used all their speed and agility to try to ward off the blows from their opponents’ sticks. A player had to be skillful indeed or he would soon be covered with bruises.

As Nomusa had expected, the cow was nowhere to be seen about the pasture. She began whistling loudly and calling the cow with all her might.

“Nyawuza! Nyawuza!”

From a long way off came faintly the echo: “Nyawuza! Nyawuza!”

Nomusa decided she must go into the woods. Where else could the cow have gone? Picking up a pointed stick, Nomusa walked into the shadowy woods.

She whistled Mdingi’s call over and over again. Moving between the well-spaced trees, she pushed aside with her stick the vines and creepers that came in her way. Once the whir of flying wings over her head gave her a great fright.

Only a bat! she thought, ashamed of her fear.

But the farther she went into the woods the less courageous she felt. She wished now that she had let Mdingi come with her. Oh, where could Nyawuza have gone? Was she perhaps already eaten by a lion or a hyena?

By this time Nomusa was deep in the woods. Her eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that she was able to see where she was going quite well. She called and whistled, she slapped at trees with her stick to frighten off lurking animals. She had often heard that the rhinoceros hated loud noises and ran away at sudden sounds. She hoped it would frighten away other animals, too.

Once she saw some small glowing eyes peering at her from a bush. It made Nomusa’s flesh creep with dread. The fast beating of her heart made her whistle tremble and quaver. Her throat suddenly went dry, and she found herself scarcely able to utter any sound whatever.

All at once, Nomusa heard a low and doleful moo from somewhere to the right of her. She plunged excitedly through the thicket in the direction of the sound. Another low, mournful moo.

Nomusa came to a small swamp; and there was Nyawuza. One foot was caught in a liana, and she was still struggling to free herself from the vine.

With a cry of joy and relief, Nomusa rushed up to the cow. She put her arms around her neck. “Nyawuza, our dear one, are you hurt?”

She bent down to examine Nyawuza’s leg and to see how she could free her. Nyawuza had got herself more and more entangled with the vine by trying to free herself. First Nomusa pulled at it with all her strength, but soon she saw that it required cutting. She had no knife, so she tried using her pointed stick to get between the vines and the cow’s leg. This hurt Nyawuza, and she frantically pulled herself away.

“What shall I do?” wondered Nomusa. She groped about on the ground looking for a rock with a sharp edge, feeling rather than seeing the stones. All at once she felt a sharp pain in her hand.

“A snake!” gasped Nomusa.

But it was not a snake bite after all, but a cut made by something sharp, perhaps the very thing she could use to cut the vine. Nomusa bent down, feeling about cautiously for the sharp object that had cut her.

Ah! She had it—a stone with a knifelike edge, half embedded in the earth. Nomusa dug it out, with some difficulty, and ran to Nyawuza. She knelt in front of the cow and held her leg firmly with one hand while she chopped at the vine with the stone.

Nyawuza looked on with melancholy eyes. The task of cutting the liana was not easy, though the stone was sharp. The vine was tough and full of sap, and it did not break easily. But Nomusa worked and worked at one place until she had cut it through. Finally Nyawuza was free.

By this time Nomusa was so tired that she felt as if the kraal were a hundred miles away. “Come, good Nyawuza. We must hurry home. Our mother is waiting.”

On their dark journey homeward, Nomusa kept up a conversation with the cow to reassure her. Now and then Nomusa stumbled over rough ground and unexpected bumps. Sometimes she was not at all sure which was the right direction, and she grew frightened at the thought of being lost.

It seemed a very long time before Nomusa felt under her feet the familiar path leading to her kraal. Delighted to be so near home, she gave Nyawuza an affectionate and resounding slap on her rump.

The cow gave a sudden leap forward, and went galloping into the kraal, almost dashing against a group of Nomusa’s older brothers and sisters.

But Nomusa did not stop to speak to them, for she must find Mdingi at once. It was long past the cow’s milking time, and her udder was swollen.

Before Nomusa reached the cattlefold, Mdingi came rushing to meet her. “You found her!” he cried in relief. “I have been worried about you!” There was much more that Mdingi wanted to say, but Nomusa knew what he felt.

“Go quickly,” she said gently. “Nyawuza needs milking.”

“I go,” Mdingi said.

Nomusa turned back to the other children, who were playing a spitting game. At a given signal, they passed their hands before their mouths, spitting on the palm as it passed. Then each child was given a chance to guess where the spit had hit the hand.

Nomusa watched for a few moments, but she was too tired to play. As she was about to enter her hut, she saw her father sitting outside the entrance gazing at the rising moon and smoking his oxhorn pipe. Without turning his head, he said quietly, “I am glad you found the cow, my daughter.”

Astonished, Nomusa said to herself, “By what magic does my father always manage to know everything that is happening in the kraal?”

Before unrolling her mat, Nomusa took some half-cooked pumpkin and some stewed meat from the pot. Drowsily she began to eat. Puleng came to help her, and together they finished the pumpkin and meat.

With one arm around her dog’s neck, Nomusa stretched out her tired legs and fell sound asleep.

SIX: Preparing for the Party

The first thing Nomusa thought when she awoke was, “Today is the day of the party at Damasi’s kraal! My work must be done quickly so I shall be ready to go this afternoon.”

Mdingi and Kangata were now awake. Their eyes shone with excitement, and Nomusa knew that they too were thinking about the party. Because of it, they would start off to the pasture earlier today.

They helped themselves from the cook pot. Nomusa pushed more dry twigs on the smoldering fire so her mother could start cooking more food when the pot was empty. She and her brothers made sure there was enough food left for their mother and Themba when they awoke.

Out of the hut crawled Nomusa, Mdingi, and Kangata, one after the other, eating the food they held in their hands. They looked up at the sky to see what kind of day it was. Off in the distance Nomusa saw some threatening-looking clouds.

“Oh, it’s not a nice day,” she said, disappointed.

“That is true,” replied Mdingi; “but it may clear up before we leave this afternoon.”

“I think it’s going to rain,” said Kangata pessimistically.

“Come along, Kangata,” ordered his big brother.

Nomusa was just leaving through the kraal gate when she heard one of her sisters calling, “Nomusa, wait for me!” It was Hlamba, the daughter of her father’s third wife. Nomusa’s mother was his fourth wife. Hlamba, too, was carrying a water jar, which she balanced expertly on her grass-skirted hip.

Nomusa waited until Hlamba caught up with her. “Sakubona!” she greeted her. “I am glad to have your company, sister. I see you are already wearing your new beads. They are beautiful! And is that the grass skirt you are wearing to Damasi’s party?”

“Oh, no,” said Hlamba loftily. “I am saving the new one until we go. But I just couldn’t wait to wear the beads.”

Hlamba was taller and plumper than Nomusa. Her body was beginning to take on the form of a woman, and she felt her importance now that her age required her to wear a grass skirt just like her mother’s.

“When I am twelve years old, I suppose I shall have to wear a grass skirt, too,” said Nomusa without any enthusiasm.

“Of course,” said Hlamba. “You will be a woman then.”

“A woman—in two years!” thought Nomusa. Somehow she could not feel happy about it. She wanted so much to play for a long, long time. She walked beside Hlamba for a while, not saying a word, but thinking a great deal. Hlamba kept a steady flow of conversation most of the way, but Nomusa hardly heard her. She kept talking about the designs she would put on her body for the party.

“And what designs and colors shall you paint on your body?” Hlamba was asking. This question interested Nomusa. All the way back to the kraal the conversation continued about the preparations for the party.

“Do you know that our sister Sisiwe has tattooed herself?” asked Nomusa.

“So soon? Did she use a pointed stick, or did she put the glowing embers on the cow dung over the skin?” inquired Hlamba.

“I saw her use a pointed stick. I hope the marks will last at least until the day after the party,” said Nomusa.

“Yes, after all that work and pain of making the tattoo,” said Hlamba sympathetically.