Nomvula

17 - And Many Are The Hands That Feed Us

When the last of the porridge had been scraped up and eaten, Nomvula stacked the bowls and jars into the pot.

"Better?" Ma asked, licking honey off her thumb.

"I have to either throw nations into war or watch Dumani kill my son," Nomvula said. "And no matter what I choose, at some point, I have to execute a king's brother. No, Ma, I'm not better."

"Ah, but now you are thinking about others, so you're halfway there. Oh, don't bother with the dishes, I'll take them back later. But pour some water in there because if Naledi scratches my good pots one more time..."

Nomvula savoured a rare moment and did as someone else instructed. "Later?"

"Good." Ma put out her pupe. "Now, one last bit of housekeeping. Come."

**

A familiar dress took up half of Kofi's old bed.

"Ma, I can't. I won't."

"It's not for you, Nomvula." Ma picked up a ten-string necklace of sky-blue beads, heavy and intricately woven. "It's for everyone else, now stop being stubborn."

Ma dragged a heavy mirror to the middle of the room -- one of the King's most prized possessions. Few in the Hundred Hills could afford to import one all the way from Kemet. The care and travel costs would beggar a lesser chief, so the King had commissioned a genius of glasswork named Mda to make one for him, right here in his home. 

The old artisan had loved the Hundred Hills so much that he'd bought land south of Mapungub to be near the river. It was such a beautiful mirror that Nomvula insisted on sending him two crates of Wayfarer clay for his sculptures every year. With his art, he'd made this house a happier place, and the land was better for it.

"Stand here," her mother said. "Ah, that's better! Look at you!"

Nomvula did, and a skeptical woman glared back. Beads and copper embroidered her white skirts and a headscarf as black as the space between stars. Ma had wrapped the dark silk in the Sunlands style, tightly wrapped and looped high. The necklace hid how tight the fabric was around her chest, but she couldn't do anything about the strain her hips put on the cotton waistband.

"Shhh," Ma whispered, putting a finger to Nomvula's scowl. "Listen, can you hear that?"

"What?"

"Your man's climbing out of his grave to see you. Get out of here before he finds a way back from the afterlife."

Nomvula caught herself pushing down a smile. "We shouldn't stay here too long, things rot in the past."

"Are you calling me old?"

"We both are."

An approving nod. "Survivors, then."

They walked out of the overgrown yard together, barefoot, copper anklets chiming over cobblestones. Nomvula squared her shoulders against the world, head bowed under the weight of the sky, and marvelled at the smell of dew in the morning.

The village streets were already packed with cattle and herdsmen and the children that followed them both. If they saw her, they were careful not to stare. As Nomvula crossed the neglected road between First and Third Hill, she only looked back once.