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Mandisa’s grandfather, Tatomkhulu, tells her the story of Nongqawuse, a Xhosa prophetess. The story symbolizes how far the Xhosa people are willing to go in order to reclaim their land from colonizers, as well as how oppressive colonialism is. Historically, in 1856 Nongqawuse told her community that if they killed their cattle and burned their fields and waited three days, then the cattle and fields would regenerate, and a storm would come and wash away the Boers occupying their land. Tatomkhulu explains to Mandisa that to the Xhosa people then, as well as to the black South Africans in the novel’s present, “No sacrifice [would be] too great, to wash away the curse” of colonization. The same resentment that caused people to believe Nongqawuse’s prophecy, sacrificing their own land and cattle in hopes of freeing themselves from colonizers, is the same resentment that created phrases like “One settler, one bullet!” and “AmaBhulu Aziainja!” The contemporary South Africans will resort to violence, and create a storm of their own making (through rioting, violence, and the destruction of property), in order to free themselves. In the novel’s final pages Mandisa makes a direct comparison between Nongqawuse’s promised storm and Mxolisi’s murder of the Girl. She writes, “Nongqawuse saw it in that long, long-ago dream: A great raging whirling would come,” and sees Mxolisi and the Girl as caught up in a microcosm of that storm—enacting “the deep, dark private yearnings of a subjugated race,” consummating in an “inevitable senseless catastrophe,” like Nongqawuse’s promised cleansing hurricane.
The Story of Nongqawuse Quotes in Mother to Mother
The Mother to Mother quotes below all refer to the symbol of The Story of Nongqawuse. For each quote, you can also see the other characters and themes related to it (each theme is indicated by its own dot and icon, like this one:
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Chapter 10
Quotes
There is knowledge with which I was born — or which I acquired at such an early age it is as though it was there the moment I came to know myself ... to know that I was. We sucked it from our mothers’ breasts, at the very least; inhaled it from the very air, for most.
Long before I went to school I knew when Tata had had a hard day at work. He would grumble, “Those dogs I work for!” and fuss about, and take long swigs from the bottle.
Mama’s own quarrel with bosses often came on the day when Tata got paid. For some reason, her dissatisfaction with Tata’s conditions of employment seemed to deepen on Fridays.
I remember when, one Friday, she exploded:
“Sesilamba nje, beb’ umhlaba wethu abelungu! We have come thus to hunger, for white people stole our land.” […] Later, I was to hear those words with growing frequency. “White people stole our land. They stole our herds. We have no cattle today, and the people who came here without any have worlds of farms, overflowing with fattest cattle”
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“Mzukulwana, listen to me. Listen and remember what you have heard, this day.” Then, in the voice of an imbongi of the people, he recited:
“Deep run the roots of hatred here
So deep, a cattle-worshipping nation killed all its precious herds.
Tillers, burned fertile fields, fully sowed, bearing rich promise too.
Readers of Nature’s Signs, allowed themselves fallacious belief.
In red noon’s eye rolling back to the east for sleep.
Anything. Anything, to rid themselves of these unwanted strangers.
No sacrifice too great, to wash away the curse.
That deep, deep, deep, ran the hatred then.
In the nearly two centuries since, the hatred has but multiplied.
The hatred has but multiplied.”
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Hayi, ilishwa!
Amabhulu, azizinja!
One settler, one bullet!
By the match stick, we shall free our nation!
“Oh, the road has been long, indeed. The songs came much, much later, I can tell you that. Before the songs, many others tried to rid our nation of the ones without colour, who had come from across the great sea.”
“Makana, the Left-Handed, prophesied outcomes similar to Nongqawuse’s. His magic would turn the bullets of the guns of abelungu to water.”
“At Isandlwana, with spear and shield, Cetywayo’s impis defeated the mighty British army and its guns.”
“Bulhoek, in Queenstown, is another example of resistance I can cite. Close to two hundred people murdered. Their sin? They wanted back their land and took possession of it, claiming it as their own. When they wouldn’t move, even by force, bullets were unleashed on them. But it was all to no avail. All to no avail. To this very day, abelungu are still here with us, Mzukulwana. The most renowned liar has not said they are about to disappear.”
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Chapter 12
Quotes
That unforgiving moment. My son. Blood pounding in his ears. King! If for a day. If for a paltry five minutes ... a miserable but searing second.
AMANDLA! NGAWETHU! POWER! IT 1S OURS!
AMANDLA! NGAWETHU! POWER! IT IS OURS!
[…] Transported, the crowd responded; not dwelling on the significance of the word, deaf and blind to the seeds from which it sprang, the pitiful powerlessness that had brewed this very moment
And the song in my son’s ears. A song he had heard since he could walk. Even before he could walk. Song of hate, of despair, of rage. Song of impotent loathing.
AMABHULU, AZIZINJA!
AMABHULU, AZIZINJA!
BOERS, THEY ARE DOGS!
BOERS, THEY ARE DOGS!
[…] The crowd cheers my son on. One settler! One bullet! We had been cheering him on since the day he was born. Before he was born. Long before.
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Nongqawuse saw it in that long, long-ago dream: A great raging whirlwind would come. It would drive abelungu to the sea. Nongqawuse had but voiced the unconscious collective wish of the nation: rid ourselves of the scourge.
She was not robbed. She was not raped. There was no quarrel. Only the eruption of a slow, simmering, seething rage. Bitterness burst and spilled her tender blood on the green autumn grass of a far-away land. Irredeemable blood. Irretrievable loss.
One boy. Lost. Hopelessly lost.
One girl, far away from home.
The enactment of the deep, dark, private yearnings of a subjugated race. The consummation of inevitable senseless catastrophe.
[…] My son was only an agent, executing the long-simmering dark desires of his race. Burning hatred for the oppressor possessed his being. It saw through his eyes; walked with his feet and wielded the knife that tore mercilessly into her flesh. The resentment of three hundred years plugged his ears; deaf to her pitiful entreaties.
My son, the blind but sharpened arrow of the wrath of his race.
Your daughter, the sacrifice of hers. Blindly chosen. Flung towards her sad fate by fortune’s cruellest slings.
But for the chance of a day, the difference of one sun’s rise, she would be alive today. My son, perhaps not a murderer. Perhaps, not yet.
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The Story of Nongqawuse Symbol Timeline in Mother to Mother
The timeline below shows where the symbol The Story of Nongqawuse appears in Mother to Mother. The colored dots and icons indicate which themes are associated with that appearance.
Chapter 10
Another day, Tatomkhulu tells Mandisa the story of Nongqawuse. Mandisa learned in school that she was “a false prophet who told people to kill...
(full context)
...other choice. People killed their cows and burned their fields, but three days later, when Nongqawuse promised a storm would come to replace their cattle and sweep the white settlers away,...
(full context)
...the match stick, we shall free our nation!” came later, but for centuries prophets like Nongqawuse have been calling for violent or divine ways to save their nation from white settlers....
(full context)
Chapter 12
Mandisa knows Nongqawuse saw the “whirlwind” over a century ago, and “voiced the unconscious collective wish of the...
(full context)
