It was strange how quickly a story moved in a place like Somabhula. I spoke only once and already the whispers started. The wind seemed to take my words and toss them from ear to ear. My words went from the market to the stage and back again. Some people looked at me sideways and others stepped away as I passed. They shook their heads and mumbled to themselves.
Somabhula’s heart was all in one place. There was a ring of shops, market tables and a beerhall. In the middle stood a wide open ground with a stage. From the stage you could see everyone and from anywhere everyone could see the stage.
“He must be a lunatic,” one old man said. He did not bother to lower his voice. “You do not just stand in front of the Nuniya and talk like that.”
At the shops, two young women had stopped sweeping and leaned closer to each other. Their voices carried across the dust as I walked by. “Did you see the way he smiled? As if he knows something the rest of us don’t.”
The other woman laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. “I heard he even told them their strength is for nothing. Maybe he is just mad.”
The children were the boldest. They followed at a distance and threw small stones at the dust near my feet. They laughed and dared each other to get closer. “Go ask his name,” one of them shouted. “You are the one who is brave, you go.”
I widened my grin and kept my hands behind my back. My expression was calm as ever. My steps were steady. I walked as if the sun had set only for me and I did not hurry for anyone. Every so often, I heard the word “stage” floating through the air. It was always spoken with respect. That was the place where a man’s worth was weighed in the open for everyone to see.
I heard a woman near the tuckshop call out to a man sweeping the veranda. “Samson, come and see this one who has angered the Nuniya.” The man grunted and shook his head. He kept sweeping but the name stuck with me. So there was a Samson here.
At the edge of the crowd, a thin boy pushed his way forward and yelled, “Nuniya Daves, this stupid man is looking for trouble!” There was laughter and soon the boy was dragged back by his ear. I caught the name. Daves.
Finally, I stood next to the stage arena. As the crowd grew, people began to climb onto anything that could hold their weight. Old crates, piles of bricks and the low branches of the msasa trees along the fence. Some children crawled between legs. Their faces shone with sweat and excitement. The old men stood in a line, arms folded across their chests, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together. You could feel it. Something new was happening. It was something that would be talked about for a long time.
A voice rose above the others, sharp and clear. “Aha!” The word rang out as strong as a drumbeat and all at once the crowd fell quiet. The Master stood on the stage. His grey martial arts uniform moved in the afternoon wind. He looked out over everyone and raised his stick again.
The warriors formed a line at his call. It was sudden as if it had always been there but they stumble. Their feet moved in perfect time and their bodies were tense with discipline. Each stood tall, hands behind their backs and faces turned to the Master. When he nodded, they called back together, “Aha!” Their voices echoed through the ground and made the dust shiver.
I saw one warrior at the end of the line. His face was lighter than the rest and his hair was almost white as chalk. It was not because of age but because of a natural whiteness that looked a bit odd for a black man. People near me started whispering his name. “That one, that is Nuniya Silver. You see the way he stands, like he owns the air?” Silver did not look at me but I could feel his anger. It burned like heat from a cooking fire. He was not used to being laughed at. I watched him, the corners of my mouth lifted and I stayed calm as always.
The Master spoke to the warriors in a low voice. His words were lost in the noise of the crowd. He pointed at one of them. A lean young man stepped forward. His belt was a bright black as coal. People started to cheer and called out, “Nuniya Daves, show him!” I saw Daves nod to the Master and stretch his legs as if he was getting ready for a sprint. His eyes did not leave me.
An old woman near me whispered, “He is the fastest one. His feet are like wind.”
Someone else agreed and said, “Yes, Daves will deal with this one quickly.”
As all eyes turned to the stage, a man in a faded cap touched my shoulder. “Young man, just apologize. There is no shame in it. These are not ordinary boys. They are the Nuniya.” He spoke softly. He was not unkind.
I smiled at him and shook my head. “I only say what is true,” I said. “If I am wrong, let them show me.”
A little girl hid behind her mother’s skirt and stared at me with wide eyes. She whispered, “Mama, is he not afraid?” Her mother pulled her close. “People who talk too much are never afraid but sometimes they do not live long.”
The crowd pressed closer. Even those in the beerhall stopped drinking and came out to watch. Some climbed up on the grinding mill. Every eye was fixed on me and on Daves. I did not rush. I walked to the edge of the stage slowly. My smile never left my face. Some laughed and some shook their heads. No one could look away.
I heard someone mutter, “Daves will not forgive this one.” Another said, “The Master is watching closely. He does not like trouble.”
I stopped at the bottom of the steps. I stayed composed. Someone shouted again, “Just kneel and say sorry, stranger. There is no need for blood.” As I looked up at the stage, I shook my head.
“I have already spoken,” I said loud enough for all to hear. “I will not kneel for what is true.”
A sharp gasp came from the crowd. Even the children stopped whispering. The Master’s eyes narrowed. Daves stretched his arms and his face was set.
Still, the fight did not start. Not yet. All that waited was silence. It hung in the afternoon air like the smell of urine behind the beerhall.
I stood in the center of it all. I was smiling and calm. My tongue was sharp and ready. I waited to see who would dare move first.
