South African water fiction

Abstract

B ulu was walking round and round under the old oak tree pushing a pole. The other end of the pole was tied to a bunch of cowhide strips, suspended from a high-up branch. The little girl’s eyes were on the still hairy hides. They were twisting, twisting, twisting, and growing a big lumpy bulge. As the bulge got more knotted the pole pulled Bulu’s arms up and up, until they were above his head. You know, said Bulu without looking at her, when your grandfather passes on, the buck are going to die. That herd of rhebok up there on the mountain are going to die, it will take some time, but that is what will happen. Why will they die? asked the girl. That I cannot say, said Bulu. Bulu was very old and very hard to talk to. The little girl wanted to ask more but she felt unable. He had such deep dark lines in his face, and he was filled with sorrow. His sons, whom he’d raised with great care, had become cattle thieves. He said such a thing was almost enough to make him join the mission people, although not quite enough. Get out of the way! he suddenly shouted.

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