Short Story
The Fox
By Lawrence Kadzitche
The District Commissioner had been in Africa for more than thirty years. He had joined the Foreign Service as a young man and posted first to South Africa and then to Southern Rhodesia. He considered the natives as savages who had to be civilized through any means. And when he was posted to Nyasaland, which he considered more backward than Southern Rhodesia, he thought it was going to be very easy to teach the natives modern civilization and Christianity.
“They’re savages with a thinking capacity of a mentally retarded child,” he said on his arrival at Fort Manning to take up the position of District Commissioner.
But the Catholic priest he was talking to had contrary views. “They may easily give up their beliefs but not their ways. You can convert them to Christianity but you’ll still find them participating in pagan dances.”
The DC laughed. “I can make them change everything,” he said confidently. “To me making them change their ways is much easier than changing their beliefs.”
One day he was told of an old woman called Nangondo who had earned a reputation as the best distiller of spirits in the district. Locally distilled spirits, known as kachasu or bibida, were banned by the colonial administration. The drink had a high alcohol content and was made from grain. Messengers from the DC’s office made rounds of the district and anyone found distilling kachasu was arrested and distilling equipment confiscated.
The punishment meted out on arrested distillers, who were often old women, was severe. The culprit was made to carry the distilling apparatus, which consisted of a big clay pot and a wooden water through with a metal pipe through it, on her head and trek from her village to the DC’s office. The humiliation and physical torture experienced made those caught never to engage in the business again.
Kachasu was outlawed not because the strong drink posed a health hazard to its users but because it encouraged drunkenness and laziness as it could be obtained cheaply. This disturbed workers at white owned tobacco farms around her village because after receiving their wages, the farm workers did not report for work for several days until they had spent all their money on her spirits. The Dutch Reformed Church was in the forefront in campaigning against the consumption of Kachasu. The Catholic Church took a more or less tolerant attitude on the matter.
The unwelcome news of Nangondo struck the DC’s professional pride in a vulnerable spot. He immediately made a surprise visit to Nangondo’s village. Very angry, he presented himself at the village Chief’s house.
“I’ve heard that there’s a woman in this village who’s still distilling spirits although the law prohibits doing so,” the DC said without opening pleasantries.
The chief, a tall old man of about eighty, shook his head. “That is not true, bwanamkubwa. No-one distils spirits in this village.”
“Voetsek!” the DC spat at the old chief to show what little store he set by the chief’s assertion. The Afrikaans crude words he had picked up in South Africa had stuck with him. “Lead me to Nangondo’s house,” he commanded.
“All right,” the chief said, hunching his shoulders in mock resignation.
They made their way to Nangondo’s house. Nangondo herself welcomed them when they arrived.
She was a small wizened old lady. Her face, which looked like that of a monkey, gave her a cunning look. Her house was big and made of poles covered with mud and thatched with grass. It was surrounded by a fence made of grass.
The house was well-kept and the surrounding swept clean. There was no sign that kachasu was distilled there. All the same, the DC ordered a careful search of the house. Nangondo was co-operative and happily showed them all the rooms. The search yielded nothing.
“If you were still distilling the filthy kachasu, I advise you to stop right now,” the DC said after the fruitless search. “If you continue, I assure you that I’ll catch you and I’ll punish you in such a way that you’ll serve as a warning to others who are following your bad example.”
“Bwanamkubwa, ndine wampingo wa a Datchi, mpingo wathu sulola mowa-DC, I’m a member of the Dutch Reformed Church, our church does not permit beer,” the old woman replied with a smile.
“Basop. I’ve warned you,” the DC responded angrily.
Like a suspicious dog, she followed the departing party of the DC with her eyes until it was out of sight. When she turned and walked indoors, a sly smile was on her monkey-like face.
News that the old woman was still distilling spirits kept reaching the DC’s ears. He kept sending messengers to her house but they always came back empty-handed. The DC believed that Nangondo distilled kachasu but had perfected ways of evading arrest.
“The cursed woman! I’ll get her and she’ll be very sorry that she ever tried to trick me. A savage cannot trick me. Never!”
The DC did not know that Nangondo survived because she was protected by the whole village including his own messengers. She had won over the chief’s protection by making sure that she invited him over whenever she distilled kachasu and placed at his disposal a big bottle called “velemoti” free of charge. She maintained the villagers’ loyalty by making sure that she always provided super grade spirits at low prices. More importantly, long before the conceited DC had arrived, she had won the messengers support by giving them kachasu free of charge when they were passing through the village to bust other distillers. In this way, she knew no-one would inform on her.
She distilled and sold her spirits openly in her yard. She hid the distillation equipment and kachasu bottles in an old well some distance behind her house. She knew the searchers would never look there. And even if they found it, she would always deny ownership of the equipment.
With the DC’s vain attempt to nab Nangondo, she became a legend among kachasu imbibers in the district. This enraged the DC. It hurt his pride that he was failing to deal with not only a savage, but an old one and a woman for that matter. The DC felt that he had to defeat Nangondo or the supremacy of the whites in the district would be betrayed.
He secretly called his messengers, one at a time, and promised money and promotion to whoever gave him information leading to Nangondo’s arrest. The strategy paid off. One day one of his messengers reported that Nangondo would be distilling kachasu the following day. The DC was filled with joy and told the informer not to give the information to other messengers. He suspected that there was an informer among his messengers. So if he were to catch the tricky old woman, secrecy was of utmost importance.
The following morning, he summoned his messengers. “Today we’re going to arrest that dirty old woman who pollutes this beautiful district with her stinking kachasu.”
The messengers were astonished. How did their boss know that Nangondo was distilling spirits on that day? Who among them had ratted her out? Now they knew that the old woman would be caught in the act. They knew in the past she had evaded arrest because they always tipped her off of any impending visit by the DC. This gave her a chance to hide everything. But what was going to happen on that day, they wondered.
The DC and his messengers boarded their Land Rover like soldiers going to war. The DC’s face was a mask of triumph, his eyes shining with excitement. However, even the most perfect plan is spoiled by something. In the DC’s case, it was a small boy, a klein seuntjie in the DC’s words, who ruined his perfect ambush. The boy, who was hunting mice in the fields, saw the Land Rover bearing on the village. Due to the DC’s frequent past raids, he knew where the bwanamkumbwa was headed. Choosing the shortest possible route, he dashed through the maize fields and warned Nangondo of the approaching party.
She only had time to hide the distilling equipment in the old well. When she returned to collect the bottle full of kachasu, the DC’s vehicle had arrived outside her house. Nangondo’s crafty mind worked fast. The bottle was more than what the DC would need to force her to reveal where she had hidden her distilling equipment.
Looking this way and that way, she grabbed the bottle and drunk its contents. Then she threw the empty bottle into a rubbish pit where it broke into small pieces. A minute later the DC and his men stormed through the opening in the grass fence. They quickly spread out and the search was on in earnest.
Nangondo watched them, a cunning smile on her monkey like face. The drink that she had consumed was the one that was obtained in the first phase of distillation of the spirits. It was known as mutu and had a very high alcohol content. It was added to water to arrive at the acceptable alcohol content before being consumed.
The alcohol quickly took effect and soon Nangondo was intoxicated. She began singing and dancing. The DC was astonished. He tried to stop her but to no avail.
“What’s wrong with her?” the bewildered DC, indicating Nangondo, wanted to know from the village chief.
The chief immediately guessed what had happened. “She’s our rain maker. She’s praying to the spirits to give us rain this year.”
“Twak!” spat the DC. “Search everywhere!”
He actually led the search, turning the whole house upside down but found nothing. When he was leaving the village, he had all the signs of defeat like those of a badly beaten dog. He did not doubt that the old woman had tricked him but how, he could not fathom out. He made up his mind to leave her alone. There was nothing to be gained by antagonizing her further, he reasoned.
In the village, the following morning, the chief paid Nangondo a visit. “How many bottles did you drink, daughter?” he asked softly.
“Only one, but it was mutu,” replied Nangondo, nursing a terrible hangover.
The chief smiled. “You fooled that obdurate DC. I wonder whether he’ll ever come here again. I’d say you’ve taken all the fight out of him.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Nangondo.
True to the chief’s word, the DC never paid the enterprising old woman another visit again.
The End
