The Ndundule Invasion – Chapter 18 – I Life Yiskorokoro (Life Is A Tattered Taxi)

No Comments yet

mantzariscoverBongi walked out of the shower feeling good, in fact he had not felt so good for weeks now, and his new vocation was strenuous. He looked through his clothes. He took out his Malawian flowery shirt and black pants. He meticulously ironed them, the vagaries of a womanless life. He took them in front of the mirror and he was satisfied he had done a decent job.

He walked to the Ndundulu Civic Center and joined the queue of around 30 people. He looked around, young and old wearing an assortment of cloths, the young men their FUBU attires and multi-coloured takkies and the girls their well ironed dresses, fresh and beautiful, chatting happily. He greeted a number of them who came to shake hands and made small talk with them. He could see the excitement and anticipation in their eyes. A young man he spoke to in the shebeen a few times pushed through the crowd and shook his hand in anticipation.

“Hola, Prof”, he greeted enthusiastically.
“Hola, mfewethu (my friend), how’s things?”
“Lekker, my Prof, how are you feeling?”
“I’m in anticipation. You look good my boy.”
“Always, Prof. What we say here is if you look good you feel good. I know I look good, I feel good, I forget about poverty and find pleasure in the things that I have. I love this competition, it’s a part of our culture. I read somewhere that Shaka’s warriors themselves had a competition about whose spear shined the most.”
“It sounds interesting.”

Their deep conversation was interrupted when a YARIS parked on the side blasting a deep house anthem. A young girl wearing a skimpy mini dress stepped out and started gyrating frantically. The crowd in the queue ululated wildly, the young ones starting moving their own bodies to the rhythm. The young man joined. He pointed his right hand to the sky.

Hola  amagents IWEWE   DJ Siyanda, KZN house rocks!!!”

Bongi escaped the young man’s attention, he did not have to try hard as he had joined the young crowd dancing and ululating to the music of DJ Cleo, DJ Tira and L Volvo coming from three different cars parked outside the community hall. Bongi took a closer look at the boys and he felt that the cat walk mentality was not only in Mashu or KwaNdengezi but it had invaded Ndundulu big time. Pointy  formal shoes, tight fitting jeans, bright shirts, the works.

Suddenly Bongi realized he was in the front of the queue and asked what the entrance fee was.
“Four rand, Sir”, the young girl smiled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Four rands, Sir”, she repeated.
He gave her a twenty rands note and started counting the change in ones and twos.
“Don’t worry my girl, keep the change for community development, OK?”
“Thank you, Sir”, she smiled shyly.

He entered the center, already packed to capacity. The MC moved around like a busy bee trying to pacify the young people moving their bodies to the music blasting relentlessly, the sweat tormenting his red, yellow and black long velvet garment reminiscent of a kaftan.

When the time arrived the MC picked up the microphone and instructed the young DJ to cease.
“Ladies and gentlemen, elders, youth and differently able of Ndundulu and surrounding areas, I salute you and I welcome you with all my heart to this major social, cultural and community event, the MISS NDUNDULU COMPETITION.  Firstly let me introduce to you our panel of judges, all three of them. On my left is Mr. Hu, a very respected member of our community and a prominent Broad Based Black Economic Empowerment businessman, in the center, Mrs. Esther Dlamini, BA Honours in Nursing from the University of Natal, Chief Matron at our clinic, on the right Mr. Bongani Cele, Chief Induna (Headman). Let’s give them a round of applause, please. The crowd responded, not very heartily though. The MC seemed slightly embarrassed with the response. He kept quiet. He scratched his head, trying to think of something, looked backstage nervously. His eyes flushed naughtily, as he realized that two of the contestants were late. This ought to be a fair and square competition.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as some of you may be aware in the last few weeks our community has been honoured by the presence of a very great African intellectual and author, an anthropological giant of a man, Professor Bongi Khumalo who is performing some research in our area. I think it will be a great honour for us if the Good Prof could give us something to think about, for example African beauty. Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Bongi Khumalo.”

He felt thousands of eyes turning towards him, his newly freshened Afro splashed in sweat .If he was White he would be very embarrassed as his flesh would have turned to a beetroot red embarrassment. He looked around and felt the anticipation. He walked calmly to the stage.
” I’m completely unprepared for this, ladies and gentlemen, and I can promise you the honourable MC will pay for what he has done to me. Nevertheless as we are waiting to applaud, admire and treasure our young beauties, I do not want to take much of your time. A woman’s beauty must be respected, harnessed, caressed, and protected. I wish to tell you an ancient African ode to beauty, celebrated thousands of years ago in Egypt, the tip of our continent. It is a celebration of woman’s and a girl’s beauty.

She, the long-necked one of the radiant bust,
has hairs of true lapis.
The lustre of her skin surpasses gold.
Her fingers are like lotus petals.
She of the delicate waist and slender hips,
she whose limbs affirm her beauty,
who’s every step, is full of dignity.
My heart is afire with desire for her embrace.
She makes every man’s head turn to see her.
Whoever she greets is filled with joy,
feeling him first among youth.
When she steps out of her house,
one dreams he sees the lone star.”

He looked at the hundreds of faces in front of him, silent.
Seconds passed and he decided to step down, almost defeated. Suddenly two young well built boys stepped into the stage and grabbed him triumphantly and pushed him over their shoulders while the crowd ululated HALALA MFUNDISI HALALA, HALALA MFUNDISI HALALA. The crowded hall erupted in ululation, visibly moved by the beauty of the poem. Instantly, humiliation turned into pride, defeat into victory all in a matter of some mute seconds. Mr Hu and the judges led the standing ovation followed by the stamping of feet, some young men attacking the air with their clenched fists. Amid the celebration the MC was trying visibly annoyed to locate the two missing girls. He spoke on his phone continuously until a smile was painted on his face. He jumped into the stage visibly relieved.

Halala, Mfundisi, halala”, he exclaimed as he attempted to pacify the ululating crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, his voice crackling with visible emotion, “today we are here to celebrate African beauty, Ndundulu beauty, in all its colours, shapes and sizes. It is fine, let us treasure this competition, where we celebrate the African youth, African beauty and African spirit, the African way, not according to the Western notion of beauty we are using as our goalpost.”

The crowd loved it.
Their applause made the MC more talkative as the last two contestants were not there yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, before we start the main proceedings let us welcome the future of peoples’ music, Sbusiso Dlamini and the NDUNDULU PIMPERNELS.”

The young boy, 16 or 17 picked up the guitar and looked at the drummer and the keyboard player, winked at them. He turned to the audience:
“Ladies and gentlement we wish to dedicated this song to the late great giant of our music, Mpatheni Khumalo, also known as Mfaz Omnyama. His music is where the soul of Africa resides.”
The crowd ululated wildly.

Ohulumeni bangakithi angeke siphinde sibavotela
Ohulumeni bamakhansela angeke siphinde sibavotele
Intuthuko ayikho kulendawo, angeke siphinde sibavotele,

Ohulumeni bezifundazwe angeke siphinde sibavotele, intuthuko ayikho
Ohulumeni basekhaya angeke siphinde sibavotele

“Nathi nizokwakha izibhedlela, nakhe namaClinics,
Nemigwaqo ayikho, benzani abantu bakithi eSouth Africa”.

We will never vote for the same local government again.
They aren’t useful
there is still no development in our area.

You said that you’ll build hospitals and clinics, but that has not been done
You also promised to do road construction but we still have to walk long distances on bad roads

Something is wrong with this boy, thought Bongi amid the wild celebration. He dedicates a Phuzekhemisi song to Mfaz Omnyama.
After the ululation ceased the boy moved to the microphone:
” Maskandi is life, ladies and gentlemen, maskandi is struggle, maskandi is the Truth, maskandi is peace. I was not even born when the great heroes of our music the greats, Phuzekhemisi, Mfaz Omnyama and lhashi Elimhlope formed Izingqungqulu Zomhlaba. They traveled all over our Province to preach the message of peace and tolerance when our people killed each other. Let’s celebrate their lives, let’s mourn and celebrate their deaths.”

There was initially silence, in a second the crowd went wild, stamping their feet, ululating and clapping, young and old in a rupture of exuberance and respect. The young boy on stage seemed overwhelmed, his eyes searching the crowd, puzzled.

When the noise subsided the band moved into a vibrant version of Khula Tshitshi Lami, Mfaz Omnyama’s eternal anthem. The crowd, men and women constantly detested by state  and gods, yet possessing an immense wealth of rich rhyme and rhythm, intoxicated by the beauty of the boy’s voice mocked the inglorious poets of decadence and greed, the living death and stinking odour of easy made millions, granted immortality to African poetry written against the councillor’s contempt, protesting against the tragic fraudulence of fake institutions of power.

The ululation reached its crescendo. The MC grabbed the microphone. He looked up to the skies for a second. He turned to the audience.
” Niyabasaba Na? (Are you afraid of them?)”
” Hhayi Asibasabi Siyabafuna” (No, we aren’t … bring them on!)”, the crowd howled before they went into a rampage of cacophony again.
The MC hugged the boy visibly moved.
” Another round of applause to the future of our music, ladies and gentlemen”, he screamed on the top of his voice, “Sbusiso Dlamini and the NDUNDULU PIMPERNELS.”
After the applause died out, the anticipation was so high that the MC realized that the time was ripe.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, he announced, “the moment of truth is upon us. Let me introduce the first contestant, Nobuhle Khumalo.”

The young woman walked onto the stage, wearing a traditional black long dress, her long eyelashes searching the floor instead of the audience. She looked no younger than seventeen, cheeky little breasts and slightly inward turned knees, seemingly lacking a good dose of Vitamin D. Finally she took all the courage in the world to turn to the audience, who were silent in awe, mixed with envy at the eyes of some young women. Her lips a song to unknown and hidden gods, her eyes as wide open deep-set gardens of wild flowers. She struggled to smile as her eyes now braver encircled the crowd. She stood in the middle of the stage before she turned to the judges, their eyes glued to hers with such intensity that resembled statues, forgetting that they had a job to do, put a number on their PICK AND PAY notebooks.

The silence was broken by the crafty voice of the MC.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a round of applause to Contestant No 1, Nobuhle Khumalo.”
The applause was deafening. The young girl’s lips were struggling to a shy smile as she walked behind the old tablecloth masquerading as a curtain.

As the other five girls were announced, some of them lithe and slippery like snakes showing off the beauty of their sparkly smiles and their pretentious throaty laugh at the sneaky remarks of the young stallions in the audience. Some of the boys turned naughty when they imitated hugging gestures to the contestants, made in a dignified, mild, not rude manner. Some of the girls smiled, clearly enjoying the adulation but their eyes clearly indicating a slippery escape from them. Their smiles, however, were not mocking, just understanding the gestures of admiration. Their smiles a mixture of innocence and  provocation, but never lusty, their breasts  far removed from the crowd, but not their imagination, the desire hidden underneath their pants but steadily rising before they turned back to normality, anxiously awaiting the next contestant.

It was manna from heaven when the MC, now sweating rain announced that there will be a brief musical interval. Bongi was ready to walk out for a smoke before he realized his mistake. The crowd had swelled so much that exit was just an impossible dream. He tried to breath, it took a lot of effort as the MC, now visibly feeling the weight of expectation on his brains and body, announced the next attraction.
“Ladies and gentlemen please welcome the AMADODA SONGBIRDS.”

Seven young men wearing traditional attire walked onto the stage. Their leader, a tall, beautiful boy self-assured and cocky, looked around the hall. He stared at the roof before he turned towards his troupes. He raised his hands and closed his eyes, visibly in pray before his voice touched the first note.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will start our performance with a song taught to me by my late father, who learnt it from his late father who in turn learnt from his late father. I was told it is an imbongi (praise) song sung in the beautiful way of Isicathamiya.

Amaqhawe ethu awalahlekanga
Babeholwa iqhawe uShaka
Inkosi yamakkhosi
(Our great dead are not lost
Led by Shaka the Warrior of Warriors
The King of Kings)

As the troupe repeated the verses Bongi opened his note book and started scribbling on the first available page.
Esigodini saseNgolweni
Babeqhamuka endaweni ebenzi
Babeqhamuka amabutho
Ngapansi KweNtaba ephakemenyo
Intaba yokukhonza ngcwele
Babebheke phezulu
Amabutho ayimbumba
Lapho kuzula amange
Phezu kwezitha ezafayo
Amabutho abhodla kwanyakaza umhlabathi
Babehlehla ngobunyonico eNqolweni
Phakathi nendawo
Kwezihlahla ezinhlanu
Izihlahla ezinomuzwa

(In the valleys of Nqoklweni
Coming out from the Deep Well
Surrounded by warriors
Below the highest Mountain of All
The Mountain of Glory
Facing the Skies
Warriors  as One
While the vultures fly
Over the dead enemies
Attacking their dead corpses
Amabutho’s roars shake the soil
As they retreat to the Well at Nqoklweni
In between the circle of
The five trees
That do not Travel
The Trees that only feel
And Remember)

Bongi felt his brain twisted from the beauty of the lyrics and the sound of cothoza mfana (tip toe boys) he first witnessed in the early 1970’s when he listened to LADYSMITH BLACK MAMBAZO’s Amabutho (Warriors) record, the spiritual anthems of isicathamiya, the mixing of history with the future, people saying that the mission from the ancestors and God was now accomplished. Deep inside him he knew he was almost there, but then, he has said that before many times in his life, mostly in vain, defeated by fate, history, ancestors, but in most cases by his own careless mistakes and actions.

He folded his notebook, he was sure he would not need it anymore for the night. All these thoughts cruised through his mind as the young group prepared for their next rendition of “Isikifil’ Inkululeko” (“Freedom Has Arrived”), Wemadoda, and Ngingenwe Emoyeni , accompanying their vocal harmonies with a variety of hand and foot combinations reminiscent of capoeira and break-dancing, but far more advanced than either of these dance styles. These boys could be MAMBAZO’s grand children, but they had almost perfected the master’s act so much so that their move from the quick footing to the customary quiet stepping oozed of maturity and deep discipline, a discipline of ancient warriors rather than young boys who most likely wasted the best part of their lives in a shady rural tavern. This is a difficult dance, the leg kicking a combination of mastery, perseverance and discipline, legs up touching the ceiling and as far beyond as possible, adding to the difficulty of the dance.

When the second round of contestants began parading, Bongi thought that the attention span of the crowd would have evaporated significantly. A careful glance of the mood told him otherwise. The traces of beauty parading on the tiny stage resembled forgotten dreams, sometimes dimly, sometimes as shapely as the sunbeams, some of the contestants as brisk as Kate Moss and others as rough and stern looking as that coloured British model who loves being photographed with Nelson Mandela, Naomi Campbell. Beauty and harmony mixed with the coming darkness, African Sirens disguised as African Aphrodites despising the pale golden sickle of the endearing moon. No Coppolas, no Cohen Brothers, no Oliver Stone present to masterly direct their gazelle-like movements, only thousands pairs of eyes glued on the young souls the same way a stock thief examines a cattle, carefully and with care, interest and expertise. The silent admiration, mixed with male greed and hidden passions and dreams filled the sweaty hall.

The girls’ faces are beautiful, most of them having avoided fongkong (cheap imported) dresses, obviously they and their families had made sacrifices by visiting EDGARS in Empangeni, hoping that their loved one will repay them by winning the grand first price of R1000 and a free entry to USHAKA MARINE for a week for two people. Their presence and movement made the existence of only two VP toilets in the hall a tiny inconvenience as the anticipation for the final phase of the competition, question and answer time was looming. Now it was not the glitz or the traditionalism of the gown that counted, because if it were, contestant No 8 had no chance with a peach curtain mini decorated like bridesmaid regalia, would definitely sink in the eyes of the rigorous and well educated judges.

Question and answer time was in both English and isiZulu. Some people felt that the girls who attended Model C Schools in Melmoth had an unfair advantage, but the rules of the competition were clear and could not be bent only for tonight’s glittering event, a rule is a rule. The questions prepared by the panel of judges were really exciting and revealing.

“What would you cook for dinner for his Excellency our President Mr. Kgalema Monthanthe, Nondumiso?”
“I’ll give him pepperoni pizza from ROMAN’S PIZZA in Empangeni”, she retorted proudly, as the audience clapped hysterically.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”, the MC asked cheekily of an 18 year old, Contestant No 4.
“I will only get a boyfriend when I complete my B. Com degree at UNIZULU( UNIVERSITY OF ZULULAND)”, she responded, “and I will only have sex on my wedding night.”
The hall froze. In fact very few knew the young woman before tonight she was from one of the smaller areas around, but this was not the problem. What froze the crowd was the vehemence and power of her response, which in fact went well beyond the scope of the question. The girl realized her blunder and she possibly realized she squandered her chances for good, but she walked towards the backstage seemingly happy with herself.
“Which is your favourite t-shirt?”, the MC asked contestant 3.
“Because it’s free”, she smiled casually.

The responses with a few exceptions seem to bore the audience as the anticipation for the results seemed to take the driving seat. The MC tried to galvanise the audience to no avail. As a retired DJ at RADIO UKHOSI and a respected old timer he read the mood accurately and announced an interval of half an hour so that the judges could debate the issues and announce the winner.

“In the meantime I have the new, exciting and revolting new DJ, directly from CLUB PHAMBILI MSHOLOZI (FORWARD JACOB ZUMA) in the Melmoth CBD to entertain you now and later, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome DJ VAGOLTA.”
Silence greeted the announcement, which was interrupted by a roar of approval as the young short man with a colourful hoody and deep huge dark glasses encircled by green and blue shadows entered the stage and moved behind the turntables. He picked up the microphone, stuck it into his mouth and his deep, dark and dangerous voice splashed across the hall.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemens, it’s DJ VAGOLTA on the groove and I have this to say: “Whoever has said that kwaito is dead should be in Ndundulu tonight, because peoples’ music does not die, it will never die”

He expertly pulled the trigger with Mdu’s MAZOLA and the crowd did not need a second reminder, young and old started moving their bodies fast and furiously while the young man continued with Boom Shaka’s THOBELA and Brown Dash’s VOOMVOOM, Spikiri’s WIKI-OOOWEEE,  Bongo Maffin’s THATHI SGUBHU, TKZEE’s MAMBOTJIE,  Lebo Mathosa’s AWUDEDE, Mawillies’s YINTWENJANI LE and Trompies’ SWEETIE LAVO. In between he passed some very snide remarks about the new breed like BLACK COFFEE and DJ Cleo calling them some unmentionable names in isiZulu before he made his final announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen for the rest of the interval let us pay tribute to the prophets of our music DJ Christos Katsaitis and DJ Oskido Oscar Mdlongwa. By the way my name is a mixture of DJ Christos’s father’s name, Vagos and my favour artist John Travolta, hola DJ Christos hola, hola DJ Oskido hola!!!!!”
“Hola!!!!”, The crowd responded before they continued their hip moves in the hall.

The MC tried hard to stop the dancing hundreds when he invaded the stage to take over the responsibilities.
““Ladies and gentlemen now the moment we all are waiting for. It took a little bit longer than expected because the choice before the judges was difficult, their responsibilities awesome, but finally they made their decision. Before I call upon them, let me repeat the rules of the announcement. I remind you that in the MISS NDUNDULU COMPETTION there is only one winner with two princesses. As our selection initially is for ten finalists, first, we call the ten finalists, then the judges announce the two princesses and then the final winner. Now I call on all the winners, all ten of them, because in our eyes they are all winners, to come to the stage.”

The ten young women entered the stage under Vagolta’s rendition of NKALAKATHA and the earth shaking ululation of the crowd. The induna, followed by the Matron walked up the stage while Mr. Hu remained glued on his judging chair. The two judges shook hands, hugged and kissed each contestant separately accompanied by a mixture of applause and hissing. In the end, the Induna, holding a small piece of paper in his hand turned to the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, I have had the honour of being a Judge at this prestigious social and community occasion for the last few years. I promise you from the bottom of my heart that today was the most challenging, rewarding and difficult choice we have make in our lives. If you do not believe me you can confirm the truth by asking my fellow judges. We have in front of us a group of very talented, beautiful and intelligent young girls who make our Ndundulu and surroundings proud. They are the future mothers and grandmothers of our Nation, and the MC is absolutely correct when he says that all of them are winners tonight. Please let us reward them with a warm Ndundulu applause to show our love and appreciation.”

The applause was tired but thunderous. Time had taken its toll and the anticipation was more than evident. The Induna opened his tattered piece of paper, pulled his glasses closer to his eyes and announced.
“The second princes is Contestant No 6, Ms. Nkululeko Mthetwa.”
The young girl, visibly happy was kissed on both her cheeks by the two judges and allowed the Induna to put the crown on her head.
“The first princess is Contestant No 4, Ms. Duduzile Ngcobo.”
Miss Ngcobo let her tears flow freely before she reluctantly offered her cheek to be kissed by the Induna, and her head to be crowned. In fact it was very difficult for one to judge whether her tears were signs of happiness or sheer frustration.

“Contestant No 1, Ms Nobuhle Khumalo is the winner of the MISS NDUNDULU Competition and a winner of great prizes that have been already announced by the MC. Congratulations Miss Khumalo, you will be the representative of our area for the forthcoming year. Now I call upon Miss Sindiwe Naicker, the 2007 winner to crown you.”

A beautiful, tall dark woman at a late stage of pregnancy escaped the arms of a taller, much darker husband who looked lost in the crowd, and kissed the new winner on both her cheeks before she took the microphone almost forcefully from the hands of the Induna. She addressed the crowd in English.
“I wish to congratulate Nobuhle on her achievement and all the other girls. All the best for the future. For a year I did my best to make all of you proud and I did many training sessions at the schools. I participated in the abstention dates organised by the Department of Social Development. As you can see I’m expecting my first baby in eight weeks time and I wish to thank all of you, my family and my lovely husband Mr. Selvan Naicker for making me the happiest woman on Earth.”
“Has the char ou (Indian man) paid ilobolo (dowry), Sindi?”, A mkhulu inquired amid the loud laughter of the crowd.
“He paid damages first and ilobolo second, and he’s not a char ou, he’s one of us now, because he’s my husband.”

No one retaliated, most shaking their heads in agreement. Bongi looked towards the tall char ou’s direction. Selvan’s eyes shone of pride mixed with love. When Sindi walked towards him he bent and kissed her hand. She grabbed him and retaliated with a mixture of Zulu and French kiss. The crowd went wild.

The announcement of the winner gave DJ Vagolta an opportunity to show his remixing skills by alternating kwaito with traditional mixed with some short bhangra bits in between. The extended photo session was endlessly drawn out, on par with clapping required after a ballet, as everyone in the audience wanted to be photographed with the winner, the princesses and the contestants. The young stallions with their NIKE and crocodile pointed shoes started flirting with every single young woman present, while others were doing their bit on the dance floor. Group of young people in circles lying on the floor dancing using only one foot rose in the air, celebrating beauty, brains and community spirit.

The crowd kept on cheering the contestants and their families while Vagolta deviates playing of DJ Siyanda’s Iwewe, a house anthem song, blasting the speakers. “This is not truly a real rural experience”, Bongi thought, “it was something much more, a celebration of community mixing, a spirited mixture of vibrancy, urban fashion, new born local celebrities and the continuation of a dream”.

His eyes moved around the dancing crowd comparing mental notes on essence and appearance. The contrasts present on the floor were evident: Sweaty youths with pointy formal shoes, tight-fitting jeans and bright shirts were dancing with mkhulus with typical rural traditional attires. Old gogos with freshly ironed, yet worn out dresses were mixing easily with town workers and two policemen who were busier flirting with every female on sight instead of taking care of law and order. Girls showed off their dance moves in the middle of the circle while gyrating their bodies to the beat, while eyeing guys who looked like a good bet fishing for attention.
In this circle attention was the name of the game, and it seemed there were few winners, the girls seemingly dreaming of Gucci clad DJ Sbu types spinning their cars in a circle and leaving tire marks on the road.
But who cares, everybody was here to have fun.

In a dark corner contestant No 4 who claimed she would have only a boyfriend after she completed her B.Com degree at the University of Zululand and loses her virginity on her wedding night was kissing, passionately, a tall boy wearing a Blade Nzimande T-shirt, her tongue .moving furiously into the caves of his mouth.

Bongi exited the hall and entered the tavern. Everyone was celebrating the success of the pageant noisily, even those who were not there. He greeted the regulars, bought them a round of drinks and walked towards the bed and breakfast.
He was almost sure that he was in the right path, he was closing towards the truth.

His sleep was uninterrupted from haunting dreams.

Next chapter: Chapter 19

©  Evan Mantzaris – The Ndundulu Invasion – Rozenberg Quarterly 2013 – ISBN 978 90 361 0201 8

Bookmark and Share


Leave a Reply

What is 2 + 7 ?
Please leave these two fields as-is:
IMPORTANT! To be able to proceed, you need to solve the following simple math (so we know that you are a human) :-)

  • About

    Rozenberg Quarterly aims to be a platform for academics, scientists, journalists, authors and artists, in order to offer background information and scholarly reflections that contribute to mutual understanding and dialogue in a seemingly divided world. By offering this platform, the Quarterly wants to be part of the public debate because we believe mutual understanding and the acceptance of diversity are vital conditions for universal progress. Read more...
  • Support

    Rozenberg Quarterly does not receive subsidies or grants of any kind, which is why your financial support in maintaining, expanding and keeping the site running is always welcome. You may donate any amount you wish and all donations go toward maintaining and expanding this website.

    10 euro donation:

    20 euro donation:

    Or donate any amount you like:

    ABN AMRO Bank
    Rozenberg Publishers
    IBAN NL65 ABNA 0566 4783 23
    reference: Rozenberg Quarterly

    If you have any questions or would like more information, please see our About page or contact us:
  • Like us on Facebook

  • Follow us on Twitter

  • Archives