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UTA The Old Chief Mshlanga Oppression and Racial Discrimination Essay

UTA The Old Chief Mshlanga Oppression and Racial Discrimination Essay

Question Description

the essay is three pages. please read the requirements!!!!!
Like with other analyses that you have done, you should begin this essay with a short, succinct summaryof “The Old Chief Mshlanga.” Be sure to identify both the author and the title of the work in your openingsentence. In your first paragraph, after the summary (not more than 100 words), you should then identify themore prominent themes that stand out in Lessing’s short story. Pick one or two of those themes to write about,making it clear in your own thesis statement that “this theme” and/or “that theme” is what you will be focusingon (DO NOT use “I” statements. Do not simply say, “I will write about the importance of maintaining humandignity.” That’s too easy. Instead, you could word your thesis statement like this: “The importance ofmaintaining human dignity as a way of keeping the peace plays a central role in Doris Lessing’s ‘The Old ChiefMshlanga.’” Of course there are a million other thesis statements you could come up with; this is just one.Then, over the course of your essay, focus on that one theme (or two themes), substantiating your claim withquotes from Lessing’s short story. But mostly, this assignment is about fresh insight on your part.
After you have read Doris Lessing’s short story, “The Old ChiefMshlanga,” I want you to think about the various ethical themes thatrun through it, such as the importance of dignity, the desire forautonomy, the fear of the unknown, the impact of strained racerelations, and the idea of private ownership, whether it be of land orof other people. If you think of other themes that emerge — andthere are plenty of them, believe me — be sure to make note ofthem. Then, what I want you to do, in your own words, is to take oneor two of those themes and discuss their significance to the story and its overall message. Additionally, I wantyou to think about how those themes are relevant in our own lives today, and how Lessing’s story is analogousto similar events in American history (other histories work fine too: think British). To do this, you will need toengage in some research, gathering facts and information from two or three scholarly sources, such astextbooks and the library database, that credibly support your analysis and understanding of those historicalevents and the impact they had, and continue to have, on affected people everywhere. To be sure, I want youto write at least three full pages of authoritative analysis, with proper source attribution and documentation, aswell as a Works Cited page, that focuses on the importance of Lessing’s underlying theme and its ongoingrelevance for all of us. That’s the beauty of great literature: it allows us to reflect upon timeless themes and torespond to them in a thoughtful and insightful manner.

Some common errors I have encountered in the past with students include misidentification of the OldChief Mshlanga as a Native American Indian. That is not true. He is an African tribal chief, and the story itself isset in sub-Saharan Africa. Those details must be clear. Another error that I see repeatedly is students assumingthat the young narrator and protagonist of the story is Doris Lessing herself. Again, not true. Although much ofwhat Doris Lessing has written is semi-autobiographical (she was British but was raised in Rhodesia, nowZimbabwe), this story itself is more or less fiction. Also keep in mind that it is a “story,” not a “passage,” not an“article,” not an “essay.” It is a “story.” And it is a brilliant piece of modern literature.Chances are pretty good you will correctly identify the one tragic event from American history that isclearly analogous to Lessing’s story. If and when you identify that event, be sure to use it in its proper context,clearly connecting it to what occurs in the story. To be sure, there are many, many such analogous eventsthroughout history, and you could (and should) very easily connect them to the story as well.Finally, there is one very subtle but very disturbing event that is about to unfold in this story. I do notwant to give it away, but if you remember the prompt from your last essay about The Twilight Zone and “TheEye of the Beholder,” you should be able to make a connection. Write about it. It’s too important to miss.For some much needed extra credit, you can do the following assignment. Feel free to integrate thisextra credit into your essay over “The Old Chief Mshlanga.” This extra credit will involve some additionalresearch, but it is a fascinating yet sad story that says much about American culture and American values.Please connect with me thru ACC’s online tutoring very soon. I need to meet with everyone one-on-one.Extra Credit:Who was Kikisoblu aka “Princess Angeline”? Do your research. Look at the photos below. Makeconnections. BIG connections. Link the past with the present. Link Kikisoblu to “The Old Chief Mshlanga” andespecially to “What You Pawn I Will Redeem.” Also, open the website below and browse thru it, explaining inyour own words what it is, what its mission is, and how it connects with the Sherman Alexie story “What YouPawn I Will Redeem.” Also read the Indian Policy statements below and integrate them into your response too.Go to this web address: https://www.chiefseattleclub.org/

Read carefully please.

The Old Chief Mshlanga

(1951) by Doris LessingThey were good, the years of ranging the bush over her father’s farm,which, like every white farm, was largely unused, broken only occasionally bysmall patches of cultivation. In between, nothing but trees, the long sparse grass,thorn and cactus and gully, grass and outcrop and thorn. And a jutting piece ofrock which had been thrust up from the warm soil of Africa unimaginable eras oftime ago, washed into hollows and whorls by sun and wind that had travelled somany thousands of miles of space and bush, would hold the weight of a small girlwhose eyes were sightless for anything but a pale willowed river, a pale gleamingcastle – a small girl singing: ‘Out flew the web and floated wide, the mirrorcracked from side to side…’Pushing her way through the green aisles of mealie stalks, the leavesarching like cathedrals veined with sunlight far overhead, with the packed redearth underfoot, a fine lace of red-starred witchweed would summon up a blackbent figure croaking premonitions: the Northern witch, bred of cold Northernforests, would stand before her among the mealie fields, and it was the mealiefields that faded and fled, leaving her among the gnarled roots of an oak, snowfalling thick and soft, the woodcutter’s fire glowing red welcome through crowdingtree trunks.A white child, opening its eyes curiously on a sun-suffused landscape, agaunt and violent landscape, might be supposed to accept it as her own, to takethe msasa trees and the thorn trees as familiars, to feel her blood running freeand responsive to the swing of the seasons.This child could not see a msasa tree, or the thorn, for what they were.Her books held tales of alien fairies, her rivers ran slow and peaceful, and sheknew the shape of the leaves of an ash or an oak, the names of the littlecreatures that lived in English streams, when the words ‘the veld’ meantstrangeness, though she could remember nothing else.Because of this, for many years, it was the veld that seemed unreal; thesun was a foreign sun, and the wind spoke a strange language.The black people on the farm were as remote as the trees and the rocks.They were an amorphous black mass, mingling and thinning and massing liketadpoles, faceless, who existed merely to serve, to say ‘Yes, Bass,” take theirmoney and go. They changed season by season, moving from one farm to thenext, according to their outlandish needs, which one did not have to understand,coming from perhaps hundreds of miles North or East, passing on after a fewmonths – where? Perhaps even as far away as the fabled gold mines ofJohannesburg, where the pay was so much better than the few shillings a monthand the double handful of mealie meal twice a day which they earned in that partof Africa.The child was taught to take them for granted: the servants in the housewould come running a hundred yards to pick up a book if she dropped it. Shewas called ‘Nkosikaas’ – Chieftainess, even by the black children her own age.Later, when the farm grew too small to hold her curiosity, she carried agun in the crook of her arm and wandered many miles a day, from vlei to vlei,from kopje to kopje, accompanied by two dogs: the dogs and the gun were anarmour against fear. Because of them she never felt fear.If a native came into sight along the kaffir paths half a mile away, the dogswould flush him up a tree as if he were a bird. If he expostulated (in his uncouthlanguage which was by itself ridiculous) that was cheek. If one was in a goodmood, it could be a matter for laughing. Otherwise one passed on, hardlyglancing at the angry man in the tree.On the rare occasions when white children met together they could amusethemselves by hailing a passing native in order to make a buffoon of him; theycould set the dogs on him and watch him run; they could tease a small blackchild as if he were a puppy – save that they would not throw stones and sticks ata dog without a sense of guilt.Later still, certain questions presented themselves in the child’s mind; andbecause the answers were not easy to accept, they were silenced by an evengreater arrogance of manner.It was even impossible to think of the black people who worked about thehouse as friends, for if she talked to one of them, her mother would come runninganxiously: ‘Come away; you mustn’t talk to natives.’It was this instilled consciousness of danger, of something unpleasant,that made it easy to laugh out loud, crudely, if a servant made a mistake in hisEnglish or if he failed to understand an order – there is a certain kind of laughterthat is fear, afraid of itself.One evening, when I was about fourteen, I was walking down the side of amealie field that had been newly ploughed, so that the great red clods showedfresh and tumbling to the vlei beyond, like a choppy red sea; it was that hushedand listening hour, when the birds send long sad calls from tree to tree, and allthe colours of earth and sky and leaf are deep and golden. I had my rifle in thecurve of my arm, and the dogs were at my heels.In front of me, perhaps a couple of hundred yards away, a group of threeAfricans came into sight around the side of a big antheap. I whistled the dogsclose in to my skirts and let the gun swing in my hand, and advanced, waiting forthem to move aside, off the path, in respect for my passing. But they came onsteadily, and the dogs looked at me for the command to chase. I was angry. Itwas ‘cheek’ for a native not to stand off a path, the moment he caught sight ofyou.In front walked an old man, stooping his weight on to a stick, his hairgrizzled white, a dark red blanket slung over his shoulders like a cloak. Behindhim came two young men, carrying bundles of pots, assegais, hatchets.The group was not a usual one. They were not natives seeking work.These had an air of dignity, of quietly following their own purpose. It was thedignity that checked my tongue. I walked quietly on, talking softly to the growlingdogs, till I was ten paces away. Then the old man stopped, drawing his blanketclose.‘’Morning, Nkosikaas,’ he said, using the customary greeting for any timeof the day.‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Where are you going?’ My voice was a littletruculent.The old man spoke in his own language, then one of the young menstepped forward politely and said in careful English: ‘My Chief travels to see hisbrothers beyond the river.’A Chief! I thought, understanding the pride that made the old man standbefore me like an equal – more than an equal, for he showed courtesy, and Ishowed none.The old man spoke again, wearing dignity like an inherited garment, stillstanding ten paces off, flanked by his entourage, not looking at me (that wouldhave been rude) but directing his eyes somewhere over my head at the trees.‘You are the little Nkosikaas from the farm of Bass Jordan?’‘That’s right,’ I said.‘Perhaps your father does not remember,’ said the interpreter for the oldman, ‘but there was an affair with some goats. I remember seeing you when youwere…’ The young man held his hand at knee level and smiled.We all smiled.‘What is your name?’ I asked.‘This is Chief Mshlanga,’ said the young man.‘I will tell my father that I met you,’ I said.The old man said: ‘My greetings to your father, little Nkosikaas.’‘Good morning,’ I said politely, finding the politeness difficult, from lack ofuse.‘’Morning, little Nkosikaas,’ said the old man, and stood aside to let mepass.I went by, my gun hanging awkwardly, the dogs sniffing and growling,cheated of their favourite game of chasing natives like animals.Not long afterwards I read in an old explorer’s book the phrase: ‘ChiefMshlanga’s country.’ It went like this: ‘Our destination was Chief Mshlanga’scountry, to the north of the river; and it was our desire to ask his permission toprospect for gold in his territory.’The phrase ‘ask his permission’ was so extraordinary to a white child,brought up to consider all natives as things to use, that it revived thosequestions, which could not be suppressed: they fermented slowly in my mind.On another occasion one of those old prospectors who still move overAfrica looking for neglected reefs, with their hammers and tents, and pans forsifting gold from crushed rock, came to the farm and, in talking of the old days,used that phrase again: ‘This was the Old Chief’s country,’ he said. ‘It stretchedfrom those mountains over there, way back to the river, hundreds of miles ofcountry.’ That was his name for our district: ‘The Old Chief’s Country’; he did notuse our name for it – a new phrase which held no implication of usurpedownership.As I read more books about the time when this part of Africa was openedup, not much more than fifty years before, I found Old Chief Mshlanga had beena famous man, known to all the explorers and prospectors. But then he had beenyoung; or maybe it was his father or uncle they spoke of – I never found out.During that year I met him several times in the part of the farm that wastraversed by natives moving over the country. I learned that the path up the sideof the big red field where the birds sang was the recognized highway formigrants. Perhaps I even haunted it in the hope of meeting him: being greeted byhim, the exchange of courtesies, seemed to answer the questions that troubledme.Soon I carried a gun in a different spirit; I used it for shooting food and notto give me confidence. And now the dogs learned better manners. When I saw anative approaching, we offered and took greetings; and slowly that otherlandscape in my mind faded, and my feet struck directly on the African soil, and Isaw the shapes of tree and hill clearly, and the black people moved back, as itwere, out of my life: it was as if I stood aside to watch a slow intimate dance oflandscape and men, a very old dance, whose steps I could not learn.But I thought: this is my heritage, too; I was bred here; it is my country aswell as the black man’s country; and there is plenty of room for all of us, withoutelbowing each other off the pavements and roads.It seemed it was only necessary to let free that respect I felt when I wastalking with Old Chief Mshlanga, to let both black and white people meet gently,with tolerance for each other’s differences: it seemed quite easy.Then, one day, something new happened. Working in our house asservants were always three natives: cook, houseboy, garden boy. They used tochange as the farm natives changed: staying for a few months, then moving onto a new job, or back home to their kraals. They were thought of as ‘good’ or‘bad’ natives; which meant: how did they behave as servants? Were they lazy,efficient, obedient, or disrespectful? If the family felt good-humoured, the phrasewas: ‘What can you expect from raw black savages?’ If we were angry, we said:‘These damned niggers, we would be much better off without them.’One day, a white policeman was on his rounds of the district, and he saidlaughingly: ‘Did you know you have an important man in your kitchen?’‘What!’ exclaimed my mother sharply. ‘What do you mean?’‘A Chief’s son.’ The policeman seemed amused. ‘He’ll boss the tribe whenthe old man dies.’‘He’d better not put on a Chief’s son act with me,’ said my mother.When the policeman left, we looked with different eyes at our cook; hewas a good worker, but he drank too much at week-ends – that was how weknew him.He was a tall youth, with very black skin, like black polished metal, histightly-growing black hair parted white man’s fashion at one side, with a metalcomb from the store stuck into it; very polite, very distant, very quick to obey anorder. Now it had been pointed out, we said: ‘Of course, you can see. Bloodalways tells.’My mother became strict with him now she knew about his birth andprospects. Sometimes, when she lost her temper, she would say: ‘You aren’t theChief yet, you know.’ And he would answer her very quietly, his eyes on theground: ‘Yes, Nkosikaas.’One afternoon he asked for a whole day off, instead of the customary halfday, to go home next Sunday.‘How can you go home in one day?’‘It will take me half an hour on my bicycle,’ he explained.I watched the direction he took; and the next day I went off to look for hiskraal; I understood he must be Chief Mshlanga’s successor: there was no otherkraal near enough our farm.Beyond our boundaries on that side the country was new to me. I followedunfamiliar paths past kopjes that till now had been part of the jagged horizon,hazed with distance. This was Government land, which had never beencultivated by white men; at first I could not understand why it was that itappeared, in merely crossing the boundary, I had entered a completely fresh typeof landscape. It was a wide green valley, where a small river sparkled, and vividwater-birds darted over the rushes. The grass was thick and soft to my calves,the trees stood tall and shapely.I was used to our farm, whose hundreds of acres of harsh eroded soil boretrees that had been cut for the mine furnaces and had grown thin and twisted,where the cattle had dragged the grass flat, leaving innumerable criss-crossingtrails that deepened each season into gullies, under the force of the rains.This country had been left untouched, save for prospectors whose pickshad struck a few sparks from the surface of the rocks as they wandered by; andfor migrant natives whose passing had left, perhaps, a charred patch on the trunkof a tree where their evening fire had nestled.It was very silent: a hot morning with pigeons cooing throatily, the middayshadows lying dense and thick with clear yellow spaces of sunlight between, andin all that wide green park-like valley, not a human soul but myself.I was listening to the quick regular tapping of a woodpecker when slowly achill feeling seemed to grow up from the small of my back to my shoulders, in aconstricting spasm like a shudder, and at the roots of my hair a tingling sensationbegan and ran down over the surface of my flesh, leaving me goose-fleshed andcold, though I was damp with sweat. Fever? I thought; then uneasily, turned tolook over my shoulder; and realized suddenly that this was fear. For all the yearsI had walked by myself over this country I had never known a moment’suneasiness; in the beginning because I had been supported by a gun and thedogs, then because I had learnt an easy friendliness for the Africans I mightencounter.I had read of this feeling, how the bigness and silence of Africa, under theancient sun, grows dense and takes shape in the mind, till even the birds seemto call menacingly, and a deadly spirit comes out of the trees and rocks. Youmove warily, as if your every passing disturbs something old and evil, somethingdark and big and angry that might suddenly rear and strike from behind. You lookat groves of entwined trees, and picture the animals that might be lurking there;you look at the river running slowly, dropping from level to level through the vlei,spreading into pools where at night the buck comes to drink, and the crocodilesrise and drag them by their soft noses into underwater caves. Fear possessedme. I found I was turning round and round, because of that shapeless menacebehind me that might reach out and take me; I kept glancing at the files of kopjeswhich, seen from a different angle, seemed to change with every step so thateven known landmarks, like a big mountain that had sentinelled my world since Ifirst became conscious of it, showed an unfamiliar sunlit valley among itsfoothills. I did not know where I was. I was lost. Panic seized me. I found I wasspinning round and round, staring anxiously at this tree and that, peering up atthe sun, which appeared to have moved into an eastern slant, shedding the sadyellow light of sunset. Hours must have passed! I looked at my watch and foundthat this state of meaningless terror had lasted perhaps ten minutes.The point was that it was meaningless. I was not ten miles from home: Ihad only to take my way back along the valley to find myself at the fence; awayamong the foothills of the kopjes gleamed the roof of a neighbour’s house, and acouple hours’ walking would reach it. This was the sort of fear that contracts theflesh of a dog at night and sets him howling at the full moon. It had nothing to dowith what I thought or felt; and I was more disturbed by the fact that I couldbecome its victim than of the physical sensation itself: I walked steadily on,quietened, in a divided mind, watching my own pricking nerves and apprehensiveglances from side to side with a disgusted amusement. Deliberately I set myselfto think of this village I was seeking, and what I should do when I entered it – if Icould find it, which was doubtful, since I was walking aimlessly and it might beanywhere in the hundreds of thousands of acres of bush that stretched about me.With my mind on that village, I realized that a new sensation was added to thefear: loneliness. Now such a terror of isolation invaded me that I could hardlywalk; and if it were not that I came over the crest of a small rise and saw a villagebelow me, I should have turned and gone home. It was a cluster of thatched hutsin a clearing among trees. There were neat patches of mealies and pumpkinsand millet, and cattle grazed under some trees at a distance. Fowls scratchedamong the huts, dogs lay sleeping on the grass, and goats friezed a kopje thatjutted up beyond a tributary of the river lying like an enclosing arm around thevillage.As I came close I saw the huts were lovingly decorated with patterns ofyellow and red and ochre mud on the walls; and the thatch was tied in place withplaits of straw.This was not at all like our farm compound, a dirty and neglected place, atemporary home for migrants who had no roots in it.And now I did not know what to do next. I called a small black boy, whowas sitting on a log playing a stringed gourd, quite naked except for the strings ofblue beads round his neck, and said: ‘Tell the Chief I am here.’ The child stuckhis thumb in his mouth and stared shyly back at me.For minutes I shifted my feet on the edge of what seemed a desertedvillage, till at last the child scuttled off, and then some women came. They weredraped in bright cloths, with brass glinting in their ears and on their arms. Theyalso stared, silently: then turned to chatter among themselves.I said again: ‘Can I see Chief Mshlanga?’ I saw they caught the name;they did not understand what I wanted. I did not understand myself.At last I walked through them and came past the huts and saw a clearingunder a big shady tree, where a dozen old men sat cross-legged on the ground,talking. Chief Mshlanga was leaning back against the tree, holding a gourd in hishand, from which he had been drinking. When he saw me, not a muscle of hisface moved, and I could see he was not pleased: perhaps he was afflicted withmy own shyness, due to being unable to find the right forms of courtesy for theoccasion. To meet me, on our farm, was one thing; but I should not have comehere. What had I expected? I could not join them socially: the thing was unheardof. Bad enough that I, a white girl, should be walking the veld alone as a whiteman might: and in this part of the bush where only Government officials had theright to move.Again I stood, smiling foolishly, while behind me stood the groups ofbrightly-clad, chattering women, their faces alert with curiosity and interest, andin front of me sat the old men, with old lined faces, their eyes guarded, aloof. Itwas a village of ancients and children and women. Even the two young men whokneeled beside the Chief were not those I had seen with him previously: theyoung men were all away working on the white men’s farms and mines, and theChief must depend on relatives who were temporarily on holiday for hisattendants.‘The small white Nkosikaas is far from home,’ remarked the old man atlast.‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it is far.’ I wanted to say: ‘I have come to pay you afriendly visit, Chief Mshlanga.’ I could not say it. I might now be feeling an urgenthelpless desire to get to know these men and women as people, to be acceptedby them as a friend, but the truth was I had set out in a spirit of curiosity: I hadwanted to go to the village that one day our cook, the reserved and obedientyoung man who got drunk on Sundays, would one day rule over.‘The child of Nkosi Jordan is welcome,’ said Chief Mshlanga.‘Thank you,’ I said, and could think of nothing more to say. There was asilence, while the flies rose and began to buzz around my head; and the windshook a little in the thick green tree that spread its branches over the old men.‘Good morning,’ I said at last. ‘I have to return now to my home.’‘’Morning, little Nkosikaas,’ said Chief Mshlanga.I walked away from the indifferent village, over the rise past the staringamber-eyed goats, down through the tall stately trees into the rich green valleywhere the river meandered and the pigeons cooed tales of plenty and thewoodpecker tapped softly.The fear had gone; the loneliness had set into stiff-necked stoicism; therewas now a queer hostility in the landscape, a cold, hard, sullen indomitability thatwalked with me, as strong as a wall, as intangible as smoke; it seemed to say tome: you walk here as a destroyer. I went slowly homewards, with an empty heart:I had learned that if one cannot call a country to heel like a dog, neither can onedismiss the past with a smile in an easy gush of feeling, saying: I could not helpit, I am also victim.I only saw Chief Mshlanga once again.One night my father’s big red land was trampled down by small sharphooves, and it was discovered that the culprits were goats from Chief Mshlanga’skraal. This had happened once before, years ago.My father confiscated all the goats. Then he sent a message to the OldChief that if he wanted them he would have to pay for the damage.He arrived at our house at the time of sunset one evening, looking very oldand bent now, walking stiffly under his regally-draped blanket, leaning on a bigstick. My father sat himself down in his big chair below the steps of the house;the old man squatted carefully on the ground before him, flanked by his twoyoung men.The palaver was long and painful, because of the bad English of theyoung man who interpreted, and because my father could not speak dialect, butonly kitchen kaffir.From my father’s point of view, at least two hundred pounds worth ofdamage had been done to the crop. He knew he could get the money from theold man. He felt he was entitled to keep the goats. As for the Old Chief, he keptrepeating angrily: ‘Twenty goats! My people cannot lose twenty goats! We arenot rich, like the Nkosi Jordan, to lose twenty goats at once.’My father did not think of himself as rich, but rather as very poor. Hespoke quickly and angrily in return, saying that the damage done meant a greatdeal to him, and that he was entitled to the goats.At last it grew so heated that the cook, the Chief’s son, was called fromthe kitchen to be interpreter, and now my father spoke fluently in English, and ourcook translated rapidly so that the old man could understand how very angry myfather was. The young man spoke without emotion, in a mechanical way, hiseyes lowered, but showing how he felt in his position by a hostile uncomfortableset of the shoulders.It was now in the late sunset, the sky a welter of colours, the birds singingtheir last songs, and the cattle, lowing peacefully, moving past us towards theirsheds for the night. It was the hour when Africa is most beautiful; and here wasthis pathetic ugly scene, doing no one any good.At last my father stated finally: ‘I’m not going to argue about it. I amkeeping the goats.’The Old Chief flashed back in his own language: ‘That means that mypeople will go hungry when the dry season comes.’‘Go to the police, then,’ said my father, and looked triumphant.There was, of course, no more to be said.The old man sat silent, his head bent, his hands dangling helplessly overhis withered knees. Then he rose, the young men helping him, and he stoodfacing my father. He spoke once again, very stiffly; and turned away and wenthome to his village.‘What did he say?’ asked my father of the young man, who laugheduncomfortably and would not meet his eyes.‘What did he say?’ insisted my father.Our cook stood straight and silent, his brows knotted together. Then hespoke. ‘My father says: All this land, this land you call yours, is his land, andbelongs to our people.’Having made this statement, he walked off into the bush after his father,and we did not see him again.Our next cook was a migrant from Nyasaland, with no expectations ofgreatness,Next time the policeman came on his rounds he was told this story. Heremarked: ‘That kraal has no right to be there; it should have been moved longago. I don’t know why no one has done anything about it. I’ll have a chat with theNative Commissioner next week. I’m going over for tennis on Sunday, anyway.’Some time later we heard that Chief Mshlanga and his people had beenmoved two hundred miles east, to a proper native reserve; the Government landwas going to be opened up for white settlement soon.I went to see the village again, about a year afterwards. There wasnothing there. Mounds of red mud, where the huts had been, had long swathesof rotting thatch over them, veined with the red galleries of the white ants. Thepumpkin vines rioted everywhere, over the bushes, up the lower branches oftrees so that the great golden balls rolled underfoot and dangled overhead: it wasa festival of pumpkins. The bushes were crowding up, the new grass sprang vividgreen.The settler lucky enough to be allotted the lush warm valley (if he chose tocultivate this particular section) would find, suddenly, in the middle of a mealiefield, the plants were growing fifteen feet tall, the weight of the cobs dragging atthe stalks, and wonder what unsuspected vein of richness he had struck.

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