Before there were missiles and nukes, before rifles and snipers, before there were AK47s and machine guns. Before there were petrol bombs, there were spears but even before that, there were sticks. Once warriors had to fight with sticks and overturn kingdoms by the swing, sending their opponents to the grave. Many men had mastered the art, but none-like Sibazi, a warrior of note to any opponent. He sat on isigqiki, constantly having to shuffle his buttocks to balance the unevenness of the work of art. In his hand, he held two sticks. On the left, a nicely pilled to the core stick flickering from the animal fat applied on it. On the right, a strong, grey stick graced his hand.

It has been a while since he sat like that. He mostly gazed across the lands realizing the lengths of KwaMhlaba Uyafana, a place in the plateau his family had fled to, once. The grounds stretched beyond the eyes reach, no hill but brown blades of grass that danced to the rhythm of the land breeze.

“I think someone is coming!” Sibazi broke the silence. No response came but that of the melody of the birds. He placed both his sticks against the wall of the hut behind him.

He scouted all six huts but the seventh, a holy place of the ancestors. As he was approaching the seventh, even a cat would be jealous of the “sneaking” Sibazi was executing. He kneeled at the door, he looked inside.

“Come in mzukulu (grandchild),” pointing to her side, “I have seen him also, how did you know?”

With his eyes wide open and leaning back, “How did you know gogo (granny)?”

“A sangoma (traditional healer) always knows,” she smiled.

A few moments later, they were both out of the seventh hut, awaiting the arrival of the traveller. As Sibazi’s grandmother looked to the west, “I hope he doesn’t come this side.”

Long had the Nguni people held a doctrine, that travellers from the west were bearers of bad news but those from the east were bearers of good news, a sign of hope.

However, Sibazi chuckled, “I’m not a young boy anymore. You’re probably saying that because King Nqabayakhe chased us away,” as a response to Sibazi’s remark, was silence.

Flickering from afar, as a flame bends to the wind, a shade appeared, slowly approaching.

Sibazi calls for his grandmother’s attention, pointing to the east, “There is a man coming.”

The breeze blew stronger, the dogs started howling. A black cat stood in front of the hut, facing inside, a common occurrence when a traveller graced the house of Gubhela with their presence. Both Sibazi and his grandmother strolled towards the gate. One could see that indeed the shade was a man, but he still was a long way from the gate.

Up the feet from the ground. Back down again. Dust puffed from the arid, cracking ground. The sun had set. While Sibazi hopped, twisted and turned, with the sticks buzzing against the air, the traveller and his grandmother watched on as they marvelled in sight of the fluidity and talent before their eyes.

“He is something, the boy,” the traveller moved his eyes to Sibazi’s direction, while his head stood still.

“He reminds me of myself a bit.” They stared at each other for a moment, then they silently giggled. They stood up almost simultaneously, the traveller dusted off the dirt from ibheshu, made with a black and white cow’s skin. On his head he carried a crown made of the same animal skin, something rare for commoners as they got bits and pieces of the attire at different times and places when they could afford it. On his wrist were several wrist bangles called isiphandla.

As the traveller got closer to Sibazi, the young boy could clearly see the intimidating statue of the man, well dressed, broad shoulders, stock with his intense dark skin. His eyes buried well behind his pointy chick bones, to top it all off, a very deep voice came out.

“I am pleased to finally meet you,” he extended his hand, clearly expecting a handshake. The hands met, each feeling a tight grip from the other, they shook and returned to their master, “Awu madoda! I never thought I would meet, never mind be within proximity to the man who defeated the great stick fighter with a single swing of his stick. Tell me, how do you do it?”

“I train of course, I keep a clear mind when I fight and I swing! Of course, I never get hit!” they laughed and continued chatting.

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