Part 1

Thirty-One Brothers and Sisters

_The South African veld, with its gentle rolling hills and soft green meadows watered by many streams, is the background for this unusual story about Nomusa, daughter of a Zulu chief._

_Nomusa is warmhearted and generous and affectionate; she loves all her little brothers and sisters and enjoys helping to care for them. But she is strong and brave and daring, too; she feels that girls’ work is dull and boys’ work is much more exciting, and much more fun._

_More than anything else, Nomusa yearns to go with the men on the annual elephant hunt. But she knows this is impossible. As her mother says_, “_Girls_ never _go on elephant hunts!_”

_After Nomusa’s adventure with a fierce wild boar, her father, Chief Zitu, rewards her bravery. In a final climax, Nomusa realizes that being a girl has its own rewards._

_A sympathetic, engrossing story about a primitive civilization of today. Nomusa is a heroine whom girls will envy and boys will admire._

REBA PAEFF MIRSKY

Thirty-One Brothers and Sisters

[Illustration: [Children]]

_Illustrations by W. T. Mars_

WILCOX AND FOLLETT COMPANY CHICAGO

_Copyright 1952, by Reba Paeff Mirsky_

_All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publishers, except for brief quotations used in connection with reviews in magazines or newspapers._

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

_To the late John Dube of Ohlange and my other Zulu friends_

[Illustration: _THE Charles W. Follet Award_]

PRESENTED ANNUALLY

_For Worthy Contributions to Children’s Literature_

JOHNNY TEXAS _by Carol Hoff_ 1950 ALL-OF-A-KIND FAMILY _by Sydney Taylor_ 1951 THIRTY-ONE BROTHERS AND SISTERS _by Reba Paeff Mirsky_ 1952

[Illustration: [Girl]]

Thirty-One Brothers and Sisters

[Illustration: [Huts]]

ONE: A Morning Adventure

Although it was morning, inside the straw hut it was still dark. Nomusa lay on her little bamboo mat, stretching and scratching her lean, naked body. She yawned and thought to herself:

Yo, I am still so sleepy! If only I did not have to get up to fetch water from the stream! Why must I leave my comfortable mat when Mdingi and Kangata may still sleep? Zulu boys have all the fun, and they don’t work nearly so hard as the girls.

Nomusa rolled up her mat, moving quietly so as not to wake her baby sister and her little brother. They lay sleeping on a larger mat next to her mother, Makanya.

As Nomusa passed the iron pot, she picked out a piece of cold sweet potato to eat on the way to the stream. Taking a clay jar in one hand and holding the sweet potato in the other, she crawled out of the low opening of her hut.

Coming out from the darkness of the hut into the brilliant sunshine made Nomusa’s eyes blink. She took a deep breath of the fresh air. What a wonderful day!

She stood for a moment looking about the kraal. There were six other huts in the enclosure, each shaped like a huge beehive. Five belonged to the five other wives of Nomusa’s father. The sixth hut, which was the biggest, was where her father, Chief Zitu, lived. The seven huts were in a circle on a hillside overlooking a wide, lovely valley.

As Nomusa stood there she saw no sign of anyone stirring in the other huts. Usually she saw some of her half sisters, many of whom were about the same age as herself, crawling out of their huts to go for water too. It was more fun going together. But today Nomusa’s father was coming to visit their hut, and everything had to be ready earlier than usual.

She left the kraal and walked quickly down the well-worn dirt path leading to a clear stream in the valley. As she hurried along, Nomusa looked toward one of the other hills to see if any smoke was coming from the kraal of their nearest neighbor. Yes, there was a thin wisp of smoke curling up from a hut. That meant some of them were already awake and cooking. Nomusa wondered if the smoke were coming from Damasi’s hut. There was much work to be done in his kraal, too; for tomorrow all the children from Nomusa’s kraal would go to a party in Damasi’s.

[Illustration: [Huts]]

For a moment Nomusa forgot she was in a hurry and stood there thinking as she chewed the last bit of sweet potato. She gazed dreamily into the soft green meadows of the valley, encircled by rolling hills and watered by many little streams. It was the season after the heavy rains, and now the mimosa trees were covered with yellow blossoms and feathery green leaves. The thorn bushes looked softer with their new thick foliage. In some of the trees orchids, green and brown, clung to branches by their thick stems. The sandhills beyond, usually so bare, were now blanketed with grass and wild flowers so that one hardly knew there were jagged rocks beneath.

With the water jar on her left hip and her right arm hanging loosely by her side, Nomusa looked like an ebony statue, her body slim and strong, her hair a mass of short black curls covering her head. She looked as much like a boy as a girl. Her snub nose and smiling mouth were only a little different from those of her father’s other children, but there was something special about her intelligent brown eyes.

Nomusa hurried to make up for stopping, and reached the swollen stream in the valley warm and out of breath. What if her father arrived in their hut before she returned with the water? What a disgrace that would be!

She began sloshing her jar back and forth in the stream to fill it. Much as she wanted to, she would not take time now for a dip in the water. Perhaps there would be time for a swim when she came for water again at noon.

No sound broke the morning calm except the gentle splashing and sloshing of the water as Nomusa pulled her jar from one side to another. Then a sudden screech coming from one of the trees overhanging the stream made Nomusa look up. Above her head she saw two parrots sitting side by side. Their brilliant feathers bristled stiffly, and they shifted uneasily on the branch. What was worrying them, she wondered?

The parrots flapped their wings, and again they screeched, this time more insistently. A long scarlet feather slowly fluttered to the ground, and Nomusa dashed out of the stream to catch it before it landed. She did not want it to get wet and bedraggled on the moist ground.

But it was not easy to clamber over the rocks and stones. The feather fell into the deep grass beneath the tree before she could catch it.

Just as she was about to grasp it, there was a shriek from the parrots and a loud hiss. Nomusa jumped back and almost fell into the stream as she stumbled against a tree stump. She jumped up on the stump and looked fearfully down into the grass to see what had hissed at her.

It was the imamba, one of the most dreaded snakes. Its body was a bright flame color; as she watched, the creature raised its head from the ground and spread out the brilliant skin on its neck so that it looked as if it had a hood.

The imamba turned toward Nomusa and hissed again. Nomusa knew that this meant the snake was about to strike. She could see its short fangs, its back-curved teeth. Its lidless eyes were round and cold and cruel.

Nomusa broke into a cold sweat as she saw the snake’s long, slender tongue, forked at the end, waving like an antenna to detect the odors and vibrations in the air. The imamba was looking for her so that when he spat his poison at her he would make a direct hit. She knew just how he would do it.

He would throw his body forward, and two jets of his venom would shoot out from the ends of his fangs. If this poison reached so much as scratch on her skin, it could kill her. If it got into her eyes, it would blind her, perhaps forever.

[Illustration: [Girl]]

There was a large stone nearby, but Nomusa knew that her people never killed snakes, no matter how dangerous they were. Snakes were full of evil spirits that would avenge themselves on the killer.

Nomusa wanted to run, but she knew better. Instead, she stood without the slightest movement, so as to keep the snake from striking. The imamba swayed his head slightly in a rhythmical motion that made Nomusa almost dizzy as she watched.

How long, she wondered, would they remain staring at each other before something happened? If she made the least move now, the imamba would surely strike. A few drops of sweat oozed down her nose and made the tip of it itchy, but Nomusa dared not lift a finger to scratch it.

The parrots had now grown unusually still, as if they were watching the outcome of the contest. Why did they no longer shriek or screech? All at once there was a swift blur of an object that flew to one side of the imamba, causing the snake to turn quickly in that direction.

Nomusa made a mighty spring from the stump, landing in the stream with such a noisy splash that the water rose over her in foaming bubbles.

She was safe!

[Illustration: [Huts]]

TWO: A House with One Room

When she returned with the water, Nomusa saw her little brother Themba rolling in the dust in front of their hut. His chubby body was covered with dirt, and he looked like a brown gingerbread boy covered with gray powdered sugar.

“What a story I have for you, Themba!”

But Themba spied the water jar. “I want a drink. Give me a drink! Give me a drink, Nomusa!”

Nomusa brought the edge of the water jar to her small brother’s eager lips. Water ran down his chin and over his fat body as he drank noisily.

Nomusa’s dog, Puleng, came running out of the hut. He showed his happiness at seeing Nomusa by running around her in crazy circles.

“Thirsty, Puleng?” Nomusa cupped her hand and poured some water into it for the dog to drink.

Just then Nomusa heard a voice behind her.

“_Sakubona_, Nomusa!”

It was her half sister, Sisiwe, who lived in the hut next to Nomusa’s. They had the same father but not the same mother.

“What is the story, Nomusa?” Themba broke in eagerly. If his sisters began talking, he might never hear it.

“Well,” Nomusa began, showing them the beautiful red and green feather, “it all began with this.”

Sisiwe exclaimed over the parrot feather, but Themba clamored for the story.

Nomusa described her encounter with the imamba with lively words and gestures. Her audience was much impressed.

“And you went back for the feather!” said Sisiwe. “I should never have dared.

“You are lucky to have escaped—and to have the beautiful feather,” Sisiwe said, touching it admiringly.

“I have something else,” added Nomusa. She opened the little deerskin bag that hung about her neck. This bag was her only pocket, and into it went all Nomusa’s small treasures.

She took out a golden-yellow pebble, smooth and round, about the size of her thumbnail.

“How lovely!” Sisiwe exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

“I found it on the ground as I returned from the stream.”

“The most exciting things always happen to you, Nomusa,” Sisiwe said. “How did you happen to be so early today?”

“I am early because our father is coming to visit us today, Sisiwe.”

“He visited our hut yesterday. He wore a new belt of wildcat tails and looked very handsome,” Sisiwe said proudly.

Nomusa was very proud of their father, too. Zitu was one of the most powerful Zulu chiefs, and head of the Zulu king’s council. He was rich, rich enough to have six wives, and this was why Nomusa was lucky enough to have thirty brothers and sisters.

“I heard our father talking to my mother about the elephant hunt,” Sisiwe went on. “This time he is taking some of our older brothers with him.”

Nomusa’s brown eyes grew big with excitement. “Oh, Sisiwe, how I should love to go! Do you suppose I could?”

Sisiwe opened her eyes in astonishment. “A girl go on an elephant hunt? Who ever heard of such a thing? Why, Nomusa, you talk as if you were our brother Mdingi!”

“It is true that I do not like girls’ work,” Nomusa said sadly.

“Nomusa!” Makanya called out sharply from within the hut.

“I am here, my mother,” answered Nomusa, quickly crawling through the low opening of the hut. A delicious smell of food cooking enveloped her as she entered. Corn mush and bananas were steaming in a pot over the fire.

After the dazzling sunshine outdoors, it took one’s eyes several seconds to be able to see inside the dark hut. It was just one large room; on the long pole extending from one end of the hut to the other hung baskets, wooden milk pails, gourds, and other things used in the vegetable gardens.

There was a saucerlike hole in the middle of the floor. Here they made the fire for cooking. Nomusa and her mother had gone to great trouble to pound a mixture of ant-heap sand, clay, and cow dung into the dirt floor, pounding and rubbing it with large smooth stones so it would gleam and glisten. She hoped her father would notice that they were good housekeepers.

“What kept you so long, my daughter?” asked Makanya. “I have been waiting for the water. Did you forget your father is coming to visit us? Stir the fire while I feed Bala.”

Nomusa’s mother gently laid the baby on a mat while she took an earthenware jar from the cool earth on one side of the room. In this jar was milk that had been left to sour into thick, large clots. The milk was cold and curdlike. Then Makanya picked up Bala and held her on her grass-skirted lap. The fat baby began to coo expectantly, holding up her brown, dimpled hands to her mother. Like a bird she opened her mouth, uttering cooing sounds. Makanya slowly poured some of the clotted milk into the baby’s mouth. Bala began to smack her lips happily, but suddenly her expression turned into one of disappointment and disgust. She did not like her new food, and she would not swallow it, but began spitting it out as fast as she could. The clotted milk dribbled over her chin and down her chubby body.

But the thick sour clots were good for babies, and Nomusa’s mother was determined that Bala should swallow them. She tried again to pour some of the nourishing clotted milk into the baby’s mouth. This time Bala held her lips tightly closed.

Looking on anxiously, Nomusa thought it a pity that the baby did not yet have sense enough to know how good clotted milk tasted. She and her brothers loved it and did not get it half often enough.

“Nomusa!” called her mother. “Hold Bala’s arms.”

“Oh, Mother, I do not like to do this,” said Nomusa. She was always unhappy when her little sister cried.

Makanya pinched together Bala’s nostrils so that she could not breathe. At once the baby opened her mouth for air, and when she did so, her mother quickly poured in some of the clotted milk. Bala choked and spluttered, but finally she had to swallow what was in her mouth. Frantically she struggled, and tiny as she was, she showed a strength that grew out of terror and desperation. She let out a fierce cry of rage which almost brought tears to Nomusa’s sorrowful eyes.

“Yo, I am glad that’s over,” said Nomusa.

By this time Bala was covered with white splashes, and some of the clots had fallen on her mother’s skirt.

“Here, Puleng!” called Nomusa.

Into the hut he came running, followed by Themba, who was not yet tall enough to have to crawl in through the low entrance of the hut, but did it to imitate the older children and to show he was grown up.

The dog did not have to be told what he had been called for. Without delay, he began licking off the milk splashes from Bala’s naked little body, leaving her skin smooth and moist. The baby seemed to enjoy the dog’s warm tongue on her body. It soothed her and made her forget how miserable she had been.

“Now the water, Nomusa,” said her mother.

Nomusa brought it to her. Her mother took a large mouthful of the water, held it in her mouth a little until it was warm, and then squirted it on Bala. She did this over and over again until the delighted baby was thoroughly washed. She was then laid on her mother’s mat, where she promptly stuck two fingers in her mouth and fell asleep.

[Illustration: [Mother]]

Seeing that the clotted milk jar had not been put away, Themba begged softly, “I’m hungry, Nomusa. Me, too.”

Nomusa poured some of the milk into his mouth.

“Here, little greedy. But then you must let me wash you.”

She filled a hollow gourd with water and held it high over Themba’s head, letting the water trickle over him. Themba danced up and down holding his hands over his head and shouting, “It’s raining, it’s raining!”

“_Tula!_” warned his mother. “You’ll wake the baby.”

Nomusa began rubbing her hand up and down his sturdy little body to clean him. She loved all her little sisters and brothers, even those belonging to Zitu’s other wives.

“I’m going to eat now, Themba. Run outdoors. When I have finished and done some work for mother, I’ll come and play _Hlungulu_ with you.”

This was Themba’s favorite game; so he ran out of the hut, forgetting in his haste that he should have crawled out if he was to be thought grown up.

[Illustration: [Baby]]

[Illustration: [Huts]]

THREE: A Visit from the Chief

Nomusa took up a little grass basket into which she put some of the food cooking in the pot.

She picked out pieces of corn and banana, putting them into her mouth and sucking the juice from her fingers with great relish.

As she ate, she watched her mother getting ready for her husband’s visit. Makanya was busily greasing her body so she would look clean and shiny.

She rubbed her arms, then her legs, then her whole body, with fresh, sweet-smelling butter. It had been made the day before from cream from Makanya’s own cows.

“Nomusa, when you have finished eating, I should like you to help me comb my hair.”

“I have finished now, my mother.”

“Then here are the porcupine quill and the comb.”

The comb was a wooden one which Makanya had made herself. “Remember to comb my hair straight up into a peak,” she said. “Some day when you are married you will wear your hair the same way.”

Nomusa combed her mother’s short, thick hair up from the back of her neck, shaping and slanting it backward from her forehead. To look proper, the hair had to end in a peak just back of the top of her head.

Every little while Nomusa had to rub grease into the hair so that it would stand up stiffly and stay in shape. With the porcupine quill she picked at the hair to keep the strands in place. It took patience and much combing and greasing to make the hair stay where it was supposed to.

After a while, Makanya carefully ran her hand over her head to feel the shape of her hair.

“Well done, my daughter,” she said.

“What skirt will you wear today?” asked Nomusa.

“I shall wear the new oxhide one,” said Makanya.

“Oh, you will look beautiful!”

Nomusa knew it was only a very special occasion that would induce her mother to wear the oxhide skin instead of her short grass skirt. For days and days she had watched her mother water-soak the skin, which had come from one of her own cattle. When it was soft, she had helped her mother pull out all the hairs. It had been long and tedious work. After that, they had both used sharp thorns and scratched and scratched at one side of the skin until it was as soft as a baby’s ear.

Part of the skin became a skirt, part was used for Nomusa’s best neck-pocket. Another part was used as a sling in which her mother carried the baby when she was working in the vegetable garden. The rest of the skin was saved until it should be needed.

Finally Makanya took from the rafters of the hut some bead bracelets and a necklace she kept hidden there. These she put on while Nomusa stood to one side, marveling at her mother’s beauty. Makanya was tall and well-shaped. Her muscles were firm and strong. When she laughed, her white teeth glistened, making her smooth skin look darker still. No wonder Nomusa’s father had had to give ten cows in order to get her mother as a wife. She had heard that none of his other wives had cost that much.

“You are beautiful, my mother!” exclaimed Nomusa admiringly.

Just then they heard the sound of a man clearing his throat in front of the entrance to the hut.

“He is here!” said Makanya excitedly, a slight pink color appearing under her skin.

The small amount of daylight which came into the hut through the entrance was blocked as a large figure came crawling in.

“_Sakubona_,” Zitu greeted them, smiling. The Zulu chief was magnificent in a belt of wildcat tails and a necklace of blue beads around his neck.

“_Usaphila_,” answered Nomusa and her mother.

Always a little shy with her father, Nomusa partly hid behind her mother.

Makanya said, “Nomusa, get your father’s mat.”

Nomusa got out the new bamboo mat her mother had made especially for him and unrolled it on the smooth floor. On this Zitu squatted. He took out of his belt the horn of an ox and some tobacco. After stuffing the horn with the tobacco, he took an ember from the fire and lit his pipe. Silently he began smoking.

Nomusa’s mother now brought out all the good things she had made for her husband to eat. On a large grass plate she put chicken, pumpkin, yams, mealies, roast bananas. Then she brought beer. On Zitu’s lap Makanya placed some tobacco she had grown especially for him.

At first, Nomusa’s father pretended to be indifferent to the food, but the tantalizing smells proved too much for him. He laid down his oxhorn pipe and began eating with great gusto. He ate noisily, smacking his lips and belching from time to time. Nomusa and her mother did not utter a word while he was eating. They sat quietly, moving only when they had to take away his empty plate and fill it again. The Zulu chief ate and ate. Nomusa wondered how he could eat so much. From time to time an extra loud belch came out of him. Then Nomusa and her mother exchanged happy glances. They heard and saw that Zitu was enjoying their food.

Finally he licked his fingers thoroughly, showing he had finished. He looked at Nomusa and her mother smilingly. That was all, but it was enough to make them feel repaid for all the effort they had gone to in order to please him.

[Illustration: [Family]]