A few years ago in a village called Nobamba, there lived a couple with their three children. The man was called Mhlangana and his wife Umnandi. Their firstborn was Gingci, and the next child Lonci. Both were boys. The last born was a girl, whom they called Dumangashe, who came of age at a time of great difficulty for the village. Some greedy people, called Ababillionaire, had cut down all the trees and sold the timber for a few pieces of gold, and the rains stopped falling and a long drought destabilized the entire village. The family could not get enough food. Their cattle died because there was little good grass to eat, so they could not get milk. Instead, they drank milk from the umhlehle tree, a small euphorbia, and they got it by squeezing a tip of the leaf. It was not nice milk, not like that from a cow, and it was not nourishing. Everyone in the village grew skinny, their bones showed through their skin, which became dry and scaly like the bark of old trees.

One day, after a rainmaker interceded with the ancestors and the rains returned, Mhlangana and Umnandi both went out to cultivate gardens. They thought each person should work on their own garden to increase the amount of food they could grow in a short time. They identified two pieces of land, one on a hill, which Mhlangana chose to work on, and another in a valley, which Umnandi would turn into her garden. First, she built a small shelter in which she could rest from the sun. Then, she cleared about an acre. She cut down the bush with a panga and then ploughed the land, and finally collected the grass and weeds into a big heap. She worked long and hard that first day, and when the sun was about to set, the garden was ready for planting. She went home very happy with her work.

Unfortunately, this valley was where the Ababillionaire cut down the first trees, many years ago before Umnandi was born. The family that lived in the family tried to fight them, but the Ababillionaire hired thugs who beat him up and killed him. So now, the moment Umnandi had left, a bird came to the garden and perched on one of the sticks that she had stuck on the ground, to mark the rows where she would plant her seeds the next day. It sang a song, making a noise that sounded something like chee-tee:

Chee-tee! Chee-tee!
who is this cultivating
the land of my father?
Weeds of this garden,
Spring up and grow;
Work of this garden,
undo yourself. Disappear!

And whatever Umnandi had toiled to achieve that day vanished. The ploughed soil rolled off the heap and arranged themselves over her garden, and the bushes and weeds put themselves back into the ground and grew even taller than when she found them.

When she returned the next morning to start planting seeds, she was puzzled to find a much bigger bush than the previous day. She wondered if perhaps she had come to the wrong place, but no, it was the same ground she had cleared yesterday. The shelter she had built still stood where she erected it, and all her tools were in there. The panga, the hoe, the pedal-powered plough, the gourds for drinking water and large calabashes she used as utencils. They were all as she had left them. Even the remains of her lunch were right where she had thrown them beside the shelter. But her garden, it had vanished. How?

Rather than moan about it, she set to toiling again, cutting the bush, ploughing the land, and making it ready for planting. In the evening she went home and told her husband that she had found the land had magically uncleared itself, and she had to re-do the work.

“How?” Mhlangana said. “You are lazy! You took two days on work that you could have done in one day, and now you are telling me these lies? You lazy dog.”

To be called lazy was the worst thing you could tell a person, especially a parent who had children to feed. That night, Umnandi slept with a heavy heart, and the next morning, the third day, she went to her garden very sad. On reaching, she found that her work had, yet again, undone itself. Again? She could not plant anything.

If she went back and told her husband about it, he would not believe her. No one would believe her. They would call her lazy. But now she understood there was a something amiss. So she again set about toiling on the land to make it ready for planting. Then, in the evening, she hid in a nearby place to see what would happen.

Shortly after the sun had set, while the world was still wrapped in blue, the bird came and perched on the stick she had put on the ground, and it sang.

Chee-tee! Chee-tee!
who is cultivating
the land of my father?
Hoe handle, break;
Panga, become rusty;
Weeds, grow again
Soil, go back to your places!

All these things happened, and now Umnandi understood that she had picked a haunted ground. She went back home and told her husband about the bird. He, of course, again made noise about her being just lazy and not doing her work. When she showed him the rusted panga, his venom evaporated. He now believed her.

The next day, since he had finished planting his garden, he went with her to the valley. They worked on it together, but now they had a plan. It involved a throwing net, which had charms to trap birds that came from the spirit world. Soon enough, the bird came and perched on one of the sticks, and it sang, the anger in its voice was piercing:

Chee-tee! Chee-tee!
This is the land of my father.
Who are you, digging my father’s land?
Hoe, break into small pieces;
Soil, return to your places.

Before it could happen, Mhlangana used a catapult to shoot the net at the bird. It was a small net, and when folded it could fit into his palm like a ball, but once he shot it the net unfurled itself and spread to become a big sheet that hung over the bird. It tried to escape, but the net fell on it, trapping it inside. And Mhlangana came up to it, and picked it up. The bird was about the size of a pigeon, with bright blue feathers and a red spot on its cheeks, while its eyes were yellow like the setting sun. He held it by the legs.

“Why do you always spoil my garden?” Umnandi asked.

“It’s my father’s land,” the bird said. “Ababillionaire killed him when he refused to allow them to cut down the trees. I was a little girl then, I had not yet started seeing the moon. I found him dying over there by that rock, where they had thrown him for the hyenas to eat. With the little strength he had left, he turned me into a bird and instructed me watch this land so that no one can ever use it for selfish purposes.”

“That is unfair,” Umnandi said. “Whoever your father was, it happened so long ago that the Ababillionaire who killed him are no longer alive. And this is one of the most fertile lands in the village. You can’t refuse us from using it.”

“We shall kill you,” Mhlangana said. “I’ll cut off your head, and you won’t ever spoil our garden again.”

And the bird begun to weep. “Chee-tee, chee-tee. I’m not a mere bird,” it said. “Don’t kill me, I’ll give you all the milk you want.”

“Milk?” Mhlangana said. “You are not a cow.”

“Of course I’m not a cow,” the bird said. “But I can urinate milk that is better than a cow’s milk. It is nicer than the one you get from the tree.”

“Well, then, make some,” Mhlangana said.

The bird lifted its tail and urinated some milk onto his palm. He tasted it, and indeed it was very nice milk.

“Make some more milk, my bird,” he said.

The bird did so, and he licked his palms.

“Bring a gourd,” he said to Umnandi. She brought one of the biggest gourds they had for water, and the bird filled it with milk.

“Aha!” Mhlangana said. “This pretty bird of mine is better than a cow. Don’t tell anyone about it, or else I’ll tell people you are too lazy to dig.”

Umnandi could not understand why her husband was threatening her in that manner, but she obeyed him. Mhlangana took the bird home and put it in a basked, and locked it away in an unused granary. And so every night Mhlangana would leave their hut and go to the granary, and tell the bird to make milk. He drank it alone, and he gave some to his wife, but not a lot. The bird could only produce about a gourd of milk in a day, and Mhlangana said they did not have to give any to the children.

“We do all the hard work,” he said to Umnandi. “We need the milk for strength. After the food grows in the garden, the children will get what to eat.”

Reluctantly, Umnandi agreed to this plan.

The children continued to drink of the milk of the umhlehle tree, and so they remained think and scrawny like the branches of dead twigs. But Umnandi and Mhlangana became healthy, and their skin gained the glossy sheen of those who ate very well. Umnandi could not say anything about made them healthier for she feared her husband would tell the whole village that she was a lazy parent.

As was the custom in those days, she shared a hut with the children while Mhlangana slept alone in another hut. Every night she would converse with the children as they ate the little food that they had got, and drank the milk of the tree, and after they had slept, she would sneak off to her husband’s hut. One day the youngest child, Dumangashe, asked her mother.

“Why is it that you and father are growing healthy and your skin is shinning while we remain scrawny and our skin looks like tree bark?”

“It’s because you are still children,” Umnandi said. “When you grow up, you’ll also grow healthy even if you eat very little food.”

“But Dingiswayo’s parents are thin and yet their skin is like ours,” Dumangashe said. “Why are they not like you since they are also adults?”

Umnandi did not have an answer, and the children’s suspicion grew uncontrollable. That night, Dumangashe pretended to sleep, and she watched her mother sneak away, and she wanted to follow, but a hyena howled in the distance, so she stayed inside. The next day, after their parents had gone to work, she gathered her brothers for a discussion.

“She’s lying,” Dumangashe said.

“She’s hiding something,” Lonci said.

“She used not to go out every night, but nowadays, she does,” Dumangashe said. “Perhaps they are eating in secret in father’s hut.”

“Yes,” Gingci said. “And you see, father now always locks his hut.”

Indeed, their father had bought a big padlock and put it on the door, and he went with the key, yet this used not to happen before. Was he hiding food in there?

“I have a plan,” Dumangashe said. “Are you in?”

“Yes,” her brothers chorused.

The night, they all pretended to sleep and soon enough their mother sneaked out of the hut. They waited a moment, and then opened the door just a crack to see where she went. She did not disappoint them. She headed straight into their father’s hut. So they crept out and tiptoed to his hut. They could not see inside, but they could hear their father speaking.

“Make milk, my bird,” Mhlangana said.

And the children heard the sound of the bird’s milk filling a gourd, and then the parents talked as they drank it. The children then sneaked back into their hut, and when their mother returned, she was very full and happy.

The next day the parents went to work in their respective gardens, and the children remained at home as usual. The moment they were alone, Gingci spoke aloud what they were all thinking.

“Today we won’t drink the milk of the euphorbia tree,” Gingci said. “We’ll drink the milk that makes father fat and shining.”

He found a piece of wire and used it to pick the padlock, for he had learned the trick from his other friends in the village. Then they entered the hut, and looked around, but the only strange thing was the basket sitting on a mat. They opened it, and saw the bird.

“My father’s bird,” Gingci said. “Make milk for me.”

“If I’m your father’s bird,” the bird replied, “remove me from this basket and put me on that chair. Then, I will make milk.”

Gingci did so, and the bird urinated some milk into a gourd. Gingci took a sip, and liked it. It was nice milk. He drank to his fill.

Then Lonci, the second born, said, “My father’s bird, make milk for me.

And the bird said, “If I am your father’s bird, put me by the door, then I will make milk.”

The boy did so, and the bird made just a little more milk, which he drank, to his satisfaction.

Finally, Dumangashe said: “My father’s bird, make milk for me.”

And the bird told her, “If I am your father’s bird, just put me in the sunlight, and I will make milk.”

Dumangashe did so, and this time the bird made a full gourd of milk. She drank to her fill, and then passed the gourd around to her brothers, who also drank some more. As the children enjoyed the milk, the bird sang:

Chee-tee! Chee-tee!
The father of Dumangashe came, he came,
He came unnoticed by me.
He found great fault with me.
The little fellows have met together.
Gingci the brother of Lonci.
Dumangashe the wisest of all
The Umkomanzi cannot be crossed,
It is crossed by swallows
Whose wings are long.

When it finished the song, it leapt into the air and flew away. The children called after it, saying, “Return, bird of our father,” but it did not come back.

“We shall be killed to-day,” Gingci said.

Dumangashe finished the last drop of the milk, and put the gourd down, and, being the brightest child of them all, she had an idea.

“Let’s follow it,” she said. “We can catch it.”

“This was your plan,” Lonci said. “You go find it.”

“My plan?” Dumangashe said.

“Yes, you and Gingci. I had no part in it.”

“You drank the milk!” Gingci said.

“It was your plan,” Lonci said. “When father asks for his bird, I’ll say it’s you who set it free. Not me.”

Dumangashe could not believe what she was hearing, but she took Gingci’s hand, and they ran off after the bird. Lonci stayed behind to await the return of their parents.

Dumangashe and Gingci soon came upon a tree with many birds that looked just like the one that had given them milk. Gingci had a net trap, and he threw it at the tree it caught one bird, and he said to it: “My father’s bird, make milk.”

Instead of milk, the bird urinated blood.

“This is not our father’s bird,” Dumangashe said.

This bird urinated too much and the blood flowed like a river, so Gingci released it, and it flew away. The children were seized with fear.

“If we go back home, we are dead,” Dumangashe said. “Let’s run away.”

“Where to?” Gingci said.

“Anywhere. We can’t go back home.”

---

In the evening, as he returned home with his wife, Mhlangana was still very far, far off when he saw that the door of his hut was open.

“Did I forget to shut the door?” he asked Umnadi.

“You shut it,” Umnadi said. “Looks like someone opened it.”

He went into the hut and saw that the bird was missing, the basket empty. When he called his children, only Lonci replied.

“Where is your brother and sister?” Mhlangana said.

“I went to the river to drink,” Lonci said. “When I returned, they were gone.”

“Who opened the door?” Mhlangana said.

“I don’t know,” Lonci said. “Perhaps Gingci did it.”

Mhlangana’s head grew hot with anger. He picked up a stick and went out to search for the children. It was growing dark. He came upon a group of herds-boys and asked them if they had seen Dumangashe and Gingci, and, unfortunately for the two children, the herds-boys had seen where they were hiding.

“Near the balancing rocks,” they said.

The balancing rocks were collections of stones that sat on top of each other, and at the foot there were caves big enough for the children to hide. Mhlangana found them making a fire for the night.

“Where is my bird?” he said.

“We were hungry,” Dumangashe said. “We only wanted a little milk, but it flew away.”

Mhlangana whipped them with his stick. He whipped them all the way back home, and he whipped them all night until their skin was raw with welts. The next day, he took a rope and hung the two children on a tree that projected over the river. He left them there to die. Their mother begged him to spare their lives, but he was so angry. He did not listen to her.

“I did not raise thieves,” he said. “I will remain with one good child.”

After he was gone, Gingci tried to escape, but the ropes held him so tight. He cried out in pain, and Dumangashe tried to look brave, but she was in more pain than her brother. But then, the bird returned. It perched on a branch and saw them suffering and sang for them.

Chee-tee! Chee-tee!
The father of Dumangashe came, he came,
He came unnoticed by me.
He found great fault with me.
The father of Gingci came, he came,
The little fellows hung together.
Gingci the brother of Dumangashe.
The Umkomanzi cannot be crossed,
It is crossed by swallows
Whose wings are long.

After it had sung this song, it pecked at the ropes holding them, and the rope broke, and the children fell into the river. They were weak from all that beating, they had no strength left to swim, but the bird grabbed Dumangashe by the hair and pulled her to the bank, and then it flew after Gingci and took hold of his hair and deposited him next to his sister.

“You set me free from captivity,” the bird said. “Now I set you free from death. We are even. If you want a new home, walk for three days towards the setting sun until you see a red rock.”

And it flew away, without giving them any more information. What were they to do once they saw the red rock?

The children looked around the bushes for medicines to treat their wounds, and then they set off toward the setting sun. They walked for three days, sleeping up the branches of tall trees in the night to stay away from wild animals like hyenas, and on the third day they found the red rock. It was big, and round, and it looked like a gourd lying on its side. They could not decide what to do, now that they were here, and so Dumangashe walked up to it.

“We have no father and no mother, and no house,” she said. “Rock, be our house.”

To their surprise, the rock obeyed. It opened up, and they went inside, and it was comfortable just like a hut. They lived there for many months. They got food from hunting animals, but they did not eat any bird in case it was a relative of their friend. There were no people in the neighbourhood, with the nearest village being about a day’s walk. In the night, they would hear some strange noises, perhaps hyenas, or perhaps something worse.

One day, they caught a crocodile in their trap. They were very excited for they had never eaten crocodile meat before. It looked like a young one, so they would not have problem chopping it into pieces, but just as Gingci took out his knife to slaughter it, the crocodile cried.

“Don’t kill me,” the crocodile said. “I’m your friend.”

They were puzzled. Was it the bird? No, it was not the bird. It was a kind of spirit that took the shape of a crocodile, and they were very pleased to learn that it was not a shape changer, the dreadful beings that assumed the shape and body of a human being during the day, and that of an animal during the night. Like the bird, this was a creature that straddled the two worlds, the one they lived in, and the spiritual plane.

“Come with me,” the crocodile said.

So the two children jumped on its back and it took them to its house, which was in a deep hole at the bottom of the river. The hole opened to the other world, and there they found the crocodile had many cattle and much millet. It gave the children ten cows and ten bulls, and ten baskets of millet.

When children went back up to their world, they started a farm of cattle. They planted the millet, and now they did not hunt as much because they were afraid of killing something that might be a relative of the crocodile, or the bird. Many months passed and the two children grew healthy and well-fed.