Listening to the traffic report this morning on uKhozi FM:

“…umgwaqo phakathi kukaKranskop neShowe, lapho kukhona iNtunjambili noKhomo…”

It was like a snippet from a Sunday morning memory for me – we had woken early, when the horns of the otter are the only thing above the grey sky, and driven bumping along the dirt, then tar, then finally grass, through gates that had to be opened by sisters, swirling in the mist. We arrived at the humped back of the Whale-hill (uKhomo) stretching off across cloud and long grass, and watched the sun rise and burn off the inkungu as my father told us the story of itshe likaNtunjambili, about the swallows and the cannibals and the nameless girl:

Mananje Mbanda begins

Mananje Mbanda continues

Footnote on Mananje's story

{extracts from Callaway’s Nursery Tales of the amaZulu, published 1868}