Shaka the great, p.36
Shaka the Great, page 36
He offers his younger sister to the river, but that isn’t the end of the story. As the Cat Man had told it (and he’s not the first from which the udibi has heard the tale), the herdboy fetches his sister and brings her down to the river. When she eventually falls asleep, the boy steals away. But, just as the spirit of the river rises up to pluck the little girl from the bank, Nompofo comes awake and, screaming, she runs as far and as fast as her plump little legs can carry her.
So far and so fast does she run, she enters a distant kingdom ruled by King Ndlovu, the elephant. She doesn’t realize this at first, though. She’s more interested in the ripe mealies growing in the fields, for by this time she’s very hungry.
After building herself a shelter in a thicket, she collects some mealies and cooks them over a fire. Then she goes to sleep again.
Early the next morning, she’s woken up by voices. It’s a group of dassies, who are the king’s izinceku and who have come to collect food for his breakfast. While Nompofo watches from her thicket, they reach the place where she’d helped herself to part of their crop.
Consternation follows! The hyraxes scurry this way and that, their noses twitching in agitation, their tiny incisor tusks bared in impotent anger.
There’s a thief nearby! His smell is still strong. He must be caught and punished for stealing from King Ndlovu.
Remaining hidden and using embers from her campfire, Nompofo sets the field ablaze, and the dassies flee in terror.
“Mighty lord,” they tell the elephant, “there’s a thief in your fields, and he’s set them on fire!”
Angrily, the king calls Mpungushe, the jackal. “You who sing to the moon,” he says, “go and find this thief and kill him.”
But, as Mpungushe approaches the thicket where Nompofo is still hiding, the little girl shakes the branches, causing the leaves to rattle. Making her voice as deep as possible, she calls out, saying: “I am not afraid of you, scrawny rat, for I am Nompofo! What you think are branches are my horns and I will tear you apart. I could eat ten of you, and still hear my stomach growling. Make yourself ready, then, for I am coming for you.”
With a yelp, Mpungushe tucks his tail between his hind legs and races back to the king’s kraal. “My lord,” he cries, “a monster is loose in your land!” And he describes a creature with trees for horns, who could crush even an elephant!
While King Ndlovu’s working himself up into a high dudgeon, Fudu the tortoise sidles forward. Crush? Did someone say crush? Well, who can crush him? He will go and confront this enemy. And, so saying, he moves off down the path in a bow-legged swagger.
By this time, little Nompofo has used up all her courage and she’s very frightened. When she sees Fudu, she rushes out of the thicket and begs him to help her. Happy to oblige, he carries her on his shell to the border of the kingdom and shows her the path that will take her home.
Chuckling, he returns to the king’s kraal, singing about how the mighty tree giant fled at first sight of Bold Fudu.
He’s duly rewarded by King Ndlovu, while the jackal’s cowardice sees his kind cursed. And, to this day, he never has the courage to hunt for himself, but follows others like the lion, the leopard and the cheetah, and his songs to the moon are tinged with mournful regret.
The meat must all be eaten the same day, but, before it’s doled out, the ancestors are given their share. They get two portions. The first is the isiko. This includes the impukane, a cut of meat taken from the outside end of the shoulder blade, and considered a great delicacy, the umhlwehlwe, which is the adipose tissue covering the viscera, and also pieces of the abdomen. Then, because this is a Qhumbuza, a piece of the inanzi, or stomach, is added to the isiko. After the cuts of meat are thrown on live coals collected in a broken pot, imphepho flowers are added as a form of incense. Then the burned offering is placed on the umsamo inside the host’s hut.
The second helping is the umbeko, the meat set aside for the ancestors to “lick.” These slices are placed on the umsamo in the hut belonging to the induna’s mother. A pot of beer and some snuff are added to the offering, for the additional enjoyment of the ancestors.
After smaller cuts of meat have been handed out to various families in the village for medicinal purposes, the feasting begins.
The boy joins the other younger members of Nkululeko’s family in collecting the skin and bones, while the fires are being lit. This is no menial chore, since it’s of great importance, and a sign that one is regarded as responsible and on the path to adulthood. For, as with the blood and gore, not even a sliver of bone or the tiniest scrap of skin can be left unaccounted for.
The story of Nompofo and Fudu has been an itch in his mind the whole day, and the udibi has to force himself to keep focused on the task at hand, channeling his concentration. His eyes scan the ground at his feet with an intensity that all but cracks the hard-packed mixture of dirt and dung—don’t want to miss a single piece of slaughtered bull—as the noises around him recede, his tastebuds barely aware of the enticing smell of beef being grilled.
The larger bones will be tightly wrapped in skins, and then burned on a bonfire built out of sight of the village. The smaller fragments go into a pot which will also be tossed on the fire. It’s a ritual watched over by Nkululeko in person, because whatever remains, once the fire has burned down, has to be buried in a spot known only to the induna yesigodi.
“They are, as you know, a stupid bunch,” says the Cat Man, later that night. “Incorrigible snot-eaters who regularly forget where they placed their backsides, and their women are indescribably ugly.” However, this clan, by some incredible good fortune, had managed to amass a fine herd of cattle. When Beja and Mi heard of this, they went along to witness this frightening spectacle for themselves.
Sure enough, from their hiding place in the hills, they saw that the stories were true. This, they decided, was an affront.
When night fell, Beja entered the umuzi. The villagers were suspicious at first, but he soon had them under his spell. It wasn’t long before a feast was under way, for this is the saving grace of these savages, that they enjoy singing and dancing, drinking and eating.
Beja knew this, of course, and, as the evening wore on and the beer flowed like a suitor’s promises, he silenced the drums and said, “I will teach you a new song.”
And he then said: “Listen!”
And he began to sing in his fine, deep voice: “Wo-vula ngase zantsi! Hou hou hou! Wo-vula ngase zantsi!” Wo—open at the bottom! Hou hou hou! Wo—open at the bottom!
Louder and louder he sang. Louder and louder did the maidens clap.
Then, after a while, Beja called out that it was time to change the song again.
This is what he now sang, in his fine, deep voice. “Vula kwe samatole! Hayo hayo hayo! Vula kwe samatole!” Open the pen! Hayo hayo hayo! Open the pen!
Louder and louder he sang. Louder and louder did the maidens clap.
Then, after a while, Beja called upon the company to see if they could better his song, and the young men strutted and stomped while trying to outdo the friendly stranger’s verses.
And Beja melted into the darkness, to where Mi waited with the clan’s cattle. Their plan had worked. Through his song, Beja had instructed his companion when it was safe to approach the cattlefold, and when it was safe to open the gates and herd the cattle out. The villagers continued to feast and drink, and it was only the next day that they discovered what had happened.
“By this time, Beja and Mi and the cattle were long gone,” says the Cat Man. “And long afterward could they hide out in the hills, growing fat on the stolen beef.”
And the boy can’t loosen this fragment of meat stuck between his teeth, this aspect that’s worrying him about the Cat Man’s stories. There’s something in one of those stories, but he just—can’t—get—at it.
But is it in the tale or has it something to do with the teller?
Hai, the Cat Man might annoy people with his jibes at Shaka, but there’s nothing sinister about him. If anything, it’s his companion, Owethu, and the nephew who travels with them who need watching. Morose, sullen, suspicious, they’re like dark clouds accompanying the Cat Man. Such is his way with words, however, he soon makes one forget those two dour presences.
And if it’s not the Cat Man or his companions who are the cause of the udibi’s unease, it has to be something in one of the stories. But what? What is this finger that keeps tapping his shoulder? What is that distant, distorted, but desperate, voice trying to say?
Gray Matter
A sycophantic chorus of No, Sire! and Wise words, Bold Buffalo!
“It is so. We must not underestimate the Beetle, or his lions.”
All know what the outcome of this meeting will be, but a certain amount of ceremony is needed, for his subjects to feel Ngoza and his ministers have the blessings of the shades. And many, many eyes will be fixed on this eyrie high in the sky. For there, in the valley below them, laid out over the gentle hump of a hill, and seen now in the moonlight as a collection of dark domes, is the Thembu capital, the Place of the Buffalo.
“Oh, how I would like to see this Beetle suffer,” says Ngoza.
“We’ll do what we can, Sire,” says Zibhle, his commander-in-chief, who is a lean, scarred man only a few years younger than Ngoza’s fifty-seven summers.
“For we would see him suffer at your feet, Sire,” adds one of the younger lieutenants, eager to attract his chief’s attention.
“Yes, yes, suffer,” says Ngoza, with a languid wave of his hand. “That prospect is beguiling.”
“Which is why we must tread with caution,” says Zibhle with a glare in the young lieutenant’s direction. For puppies need to know their place.
“Too true,” says the chief. “The important thing is for him not to escape. Convey my wishes to the men. Tell them I will be content with Shaka’s head. And the man who brings it to me will profit greatly, as will his comrades and his commander.” Ngoza stands up. “But suffering … there can still be suffering.”
He strides to the edge of the ledge, the group of officers fanning out on either side of him. “Dumo!” he calls out. “Are you ready?”
“I am ready, Highness,” answers the big man, his voice like thunder rolling across the veld.
“Well, gentlemen, what’s first?”
The men know to save the best for last—even the young lieutenant who spoke earlier. For when Ngoza leans forward to peer along the line and fix him with a stare, saying, “You, who were so eager to see suffering, tell me your pleasure,” the lieutenant grins and says, “I would see his head twisted, Sire.”
Ngoza nods and gives the order to Dumo.
Two of the guards lift one of the Zulu warriors on to his knees, and crouch beside him, each holding an arm.
“See,” says Ngoza. “See how he stares straight ahead.”
“But not for long, Sire,” says one of the older officers standing next to him.
Dumo moves up behind the Zulu. Pressing a hand firmly against each of the soldier’s ears, he turns the man’s head gently to the right. When the Zulu’s chin is poised above his shoulder, Dumo steps briefly to the left, past the Thembu soldier crouching there.
Once more he twists the Zulu’s head to the right. This time there’s a loud crack, and the man is left staring backward.
“Well, what say you, my friends?” asks Ngoza, as the guards drag the limp body to one side.
“Too quick,” says one of the lieutenants.
“He didn’t even cry out,” says another.
“Sire, Honored Buffalo,” says Zibhle, “we must not forget old Enza!”
He’s referring to the tribe’s head shaman, and Ngoza nods. “Yes, yes, of course. Dumo!”
“Sire!”
“Gather what Enza needs.”
Another bow from the big man, which brings to mind an avalanche, or at least the beginnings of one mysteriously curtailed by the ineffable whims of the gods. “Sire!”
The second Zulu is hauled to his knees and held fast.
This time Dumo reaches over the warrior’s head, slips two python fingers into the man’s nostrils, and tears off his nose with a single backward jerk.
This time Ngoza and his officers are rewarded by a shriek.
With the Zulu panting, and trying to turn his head away from the giant’s big fingers, Dumo calmly grabs an ear—and twists that off, too, taking with it a flap of skin that reveals the Zulu’s molars.
The sudden pain drives the Zulu upward and backward. Dumo steps aside, but the two guards foolishly try to hold on to the man, and so are carried alongside him over the cliff, with a plummeting scream.
“Do you see?” says Ngoza calmly. “We must not underestimate these Zulus.”
“Wise words, Mighty Malefactor,” adds Zibhle, “and therefore let our men know the price of failure.”
“Indeed. Did you see that?” calls Ngoza, addressing the remaining guards standing down below. “You will tell your comrades that they underestimate these Zulus at their peril.”
The men swallow their shock, and bob their heads in acknowledgment.
“And now,” says Ngoza, rubbing his hands together, “our big friend’s specialty. Dumo!”
All move closer to the edge in greedy anticipation.
Two men yank the Zulu’s arms away from his body. With his ankles tied together, there’s no easy way he can get to his feet. His pupils are like pebbles rolling about his eye sockets, as he tries to track Dumo’s movements. The big man is toying with him, making as if he’s about to step right, and then moving left, all the while laughing at the way the Zulu twists his head. As Dumo’s helpers chortle, the Zulu tries to regain his composure. But he’s seen a friend’s face turned around so that he’s staring at the ancestors; he’s seen another comrade’s face torn apart, bit by bit—better to die on a battlefield than this. If only he, too, could throw himself over the cliff, but right now it’s as far away as the moon.
Then the men on either side of him are raising his arms behind him, forcing him to bow his head. Do they mean to tear his arms from his shoulders?
Suddenly, amid writhing, screaming tendons, and as vivid as the snap of a dry twig in a world of silence, he feels a point—a point he just knows is the tip of a spear-blade—pressing down and then into the top of his skull. The pain retreats long enough for him to note that the movement has two parts to it: first you feel the tip of the blade touch your scalp, then there’s the pushing-into that dents, but doesn’t break the skin.
Why is he noticing this? Think of your family. Of your proud father. Of your mother, always concerned, always pleading with you to be careful, but proud in her own way. Think of …
Why’s he noticing this? Because it’s a positioning, an aiming, a getting just right—
—and before the Zulu can respond, Dumo has brought the stone down on the flattened end of the blade.
Brains are a delicacy among Ngoza and his inner circle. You fast, you eat the brains, you become a god, or at least until you defecate. But that gives you time enough to decide the fate of nations with a god’s wisdom.
As Ngoza and his myrmidons watch Dumo practice his specialty, the Zulu’s screams becoming the sweetest sounds they have ever heard, Thembu messengers make their way through the night. There are three of them, each approaching their destination from a different direction. Ngoza’s taking no chances: the message has to get through, and the message in this instance is simply the arrival of the messenger himself. The generals know what to do next.
Too soon, too soon … But you precipitated this, so no sense in whining now. You knew it was too soon, your regiments still below strength, the new call-ups still busy with their training.
He’s pacing up and down the enclosure that’s his own special space. Sent the guards packing. Stop. Raise your face to the stars; squeeze your balls. What to do?
Too soon, too soon—it becomes the beat that accompanies his feet. Silly to ask what to do. You precipitated this. He remembers Nandi’s response, when he told her he was going to send a deputation to meet with Ngoza. “Are you certain this is what you want to do?” she asked.
He’d frowned, sensing a warning behind her words. “Yes,” he’d said, “but I think you think it’s a mistake.”
“No …”
“Then what, Mother?”
“I just … well, are you sure you’re ready for the consequences?”
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Are you sure you know what those consequences will be, Boy?”
“Clearly you think I don’t. Well, then, tell me what you think those consequences will be.”
“The child sees a mealie he likes, but it’s at the bottom of the stack. Hai! No matter! That’s the one he wants, and he reaches for it and …”
“The other mealies all come tumbling down. I know what is meant by consequences, Mother.”
“But you do not really see my meaning, which is this. The child reaches a point where he can’t change his mind. Once the mealies start tumbling, he cannot say: That’s enough, I don’t want to do this any more! And, once your messengers arrive at Ngoza’s kraal those mealies will start falling. Do you understand?”
Shaka had nodded.
“You nod, Boy, but your eyes still say no. Listen, once those mealies start falling, the child cannot change his mind. The only thing to be decided now is the severity of the end.” The child might, for example, be able to gather up and restack the mealies before anyone else is the wiser. Then again, he could be found out and punished, before he even has time to react. When it comes to what Shaka is proposing, however, he has to assume the worst.
