Shaka the great, p.51
Shaka the Great, page 51
That sound, that beautiful alluring din heard from kilometers away, a wind-rustling-leaves noise that gives new energy to tired limbs. That pewter canopy created by thousands of cooking fires in close proximity, seen from afar, a rain cloud about to favor the Great Place with its bounty. It was enough to overawe them before they even reached the city’s environs. And then they’d be a part of it all, learning that in these masses there was strength, and unity.
“In years to come, you will see these days and nights grow, overflow, as each one tries to outdo the other in describing the wonders they have seen or heard about. And you will hear”—the Induna grins—“hai, you might even add your own fables, although I think that will never be your way. And you will listen and you will smile to yourself, for you have seen for yourself. You will have been here at the time they speak of with such reverence. You will understand that their embellishments are an acknowledgment of just how important this moment was. But, because you have seen for yourself, you’ll also know that no amount of exaggeration will ever be able to properly describe this occasion.”
They’re standing on a rise alongside the main road, and from here they can see over most of Bulawayo and its temporary dwellings. With so many fires, it resembles a giant bed of twinkling coals.
The Induna lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder and they stand in silence before this teeming, flickering vision.
The Induna is plagued by the murders, the feeling of having let down his King, but he hasn’t had much chance to do anything about it these past few days. Being on the fringes tonight will finally give him an opportunity to ponder the problem at length. Perhaps his participation in the First Fruits will enable him to approach things from a different path.
Yet, right now, standing right here with the boy, he finds himself distracted once again.
Has any Zulu king gathered together so many of his subjects?
Has any Zulu king been able to conjure up such unity?
Has any Zulu king ever believed they could grow and prosper, and move so far from that tired old valley rightfully revered only as a place of beginnings and endings?
Back then we had no story, only myths to console us.
Now those days are gone forever. For we have a story, our (own) story, and it begins with Shaka. And let him be called King of Kings, for that is who he is. He has shattered the calabash, and here tonight we are tasting the first fruits of greatness.
I wanted him to come …
I saw what my uncle saw …
And see how it was! Remember how we were!
Zulus? Who were the Zulus?
We were clawless and clueless.
(But we knew we were meant to have claws. Somehow we knew that.)
We were spineless and gutless.
(And yet somehow we knew this was not the way things were meant to be.)
We were poor relatives expected to be grateful for what we had—because things could always be worse.
(Yet somehow—by a stirring in the blood, a quickening heartbeat, the sense of a lion about to pounce—we knew this was our motherland, and that the sky was our father. We were in the right place. This was our home.)
We were slaves, with history’s foot on our back, keeping our faces in the dirt—and if we were allowed up, it was only so we might bow down again.
We were expected to be timid and obedient. Humble and meek. Ever diffident and always servile. Beggarly, sycophantic and abject.
(And always … always the vague sense this was wrong. The world was upside down and the sky trodden upon, and this was not the way things were meant to be.)
We were also trapped, children surrounded by bickering adults who could slap us down at any time.
Shut up! Avert your eyes. Be placatory. Grin and bear it.
Yet, even then, there’d be the nudging that became shoving: grazing lands impinged upon, cattle going missing, Zulu farmers accused of stock theft, insults plaited into a tightening tension leading to an inevitable clash …
Our old foe, the Buthelezis, delivering yet another thrashing …
Or the Ngwanes sauntering down along the map to ask you what you’re looking at …
Aiee! Back then it was the fleas, and their fleas, who came to taunt us. The likes of Zwide barely even acknowledged our existence.
But we were there all the same, hiding in the valley of the White Umfolozi, trying to survive.
We were surrounded, yes …
To the north, the Ndwandwes and the Ngwanes. To the south, the Mthetwas. To the west, a tangle of cantankerous tribes and clans like the Qwabes; between us and the coast: the Mbo, the Thembus and the Khumalos. And among these, too, the Buthelezis, Langeni and others.
We were surrounded, yes, but we could feel it all the same … Like a breath held, a waterskin about to burst, a tautness only a few tugs away from snapping …
We were insignificant and ignored, yes, but we could still see how things were going. Lions were present among the zebra, and the zebra had two choices: either flee or be eaten up.
A clamoring, then … and, when the dust settled, the many had become two. The Ndwandwes to the north, the Mthetwas to the south, with everyone else allied to one or the other—or, like Matiwane KaMasumpa’s Ngwanes, now looking for somewhere else to settle.
And for once her brother Senzangakhona, He Who Acts Wisely, lived up to his name. He threw his lot in with the Mthetwas and, because the Zulus formed a buffer zone between the two great enemies, Dingiswayo KaJobe, king of the Mthetwas, allowed Senzangakhona a certain amount of latitude and encouraged him to build up the Zulu army.
Encouraged? That was the rhetoric, but even then, in the hour of their need, the reality was a little different.
We were leaned against, and encouraged to strengthen ourselves only in the way a fence is strengthened. We were told how important we were, but we were only valuable as objects: men who, in dying and women who, in being raped and villages that, in being burned, would serve only to slow Zwide down, and give Dingiswayo time to deploy his forces.
Where would we be without Shaka? How long would it have been before the Zulu nation vanished, in the same way a river—all that potential, that what-could-be—disappears when it becomes only a tributary?
Our fire would have become merely smoke, before vanishing. It would have been as if we had never lived.
I wanted him to come, so now let me be the one who sees he is stopped!
And as Mnkabayi lies awake, listening to the drums, the shouts and laughter, Ndlela roams the night. He has consulted with the sangoma, and has had him throw the bones. “And see here,” said the old hermit, pointing to the fragment of tortoise shell that had landed between a bone from a cow and a lion’s tooth. “The one you seek,” he said, indicating the tooth. “The one you seek to protect,” he repeated, his finger moving to hover over the bone. “And see here,” he said, indicating the shell. “The one you seek has been deflected. I do not know why, but the tooth points to the stone.” It’s a shiny semi-precious stone, indicating something of value, or something valued, which could be a person or an artifact. “But, know this, the one you seek to protect will be safe for now.”
And now, mulling these things over, Ndlela moves among the festivities, trusting his instincts, going where his feet carry him, pausing only to avoid crossing the Induna’s path. He is a hunter but he is also offering himself as prey. Although, an indication that his suspicions were correct, the cow bone, the “one he seeks to protect,” might not actually be Mnkabayi, but he’s not about to take any chances. Perhaps the deviation the sangoma spotted in the bones means the impundulu will seek out an alternative victim, in its quest for wisdom. Or perhaps the deviation is Ndlela himself, as an obstacle the creature will seek to remove so it can get at Mnkabayi.
Whatever might be the case, he is ready for it.
Death In The Morning
They were supposed to stand guard. They were supposed to look after each other. But last night the festivities got the better of them. Should he have seen to it that some Fasimbas were sent to swell their ranks and therefore ensure that his instructions were carried out?
But now is no time for self-recriminations. He had ordered a patrol to pay regular visits on the clan, and it had discovered the body. A kill still fresh (yet not a kill); and enough men to protect the area, keep inquisitive feet off the closest paths, ensure that the family members are kept calm. And how brave the menfolk are suddenly, the cries of their women puffing out those chests; now they are ready to do their duty. Yet they’re also tired, and toiling under the effects of last night, and therefore easy to pacify. In fact, this early in the morning, almost the whole of KwaBulawayo, including (and perhaps especially) the temporary dwellings, is suffering from a humungous hangover. Which is why there are only a few people out and about to sully the spoor.
And that’s the thing: there is spoor this time. And the Induna knows he and the udibi will have to move fast, if they are to have the trail to themselves. The sun has yet to rise, but the sky is blue, unfurled and awaiting the sun’s arrival, presaged by a golden glow in the distance. Soon there will be more people out and about.
All the same, there’s a need to pause. The Induna orders the men who have arrived with him to see that Dwanile and the wives she deems closest to her are separated from the other women. Then he joins Njikiza at Gudlo’s body. The big man was in charge of the patrol that found Dwanile’s son, which is why everything has been done precisely as the Induna had outlined when telling the patrols what to do, should they be among the first to stumble upon Kholisa’s handiwork.
But it is as Njikiza says. This one is different, not quite a kill. Two assegai thrusts: one delivered below Gudlo’s ribcage, the other through his throat. The animal ferocity that has had them speaking of (and expecting) a kill, as if they are dealing with a deranged lion, is lacking.
“Perhaps you disturbed him,” says the Induna.
“Or someone did.”
The Induna looks up, looks around: “Where’s Jembuluka?”
They were not the first ones to find the body, explains Njikiza. That had been Jembuluka and, according to his sister, he has gone off after the spoor.
“He is knowledgeable about such things?”
The Watcher of the Ford shrugs.
“Hai, then we have also his footprints to make our task more difficult!” murmurs the Induna, his eyes fixed on the body.
There is no mutilation.
And the Induna doesn’t think that’s because Kholisa was disturbed.
Two spear thrusts? The first one to the throat, probably to silence Gudlo …
It’s something else that’s been plaguing the warrior: why hadn’t either the boy, or Zusi, screamed? Both were likely to have been heard, and both must have known that. Yet there had been no cries for help. And no obvious attempt made to silence them during the attack—as is clearly the case here.
A courteous clearing of the throat and fingers brushing his elbow. It’s the udibi. “Master? The spoor …”
Yes, indeed, the spoor …
Let them go and catch this insane sangoma—and then all their questions will be answered.
And, truly, the killer has been unlucky this time. Because this is a temporary camp, the ground around the makeshift huts is soft, welcoming to footprints, and, in striking so early, Kholisa ensured there was a greater chance that those prints would be preserved.
The Induna examines the tracks Njikiza points out to him. “These have to be his,” says the Watcher, “for they were clearly made by a limping man.”
When the Induna nods, Njikiza asks him if he wants some Fasimbas to accompany him.
That won’t be necessary, replies the warrior. He squeezes the big man’s shoulder. “We two will be enough,” he murmurs.
Njikiza nods as if he understands, and the Induna smiles. All the same, he adds, if the Watcher hasn’t heard from them by, say—he looks up at the sky—selilidala, when the sun has matured, and is well up, then he and the other Fasimbas can come looking for them.
“We will make it easy for you to find us,” says the Induna.
“As you wish, Nduna.”
Having left their shields with Njikiza, and carrying only an iklwa each, the Induna and the boy set off after the spoor. The residents of the temporary huts they pass continue to be reluctant to face the sun. Only children seem to be up and about, but the Induna and the udibi are moving fast enough to pass them by before their curiosity can be aroused. Paths crisscross the area, but they’re narrow, and with a bit of patient searching at each intersection the Induna’s able to find where the killer in his haste stepped off the path and ran alongside it for a few paces. Or else overbalanced—for it’s clear even to the boy that there’s something wrong with the way he moves.
“See here,” says the Induna, the first time the path forks and they have to split up temporarily. His fingers tracing the shapes so the udibi will know what to look for amid the older tracks, he shows the boy how the right foot is always at an angle, turned inwards, and how most times you see only the toes and the pad behind them. The imprint left by the other foot is deeper, a sign that their quarry’s hobbling, favoring his right leg.
Finally they find themselves on a path leading away from the capital. It’s a narrow band of hard-packed dirt, but the Induna’s still able to discern traces of the spoor. Then he’s not so sure … Their pace slows to a walk as the warrior casts about, seeking signs that they’re still heading in the right direction. He has the boy look for any place at which the killer might have left the path, but the dew has now gone and there’s no easy way to see if someone has cut through the long grass.
Reaching a ridge a few minutes later, they come to a fork. One branch runs through a tangle of bush and trees; the other climbs the slope, to skirt the thicket.
The Induna glances backward and thinks for a moment. They’re out of sight of the capital. Perhaps believing that, by this stage, his pursuers will have come to the conclusion he’s given them the slip, and return to Bulawayo, their quarry may have become a little more careless.
The udibi will take the path through the bushes, while the Induna will follow the other—the one he suspects a man in a hurry is more likely to take. The boy is to listen for his master’s call, which will be the sign to turn back again—and they’ll meet here. Two calls mean one of them has found something, and the other is to make his way to him directly.
Jogging to overcome the gradient, his eyes on the fringes of soft sand on either side of the path, the Induna still finds himself pestered by the manner of Gudlo’s murder. How different his death is to the others. If Njikiza (and Jembuluka before him) hadn’t found tracks that indicated the passing of a limping man, he’d be more than willing to entertain the thought that Gudlo’s killing had nothing to do with the other two.
But see how closely this clan has been involved in all three murders. Two of their number have been victims, while Vuyile witnessed the first killing. Could it be that they really are cursed?
The Induna pauses. Drops to his haunches, takes a closer look at an indentation in the sand to the right of the path.
Let us say they are cursed. Let us say they have done something to rile Kholisa, and now he wants vengeance … And it could well be that Vuyile was his intended victim that night, the other poor boy who had died merely blundering into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Ndlela stands up, dusting his hands. That footprint is too old. He moves on.
Let us say this, then surely Shaka’s concerns fall away. There is brutality and bad blood here, but it’s hard to see that becoming a conspiracy to disrupt the First Fruits—or even a more ambitious one to overthrow the King.
Something else now to consider: the First Fruits are all but over. In what way have these murders disrupted the ceremony? There have been the rumors, certainly, but the spectacle itself has been too overwhelming. Was this a case of little Nompofo shaking the tree and fooling Jackal into thinking she was a monster, when she was something else? Was the conspiracy to disrupt the First Fruits merely a ruse, in other words? One that hid not a frightened little girl, in this instance, but something far more dangerous than the tree-monster had made herself out to be. And what might that be? The second option then; the one he’s considered in passing, as a mere aside? That the real goal is to overthrow Shaka?
For there are the mutilations, and what they signify.
Doesn’t that point to something that is more than a mere ruse, or some way of getting back at a clan that has angered a sangoma? And speaking of which, what had happened to turn Kholisa against the clan? Hadn’t he actually tried to help first Zusi, and then Ntokozo?
The Induna pauses for breath. Below him are the bushes that hide the udibi from sight. On the hillside across the way, a herd of cattle grazes; so at least the herdboys are doing their duty. The sky remains cloudless.
He is missing something.
But what?
Suddenly the path leaps up at the boy. He’s stubbed his big toe and has stumbled. Aiee! Has someone tried to trip him? No—he wheels round—it was just that root. Shaking his head at his lucky escape, due to the acrobatic exertions he was able to employ to ensure his chin and nose didn’t smack against the path, he turns again, ready to continue on his way. And that’s when the pain hits him.
Even then he takes two, three steps, before he’s fully aware there’s something wrong with his left foot. And then he blunders on for a few more steps, before he thinks to look down.
He sees blood, slows his pace, but doesn’t stop. His big toe ends in blood. It’s sore, but not that bad. Still walking, still looking down. Blood … but not that bad … stupid. Fortunately nobody was around to see what happened. Still walking, looking up to make sure he doesn’t stumble off the path, then looking down at blood … And what’s that flapping at the end of his big toe?
