Shaka the Great (35 page)

He's seen a dog kick dirt over its mess, and often, as a herdboy in the veld, he has watched as a titihoye, or plover, tricked a predator by feigning a broken wing and running away from the nest where her young were hidden, screaming “Tit-tit-titihoye, titihoye, abantwana bami bathathwa nguwe” (
Tit-titihoye, titihoye, dare you deprive me of my children!
). Could a mamba be as devious? Of course! But a dog uses its hind legs to cover its mess, so how exactly would a snake be able to hide its point of entry, even if it was a wizard's familiar fortified with muthi and then sent forth to kill on behalf of the umthakathi?

“… the bones, the bones, always with the bones, Qumo. And you, Bala,” adds Mduli, fixing on the judge who most often challenges his rulings, “you who provide refuge to our most beloved and esteemed Nobela, before you
scurry back muttering about my disrespect, let me emphasize that I am all for throwing the bones, for this is our way, and their guidance is valuable. But look you to the sky now, Brothers. See how high the sun is.” For whatever reason, the sangomas who specialize in these things have yet to make their appearance.

“Our guests are still there, in their hut,” continues Mduli. “We cannot detain them much longer without making matters worse by being seen as ill-mannered hosts. And there is Shaka. And there is Dingiswayo. Decisions have to be made now!”

“The battle has commenced,” adds Ndlela, who's been sent around the hut by Mnkabayi with the purpose of joining this cacophony of hisses that passes for the Zulu senate today, and of endeavoring to point them in the right direction …

The Induna straightened up and stretched. Who could know how many other similar holes there were in this hut?

Besides, how much will be gained by finding out where exactly the snake got in?

But there was surely one thing he could be certain of …

“… Ndlela is right,” says Mduli after some of the older counselors have looked around anxiously, as if expecting to see Mthetwa shields and spears come sweeping down the low hills that surround the homestead. “Strategy governs those who move forward to meet the enemy, and certain objectives have to be seized, but often an induna will find his progress slowed, or be faced by obstacles or circumstances that his generals did not foresee.” And then he must act on his own initiative. To blunder forward blindly or withdraw and wait for guidance from his superiors—both of these paths will lead to destruction. And, in turn, the outcome of the battle might be threatened.

“This is where we now find ourselves, Brothers,” says Mduli. “We have only our own skills and our own wisdom to rely on.”

There was one thing he could be certain of: the mamba had to have been introduced into the hut last night. And that was precisely when the security measures around the hut had been increased. Someone trying to make a hole in the thatch would have been spotted, as this was no easy task and required time.

The Induna knew this because there had been such a hole and
it had taken several minutes of hammering to make, with one man pushing the end of an iwisa into the thatch, and another hitting the stick's rounded head to drive it further in. This was where Mnkabayi had positioned herself in order to listen to the meeting.

But the mamba had to have been introduced sometime last night, for the simple reason that Sigujana would have died earlier had the snake been brought in earlier.

Across the way, Bala is inviting Mduli to share his wisdom with his fellow counselors, because he himself feels very unwise. He hears this talk—aiee, all this talk—and yet no one, not even wise Mduli, will condescend to answer a few simple questions.

“Such as?” asks Mduli, scratching his chin.

“What precisely is going on here?” No, wait, adds Bala, holding up a hand. He will be even more specific: who will tell him what has happened here?

From her place behind the hut, Mnkabayi grins. Every now and then the detested Bala gets the better of his rival, and she wishes she could see Mduli's face.

“What has happened here …” says Mduli, repeating Bala's words to allow himself time to think.

But the isifunda won't give him the chance. “Yes,” he says. “Men have come from Dingiswayo, claiming that Senzangakhona KaJama promised the throne to Shaka. The king Senzangakhona chose on his deathbed then meets with these men. Then he dies.” Are these things connected? And does it matter?

“Does it matter?” asks Mduli incredulously.

“Well, does it? These men from Dingiswayo, they are merely messengers, and here we are now without an heir. Does the death of our king, Sigujana KaSenzangakhona, render Shaka's claims irrelevant? Sigujana left no heir, and in these cases does not the crown go to the next eldest son of the old king? Who is that?” The final question is rhetorical, sneering.

The opening specially hacked in the rear of the hut meant that the interior of the dwelling was well lit, depending on the position of the sun. The Induna returned to the entrance of the indlu, to retrace his steps of the night before.

Mduli shrugs. “Matters of succession—these are important, yes, but they will resolve themselves.” Is there not a river to cross before they reach that
place? A raging river, swollen by floodwaters? Bala tries a dismissive grunt, but a quick glance at the faces around him shows him too many of his fellow elders understand what Mduli's getting at. Surely the first issue to be addressed is how far Dingiswayo is willing to go when it comes to interfering in Zulu affairs. His championing of Shaka is one thing, but that he should resort to—or at least condone—an assassination, when the People Of The Sky have never ever given him reason to doubt their loyalty … well, what does that say about the future of the Zulu—Mthetwa alliance?

He had kicked in the isivalo last night, and now sees someone has gathered up the pieces and laid them neatly to the left of the door. He moves further into the hut, avoiding the space where Sigujana had lain and screamed and suffered.

He turns, noting the position of the mats, arranged in a U-shape before the pile of skins that served as Sigujana's throne—and which he then spread out whenever he went to sleep.

Judging by the way these things are usually done, those seeking an audience would have been seated directly opposite the king, on the other side of the fireplace.

And, yes … the Induna moves forward … there's the fly-whisk Mgobozi had carried. He had even showed it to the Induna, yesterday afternoon. Weighing it in his hand, the Induna had been struck by the intricacy of the carving on the handle, its thickness, too, and the skillful way the plaited zebra and quagga hairs had been worked into the top of the handle. The Induna frowns. Remembers thinking how surprisingly heavy the whisk had been …

“What's this?” Aware of a sudden darkening of the hut's interior, even as those words are spoken, the Induna turns toward the hole as Mhlangana inquires, “What are you doing here?”

The Induna explains how he has been given permission to examine the royal hut.

“Why? What for?”

How to answer those questions? Fortunately, the Induna is saved from making the effort, by a new commotion outside.

Ngwadi and Mgobozi have been brought forward, to be questioned about last night.

A familiar feeling. One she has worn so often, it has taken her shape.

(… just like, dare she say it, the skins that Nobela wears become and have become her …)

Familiar as the grave, where bones have found their notches, their niches, these impedimenta left by the spirit when it embarked on the Great Journey …

(… left behind … discarded … ignored … familiar feelings of a different kind, which she must strive to leave behind … discard … ignore …)

Familiar.

Listen to them talk, listen to them bicker. They have lost their way.

These men, they have lost their way.

And she can say nothing.

(Let him come …)

She must hide here—a pretense, of course, for they all know she is listening in but their pride and their vanity must be indulged—and she can only eavesdrop. She cannot rise up and stride into their midst and tell them what must be done!

(Let him come. If even half of what she's heard about his courage is true, and the nobility they say shines in his eyes, he will be the one who will speak the words she cannot.)

Listen to them!

For once Mduli has got it wrong, showing his age not by cloudy thinking but by letting his stubbornness overrule his better judgment. Why goad the other counselors into seeing this as an act of war on Dingiswayo's part? But better that than admit he is sowing what he reaped all those years ago. His mistake hadn't been in saying that Nandi had a stomach-ache when she claimed to be pregnant; that was simply a stratagem to be expected from one tasked with protecting the reputation of the royal family. His error
had been in allowing Senzangakhona to treat Nandi so despicably, once they were married. Because Mduli was his uncle and a respected elder, Senzangakhona would have felt obligated to obey him if Mduli had suggested the young king treat Nandi as he would any wife he had courted and paid lobola for. Instead, the elder had turned a blind eye when Senzangakhona's resentment at having been forced into a marriage saw him raise his hand against both the mother and her son. It was a wife's duty to obey her husband—so she could expect the occasional beating—but it was also possible to go too far. When this happened, it was up to the family elders to protect the wife, either by having a word with the husband or, if this failed to curb his abuse, to send for the woman's father (and uncles and brothers). Nandi's family wanted nothing to do with her—or Shaka—but Mduli could have intervened, in their place, and warned Senzangakhona to restrain himself. Instead he did nothing and when Nandi, realizing there was no help coming from that quarter, sought to protect herself and her son, he was one of the first to suggest that the willful bitch be sent to live with her own people.

Just listen to them!

How dare Dingiswayo interfere in our affairs! Who is he to say who will be king of the Zulus?
And now Mduli's the willful one. In another time, another place, she'd be able to view the man's behavior with a certain amount of compassion, realizing the fear behind his exhortations.

Shaka is coming home—and not as a mere soldier but as a king with the power of life and death over all.

(And let him! Let him come!)

But Mduli's adamant that Ngwadi and Mgobozi had something to do with Sigujana's death, and that they were acting under Dingiswayo's orders, not Shaka's.

“How?” asks Ngwadi, for they were confined to the guest hut, surrounded by sentries.

“We came here in peace and under the protection of one of
your
protectors, Zulu, never forget that,” adds Mgobozi.

It has to be so! There can be only one way out of this predicament—and what does it matter if Shaka planned it?

And it's Shaka's hand she sees here; Mduli is wrong to blame Dingiswayo. Shaka has merely been assured of his mentor's support, everything else has been left up to him.

Mnkabayi turns to one of her servant girls, telling her she must go and fetch the Induna.

And the men continue to bicker, some trying to question the Mthetwas, others arguing among themselves.

So familiar, these feelings of frustration and impatience. And this constant need for subterfuge, always having to take the long way round. But what can she do? Despite her rank, she is a woman. And because she is an ambitious woman …

She smiles. That alone makes her different, as being one of a pair of twins made her different, suspect, one to be watched. Maybe Nobela and the other sangomas, who would suck her gall, eat her spleen and gnaw on her heart to gain her powers, are right when they whisper
Witch!

After all, doesn't she have her familiars?

These feelings, these
familiar
feelings of frustration, impatience, resentment, do they not also protect her as some familiars do? It is true there are bitter moments when they are painful reminders of her predicament, the way she is trapped, enslaved by her body, her cunt a curse, the scar that will never heal. But most of the time they do their job, protecting her by biting at her in the same way that stiff, not-quite-healed muscles and tendons warn one against overexertion.

Hai! See how well this female umthakathi has learned her craft! Such is her power, the strength of her will, she can use her anger, her frustration, to pull her up, and give her the chance to re-evaluate and regain control of her impis. (Whereas one of these baboons, these men, would allow themselves to be goaded into a duel or confrontation that is likely to see whatever pathetic plans they might have thwarted forever.)

A wizard also has familiars—snakes, owls, wolves, baboons—who
help him achieve his ends. And it's not surprising that the umhlangwe favored by female abathakathi is the impaka, or wild cat. It can do many things for its mistress, such as make livestock ill or collect hair from a sleeping person who the witch wishes to curse. But the part of the story Mnkabayi has always liked is how a witch can use an impaka to spread malice, ruin the reputations of women she has taken a dislike to, make husbands think they are being cuckolded, cause old friends to become bitter enemies.

The way her mother had told it, all a female umthakathi had to do was go to a wedding celebration or beer party, and then set the impaka free when no one was looking. She'd have it hidden under her skirt, and she'd simply rejoin the festivities while the cat scampered about, spreading malice wherever she had sent it.

But her impaka … Mnkabayi grins, lowering her face so her attendants don't see this softening of her stern expression. She speaks the words to herself:
My mpaka is always under my skirt …