Shaka the Great (39 page)

He had listened to her and he had obeyed, but he still sought out Mgobozi.

It was two days before he was finally able to find the Mthetwa general alone.

He smiled in the face of the older man's irritable reaction, “Yes, what is it?”

Smiled and held out the fly-whisk.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

Mgobozi stared at him, for what felt like a long while, with a penetrating, appraising stare. Then he turned his attention to the object still lying across the Induna's open palm.

“I believe it does,” he said, but made no attempt to reach for the whisk.

The Induna raised and lowered his palm. “It seems to lack a little heft now, but I may be mistaken.”

“Maybe.”

“But, other than that, I do believe it has suffered no real damage while out of your possession.”

So saying, the Induna slipped his finger into the opening at the bottom of the hollow handle, which was once blocked by beeswax or some other substance that would melt if the whisk was left close to a fire for long enough. And extended the whisk.

Mgobozi smiled, bowed his head, and took the whisk from the young warrior.

“I think such fripperies are not for me,” he said, examining it.

“Perhaps.”

“I think I need now to turn my attention to Zulu beer, but I will need a guide.”

He received a tight, humorless grin. “Perhaps another time.”

“Aiee, are all Zulus so equivocal?”

“What of our King?”

“He is anything but, Nduna. Which is doubtless another reason why he is King, and we are left free to drink beer.”

“Still I must decline.”

“This time?”

“This time,” agreed the Induna.

“There will be another.”

“I'm sure there will.”

It's Mnkabayi's words that stick in his craw, though. Think of fences, she had said; they guide and protect, but they're also often moved and rebuilt.

And where had
she
been the night before he and Dingane were to meet Shaka? She had been entertaining Nandi. And when he and Dingane had walked to meet Shaka, Mnkabayi was to be seen in company with Nandi and Pampata.

And what about tonight?

Plans, plots, conspiracies. The lookout. The low, urgent voices. Promises and compromises.

Where was Mnkabayi tonight?

Who had she entertained last night? Or whenever it was … ?

And he'd reached down through the elephant-gray mist and pulled Dingane up—obeying her orders!—and a short while later the prince had said, “You have served my brother loyally all these years, but who do you serve tonight?”

It's Mnkabayi who needs to be asked that question.

And what of Dingane? He had come to EsiKlebeni already knowing an arrangement had been made: a form of lobola, with his approval of Shaka being the price for his life. He couldn't be sure that his long-lost brother would honor his side of the bargain, though, so his trepidation had been real … But in the end it had all gone according to plan.

But whose plan?

And how much does Dingane know about this matter?

And it's dawn, and they are making their way down the slope. The Induna is walking in front of Dingane, his eyes fixed on the path.

“Nduna,” hisses the prince.

He looks up and sees men arrayed in a line across the opposite ridge. From their shields he recognizes them as the Iziyendane. That's the regiment made up of Hlubis, men of Xhosa stock who can be counted upon to slaughter Zulus as willingly as they slaughter the King's enemies, if the right person gives them the command.

The reorganisation of society on military lines was accompanied by a new ethos … A pride almost amounting to arrogance and an indifference to human life were accompanied by a sense of discipline, order and cleanliness which at once attracted the attention of European travellers. At the same time political loyalty was enhanced to a high degree, and came to be regarded as an absolute value.

From
The Zulu Aftermath
by J. D. Omer-Cooper

Shaka must die.

Shaka will die.

Let that be the drumbeat that sustains him.

Let that be the drumbeat that guides him through pain and suffering.

Shaka must die.

Shaka will die.

He is known by many names, and will be known by many more—but that's all to the good. It's the way it is when one has no past, no tomorrow. Besides, to know his real name would be to instantly divine the nature of his quest.

And he can't have that—at least not until the day of reckoning, when it no longer matters and everyone will quake and cringe at the destruction wrought by his fury …

Let the pain and suffering also be his punishment for being too young when his family fell; too young to stand by his brothers, his father; too young to do anything but whimper.

Let the pain and suffering, the snarls and sneers, the setbacks sustain him, as well. Because the worse it gets, the greater his trials, the closer he is to fulfilling his vow.

Let the pain feed him, because he is unstoppable. He knows this the same way he knows the sun will rise tomorrow and set tonight. It's in the sky; it covers the rocks like moss, slices through the valleys like a young river, slips through the long grass like a snake.

And if, like a snake, he'll sometimes have to move sideways in order to move forward, so be it.

Every move brings him closer to the Zulu King.

And he will be—and is already—all but invisible.

Shaka must die.

Shaka will die.

The ancestors guide him, but he doesn't need their help. There is the pain, the drumbeat, anger in his heart, his throat, anger powering his muscles, giving him the strength to endure.

That's all he has to do, endure, and he will find his prey. His prey will deliver itself up to him.

And he knows the pain will then fall away, leaving him free to deliver the killing blow.

And if he falls too, so be it.

He will die a happy man if his assegai blade is drenched with the Beetle's blood, and the monster lies writhing at his feet …

There are three of them, and their captive. But he doesn't count, not being one of them and therefore not human. That doesn't save him from taunts and torments intended to enliven a dull journey, though. Today, Thin Son's weapon of choice is a slender green branch, and he walks behind the isilwane, whipping the thing's left shoulder in a downward motion. The idea is to see how many times he can hit the same strip of pink and red, lay the switch exactly within the same cut. Short Son, meanwhile, being the first-born, gets to bully both the thing and his younger sibling. He moves ahead of the group, hides himself a few paces from the path, and waits until they pass. His father, the captive and his younger brother, in that order—the last's antics ensuring that he and the isilwane have fallen several paces behind their father. Then Short Son pounces. He yanks his brother aside and sweeps a foot across the thing's heels. He's got so proficient that he can have both down in one pulling-andtripping motion. Thin Son, who is very dim, is caught out every time. He will, in fact, watch his brother move ahead and disappear around a bend, and then still yelp in surprise when he feels those hands close around his elbows several paces later.

Their father, meanwhile, chortles every time this happens, his laughter an invitation to further repetition. Seeing the thing fall is especially funny, as it has both its paws tied behind its back. That his sons might be damaging the goods is clearly neither here nor there.

What
is
a reason for curtailing this frivolity, however, is the approach of night. The trees and bushes are yawning shadows, and it's time to find a stream and a nice, safe, sheltered place to camp. Without slowing his pace, the father turns his head, tells his younger
son to stop dawdling. It's an instruction the boy conveys to the captive walking between them with another mamba-like strike of the green branch, its end frayed now and sticky with blood and sap.

Several paces later, the three round a bend to see Short Son standing rigid next to a pool of water.

Frowning, the father tells Thin Son and the captive to wait there. Raising his spear to shoulder height, the blade bobbing slightly, he approaches his first-born. His eyes aren't what they used to be, so the seventeen-year-old is a plump blur—and it's only when he comes up alongside his son that he sees what has caught the boy's attention.

For a moment, instinct tightens his grip on the haft of his spear. But, even with his poor eyesight, he soon realizes there's no threat here and lowers the assegai. The man sitting on a smooth shelf of rock alongside the pool is elderly. A cobweb of gray mats his chest and follows his jawline.

The two adults exchange ritual greetings, and the graybeard, whose name is Xola, indicates the pool. “I have water, and food. Would you share my fire?”

Food?
The father scratches his head and wonders where this food is. He can see a sleeping mat, an iwisa and a leather sack, but these seem to be the graybeard's only possessions, and the sack is too small to hold enough food for four.

As though divining the other's thoughts, Xola explains that he and a grandson were taking a bull to the next village. A section of the path ran along the side of a kloof, and the nervous animal had stumbled, lost its footing and gone careering down the slope. Xola chuckles ruefully, saying he doesn't know why he didn't let go of the leather rope they had tied to the animal's horns so they could guide it more easily along this stretch of path. It wasn't as though he could have single-handedly stopped the bull from taking a shortcut into the ravine. When he did think to let go, choosing to save his life rather than this sizeable chunk of his wealth, it was already too late. He was entangled, and the rope now had him as surely as the slope had the bull. When they reached the bottom, sliding
through dirt and grass and a collection of stones sharper than a mother-in-law's tongue, he had a twisted ankle and the bull had a broken leg.

The bellowing beast was killed to put it out of its misery, then Xola had his grandson bring him back here, where he knew there was fresh water. After collecting firewood for the old man, the grandson continued on to the umuzi to fetch help. Knowing the boy will only get back tomorrow, the old-timer has resigned himself to spending the night alone and hungry. But now the father can send his eldest son to butcher the animal, for most of the bigger scavengers won't have moved in yet, and the boy should be able to at least rescue some fine cuts of meat.

“It pains me to lose a bull, but let us make the most of this tragedy,” says Xola. “Let us eat like kings!” Better that than leaving the carcass to the hyenas and vultures.

The father readily agrees. After the graybeard has told him where to find the bull, Short Son ambles off down the path. He doesn't need his father to remind him to put aside some extra pieces of meat for tomorrow night and, if possible, skin the animal. (Let them make the most of the old-timer's tragedy as well!)

A whistle from the father brings Thin Son and the isilwane to the pool.

“This is my other son,” he says, introducing the former. Xola nods a greeting, intrigued by the way the irises of the boy's eyes are like feuding uncles and seem to be trying to reside on opposite sides of his head, as far apart as possible.

“Er, erm …” continues the father. Faced with the stranger's generosity, he has to make his own contribution to the evening's festivities. Biting down his resentment, he says he will supply the drink: a gourd of beer and also one of Sweet Innocence, a hard-kicking liquor made from honey.

“A potent combination,” says Xola, “and I salute your generosity.”

The father hopes it's worth it. He hopes Short Son can find them enough meat for tonight, and for tomorrow when they'll be free of this old fool, and be able to save the animal's skin. (Will he
remember the horns and hooves? He'd better, if he wants to sit down again before the next full moon.)

“And who is this?” asks Xola, referring to the captive standing next to Thin Son, and thereby proving to the father that he is a fool and a tactless one at that. Aged and outnumbered, he ignores common decency and good manners to ask such a question and even indicate that he has noticed the thing! Is he senile as well as stupid?

“He is nothing,” says the father, trying hard not to sound annoyed.

“By his features, I would say he is a Ndwandwe.”

“You are right,” allows the father grudgingly.

“We caught it sneaking toward its old feeding grounds,” adds Thin Son.

“This is so,” says the father, mentally promising Thin Son a hiding he'll never forget.