Shaka the Great (54 page)

But it's not as old as the spear that Nkululeko carries. Every family has an Umkhontho Wamadlozi, a Spear of the Spirits. It's used to slaughter animals and the blade is never cleaned; for to remove the nsila, or gore, is one of the worst forms of desecration known to the People Of The Sky. But no other Zulu family has an Umkhontho quite like this one. Indeed, Nkululeko's clan is famous throughout the kingdom because of it, and the village, too, for being the home of the Spear. With a haft made from a wood unknown to the region, and a long slender blade more finely formed, stronger and easier to sharpen, than any Zulu equivalent, it's said to be a Ma-iti assegai, a relic from the days of the Phoenicians. Whether that's so—and it doesn't seem likely for the spear is old but not that old—is neither here nor there. Nkululeko's Umkhontho Wamadlozi is deemed extremely valuable because of its age, because of what it is—a thing of fine craftsmanship from another world—and because it's the potential source of much magic.

Raising his arms, with the blade of the Umkhontho Wamadlozi pointing skyward, Nkululeko begins naming the amathongo, the ancestors of his family and his clan …

… and the udibi's thinking of a thirsty land, a hungry river and another sacrifice. And a young herdboy who, on overhearing his father say the spirit of the river was angry, set out to appease it so that all might once more go to sleep with their bellies full. “Mighty River,” he said, “I bring you my father's best cow. It is yours if you let us quench our thirst once more!” But the next day the cow was still there, and the level of the river was even lower.

The ancestors' names crowd the cattlefold. Their praises fill the air like the finery they once wore in attending occasions such as
this. And then Nkululeko is done. He stands gleaming with sweat, his eyes shut, his head thrown back. He stands motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest. It's as if the years of indolence have fallen away and he is young again and strong, able to march all day, carouse all night.

… and the boy offered his father's best bull to the river. But the following day the bull was still there, and the level of the waters had dropped even lower. The boy wept and punched the ground and beseeched the sky. What could he do? What sacrifice could he offer the river that would see their crops grow again?

Now he must giya. Calling on his newly regained youth, Nkululeko rises up out of his sweat, as he leaps and lunges in, fighting an imaginary foe, while the spectators urge him on to greater exertions. Some even point out to him where opponents might lurk.
Here! There! Behind you!
And the tempo increases, for the more energetic the giya, the better, and there's always a chance the host will pass out. Although that's not something to be ashamed of—quite the contrary, it's a sign the warrior has literally fought himself to a standstill—masculine pride prefers this does not happen. Instead, the idea is to attain a frenzy that leaves one tottering afterward, but not face down in the dust.

And the amathongo are in a good mood this afternoon, and the strength of youth flows through Nkululeko's arteries, powering his muscles to lift his body and legs in leaps and kicks that a man half his age (and weight) would be proud of …

… what, oh, what could he offer the river? What could he offer as a sacrifice to end these burning days, these hungry nights?

Thrust and parry. Leap and kick. Twist and lunge.

Let all evil, let all the agents of bad luck and misfortune, be banished from this place …

… his little sister, Nompofo! He would offer her! “What say you, Mighty River, Giver of Life, will you accept my little sister?” asked the boy. “Will her life see our lives returned to us?” And, as soon as the words left his lips, water swirled around his ankles. That was it! That was the sacrifice that would appease the river!

And Nkululeko's on his knees. Sweat stings his eyes, but he daren't wipe them. His muscles and his chest and throat are raw. His body wants him to lean forward till he's on his hands and knees, the better to catch his breath, but he fights that urge. That would be undignified. But the need to open his mouth as wide as a python's and suck in as much air as possible can't be resisted. And his lips feel as rough as dried mud. And he realizes that, as his muscles cool, he'll have an even harder time getting to his feet …

It's a consideration that overrides all his other aches and pains. Freeing his arm from his shield, but keeping a firm grip on his spear, he manages to somehow get himself aloft. His knees already aching, in a harbinger of what is to come once he has a chance to relax, he tries not to hobble as he circles the cattle.

When he feels able to do so without coughing, he starts speaking.

His tone is even, and it's as if he's talking to his friends. This is the bika; he's reminding the ancestors he's fulfilled his obligations, and telling them he's ready to sacrifice the bull. His voice is calm so as not to disturb the animal and, even as he's speaking, he stabs the bull in its side.

It happens that fast, that smoothly. There's no pause and flourish, no cruel hesitation. Nkulukelo stops in mid-sentence, his soothing words giving way to a grunt of exertion as he drives home the blade of the Umkhontho Wamadlozi.

And the shout goes out: “Cry, bull of the amadlozi! Cry!”

Even as the bull drops, the butchers move forward, accompanied by young girls carrying an assortment of bowls. Skilled in their art, these men will skin the animal in such a way that not one drop of blood or splatter of gore remains unaccounted for. Mixed with the right ingredients, such substances can be used to create powerful muthis capable of bringing forth all manner of hardships for a village, for it is said that “aguqule amadlozi ukuba abulale”—the spirits will listen to anyone in possession of blood or offal from a sacrifice.

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.