Shaka the Great (22 page)

The bitch!

Sprawled now on the hot sand, massaging his neck.
The bitch!
She tricked him. Not realizing how happy he was to see the last of her, and how much pleasure cutting her head off would bring him, his aunt obviously thought he might try and turn her into an impundulu, too. Accordingly, she'd given him instructions on how to make one that turned against its master.

A shadow falling over him.

Cringing in pain, Kholisa turns his head. “You!” he exclaims, shading his eyes. “You were watching all the time! You know that is
forbidden!” He extends his free hand in the direction of the body. “And see what you have wrought!”

When in doubt, blame someone else.

“Fool!” hisses Kholisa. “Our master will not be pleased with us.”

A chuckle as the shadow moves across Kholisa's face. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You see its spoor first. In converging paths and tracks that become a hardtrodden road, a veritable king's highway heading toward a gray smudge in the sky. And there are more and more people coming and going: striding, ambling, hobbling. Lines of youngsters weighed down by stacks of skins, bundles of assegai hafts, sacks of iklwa blades, led by fathers and uncles. Or else lines coming away, the adults strutting proudly, the sons and nephews herding cattle alongside the road, as a clan's reward for supplying quality goods. Young maidens, marshaled by their mothers, carry pots or sleeping mats, beadwork, decorative headdresses and coverings, collections of feathers for young men to wear when courting, cloaks made from cow or buffalo skin. Parties of older women, expert brewers, are accompanied by assorted sons and nephews carrying their latest consignment of beer.

Striding with a little more purpose, there are those come to seek justice. Their faces grim, they glare at the horizon as though their eyes can pull their destination—and their moment of reckoning—closer, while deviating from this impossible task only to study those
coming from,
as if their faces will reveal the prevailing mood
over there.
An exercise in futility, the old hands could tell them, for the mood
over there
can change
just like that!
This is not to imply capriciousness, you understand, but with all these ingrates scurrying in every day—well, is it any wonder the Bull Elephant should grow annoyed from time to time? And if the matter involves another party, you might also want to make sure the two of you don't end up sharing the same space of road at the same time—in case an attempt is made to settle the case out of court, as it were. Better to keep going, dodging these others who're moving so slowly they're all but loitering.

Regiments on the march and the King's messengers can take special paths reserved for them the closer they get. And, although entitled to do so, the man doesn't exercise this option because of the need for secrecy. Alongside
him, acting as his udibis, are two of his younger brothers. It's not a misguided sense of self-importance that's seen him furnish himself with two baggage carriers. He's on an important errand—in fact, right now he's perhaps the most important man in the kingdom beside the King—but he can't attract attention by traveling in a large party. However, his message needs to get through and he himself needs to be the one to deliver it, and he can't do that with fewer than two companions—for two can carry an injured companion with relative speed, if need be.

They've traveled as fast as possible, slowing down when they encounter other wayfarers, and indulging in the niceties expected when travelers meet on the road, sharing snuff, exchanging news, then moving on again, waiting until they're safely out of sight before increasing their pace so as to make up the lost time.

Now, however, so close to their destination, they allow themselves to be swept along by the rest of the human current, the man occasionally reaching up to finger the round hardness in the muthi pouch rendered nondescript and all but hidden amidst the other adornments around his neck.

An important man with an important message, but he allows his brothers a little time to stop and gape and stare, and turn to the many other travelers doing the same thing, so as to share their awe and feel it multiply, when they finally crest the ridge and see it laid out before them, always bigger than you expected it to be, or remembered …

KwaBulawayo!

There are three kinds of Zulu settlement. Firstly there is the homestead established by a man when he marries, and leaves his father's fireplace. Comprising a few huts and a fenced-in cattlefold, it might expand to house three or four families, invariably related.

Next there's the village, or umuzi, a larger settlement of numerous families. Each village (and the surrounding homesteads) are in the charge of a headman. Traditionally, he's been called inkosi, or chief; but, since coming to power, Shaka has decreed that this title should be reserved for the King. These days, a village headman is addressed as unumzane, a word that means “gentleman” and implies nobility, if not necessarily one of noble birth. This is in keeping with Shaka's policy of consolidating his position within the kingdom by replacing amakhosi ohlanga—hereditary chiefs—with his own appointees, who are invariably officers who have proved themselves in battle.

The third, and largest, form of Zulu settlement is the military kraal, or ikhanda. These are where the amabutho are stationed when they're called up for a tour of duty, and where youngsters come to be trained prior to being formed into new regiments. The amakhanda all belong to Shaka, and he divides his time between them. These are the Zulu cities, and awe-inspiring expressions of the King's power, but only those war kraals on the borders of the kingdom are kept permanently garrisoned. The other amakhanda are like the moon, waning and waxing, and only truly come alive when the King himself is in residence.

Shaka will hold court there, deal with matters of state and any problems that might have arisen in the surrounding district. He'll also inspect those portions of his cattle and his harem that are kept there. Then he moves on, and the settlement wanes until it becomes
a ghost town of largely empty huts, which is now home mainly to women, children, old men, a caretaker regiment and some youthful conscripts who, as part of their training, see to the vegetable gardens and ensure the huts are kept clean and habitable, building new ones as it becomes necessary.

Of course, the King's always going to have his favorite ikhanda, or Komkhulu, Great Place, where he spends most of his time, thus making it to all intents and purposes the Kingdom's capital. In Shaka's case this is KwaBulawayo, the Place Of He Who Kills. The first Bulawayo had been situated near the White Mfolozi but, after defeating Zwide in 1819, Shaka had it moved south to the region between the Mhlathuze and Thukela rivers.

Built on a slight slope, for better drainage, it's laid out in typical fashion, although of course on a much larger scale. That is to say, perfectly round as the full moon, it consists of a series of concentric circles.

First, there's a stout outer fence of poles lashed together; about four kilometers in circumference, this palisade is patrolled constantly day and night. Stretching along the curve of the left and right hemispheres, from the main gate to the royal enclosure, stand the huts of the regiments. Each regiment has its own specific section, which none but new conscripts tasked with ensuring the huts remain habitable may enter whenever the ibutho is elsewhere. So intense is the rivalry between regiments that each sector is separated from the next by the huts of the civilians who serve the King by cultivating the fields, tending to his cattle and brewing beer.

There are also the homes and workplaces of those artisans who make shields and assemble spears. Regiments receive their shields always from Bulawayo, when they're given their names by Shaka, and must come here to beg for replacements when such are needed. And, although weapons are manufactured throughout the kingdom, an iklwa from Shaka's Komkhulu is highly prized, and often handed out by the King himself as a reward for bravery.

Fenced off and well guarded, the isigodlo, or royal enclosure, fills the upper arc of the city, furthest from the main gate. When Nandi
was alive, the largest house located here—and in the isigodlo of every other war kraal—was hers. Since her death, every indlunkhulu has been pulled down.

Shaka's hut is much smaller, and occupies its own compound below the former indlunkhulu.

In the isigodlo are also to be found the huts of the King's counselors and servants, a cooking and eating area as well as storage huts for the King's provisions. Traditionally, this is where the monarch's wives reside, in a section known as the “black isigodlo,” where any trespassing means instant death. Shaka, however, will never marry and, in each of the amakhanda spread across the kingdom, the black isigodlo instead houses members of his harem, who were watched over by Nandi, when she was alive, and are now overseen by Pampata.

Hidden deep within the black isigodlo is the Enkatheni: the hut that houses the sacred Inkatha, watched over by an old woman chosen for her age and wisdom. Constantly added to, enhanced and rejuvenated, this comprises muthi made from substances such as the King's vomit and shit, soil from paths he uses regularly, and other ingredients culled from wild animals so as to co-opt their magical powers, and then smeared over a coil of grass rope which is in turn covered by python skins. Shaka has further strengthened the Inkatha by adding fragments from the izinkatha of vanquished tribes, and flesh from the bodies of chiefs that his impis have slain. Some say the coil has grown so large, and is so wide, that the King can barely straddle it.

In the center of the ikhanda, as in the center of all Zulu settlements, is the sacred isibaya, or cattlefold. It is here the cattle are brought at night, and there is a collection of smaller pens for calves, cows about to give birth, and those which belong to the ancestors.

It is also here that the regiments parade, and the supplicants gather.

At the top of the isibaya, near the isigodlo's main entrance, is, of course, the ibandla tree, from which Shaka holds court.

This morning, the big central cattlefold is crammed with litigants. Many have traveled far, knowing it's here at KwaBulawayo that the King spends most of his time and because they are unwilling or unable to wait for him to visit a war kraal closer to their home. They sit in the midmorning sun, rapt, like a lake surrounded by reeds which are the soldiers who line the fence that surrounds the cattlefold. But, even so, these waters are ruffled, and there's a constant susurration, as what's been said beneath the ibandla tree is relayed through the crowd.

All these people, rows and rows of them; the middle-aged and the aged, young men accompanying their fathers and keeping an eye out for comely maidens, with their younger brothers acting as udibis and unable to stop gawping. And the smooth talkers who sidle up and down the rows, offering to represent you, speak for you, for they know how such things are done and they can get them done quickly, if the price is right! And the soldiers, Shaka's lions, tall and impassive with their shields and spears, held in awe by the udibis. And the praise singers who regale the crowd with tales of courage and victory, hardship overcome and suffering vanquished, while leaping and cavorting, bellowing their tributes to the sky …

And, of course, the Father of the Sky.

There he is! This alone is worth the long journey, especially for the youngsters who can't wait for their call-up and have no truck with adult bickering over grazing land, unpaid lobola, or slights both real and imaginary. For them to see the King, even if only from a distance, that's enough.

And there he is, with plump Mbopa, his prime minister, to his right, and Mdlaka, commander-in-chief of the Zulu army, to his left, standing where Mgobozi once stood. Aiee, a Mthetwa he might have been, but the nation is poorer for the loss of that cantankerous old general.