Shaka the Great (31 page)

“Do we never learn? Even Mnkabayi, wise and cunning as she is, she meddled, then.” Dingane grins. “With the best intentions, of course. And she has meddled again now. With the best intentions,
of course. And what has changed? Nothing! For, see here, Dingane must still run.”

Not that the Induna need worry about him trying to escape now. That would be beneath him, for he is still a prince. Just as he considers it beneath him to come right out with it and ask the Induna about Shaka's health, or why the Induna has been sent to apprehend him.

This is not to say that he can't resort to devious means to find out more about tonight's events, though. As now, when he chuckles and says: “And now as then, then as now, you could even say we have a king about to vacate the throne.” He wants to add
not so?
but bites back the words, knowing the question he's asking has to remain hidden if he's to have any chance of finding out if Shaka survived the attack.

But, incredibly, the Induna isn't listening to him.

Something Dingane said a few moments earlier has caught his attention.

She meddled then and she has meddled now.

Mnkabayi?

And then as now, now as then, is he being just as naive?

She meddled then—he already knew that—but until now he had assumed he knew what she was up to. Because hadn't she even taken him into her confidence? Hai, but it seems he was only privy to part of her “meddling.” All he was seeing was his reflection on the surface of the lake. There were deeper layers he couldn't see, not least because of his own reflection, and the way she had used his vanity to secure his loyalty and cooperation.

Cha! Isithutha! Fool! Just think about it. You were a youngster, a loyal friend of her nephew, it is true, but she didn't have to enlist your service in the way she did. All she needed to do was tell you what she wanted from you, and then send you on your way. Instead, she first set out to beguile you, to ensure you wouldn't think to ask any awkward questions. Not then—but later perhaps, if things went wrong.

And now? She is “meddling” again, and once more he has obeyed her without question.

Go after Dingane. Find your friend, for his own good!
What else lay behind that command couched as a request?

Phases of the moon, endless repetition, has he learned nothing?

Thinking about it, he realizes how she's been a permanent fixture at the capital during the past few months. He'd assumed it was due to her concern about the First Fruits, which was exacerbated by the murders, but now he wonders if something else has been going on. “Meddling” he missed because he was trying to put a stop to the murders, and therefore only too willing to accept her counsel. And Ndlela's help—never forget Ndlela's help. Seeing him that day, blood splattered across his chest, hearing his words again: “It is over! It has ended!” How had he come to be there?

Could it all be connected? Rubbing his hands over his eyes, hearing the wind stride past them. Hai! If that's the case, he might have the beads, but he can't read the pattern.

Again Dingane asks if he is well, not well.

“Ngisaphila!” says the Induna.
I am well.

Unlike I who may be dead already, and am just waiting for the blow to fall.
The prince's silent musings, which he won't share with his old friend, who may also be his executioner.

Better to talk of other things, for now.

“What was he thinking?” he says again, seeking the comfort of an oft-told tale. “Why did Sigujana assume that I would be the one who would challenge our father's decision to make him heir?”

The Induna smiles in the darkness. “Perhaps, for all his faults, he saw in you something the others hadn't. Certainly, of all the princes, it was you he feared.”

“Cha! You flatter me—which, given our current circumstances, really isn't necessary.”

And there they sit, two old friends sheltering from the cold, waiting for the dawn, laughing and joking and making small talk and, as at least one of them might put it, generally killing time until the killing time.

Aiee! And Ngwadi had said: “Majesty, please forgive me for interrupting, but we are not here on Dingane's behalf. We have come in the name of your brother Shaka.”

And Sigujana had said: “Who?”

And Ngwadi had said: “Shaka, son of Senzangakhona.”

And the arc of Zulus had retreated imperceptibly.

And Ngwadi had said: “The son of your father. The eldest son.”

And heads turned, eyes straining for a glimpse of Sigujana's reaction. And the Induna tightened his grip on his spear and willed the warriors to face the front, to stop acting like nervous maidens, and to keep their eyes on the izilwane.

And Ngwadi had said: “Your brother—and mine, too, for Shaka and I share the same mother, Majesty.”

“You and …”

“Shaka, yes. It is so, Majesty.” And his brother, that is to say Shaka, was perplexed.

“Per …”

“… plexed, indeed. And sorely so, Majesty. And, dare I say it, a little hurt, Majesty.”

“H-hurt?” Had there now been a brightening in Sigujana's tone? Did he think Shaka was injured, and he was being summoned to the Beetle's deathbed? Surely not! (Then again, this
was
Sigujana.)

“But mainly surprised, Majesty.”

“S-surprised?”

The Induna wished he could have intervened, put a stop to this mocking of his king. Such effrontery, he thought, as he began to pace up and down the section of perimeter fence he was assigned to guard. Here were two men outnumbered, and deep in another tribe's territory, yet unafraid of taunting the tribe's king to the king's own face!

… But it wasn't his place to comment. That was not an excuse or a shirking. He was there merely to help his sovereign get away unscathed, if things went wrong, and to have involved himself in their exchange meant lowering his guard, and being less vigilant.

“Surprised?” said Sigujana again, like a bewildered old-timer who'd forgotten the way home and now thought one of his disrespectful daughters-in-law had stolen his hut.

“Surprised,” echoed Ngwadi.

Shaka was indeed surprised.

Surprised, Majesty, that his own people should prove to be so untrustworthy.

Surprised, Majesty, that a Zulu king would break his word.

Surprised it has come to this, having to send emissaries to beg an audience with the new king.

Surprised he has to be the one to put this imbroglio right.

Surprised that this new king should even dare to call himself king.

Majesty. The honorific seemed an afterthought, a sneer.

Such effrontery, and then the emissaries had returned with the Zulus to Sigujana's retreat. Where they, too, were assigned a hut.

The Induna glances over to where they now sit in the shade of a tree on the far side of the gathering place. Look at them! Seemingly the only thing of importance to them right now is the food and drink the servants have brought them.

Ngwadi and the other one … what's his name? Ngwadi still wearing his feathers, so that he must sit upright on the log, keeping his back straight if he's not to crush them. His companion. The older man, Mgobozi. (
That's
his name!) He is sitting cross-legged beside Ngwadi, now passing his feathered friend a morsel, now filling his own mouth, now reaching for a pot of beer, all the while playing with that fly-whisk.

Which he was only too happy to show off to the Induna, when he showed them to the guest hut.

Does he mean it as a subtle insult to his hosts?

Hai, but where are the flies here?

And doesn't he know how shit brings with it its own flies!

And then a short while later, Mduli and the senior counselors had arrived with a contingent of older, more experienced warriors who wear the isicoco. They were there to reinforce Sigujana's royal bodyguard, explained Mduli. While some of the counselors posted sentries, Mduli had joined Sigujana in the royal hut.

They're still there and have since been joined by Mnkabayi and Ndlela, who brought a second impi along with them.

“Be on your guard,” Ndlela had whispered to the Induna. Mgobozi and Ngwadi had friends watching them.

The Induna had started: did Ndlela think … ?

A grin. “I do not think, I know. There are more out there.” Ndlela tilted his head in the direction of the fence surrounding the king's retreat. “Don't look,” he added, squeezing the Induna's elbow, “for some are doubtless watching us even as we speak.”

Lowering his hand, he chuckled. “Watching us as we chase our tails! Aiee, this will warm their hearts, and raise their spirits.”

The Induna's gaze roams across the gathering place, over the huts, the palisade beyond. The King's retreat is deserted now that everyone has been given something to do—even the servants lighting cooking fires and collecting weapons are carrying out their duties unobtrusively—but it still seems ragged and unkempt. Many of the huts need new thatch. One that caught fire during a drinking session a few nights ago has yet to be pulled down, as has a storage hut that collapsed due to neglect. The hard-packed dirt of the gathering place needs sweeping, and the remains of last night's bonfires have still to be cleared away—as do the potsherds and torn waterskins scattered about.

This filthy place
, Ndlela had called it, disgust infusing his words. The Induna risks what he hopes seems a casual glance over the perimeter fence toward the bushes beyond. How the watchers must
have chortled to see the Zulu king and his court behaving in such a dissolute manner.

Tired, thirsty, his shield feeling as heavy as a boulder, he turns his attention back to the royal hut. What are they saying? What are they telling Sigujana? And what will they now decide?

The Zulu king took a deep breath so as to be doubly sure his voice wouldn't tremble, and said, “Uhm.”

He pressed his palms over his knees, to make sure his hands wouldn't tremble, and said, “Yes.”

He slipped his lower lip under his upper lip, and wished they'd all go away. All these faces peering at him: some seeming to hover in the light of the torches held by Mhlangana and the counselors who arrived with Mduli; others thrust forward, eager not to miss a moment of his discomfort. He wished he could banish them by shutting his eyes. And it was hot in this hut, and he also wished he could tear aside the thatch like a wild wind and breathe again.

Instead, he said, “The way I see it …”

And interrupted himself to scream at Mgobozi to stop playing with that fly-whisk; to stop going like
this
and
this
all the time, like a flea-bitten baboon. Would he have the gall to act in such a manner in Dingiswayo's presence?

“But I don't think you'd have the courage to disrespect your own king so, therefore do me the same courtesy. I am, after all, one of your king's most valued allies.”