Shaka the Great (38 page)

What would that old-timer be thinking now, wondered the Induna, as they drew closer and closer to Shaka.

And Mnkabayi … the night before she had entertained Nandi and now, while the Induna and Dingane walked across a cattlefold as wide as the world to meet Shaka, she was with Pampata and the King's mother. Safely ensconced, in other words, in Shaka's most inner circle. What would she think of the Needy One's display?

A walk in silence, the occasional rustling of the Induna's amashoba producing a stab wound of shame. Why hadn't his friend at least allowed him to tear off his adornments?

It was as if the prince was his prisoner, and he was now delivering him up to Shaka.

Shaka watches them approach. To his left stands Mgobozi; to his right is a plump, bald man. This individual, Shaka had learned upon his arrival at EsiKlebeni, was awaiting his execution orders from the king. That there should have been just this one “miscreant” in custody has told Shaka a lot about Sigujana's approach to law and order. And this man, Shaka was told, was only hunted down because it was claimed that he was a cannibal. Struck by the prisoner's cheerful demeanor, Shaka asked him if the charge was true. The man shrugged his shoulders and allowed that he was a good cook, and that his skill in making anything edible, especially during times of great drought, might have given rise to such rumors. “Rumors?” had inquired Shaka. “That I enjoy eating human flesh, Master, but this is not so. Not so at all, for I have a preference for beef.” That Shaka could see, and he grinned, prodding the prisoner's paunch
with the rounded head of the iwisa he carried. “And cooking?” he had asked. “Cooking?” frowned the portly prisoner.

“Yes, cooking,” said Shaka. He might not enjoy eating it, but what about
cooking
human flesh? “Ah, but, Sire, that is another charge entirely! I am only accused of eating human flesh.” At this Shaka had burst out laughing and ordered the man to be released. Now Mbopa stands alongside Shaka, to act as an interpreter if needed, Shaka's grasp of Zulu being inadequate to pick up on nuances and ambiguities.

Dingane stops two paces before Shaka. The Induna moves a step forward, tightens his grip on his assegai, so he can be ready to defend his friend.

“Eshé, Mfowethu,” says Dingane.

The Induna sees how Shaka's eyes narrow. “You greet me as your brother?”

Dingane nods. “This is so, son of my father.”

“Hai, but there are many who would say you have been misguided and misled—bewitched even.”

“I say they are fools. For who cannot recognize his own brother? Who cannot feel the pull of blood shared?”

“This is so, but there are many who would say you speak these words thinking only to save yourself!”

“I say they are blind.” Dingane spreads his arms. “For see? Here I am! I have not run and hidden. I was told to come—and here I am.”

“
Told
to come? Who dares order a Zulu prince around?”

You do
, thinks the Induna, but Dingane's answer is a little more diplomatic. “Another Zulu prince,” he says. “And an older brother.”

“Hai, and again you call me brother!”

“Yes,” says Dingane, “and this is why I approach you dressed in this manner. This is the way we would have known each other, were our father not so ill-disposed toward you and your mother. This is the way we would have roamed these hills together, as boys.”

Shaka grins and, to the Induna's dismay, not to mention the horror of the King's attendants, he rips off his headpiece.

“And we will yet roam these hills together,” says Shaka, pulling off the slightly longer kilt favored by Mthetwa men, “but as men now. And our excursions will take us even further afield, beyond these hills and the next, and let our path be over dead men, and our sustenance their blood.”

Dingane leans back slightly, as if Shaka's words are fingers, their palms pushing intently against the other prince's chest.

He coughs. Yes, well, he himself is more partial to amasi, he says. A form of fermented milk, amasi is regarded as a delicacy among the Zulus and a family treat. It's considered a great honor to be invited to share a family's amasi.

Shaka claps Dingane on the shoulder. “Why am I not surprised to hear that?” he grins, for amasi is also believed to make men strong, healthy and more desirable to the fairer sex. And the prince himself has a reputation as an isoka, a ladies' man, more charming—and successful—than Sigujana ever was.

“Now, such stories as I have heard about you, I am gleeful …”

It's the wrong word. In the Mthetwa dialect it can mean “pleased,” but not in Zulu usage. There's a discreet cough from the portly man to Shaka's right, which manages to convey extreme fear and a brave adherence to the instructions that are partly responsible for that fear. Slowly, his face turned to stone by the interruption, Shaka inclines his head to the right. The portly man rises on tiptoe and whispers into Shaka's ear. Fracture lines extend across Shaka's brow, then he nods. And, sweating profusely, Mbopa lets the soles of his feet take his weight again, and digs his toes into the dirt to retain his balance.

“I am
glad
these stories are true,” says Shaka, as if the interruption hasn't even taken place.

Dingane tilts his head, raises his shoulders, explaining that even here, as loath as he is to malign his reputation in this respect, there are exaggerations …

“And allegations,” grins Shaka.

“Aiee, too many!”

“You take after our father in this respect, I think.”

“No!” Dingane shakes his head. “Never! I would never shun a wife of mine!”

Shaka stares at his brother long and hard, a bull elephant wondering whether he's going to have to lower those big old tusks after all. Dingane is, of course, referring to Nandi and the way his father—their father—treated her, and Shaka's wondering whether this isn't a display of sycophancy too far. One that borders on mockery? On reflection, though, he reckons Dingane is not that stupid; which is to say not so stupid as to think Shaka is so stupid as to swallow such a statement without a certain amount of rumination.

“That is good to hear,” he says at last. “And you know why I say that.”

Dingane nods.

“And I know, too, how our father made his other sons suffer.”

That is true—aiee, is that true!
Never mind himself, as much as he despises Mhlangana, Dingane knows his father's constant beatings must have done something to create the dead-eyed, vindictive jackal his brother has become; and also to turn Mpande into a buffoon. But the prince sees Shaka's observation for what it really is: another test.

And he lowers his head, and says, “These are the words of a brother, and I thank you, but no hardship can compare with what you and your mother went through.”

That is true but, as the People Of The Sky and their neighbors (including Nandi's home clan) will soon find out, Shaka is going to do his damnedest to try and give a whole lot of lying, spiteful jackals a taste of what he and Nandi endured.

But Dingane's answer has pleased him.

“You call me Brother, Mfowethu—but will you call me King?”

“It is as this one,” says Dingane, indicating Mgobozi, “and your brother here say,” pointing to Ngwadi who is standing behind Mbopa, “that our father recognized you as his first-born and named you heir?”

Shaka nods. “Dingiswayo was there too. We can—”

“No, Brother.” Dingane holds up a hand. “Because you are my brother, your word is good enough for me.”

Ngwadi pushes his way between Shaka and Mbopa. “Do you acknowledge Shaka's claim?” he asks, displaying that pedantry that will soon see him usurped as one of Shaka's chief advisers.

“My brother has already said so,” says Shaka.

“But we must be sure.”

“Enough!”

A discreet cough and Shaka's glare is then transferred to the portly man. “There is, anyway, something as important to be acknowledged,” says Mbopa, displaying the acumen—and courage—that will see him become the one to displace Ngwadi.

“What is that?” The bull elephant seems ready to lower his tusks again.

But Mbopa is like a yawning hippo safe in the deep water. He knows that he's about to, if not impress Shaka, then at least plant the thought that he's worth keeping around, the cannibal business notwithstanding.

“It is to do with the manner of the, er, previous incumbent's passing,” he says and
gleefully
notes the
Ah, yes!
flicker across Shaka's features. Clearly this idiot Ngwadi has advised him that it's enough to get Dingane to admit the validity of Shaka's claims, but that's a hut without the thatch.

Ngwadi says he doesn't see what that has to do with anything. And he is told to shut up and step back, as Shaka finally lowers his tusks.

“Yes,” he says, turning back to Dingane, “that was tragic.”

“And sudden,” says Dingane. This diplomacy is like the summer heat that burns the plains, a man has to escape it every now and then by diving into the nearest river.

“Some would say merciless,” adds Shaka.

A cough. A whisper.

“I mean merciful,” Shaka corrects himself. “Some would say the suddenness of it was also merciful. It meant he didn't suffer.”

Not for long
, adds the Induna to himself, eyeing Mgobozi.

A glance and a nod from Shaka indicate that Mbopa can continue. (It's a good omen as regards his own future, reckons the plump
man; but he's not so naive or vain as not to realize it's also a sign that Shaka needs to recover his composure after that slip of the tongue.)

“Do you acknowledge that your brother did not have a hand in your king's sad demise?” Mbopa asks Dingane.

In the way that you occasionally have a hand floating in your cooking pot? Then no. But did he plan this sad demise? Do you think I'm a fool? Of course, he did!
Such is the response that flows through Dingane's mind, but it's time to return to the hot, dusty plains of diplomacy.

He turns to Shaka. “Did you, my Brother, have a hand in Sigujana's death?”

Shaka's response is a solemn shake of the head. “No, I did not.”

“Then, because you are my brother, your word is good enough for me.”

And the People Of The Sky have a new king.

And he was confused, and he sought out the one person who might have explained it all. And it was as if Mnkabayi understood his confusion, felt his pain, for although there was feasting and celebrations, and she was expected to act as a lady in waiting for Nandi, she made herself easy to find, was willing, even eager, to see him and speak to him.

He had to serve Shaka, because Shaka was his king, she said. He was to forget the nasty stories he'd heard over the years. Shaka was of the House of Zulu and he was Senzangakhona's first-born.

He can still remember how close to tears he had been. He had proof that Sigujana had been murdered. Didn't that mean anything?

“Do you mean to say you have proof Shaka murdered Sigujana?” asked Mnkabayi calmly.

“No, Ma.”

“Then you know our way,” said Mnkabayi.

Brave and young and foolhardy, he had to try again. “But, Ma, if a man plans a murder, isn't he as guilty as those who strike the actual blows?”

“You know our way,” repeated Mnkabayi. And he was intelligent enough to understand why the law was so—for it allowed kings to sleep a little easier in knowing that an heir who struck the actual blow could not become king.

“I hear you, Ma,” he said.

But what about yesterday? What about Dingane striding across the cattlefold to meet Shaka? How many had assumed he and the Induna would be eating dust before sunset?

Brave and young and foolhardy, he had dared to inform her, and he was mentioning this not because he was angry at being called upon to risk his life alongside his old friend. No, he wanted to know what that said about all this nonsense about heirs and kings not killing each other. Yes, even if Shaka was then able to convince the people he was not killing an heir but a usurper.

“It said what you say it said,” said Mnkabayi, a smile playing across her lips.

“What?” asked the Induna incredulously. “That it's all nonsense?”

“Just so. But
our
nonsense.”

“Or think offenses,” she said. “They guide and protect, but they're also often moved and rebuilt. We need them, but we also need to break them down from time to time.”

Although he didn't know it, his next question made Mnkabayi glow with pride: “Then, Ma, I humbly ask you why we had to break down
this
fence?”

“Because
he
is the one we need. And he is of the Blood, never forget that! He is no usurper. But never forget this either: he is the one we need and you are among those who
he
needs. Young men like you—brave, strong, willing to learn new ways, so full of potential—he needs your loyalty if we are to achieve the greatness that is our due.”