Shaka the Great (79 page)

Begone evil spirits! Begone disease! Pestilence! Misfortune! Go!

And Shaka has his hand extended for another uselwa gourd.

Tossing it into the air and catching it, he moves along the semicircle of shields with a studied insouciance that's disrupted by a sudden lunge …

Begone! Go! Drought! Disease! Pestilence! Away!

And again Shaka throws a calabash, shattering it against cowhide.

Go! Begone! Begone! Begone! Begone!

And the spears flicker again, and the drumming shakes the skies, as the army reminds the ancestors of its presence as guardians not only of the King and his children, the People Of The Sky, but also of their crops and livestock. It is they, not the cringing sangomas, that the forces of darkness will have to deal with, should they be plotting evil.

Now they're naked and in the water, arranged in orderly rows with enough space so they can squat and touch the surface with their chins. The King is upriver, out of sight behind a tangle of bushes, at his favorite spot, and he is in the water too. His inyangas are washing him, using ash from the carcass of yesterday's bull, covering him in ash, washing it off, using it to remove the Night Muthi, then covering him again, so that the river turns gray. And this grayness finds the warriors downstream, and they are strengthened by this sacred water that has passed over the King's body …

Back in the royal compound, the King is dressed again and treated with White Muthi, full-moon medicine. He oversees the burning of the rush garment handed to Mbilini, as well as the sleeping mat he used last night. Then, accompanied by Mbopa and his other advisers, he returns to the isibaya, where the people await him expectantly.

With his words repeated and spread through the crowd by low whispers, he names the new regiments. Then he reaffirms his earlier promises, giving his final permission for the men in two of his regiments
—and the corresponding female guilds—to marry. The men may now wear the isicoco, and the women the top-knot.

While the cheers wash over Shaka, a line of warriors forms up in front of the first row of spectators. These are men of the Dhlamini clan, renowned for being fleet of foot. Called forward by a signal from Mbopa, each of them carries two small reeds.

Shaka raises his left hand, and waits for the cheers to die down. He watches the ripple of excitement that flows away from him, as those in front spot the men and pass the word back.

Silence.

The moment the nation has been waiting for. The message that need not be relayed, for it will be instantly understood by all.

Each man has two reeds, the one longer than the other. The umtshingo and invenge.

And now, says Shaka, these special messengers are to go forth, playing their reed flutes, so that all might know the nation now has his permission to partake of the First Fruits …

Arranged in great circles around the cooking fires, the regiments will continue to feast and drink for the rest of the day, and most of the night, while being entertained by the praise singers. In the meantime, the inyangas will be preparing a special medicine called imshikaqo. Tomorrow morning, officers will move among the hungover ranks to find volunteers. These men will dig long shallow trenches in the veld, some distance away from the campsites. By the time these are ready, the men will have been roused and formed up, cringing beneath headaches, their mouths dry, their eyes tortured by the sun. The inyangas and their helpers will move among them, and each man has to drink three mouthfuls of the imshikaqo. Then there's a rush to the trenches for a mass vomiting …

The Induna won't take part in these activities, however. Because there is a killer roaming free, and because Shaka fears conspirators might still be working against him, he's in charge of the contingent tasked with guarding Bulawayo tonight.

Sections of the regiments roam the countryside, so there's little chance of a surprise attack. With the rest of the populace also indulging in beer and beef, the Induna's men will be keeping the peace within the confines of the expanded settlement. Some, though, will be looking out for Kholisa, as it's on just such an occasion that he's likely to let his guard down, or his protectors may become sloppy.

The Induna turns to his udibi. “When you yourself are a graybeard, they will hold you in awe because you were here at this time!”

Gqokli Hill was the end of the beginning. It announced to the world, to the growling, quarrelsome relatives who surrounded them, that the Sky People were no longer going to be vassals. Then, a few seasons later, Zwide had invaded Zulu territory once again, and Shaka had first led the Ndwandwe army deep into Zulu territory, then chased them all the way back to Zwide's kraal. Then, after a few smaller irritations had been done away with, it had become the turn of the Thembus and the treacherous Qwabes. Yet these, and other victories, were only experienced vicariously by the people. As the Induna explains to the udibi, they got the cattle and increased opportunities to trade; they felt the benefits, but not the glory. For it was the army who basked in Shaka's approbation, becoming almost a separate caste, a form of nobility in itself, with soldiers exempt from most of the laws, and protected also from sangomas.

However, in ruling that the First Fruits be held at KwaBulawayo, and only at KwaBulawayo, and there led by the King, Shaka was at last giving the people a chance to experience at first hand some of the glory won by his army. Had the nation ever witnessed such a gathering? Here was an opportunity for those who were less well informed to see just how the nation had grown. And Shaka knew that the vast majority of those who had been made uncomfortable by his ukase about the Umkhosi, and by the invitation he'd extended to the White Men, would lose their qualms the moment they laid eyes on the capital with its expanded perimeters.

That sound, that beautiful alluring din heard from kilometers away, a wind-rustling-leaves noise that gives new energy to tired
limbs. That pewter canopy created by thousands of cooking fires in close proximity, seen from afar, a rain cloud about to favor the Great Place with its bounty. It was enough to overawe them before they even reached the city's environs. And then they'd be a part of it all, learning that in these masses there was strength, and unity.

“In years to come, you will see these days and nights grow, overflow, as each one tries to outdo the other in describing the wonders they have seen or heard about. And you will hear”—the Induna grins—“hai, you might even add your own fables, although I think that will never be your way. And you will listen and you will smile to yourself, for you have seen for yourself. You will have been here at the time they speak of with such reverence. You will understand that their embellishments are an acknowledgment of just how important this moment was. But, because you have seen for yourself, you'll also know that no amount of exaggeration will ever be able to properly describe this occasion.”

They're standing on a rise alongside the main road, and from here they can see over most of Bulawayo and its temporary dwellings. With so many fires, it resembles a giant bed of twinkling coals.

The Induna lays a hand on the boy's shoulder and they stand in silence before this teeming, flickering vision.

The Induna is plagued by the murders, the feeling of having let down his King, but he hasn't had much chance to do anything about it these past few days. Being on the fringes tonight will finally give him an opportunity to ponder the problem at length. Perhaps his participation in the First Fruits will enable him to approach things from a different path.

Yet, right now, standing right here with the boy, he finds himself distracted once again.

Has any Zulu king gathered together so many of his subjects?

Has any Zulu king been able to conjure up such unity?

Has any Zulu king ever believed they could grow and prosper, and move so far from that tired old valley rightfully revered only as a place of beginnings and endings?

Back then we had no story, only myths to console us.

Now those days are gone forever. For we have a story, our (own) story, and it begins with Shaka. And let him be called King of Kings, for that is who he is. He has shattered the calabash, and here tonight we are tasting the first fruits of greatness.

I wanted him to come …

I saw what my uncle saw …

And see how it was! Remember how we were!

Zulus? Who were the Zulus?

We were clawless and clueless.

(But we knew we were meant to have claws. Somehow we knew that.)

We were spineless and gutless.

(And yet somehow we knew this was not the way things were meant to be.)

We were poor relatives expected to be grateful for what we had—because things could always be worse.

(Yet somehow—by a stirring in the blood, a quickening heartbeat, the sense of a lion about to pounce—we knew this was our motherland, and that the sky was our father. We were in the right place. This was our home.)

We were slaves, with history's foot on our back, keeping our faces in the dirt—and if we were allowed up, it was only so we might bow down again.

We were expected to be timid and obedient. Humble and meek. Ever diffident and always servile. Beggarly, sycophantic and abject.

(And always … always the vague sense this was wrong. The world was upside down and the sky trodden upon, and this was not the way things were meant to be.)

We were also trapped, children surrounded by bickering adults who could slap us down at any time.

Shut up! Avert your eyes. Be placatory. Grin and bear it.

Yet, even then, there'd be the nudging that became shoving: grazing lands impinged upon, cattle going missing, Zulu farmers accused of stock theft, insults plaited into a tightening tension leading to an inevitable clash …

Our old foe, the Buthelezis, delivering yet another thrashing …

Or the Ngwanes sauntering down along the map to ask you what you're looking at …