Shaka the Great (80 page)

Aiee! Back then it was the fleas, and their fleas, who came to taunt us. The likes of Zwide barely even acknowledged our existence.

But we were there all the same, hiding in the valley of the White Umfolozi, trying to survive.

We were surrounded, yes …

To the north, the Ndwandwes and the Ngwanes. To the south, the Mthetwas. To the west, a tangle of cantankerous tribes and clans like the Qwabes; between us and the coast: the Mbo, the Thembus and the Khumalos. And among these, too, the Buthelezis, Langeni and others.

We were surrounded, yes, but we could feel it all the same … Like a breath held, a waterskin about to burst, a tautness only a few tugs away from snapping …

We were insignificant and ignored, yes, but we could still see how things were going. Lions were present among the zebra, and the zebra had two choices: either flee or be eaten up.

A clamoring, then … and, when the dust settled, the many had become two. The Ndwandwes to the north, the Mthetwas to the south, with everyone else allied to one or the other—or, like Matiwane KaMasumpa's Ngwanes, now looking for somewhere else to settle.

And for once her brother Senzangakhona, He Who Acts Wisely, lived up to his name. He threw his lot in with the Mthetwas and, because the Zulus formed a buffer zone between the two great enemies, Dingiswayo KaJobe, king of the Mthetwas, allowed Senzangakhona a certain amount of latitude and encouraged him to build up the Zulu army.

Encouraged? That was the rhetoric, but even then, in the hour of their need, the reality was a little different.

We were leaned against, and encouraged to strengthen ourselves only in the way a fence is strengthened. We were told how important we were, but we were only valuable as objects: men who, in dying and women who, in being raped and villages that, in being burned, would serve only to slow Zwide down, and give Dingiswayo time to deploy his forces.

Where would we be without Shaka? How long would it have been before the Zulu nation vanished, in the same way a river—all that
potential, that what-could-be—disappears when it becomes only a tributary?

Our fire would have become merely smoke, before vanishing. It would have been as if we had never lived.

I wanted him to come, so now let me be the one who sees he is stopped!

And as Mnkabayi lies awake, listening to the drums, the shouts and laughter, Ndlela roams the night. He has consulted with the sangoma, and has had him throw the bones. “And see here,” said the old hermit, pointing to the fragment of tortoise shell that had landed between a bone from a cow and a lion's tooth. “The one you seek,” he said, indicating the tooth. “The one you seek to protect,” he repeated, his finger moving to hover over the bone. “And see here,” he said, indicating the shell. “The one you seek has been deflected. I do not know why, but the tooth points to the stone.” It's a shiny semi-precious stone, indicating something of value, or something valued, which could be a person or an artifact. “But, know this, the one you seek to protect will be safe for now.”

And now, mulling these things over, Ndlela moves among the festivities, trusting his instincts, going where his feet carry him, pausing only to avoid crossing the Induna's path. He is a hunter but he is also offering himself as prey. Although, an indication that his suspicions were correct, the cow bone, the “one he seeks to protect,” might not actually be Mnkabayi, but he's not about to take any chances. Perhaps the deviation the sangoma spotted in the bones means the impundulu will seek out an alternative victim, in its quest for wisdom. Or perhaps the deviation is Ndlela himself, as an obstacle the creature will seek to remove so it can get at Mnkabayi.

Whatever might be the case, he is ready for it.

They were supposed to stand guard. They were supposed to look after each other. But last night the festivities got the better of them. Should he have seen to it that some Fasimbas were sent to swell their ranks and therefore ensure that his instructions were carried out?

But now is no time for self-recriminations. He had ordered a patrol to pay regular visits on the clan, and it had discovered the body. A kill still fresh (yet not a kill); and enough men to protect the area, keep inquisitive feet off the closest paths, ensure that the family members are kept calm. And how brave the menfolk are suddenly, the cries of their women puffing out those chests; now they are ready to do their duty. Yet they're also tired, and toiling under the effects of last night, and therefore easy to pacify. In fact, this early in the morning, almost the whole of KwaBulawayo, including (and perhaps especially) the temporary dwellings, is suffering from a humungous hangover. Which is why there are only a few people out and about to sully the spoor.

And that's the thing: there is spoor this time. And the Induna knows he and the udibi will have to move fast, if they are to have the trail to themselves. The sun has yet to rise, but the sky is blue, unfurled and awaiting the sun's arrival, presaged by a golden glow in the distance. Soon there
will
be more people out and about.

All the same, there's a need to pause. The Induna orders the men who have arrived with him to see that Dwanile and the wives she deems closest to her are separated from the other women. Then he joins Njikiza at Gudlo's body. The big man was in charge of the patrol that found Dwanile's son, which is why everything has been done precisely as the Induna had outlined when telling the patrols
what to do, should they be among the first to stumble upon Kholisa's handiwork.

But it is as Njikiza says. This one is different, not quite a kill. Two assegai thrusts: one delivered below Gudlo's ribcage, the other through his throat. The animal ferocity that has had them speaking of (and expecting) a kill, as if they are dealing with a deranged lion, is lacking.

“Perhaps you disturbed him,” says the Induna.

“Or someone did.”

The Induna looks up, looks around: “Where's Jembuluka?”

They were not the first ones to find the body, explains Njikiza. That had been Jembuluka and, according to his sister, he has gone off after the spoor.

“He is knowledgeable about such things?”

The Watcher of the Ford shrugs.

“Hai, then we have also his footprints to make our task more difficult!” murmurs the Induna, his eyes fixed on the body.

There is no mutilation.

And the Induna doesn't think that's because Kholisa was disturbed.

Two spear thrusts? The first one to the throat, probably to silence Gudlo …

It's something else that's been plaguing the warrior: why hadn't either the boy, or Zusi, screamed? Both were likely to have been heard, and both must have known that. Yet there had been no cries for help. And no obvious attempt made to silence them during the attack—as is clearly the case here.

A courteous clearing of the throat and fingers brushing his elbow. It's the udibi. “Master? The spoor …”

Yes, indeed, the spoor …

Let them go and catch this insane sangoma—and then all their questions will be answered.

And, truly, the killer has been unlucky this time. Because this is a temporary camp, the ground around the makeshift huts is soft, welcoming to footprints, and, in striking so early, Kholisa ensured there was a greater chance that those prints would be preserved.

The Induna examines the tracks Njikiza points out to him. “These have to be his,” says the Watcher, “for they were clearly made by a limping man.”

When the Induna nods, Njikiza asks him if he wants some Fasimbas to accompany him.

That won't be necessary, replies the warrior. He squeezes the big man's shoulder. “We two will be enough,” he murmurs.

Njikiza nods as if he understands, and the Induna smiles. All the same, he adds, if the Watcher hasn't heard from them by, say—he looks up at the sky—selilidala, when the sun has matured, and is well up, then he and the other Fasimbas can come looking for them.

“We will make it easy for you to find us,” says the Induna.

“As you wish, Nduna.”

Having left their shields with Njikiza, and carrying only an iklwa each, the Induna and the boy set off after the spoor. The residents of the temporary huts they pass continue to be reluctant to face the sun. Only children seem to be up and about, but the Induna and the udibi are moving fast enough to pass them by before their curiosity can be aroused. Paths crisscross the area, but they're narrow, and with a bit of patient searching at each intersection the Induna's able to find where the killer in his haste stepped off the path and ran alongside it for a few paces. Or else overbalanced—for it's clear even to the boy that there's something wrong with the way he moves.

“See here,” says the Induna, the first time the path forks and they have to split up temporarily. His fingers tracing the shapes so the udibi will know what to look for amid the older tracks, he shows the boy how the right foot is always at an angle, turned inwards, and how most times you see only the toes and the pad behind them. The imprint left by the other foot is deeper, a sign that their quarry's hobbling, favoring his right leg.

Finally they find themselves on a path leading away from the capital. It's a narrow band of hard-packed dirt, but the Induna's still
able to discern traces of the spoor. Then he's not so sure … Their pace slows to a walk as the warrior casts about, seeking signs that they're still heading in the right direction. He has the boy look for any place at which the killer might have left the path, but the dew has now gone and there's no easy way to see if someone has cut through the long grass.

Reaching a ridge a few minutes later, they come to a fork. One branch runs through a tangle of bush and trees; the other climbs the slope, to skirt the thicket.

The Induna glances backward and thinks for a moment. They're out of sight of the capital. Perhaps believing that, by this stage, his pursuers will have come to the conclusion he's given them the slip, and return to Bulawayo, their quarry may have become a little more careless.

The udibi will take the path through the bushes, while the Induna will follow the other—the one he suspects a man in a hurry is more likely to take. The boy is to listen for his master's call, which will be the sign to turn back again—and they'll meet here. Two calls mean one of them has found something, and the other is to make his way to him directly.