Shaka the Great (83 page)

“All the same, sanctioned or not, it takes courage to beard a monarch in this way, specifically one who can order one's death by bending his finger.”

Possibly these stained, brown pages were filled up that very night in KwaBulawayo, in the flickering glow of a bonfire. Certainly, Fynn must have felt a weight lifted off his shoulders, precisely the kind of “lightness” that can give rise to a burst of creativity. Not only was the First Fruits over, so was the constant need to monitor one's every gesture and reaction, and to behave with the utmost propriety while ensuring one's companions did the same. Farewell, King and the others had by now returned to Port Natal, but Fynn had been ordered to remain behind, along with Frederick and Jantjie. And he didn't mind one bit, pretending to be stoical when Farewell commiserated with him before leaving that morning. It was almost as if Shaka could read his mind, and knew how much he appreciated a chance to be rid of the others for a while.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of polished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.

From
Heart Of Darkness
by Joseph Conrad

Thumb smudge of orange against a black background.

Only, look closer and see copper at the core, becoming an apricot mist as it catches the curve of a branch, the flicker of leaves. Look closer and see how the darkness loses solidity, becoming layered, for the sky tonight is a midnight blue, and even shadows have shadows.

The boy is asleep on the opposite side of the fire. And the Induna's knees and shins seem dusty in the firelight, while his eyes are pockets of black, deepening, swallowing up his face, as he tries not to think too much about that which shouldn't be—the anomaly of Shaka sitting there at right angles to him, wearing Night Muthi out of season. Shouldn't be there, but he is.

African night, with the campfires of the brave warriors who've made the Great Journey twinkling in the vaulted distance. Or maybe those are holes made in the firmament by the passing of the sky herds. Or perhaps it's the milk sprinkled by Nomkhubulwana, Princess of the Sky, so that lost children may at least find some sustenance even if they can't find their way home.

African night, and the veld stretches out, happy to be free of the sun for now. A waterhole truce so that all might part front legs, lower long necks, wade in, and try to find some coolness.

African night, when the soul expands and becomes at one with the darkness. When space joins you at the fire, and says
Look!

Once upon a time, long long ago, Mahala, the headman of the Omadla, a clan renowned for eschewing cattle in favor of fish and other kinds of seafood, had introduced him to mussels. Shaka was a young lad at the time, and the headman was one of the few male adults to pay him any attention. He showed the youngster how the brown mussels clustered together in tidal pools, and how to pry them free from the rocks. He claimed that these strange wedgeshaped “stones” were in fact living creatures, like the crabs they saw scurrying along the waterline. Although the boy adored Mahala, he refused to believe him: how could you eat them without breaking your teeth? (And Nandi was always on at him to watch his teeth, saying a lion who broke his teeth was a dying lion. “You may have other weapons, my little king, but if your teeth hurt you'll be as weak as a calf.” Never mind beer—sore teeth and a sore stomach, those were the things to be avoided, as they led one into making disastrous decisions, as far as Nandi was concerned.) The headman had chuckled and showed Shaka how you cooked the mussels in seawater, in a pot on the coals of a fire you built in a sheltered spot along the beach. For Mahala, consuming the mussels as soon as possible was an integral part of the process. He said they tasted better that way. Shaka had been willing to take the headman's word on that, though he was still leery of the eating part. However, he'd been suitably amazed when, a few minutes after the water started rumbling, the stones began to split open. He'd been wrong to doubt Mahala, for these … things were truly alive!

Mahala had tipped the pot over, spilling the mussels across the sand. After much pinching and blowing, he showed Shaka how one could pull the valves apart to get at the good stuff within. Trying hard not to think of snails, or slugs, or snot, Shaka obediently gulped down the pale yellow globule Mahala handed him. Soon he was prying open and tearing and biting, as if he'd been eating stones all
his life. This became Mahala's special treat whenever Shaka was in trouble with Nandi: his way of cheering up the youngster, getting him out of his mother's sight for a while. At the same time, the creatures came to fascinate Shaka. He realized their shells were scattered everywhere. They soon became the inhabitants of the kraals he built with sticks and twigs, a population herding clay cattle and marching off to war. There was the king, there were his subjects, and there were his warriors.

How long has it been … ? A long, long time. Many moons, many seasons, many … He clenches his left fist, stares at it a moment, struggling to bring it into focus … Many battles.

(How many by now? How often has this hand of his curled around the haft of a spear?)

When he came to power, he ensured the Omadla received his full protection without the need for tributes. What's more, declaring Zulu food to be too bland, he'd summoned women from Mahala's kraal to come and teach Zulu abafazi how to cook.

Staring at his fist: Mahala? When had that muddy old fish-man died? He frowns. He can't remember right now. Must ask Pampata. He looks around instinctively, then realizes that, of course, she won't be here tonight.

Some beer … ?

He has but to raise his hand, and one of his serving boys is already crouching before him. Shuffling forward, Shaka takes the pot in both hands and throws back his head. Beer dribbles on to his chest, but he waves away the boy who would tend to that, and runs a hand across his chin. After gulping down the dregs, he hands the pot to the first boy, who scurries away to get a refill.

Smoke. Heat. Noise.

He's back.

The drums and the dancing have stopped for now, but the dancers—the young warriors from the regiments he named a few days ago—have left their sweat behind them. It clings like a fever, like the Night Muthi he had worn during those days of seclusion … and defeat.

Shaka squints, and sways. The chatter and laughter, the boasts and the jests, seem louder than the drums ever were.

Mahala …

He is on a throne made of rolled-up mats, and can lean back if he wants, but for some reason seems unable to, preferring a spine as stiff as a mast, and a port and starboard that rise and fall with mesmerizing gentleness.

There is a space around him. Others can sit next to him, if invited, but for a while now even his favorites have been avoiding his eye. Not that he isn't being watched.

He raises his hand and the boy is there. This time he takes only a sip of the beer, and waves the boy away. He will savor this one.

Mahala.

Shaka frowns.

Somehow he's back with Mahala.

Who is dead.

But it's not him the King is thinking of, but the mussels. How he would once lie for hours watching them in their watery kingdom and marvel at how that shell encased a life. Wind, storms, high seas, treacherous tides—none of these touched the softness inside. Fudu the tortoise also had his own shell, and was wily, but he had to be because he was still vulnerable. He had his weak spots, unlike these stones that lived. They were totally encased, enclosed …

And that's the way he himself feels tonight.

That's the way he often feels, but of late the sensation seems more potent, and he finds himself in his own shell more and more frequently.

Everything recedes like a wave, but it stays there, twice removed. And it's like that, exactly. As if he has to reach and reach again to touch anything or anyone. To make contact. And sounds and smells, these too recede.

It feels as if he still wears the Night Muthi, and could stand or move among them, those around him, and never be seen by them. He could tweak their noses, spill their beer, place this one's arm around that one's shoulders, turn this one so he's about to bump
into that one, pull down his kilt, douse that one over there in urine, and they still wouldn't be aware of anything. At least not until something grates and grinds and that wave of sound and laughter and movement comes back, and then suddenly people will be wondering why they're falling over, or are naked, or smell of piss.

And things do come crashing back, but not before he becomes aware of himself as himself, and experiences a terror that's like nothing he's ever felt before.

There are grunts and growls out there, but on a night like this, still, cloudless, the darkness is soothing. Besides, you have the fire at your feet. Abantu is a puny creature, outrun, outclawed and outcast. All other things being equal, Abantu would've been stomped, chomped and chased into extinction long long ago. Except that human beings know the secret of fire.

An opposable thumb, a language that slices and dices reality into edible chunks, and fire. The original, the true, trinity.

The thumb gave us the ability to shape the world, to grip and grab, twist and tie. Our language, verbal as opposed to sensory, gave us an inner life (enclosed, encased?), enabled us also to think big thoughts, to dream of shaping the world in ever more elaborate ways. But fire gave us the time to think these thoughts. No more need we cower in fear. Fire was warmth and safety, offering the leisure to begin to look around.

“The Sky. Yes, the Sky … matters of the Earth, matters of the Sky. As you told this one, who will not awaken, you need not concern yourself about that,” says Shaka, gesturing at the Induna's udibi.

“Because …”

“This shouldn't be happening.”

“Because …”

“You are not dead. Although it might be because—”

“I am not real?”

“Possibly.”

“But I have interrupted you, Majesty.”

“What did I say, Nduna? Let us dispense with such shit for this night at least. For … for I would speak of the Sky. This is a good place to start. And, as you know, Nduna, many say the Sky is a cavern covering us, protecting us. But I would ask you this, Nduna. What if there are other caverns?”

“Other Skies, you mean?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“That is hard to imagine, Father. I have spoken with Mbuyazi, and he has not indicated to me the sky is any different from where he comes.”

“Yet I am not his ruler! For is it not said I am the Father of the Sky?” Shaka grins, waves away his own question. “Yes, yes, I know. One must be careful of taking the inventions of one's praise singers too seriously.” His mother's warning.

But he must admit, he adds, the thought of Fynn and the Induna having anything approaching a meaningful discussion fills him with mirth. “For that one is terrified of you. He has told me so himself.”

“Yet, I have never …”

“Threatened him? You don't have to, Nduna.”

They sit in silence a while, watching the flames of the fire the Induna has revived.

Shaka has realized there's something wrong with the conversation they've just had. Something … out of joint. But, before he can put his finger on it, the Induna coughs, clears his voice.

Aware of Shaka's eyes on him, the Night Muthi the King wears frightening enough to turn away a stampeding rhino, the Induna keeps his gaze fixed on the flames. “Father, you indicated that we … that I could talk freely.”

“This is so.”

“Very well, then, I sense disappointment in you. I sense frustration. You spoke of other skies, and you think I did not understand,
and so you diverted the conversation. But, with respect, Father, I say you are wrong. With the coming of these barbarians, I have also been thinking, Father. You speak of the Sky, Father, but for me …” The Induna shrugs.

“Go on,” says Shaka softly.

“For me it's as if we have all been living together in the same hut, even our enemies, even the Portugiza, and now suddenly we have discovered that there are other huts …” He frowns. “Not other skies, but other interiors—all around us.”

The big hut has been built especially for this occasion. It will be torn down tomorrow, along with the remainder of the temporary huts that surround the capital. Bulawayo feels deserted, a settlement decimated by plague, now that most of the families and clans have left to go and harvest their crops. Harvesting must begin here, too, of course, but tonight Shaka and the recruits from the new regiments, as well as a few veterans and favorites, will drink and dance and celebrate the end of the celebrations.

And it's hot and steamy under the thatch, the apex of the dome invisible amid smoke and dust. Udibis try wetting the dirt floor, but it's to no avail. The hut is too full, and the new recruits too eager to catch the King's eye with their exertions: warding off enemies called forth and goaded by the drums, defending with their amahawu, lunging with their spears. Just as the amahawu are much smaller than the war shields, so these assegais are shorter than the iklwa and with smaller blades, although some of the young warriors have shunned such “toys” and proudly wield the ingicawe, a narrow-bladed spear with an ornamental handle.