Shaka the Great (2 page)

For that's something else: it's 1826. The throne of England creaks under the weight of King George IV, while Lord Charles Somerset, second son of the Duke of Beaufort, is pissing off the Whitehall mandarins in his capacity as governor of the Cape (and will in fact be removed from that post later in the year). To the north of Zulu territory, at the start of a reign that will outlast Shaka's by decades, King Moshoeshoe is in the process of establishing the Basotho nation. And this year also marks the first time foreigners have been allowed to attend the climax of the First Fruits.

Foreigners? Some have other names for these izilwane, these barbarians who claim to serve a king called Jorgi who lives far across the waters. But Shaka wants them here, present despite the disapproval of even his closest advisers, for there is more to the Umkhosi—more to the First Fruits—than a mere harvest festival.

And the King has been doctored by his medicine men, his inyangas, and smeared with an especially potent muthi. And his warriors have gathered in the predawn darkness and they have called on him to join them with a chant: “Woza ke! Woza lapha! Woza ke! Woza lapha!” And the King has emerged from his hut and moved down an aisle lined by his concubines. And he has spat at the rising sun and entered the massive cattle kraal in the center of KwaBulawayo, where his regiments await him. And now he sits on a throne made from rolled-up mats, and there listens to his praise singers.

And they tell his story, this son of Senzangakhona, the Zulu prince who believed he was tricked into marriage by Shaka's mother. Ukuhlobonga, claimed he, the Pleasure of the Road: a dalliance between clenched thighs, and if both of you lost control and penetration occurred, well, a fine of a few cattle would appease the girl's father and she'd still be regarded as a virgin. Besides, if what's-her-name, Nandi, was pregnant, how could he
be certain he was the father? Cha! How could they be certain she really was pregnant?

That was the line taken by Mduli, who was Senzangakhona's uncle and to all intents and purposes, the King's prime minister. Nandi wasn't pregnant, he claimed; merely infected with an Ushaka, an intestinal beetle that made the stomach swell. Fine, replied Nandi, and when her son was born she named him Shaka. Now here is your Beetle, said her family, come and fetch him! And his mother too, for they were only too happy to be rid of the willful girl. Senzangakhona had by then ascended the throne and was now told by his uncle that he no longer had any choice in the matter. So, reluctantly, he took Nandi as his wife.

Years of abuse and cruelty followed, and things didn't get better when Nandi and Shaka were sent to live with his mother's people, the Langeni. As if the scandal of the “banishment” wasn't bad enough, Shaka's insistence on his being the heir to the Zulu throne saw him mocked and bullied by the other boys, while their parents shunned Nandi. She had brought this all on herself, yet still she acted as if she were a queen.

Finally it became too much and they left the Langeni to live like refugees, seeking succor where they could until at last they found themselves among the Mthetwas. Inducted into the army, along with others of his age-set, Shaka soon attracted the attention of the Mthetwa king, Dingiswayo, the Wanderer. Forced to flee his home when his brothers accused him of plotting to overthrow their father, Dingiswayo knew how it was to live as an outcast, and thus saw in Shaka a kindred spirit. After Shaka had proved his courage in battle time and time again—especially against the Mthetwas' old foe, the Ndwandwes, who were ruled by Zwide at that time—Dingiswayo persuaded an ailing Senzangakhona to acknowledge his long-lost eldest son as his true heir. And when the old man reneged on his promise on his deathbed, the Wanderer sent Shaka, with the Izicwe legion, to claim the throne. Then, guided by Nandi and his beloved Pampata, this “Beetle,” this bastard son, set about putting to death all of those who had scorned his mother. Next, having
reorganized the army, he taught his soldiers the Way of the Bull. He equipped them with the iklwa, a short stabbing spear one didn't foolishly throw away, and made them discard their sandals and toughen their feet by marching across thorns. Then he turned his attention to the nation's enemies …

And they sing his praises today, these izimbongi, and tell of his many great deeds.
He is Bull Elephant! He is Sitting Thunder! He is Lightning Fire! Hai-yi hai-yi! I like him when he wrapped the Inkatha around the hill and throttled Zwide's sons. I like him when he went up the hill to throttle Ntombazi of the skulls. Bayede, Nkosi, bayede! Blood of Zulu. Father of the Sky. Barefoot Thorn Man! I like him because we sleep in peace within his clenched fist. Hai-yi hai-yi! I like him because our cattle are free to roam our hills, never to be touched by another's hand. I like him because our water is sweet. I like him because our beer is sweeter. Hai-yi hai-yi! Bayede, Nkosi, bayede!

Now here, on a morning in the Fucking Dog month, following precepts and prescriptions and the rites and rituals laid down by those who were here before Malandela, the father of Zulu—Zulu, the Sky, who begot Gumede KaZulu, who begot Phunga kaGumede, who begot Mageba, who begot Ndaba, who begot Jama, Shaka's grandfather—he has been doctored by his inyangas …

Imithi Emnyama, or Black Medicine. Muthi of the dead moon, isifile, and ngolu mnyama namhla, the dark day thereafter, when human beings are especially vulnerable to evil and it's best to sit in the shade and do nothing. Like repels like, and this Imithi Emnyama, this Night Muthi, is conjured from the fragments of that hole in the sky, that
absence
that has been crowded upon, cracked, then shattered by the slow-motion return of the moon. And these shards fall to the earth, to be trapped by inyanga chants, those words woven like nets to catch the blackness, and its power, in the spaces between the sounds. They are incantations that season and add potency to ingredients collected in secret from far and wide.

There is water gathered from the sea and the great rivers that traverse the kingdom; there is the King's own shit and piss; grass from paths used by the King's subjects, thatch from their huts and dirt from their doorways. There is soil taken from enemy territory, as well as samples of all the fruit and vegetables favored by his nation. There is blood from a black goat, the fat of a leopard, and strips of flesh sliced from various snakes. There are the ground-down teeth and claws of a lion, as well as its heart.

Body, Soul substances, vital essence, unity, power and protection—he will need them all if he is to revive the occult obverse of the festival, reaching out and grasping where others have simply gone through the motions. Therefore let the King become at one with the people, let him be protected from the blackness by the blackness itself, let him draw strength and sustenance from the plants and animals of his kingdom.

Let him not inhale too deeply …

But who is this mighty ruler, this potentate? Who is this king, who casts a long shadow across the centuries?

Who is this Bull Elephant who has won more than merely territory for his people, whose monuments are pride, honor, courage, myth—alive and enduring where sullen stone crumbles and vain marble shatters?

Who is this monarch who never needed ships of wood, whose praises, carried across the singing veld, were enough to bring the world to his kraal?

Hai-yi hai-yi! He is Bull Elephant! He is Sitting Thunder! He is Defiler and Defier! Hai-yi hai-yi! But he is more, too …

He is the One They All Forgot, the boy who provided a bedtime story for his half-brothers Sigujana, Dingane, Mhlangana and the younger princes. And not even that; he is the vague memory of a
bedtime story—a cautionary tale about what happens to bad boys—of whispered conversations and mocking laughter. How some had to rack their memories, rummage deep within their consciences, when this Shaka returned to claim the crown! As for the older adults, Nandi was the one they remembered best. She was that jackal bitch who tricked Senzangakhona into marrying her, but whatever plans she might have had had come to naught. Although nuptials eventually took place, there was no lobola, no bride price. Nandi had been treated more as a servant than a wife, and soon she and her two offspring—Shaka and his sister—were sent away. Thus Nandi was remembered in the way droughts and plagues were, while Shaka was by and large forgotten. Few had any inkling that the brave warrior who was making a name for himself in Dingiswayo's army (and who could barely even speak Zulu) was also of the royal house of Zulu.

Hai-yi hai-yi! Bull Elephant! King of Kings! Sky that Thunders in the Open, Where there is Neither Mimosa nor Thorn Tree. Willow Tree that Overhangs Deep Pools. Hai-yi hai-yi! I like him when he chased Zwide from where the sun rises to where the sun sets! Bull Elephant! Spear Red to the Haft! Hai-yi hai-yi! But he is more, too …

He is King Inguos Chaka—the traders' Shaka—and when Francis Farewell went looking for investors after his first trip to the fringes of the Zulu kingdom, this King Inguos Chaka appeared as a benign patron, affable, well behaved. And although they weren't keen to annex yet another beach, the colonial administrators at the Cape were happy enough. And when trader James King returned from England and rather belatedly set about trying to raise money for his own venture, he too reported that this Inguos Chaka was obliging, pleasant, “stern in public, good-humored in private.” Chaka's attitude changed, though, when King failed to find any investors. He became a “cruel monster” and, hell's bells, did they think King was trying to raise funds for a
speculation
—no, they'd misunderstood him! Francis Farewell and the rest of his party were now little better than castaways living in terror of the savage despot. So they needed
rescuing; and that's what King wanted the money for—to
rescue
them. Somehow he managed to raise the ready cash, rushed off to save Farewell and promptly sank his ship in the process—meaning it was he himself who now needed rescuing by the “castaways.” Later, Farewell would intimate that if a “king” was proving troublesome and treacherous, it wasn't Shaka. Besides, if Shaka was such a terror, why was James King happy to take Farewell's wife along with him when he sailed off to Port Natal? And the
South African Commercial Advertiser
was speaking for the British authorities when it suggested those “frightful stories” one heard about Shaka from time to time were “mere fabrications.”