Shaka the Great (25 page)

Big Buttocks restrains his friend with a nudge. He swallows, then dredges up the courage to continue. “No, Majesty. At first, when we realized what had happened, we might have made such an accusation. But we have had time to reconsider … and we believe he was as taken in by the bandit as we were!”

“Then you are here simply to waste the King's time,” says Mbopa.

“No,” says Long Legs defiantly, “that is
not
so!” Jabbing a finger at Kolo, he continues. “He might not have been an accomplice, but that doesn't change the fact that he broke his word.”

“It is so, Majesty!” says Broken Nose. “We had made a pact—”

Again Long Legs' finger snakes out. “And
he
broke his word!”

Shaka holds up his hand, waiting for fear to silence the men, then he addresses the Induna. “What say you, Nduna?”

“I say, from the look on his face, the one they call my shadow has something to say about this, Majesty.”

“You are right, Nduna.” Now that the warrior mentions it, he can see that the boy looks like one eager to get at the amasi sack. “Speak, Mthunzi,” says the King.

“Majesty,” says the boy, “I do not believe the accused had anything to do with the theft. But he
did
give his word, Majesty. A pact
was
made!”

“And, being too cowardly to seek out the real thief, these baboons now demand compensation from an honest man,” says Mdlaka.

“Nonetheless, General, he is right,” says Shaka. “A pact
was
made. Why
shouldn't
they seek compensation from him? Why shouldn't he pay for his stupidity? For did he not hand over the skins and tusks, after they had expressly agreed this should only happen when all
four
were present?”

“But there you have it, Majesty!” exclaims the boy. “They agreed the wares would only be handed over when all four were present. And a Zulu keeps his word, Majesty, so let the accused keep
his
word. When the four are reunited—
four
, Majesty, not three—when Vulani comes down from the hills and joins these three and all four go to this man—well, then, let him hand over the hides and ivory they left in his safekeeping, or proffer an explanation as to why he no longer has them! Until then, he is under no obligation to give anyone anything.”

This is the last case of the day, and Shaka adjourns to the flat-roofed shelter alongside his eating hut, where he prefers to be served on a hot day such as this. He asks Mdlaka, Mbopa and the Induna to join him, and for a while he can't stop chuckling over the boy's solution to the problem posed by the outwitted traders. As the meal progresses, however, Shaka finds it harder and harder to smile away his disappointment and frustration. He really thought today would be the day, and he grows quieter, grumpiness clouding his visage.

The Induna notices the change, and sees that Mbopa has spotted it, too. He watches as the prime minister glances away, his jaws rhythmically working at a chunk of isinkwa, a form of bread made from crushed mealies. When Shaka isn't looking, Mbopa nudges Mdlaka, who has sought refuge from the King's change in mood by focusing on his porridge. The Induna watches how the two men exchange glances, Mbopa tilting his head slightly, as if urging the general to say something.

Reluctantly, Mdlaka coughs to clear his throat, hesitates a moment, then remarks on how the regiments are looking forward to the First Fruits and their chance to impress the King.

Mbopa seems to sag. Clearly, this is not the right topic to have chosen.

“Father, does something perturb you?” murmurs the prime minister in a heroic attempt to draw Shaka's glare away from the general.

It works. His eyes now shifting to the man he has wronged so abominably, Shaka responds with his own question: “What say the people?”

Silence follows. The Induna can clearly hear the rhythmic thock-thockthock made by a servant banging two hoes together to warn everyone that the King is eating, for no one may spit, cough or sneeze during this period.

Mbopa has leaned back almost imperceptibly. As well he might, and as they all might, while gritting their teeth and readying themselves for the squall …

It's not Shaka's obvious grumpiness, it's not that his tone is ominously
quiet, although these signals are bad enough—it's his use of the phrase “the people.”

When they are considered his children, they are to be indulged, their failings to be looked upon benignly, every chastisement simply the prelude to being given a second chance. When they are his “people,” they are culpable, scheming, ungrateful, willful, foolish, lazy, spiteful, greedy cowards—among many other things.

What say the people?

“Well,” says Mbopa at last, because someone has to say something. Prevarication will only exacerbate Shaka's mood.

“I would ask if they are happy, but that would be a waste of breath, for they are never so.”

“Father,” says Mdlaka, “surely you jest! Your children have never been happier.”

“I have no children,” mutters Shaka.

“Hai, Majesty, you are both right,” says the prime minister.

“Of course, I am right!”

“As always, Majesty, but the general here is also right. You asked what the people are saying, and my answer is that most are saying nothing. For they are happy, Majesty.”

“Happy? Them?”

Choosing to ignore the sneer in Shaka's words, Mbopa nods. “Indubitably so, Majesty. However … you would of course know what those who are saying something are, er … saying?”

“Nduna,” says Shaka, “do you hear this? Do you see what I have to put up with? Aiee!”

Shaka dips a finger into his porridge bowl. Licks it clean. Points the same finger at the Induna. “You, Nduna!
You
tell me what the people are saying.”

“Father, I …”

“Hai! Don't look to that one,” says Shaka indicating Mbopa. “I'm asking you what you have heard. After all, don't you travel far and wide for me?”

“This is so, Father.”

“Well, then, what have you heard on your travels?”

The Induna swallows, takes a deep breath. “They say you have gone home, Father.”

Because of the way it's constructed, the average Zulu hut will only last about four years. By then the rain, wind and insect infestation have taken their toll, and you'd be better off building a new hut rather than trying to keep patching up the old one. Consequently, settlements are regularly rebuilt, and it's not uncommon for the headman to decide they might as well move the whole village to a new spot while they're at it.

Shaka's decision, then, to relocate KwaBulawayo raised few eyebrows initially; many thought it was high time, as the old place was beginning to look a bit tatty, and getting overcrowded as well.

The grumbling only began when it was learned how far away he intended to move his Great Place. Many old-timers reckoned they wouldn't be able to make the journey, and it was felt this was a kind of test, with Shaka wanting to get rid of those who couldn't keep up.

Others even saw cowardice in Shaka's actions. His praise singers might go on about how the King and his army destroyed Zwide's capital and sent the Ndwandwe ruler scurrying up country, but the northern border remained unstable and the King clearly wanted to put as much distance, and as many amakhanda as possible, between it and himself.

Perhaps more ominously, however, there are those who said: “Look, see
where
he has built his new capital!”

They scoffed at his claim that the Great Place needed to be moved simply because the rapid growth of the kingdom meant the old Bulawayo was no longer at its center—as true as this might be.

No, they said, this was merely a convenient pretext, and he'd have found another one if need be.

No, they said, building the new Bulawayo here all but brought him back to Mthetwa territory …

And hadn't experience shown him he'd always been safer here? Much had changed since he caught Dingiswayo's eye, but what did Shaka moving closer to Mthetwa territory say about the stability of his throne?

“Zwide's finished,” says Shaka. “Is he to be like Beja? How often will he be used to instill fear? How many times must I defeat him? Hai, how can I defeat what no longer remains? And what of the Thembus and the Qwabes? Cha!”

He takes a sip of beer. “Yes,” he says, “as for our borders, when have they not been threatened?”

“This is so, Father,” concurs Mbopa.

“But we have brave men and able commanders like yourself, Mdlaka, to keep us safe,” continues Shaka.

“And you can always count on our loyalty, Father.”

“That I know, Mdlaka. That I know. As for this nonsense about the old-timers …”

“Well, it's not surprising that some are saying that, Majesty, given your immense fondness for the elderly.”

Shaka's laugh is a bark of appreciation. “Oh, yes, Mbopa, you have me there. How I loathe them!”

“You mean
love
, Majesty?”

“Yes, thank you. A slip of the tongue. This happens when I must dwell on how much I
love
their bowed legs, their ceaseless coughing, their doddery, decrepit
loveableness.
” Shaka slaps his chest. “And it pains me to think that I myself will never enter that enviable state. How I lie awake at night, grinding my teeth and lamenting the fact!”

“Majesty, please,” says Mdlaka, “I speak for all of us when I say it disturbs us to even begin to contemplate—”

“My demise? Why not? At least I'll get to see what these ancestors really want.”

“That's just it, Father,” says Mdlaka. “
You
, an ancestor? Aiee! Will we ever get any rest, with you and Mgobozi watching over us?”

When all four have finished laughing, Shaka turns to the prime minister. “This talk of me coming home … What do you make of it, Mbopa?”

“Well, Majesty …”

“For, how many times must I say it, I am not a fucking Mthetwa! No offense, Mgobozi, wherever you may be.”

“And he would say none taken, Father,” says Mbopa, “for he always said he was really a Zulu.”

“As am I, too! Can't they get it into their thick skulls that it wasn't my fault I wasn't allowed to be raised among my own people?”

“Nonetheless, Majesty, perhaps this is a falsehood we have to endure for now,” says Mbopa.

For the move has also brought Shaka closer to the coast and to Faku's Pondoes. It is something no one has picked up upon, least of all Faku, and that's an oversight the chief might yet die regretting.

“Nonetheless, Mbopa,” says Shaka, mimicking his prime minister, “we have to ask ourselves how this will affect our other plans for the First Fruits.”

Your plans
, thinks the prime minister to himself; plans the King hints at but has never discussed fully with anyone, as far as Mbopa knows—not even with Pampata. And Mbopa is becoming more and more uneasy with the passing of each day. He doesn't object to Shaka claiming the right to be the only one to celebrate the First Fruits—quite the contrary, he supports such an innovation. It's Shaka's decision to revive that other occult aspect of the ceremony that worries him. It's become an obsession with the King, and seems too much like a return to those superstitions they spurned when Shaka took the throne.

But Shaka has asked him a question. “Majesty, it is as I said just now. Not everyone thinks like this. We are talking merely of an ant in a bowl of porridge. Pick it out, and flick it away.”

“But it's those who are powerful enough to do something about it who are saying such things, is it not?”

“Is it, Majesty?”

“I am asking
you
, Mbopa.”

“And I am truly at a loss here, Majesty. If you already know who these people are, let us move against them.”

“Pick them out, flick them away,” adds Mdlaka.

“As we did with Nobela and her kind? But these are not sangomas, and the benefits of having them eat dirt might not be as immediately apparent to the people. It's bad enough that many still think of me as a usurper … no, don't deny it, Mbopa! It's just that they're willing to overlook that fact so long as their bellies are full.”

Shaka takes another sip of beer, swallows it. “And now there's this business with the Uselwa Man,” he mutters, “which is bound to be misinterpreted.”

Addressing the Induna: “Although you acquitted yourself well there.”

“Thank you, Majesty, but the murderer remains at large.”

Which is why he's going to ask the Induna to keep an eye on the clan, and he will assign the boy and Njikiza to help him. Let Mthunzi resume, for now, his role as the Induna's udibi. “After all, I have noticed you have not yet found a replacement,” observes the King.

When the Induna starts to remonstrate, he holds up a hand. “I know! I would not be in a hurry to replace that one, were I you.”

“Aiee,” says Mdlaka, “I know the boy is too old to be an udibi, but this one”—indicating the Induna—“almost looks undressed without him by his side.”

“Lacks his shadow, you might say,” adds Mbopa.

“Very good, Mbopa,” says Shaka. “Well put.” Addressing the Induna again: “There you go; you may have your shadow back, even if Mdlaka's right about him being too old. But he was always more than an udibi to you, I think.”

“This is so, Majesty, and I thank you.”

“I hear you, Nduna, but thank me by finding the killer now, and seeing if there is a plot to unravel.”

“It will be done, rest assured, Majesty.”