Shaka the Great (32 page)

“This is so, indeed it is so,” said Ngwadi eagerly, as Sigujana accepted a pot of beer from a servant. “And please accept my … please accept
our
most abject apologies. Mgobozi is more used to the field of battle than a king's court.”

Sigujana drank deep and returned the pot to the servant.

“He is uncouth but he has his uses,” continued Ngwadi, still referring to Mgobozi.

“And you? What uses do you have, bird man? Other than giving a king like myself a headache.”

Mduli coughed meaningfully. He was seated to Sigujana's left, with the other counselors arrayed behind him. Ndlela was sitting next to him, and just to Mgobozi's right. Being a woman, Mnkabayi wasn't present, but a hole had been made in the thatch so that she could listen to the proceedings.

“What is it?” snapped Sigujana, then silenced Mduli with a raised hand before the counselor could reply. “Yes, yes, I know we are here to discuss a matter of the utmost importance, but this behavior,” he says, indicating the whisk in Mgobozi's hand, “makes me wonder how much these two are willing to discuss.”

Seated to Sigujana's right, Mhlangana grunted his agreement.

“This behavior,” continued the King, as a nudge from Ngwadi caused Mgobozi to carefully lay the whisk aside, “tells me they have come here not to discuss but to instruct—to tell us the way things will be.”

“Majesty,” said Ngwadi, “I assure you—”

“Silence! You have brought this madness here, this sickness, I have suffered since I laid eyes on you, suffered and been made to suffer by the warbling of these graybeards here”—indicating Mduli and the other counselors who had held sway when Senzangakhona was king—“and now … now it is time for
me
to tell
you
how things will be.”

Murmurs of “This is so, this is so” from Mhlangana and the men standing behind Sigujana.

“You and Dingiswayo and this savage who claims he is my brother, and my father's first-born … who knows, maybe you even have allies in my kraal. You may have plotted and planned, and it may well be that your willingness to negotiate with me is a sham. So be it. I salute you! But here is something that is not a lie, for be careful of assuming you will ever leave my kraal on your hind feet!”

“But, Majesty—”

“Hai, do not misunderstand me. It is not my intention to be belligerent. This is just something I wanted to bring to your attention.”

“And we thank you for doing so, Majesty.”

“Thing nothing of it, feathered one,” said Sigujana, while glancing at Mduli. He wasn't surprised to see the elder fuming. Aiee, it was a wonder you couldn't hear him grinding the few teeth he had left, and you could be sure he'd pressed his hands between the aprons that made up his kilt so he could clench his fists without anyone noticing. And those eyes … hai, those eyes would impale you where you sat, if they could. He hadn't followed Mduli's counsel, and now the old man could do nothing to stop him.

(Now that he thinks about it, he can't remember what Mduli—and the others—had advised. Although they kept on at him, he was in a state of shock, and when he nodded and started trying to look as if he saw the wisdom in their words, it was only to get them to shut up. Still, no matter, after a shaky start he now feels he has things in hand.)

Another sip of beer, just to show how little Mduli's chagrin has affected him. Then a sage nod. “Yes, well, I merely mentioned that because it was something I felt you should know. Do not think I disagree with you.”

“Majesty, I'm not sure I understand,” said Ngwadi.

“Do not think I disagree with you,” continued the king as if the emissary hadn't spoken, “and this is what I was trying to tell you, before your pet baboon here interrupted me.”

Sigujana nodded.

Ngwadi waited.

Mduli frowned, wanting to throw something at the imbecile, and never mind the consequences.

Even Mhlangana began to grow a little edgy as the silence stretched out. He tried to catch his king's eye without appearing to.

Mgobozi smirked and suddenly appeared very interested in the embers in front of him. He reached for the whisk and pulled it a little further from the ring of stones that formed the fireplace.

“Your Majesty?” said Ngwadi, breaking the silence at last.

“Yes?”

“You were saying?”

“What? Ah, yes, I was saying this. It seems to me you come here as if this matter has already been decided. And you are right, there
is
nothing to discuss.”

A sick man, said Sigujana, an ailing man no longer able to live up to his name, no longer capable, in other words, of “acting wisely,” is approached by an ally he has served well all these years. This ally, young, strong and healthy, feeds the dying king beer and food, and then demands that he name as his heir a lout of the younger man's choosing!

“You frown, you twist your faces, you and your baboon.
Your
feathers rattle in outrage,
his
ass stings. But is this not what happened?”

There was Senzangakhona, ill, and close to embarking upon the Great Journey, but willing to make this other journey. Dingiswayo had summoned him to a victory celebration and he did not want to insult his ally. Because, after all, the Mthetwa ruler had intimated that the feast was to honor Senzangakhona's contribution to the success of the most recent campaign against Zwide.

“And then what did your king do? Hai, I will not speak of treachery, I will not speak of betrayal, I will not speak of lies, for I would not insult your king this night. That is a treat I intend to set aside until we two can meet face to face. But you cannot deny this is what happened.”

“Aiee, Majesty, two men may say the same thing, and yet by the tone of their voices might be said to contradict each other,” said Ngwadi.

“This is so. Nonetheless, you cannot deny this is what happened, for then you might as well gather up your sleeping mats and be on your way.” Sigujana chuckled. “Even I do not deny this is what happened.”

“Well, then, Majesty …”

“Well, then, brother of my brother, what I
do
say is that it does not matter. For who's to say who my father had already decided
would be his heir before dragging himself to Dingiswayo's feast of lies and bombast. He knew he was dying … did he not, Mduli?”

He continued, without waiting for the graybeard's nod. “So that must have been something he had considered. And, who knows, he might have promised one of his wives that Mhlangana or Dingane or even me was to be his heir. He might have even discussed the matter with Mduli, although he's not saying anything. Then what happens? The great, the mighty, the let-us-be-thankful-he-lets-our-men-die-in-his-cause Dingiswayo ambushes the Zulu king and—”

“He did no such thing!” interrupted Mgobozi.

“He might just as well, baboon,” grinned Sigujana, holding up a hand warning Mhlangana and his men to remain calm. “He might just as well have kicked my father in the teeth, poisoned his beer, thrown him to the hyenas … My father who had only ever been loyal to him! But, because insulting my guests is the furthest thing from my mind, let us say Dingiswayo groveled and wept and pounded his chest and begged my father to acknowledge Shaka as his successor—as that was the only way he was going to rid himself of the loathsome lad and his conniving mother.”

Sigujana scratched his chin. Had he been afraid of his hands shaking, a few moments ago? Had he sat there waiting for them to come, while wanting only to throw himself on his sleeping mat and bawl like a jilted maiden? Oh, yes, it no longer shames him to admit it: their arrival and Mduli's badgering had turned him into a child again; the same fearful, cringing, cowardly child he had once been. He was no longer ashamed, or frightened, though.

They have come to his aid: Zulu and Gumede, Phunga and Mageba, Ndaba and Jama! They are here tonight in this sweltering hut, where his are the only eyes not burning with sweat. Where the leopard cloak that is his badge of office has become his second skin, and he need only leap forward for the claws to click out of his fingers. Where his words fall among the enemy like a shower of assegais.

Which is why the leopard's claws will remain sheathed, for his words are all he needs tonight.

“And let us say, friends … let us say it was charity, not befuddlement, that led my father to acquiesce to Dingiswayo's heartfelt plea—the same impulse that will lead a man to fuck an ugly maiden on occasion, when the beer has flowed and he is of a mind to give her a memory she can cherish in her dotage.”

Fine, whatever, says Senzangakhona, wanting only to put a stop to this unseemly beseeching. Shaka shall be my successor.

But what if he had already promised the throne to another son? What would Dingiswayo have done if Shaka had then been made king of the Zulus, and this other son had come forward saying
Wait a moment
, and bringing witnesses with him?

“What would Dingiswayo have done being renowned as a just and fair king?” asked Sigujana. Because, if they were going to be honest, this was all about what Dingiswayo wanted, and his beloved mentor would have to accede to his wishes. “Which would have been what, do you think—had it been me or Dingane sitting where you are?”

“But you knew of this promise, did you not?” said Ngwadi, addressing Mduli.

A reluctant nod.

“And had Senzangakhona KaJama promised his throne to anyone else?”

“Hai!” interjected Sigujana. “We are not Maputos! The Zulu throne is not something to be bartered back and forth! Do not forget where you are!”

Ngwadi bowed his head. “My apologies, Majesty.”

“And do you forget the way kings are? They are always promising the throne to this son, then to that brat, as soon as one of them annoys them.” Sigujana grinned. Hai, perhaps he's contradicting himself now. Perhaps the Zulus are very like the Maputos when it comes to passing the throne around—or at least the promise of the succession. But, if so, they are not alone, and it is not for izilwane to draw attention to this shortcoming.

Even Dingiswayo had experience of the fickleness of fathers, when it came to who would rule in their stead. For he himself was
the heir until his brothers saw to it that their father disowned him.

“And the older they get, the more likely they are to change their minds,” added Sigujana. “This is why the life of a prince is not as happy and carefree as some seem to think.”

Time for more beer now, but what's this? His guests aren't drinking—not thirsty, eh? Well, that's to be expected, since he's done most of the talking. Not that you have to be thirsty to appreciate Zulu beer.

“But Dingiswayo and his pet doubtless are awaiting our decision with much anticipation. So let's not have to light new torches tonight. These will suffice, because it's really very simple. You say my father promised Dingiswayo that he would acknowledge Shaka as his heir. I say, so what? My father changed his mind shortly thereafter, just as he did on numerous occasions before.”

A glance at Ngwadi. A glance at Mgobozi, but held a little longer. “My father changed his mind, as was his wont—and also his right. He changed his mind, so I am king, and that's all there is to it. If this is gruel to your Mthetwa gullets, so be it!”

Mnkabayi steps away from the hole in the thatch, her eyebrows raised.

“What's wrong, Ma?” asks the servant with her. Senzangakhona's sister shakes her head, feeling too stunned to speak.

Inside, Mhlangana and his men rise to their feet like sleepwalkers. No one will ever accuse them of being perspicacious but, for now, they're just as affected by Sigujana's aplomb. There are no jibes, and none seek to bolster the king's words with invective of their own devising. He has but to raise his hand—the languid gesture of a sated man—for them to begin to herd the visiting savages out of the hut. And they do so in silence, without even a threatening glare or any accidentally-on-purpose jostling.

Tarrying after Ngwadi and Mgobozi have left, with their escort, even Mduli finds himself speechless. And, groping for some criticism or something to condemn or disparage, the cantankerous counselor realizes there's nothing for him to say. He'd suggested Sigujana put aside the prospect of Shaka and remember that these emissaries were also from Dingiswayo. He'd pointed out how a man's mentor was also his captor. Shaka might have earned the right to be treated as one of Dingiswayo's favorites, through his acts of bravery, but once accepted as thus he was also trapped. Having caught the king's eye he could only retain his status by becoming the king's creature, thus putting his mentor's needs first. “Remember this,” Mduli had urged, “and then treat these savages as if they are merely envoys sent from Dingiswayo.” That is to say: listen, hear them out, be cautious and courteous, then send them on their way with the promise that you will consider the claims they have laid before you.

That was, Mduli believed, the only course of action likely to show the young king in a good light. Acting as his chamberlain, Mduli would have presided over the proceedings, and thus Sigujana would have had little chance to display his immaturity—or fear. (Yes, he had noticed how scared the boy was, and it had been hard for Mduli not to rebuke him, warn him that he was in danger of shaming the House of Zulu. But that would have only made matters worse.) All the king had to do was keep quiet, and nod when appropriate. And, with Ngwadi and Mgobozi sent back to Dingiswayo, Mduli and the other elders would have been given a little more time to consider their options before approaching Dingiswayo himself. There had to be a way of persuading him that the People Of The Sky would be even more valuable allies under Sigujana. After all, protégés have a habit of turning their backs on their mentors once they get what they want, because isn't that precisely when they realize how like servitude this patronage can be?