Shaka the Great (6 page)

Another “Sir!” announces Edwards' return, along with Jakot.

“Well, Jakot,” says Farewell, “is it true? Did you strike Mr. Thomson here?”

As he was being steered toward Farewell by the coxswain, Jakot noticed that those men whose chores are already completed had begun to pay closer attention to the exchange between Farewell and Thomson, drifting a little nearer, but not so near that Farewell will notice their inquisitiveness and order Edwards to find more tasks for them.

The interpreter realizes he's underestimated the first mate's cunning. By reporting the matter right now, he draws the attention of the others to the most worrying aspect of their predicament. They'll be rescued soon enough, but for the moment they're stranded on a beach where there are God knows how many black bastards lurking in the bushes over there. And see how this situation has even affected the behavior of their own black bastard!

Back on ship, Thomson would have found himself in trouble when Jakot explained what had happened on the surfboat, and why he had then attacked—or, given the feebleness of both their efforts, tried to attack—Thomson on the beach. Few would have doubted that the unpopular Thomson was capable of such a callous action—which had also cost the life of one of their own, don't forget that.

But here, under these conditions, he knows the White Men will stick together. A hunting party of Xhosas would do the same, were they to find themselves stranded or lost and the guide they had recruited from a local tribe started showing signs of “acting up,” as
the White Men term it. There is therefore no point in trying to explain himself.

Instead, Jakot Msimbithi squares his shoulders and turns to face Thomson.

Addressing the first mate in Xhosa, he invites Thomson to go and fuck himself, and informs the others that he is going to find Shaka. Then he sets off to do just that, his angry footsteps, that windy afternoon, the first in a journey that will eventually see him become one of the most influential figures in South Africa's history. Although that's perhaps a story for another time …

Interlude

… because you saw through him, didn't you?

What he had to say, his little insights, these weren't without their value, but they required a certain amount of dusting off, to get rid of the malice, the spite and the exaggerations that were a symptom of the desire to ingratiate. (You already had his measure, you knew how many cattle there were in his herd; it was your brother who fell under his thrall; and see what happened!)

Shaka—his forehead, nose and cheeks painted black, his hair and lower face the rust red of dried blood, with lines of ash across his chest—gazes at the footprints that resemble a chain of shadows pressed into the sand.

Perhaps Jakot's greatest service was done to him before he even reached KwaBulawayo. For these footprints leading
away
, were also leading
to
. Bringing Jakot to him, yes, but also bringing him to
them
.

Shaka raises his head to regard the bedraggled white barbarians scattered around the wooden tortoiseshell of the overturned boat. Not these ones, those who followed; but he has the feeling
they
wouldn't have come were it not for this chain of feet.

Then it happens again.

“Where are you going?” It's an alien language, but comprehensible thanks to its very tone. “Come back!”

And Jakot brushes past Shaka …

Who suddenly finds himself back in the hut of his seclusion. Orange thatch, and wet heat, the fire blazing in its center intended to hasten and amplify the effects of the muthi his medicine men have fed him: the potions and libations that will turn this nightly exile inside out and set his umkhokha free.

And he is standing?

Hadn't started the night standing.

And there's the brush of Jakot's shoulder, the sand, the spoor.

Only now, when Shaka looks down, he sees …

… the Thukela River to the south, the Pongola to the north. No matter how far and wide the name Zulu might be whispered, no matter how deep inland his hegemony might extend, the water ways called the Frightening Suddenness and the River of Narrow Pools will remain the coronary arteries defining the heartland of the nation.

This is where history was leading the People Of The Sky in a trek that started long, long before the birth of Malandela, the father of Zulu, when a chief called Nguni led his people out of Egypt. It's a continental drift measured in centuries, as sons moved away, moved east or west, or kept on coming south, and families became clans that settled where they were, or kept on moving, or stayed a while and then moved on, with drought or warfare snapping at their heels, ever colonizing and conquering, or being conquered. Intermarriages occurred between the interlopers and those they encountered and a tribe became a nation. Then the fraying as the grandsons' grandsons, finding the land crowded, moved on again, southward, always southward, until they found themselves on the shores of the Indian Ocean. Found themselves here, in fact, amid the bushel of rivers to be found between the Thukela and the Pongola: the Mhlatuze, or
“Relentless Force”; the Mkhuze, or “Violent River”; the ragged, jittery Lopsided Y created by the Fig River, the Black Mfolozi, and its tributary the White Mfolozi, so named because of the lightness of the stones along its banks.

Later he'll only remember his sudden comprehension; remember understanding something that should have been wholly incomprehensible. It's like the dream that's vivid when you open your eyes, then is gone as you blink, or turn your head, leaving only the memory of your having been somewhere as real as here and now … or of sudden understanding dissipated and lost. But that's on the other side, where the flames cause the red and black to glisten, and dawn brings with it an aching head.

For now, the Father of the Sky squats and peers down at deep, wide valleys: places where a man, a family, a clan can spread out and prosper. Because this is good land for cattle. He nods, for Mgobozi, his old friend Mgobozi, has now joined him. “Good land,” he whispers.

And it is so. Those who try to raise izinkomo on the rainy coastal belt have to make do with sourveld grass, which is only good for grazing during a short period in the spring—and see how puny those beasts are! Their bellies are hollow, their milk thin and they move like old-timers.

Here, in these valleys, however, you'll find the sweetveld grass that provides nutritious grazing almost all the year round. And the herds grow, Old Friend, producing bulls as strong as the rivers that carved these canyons, and cows whose milk is as sweet as the grass they graze on.

And they settled here. And they built their huts, bending the saplings to create a framework, then covering it with thatch. Floors are laid out of a mixture of ant-heap and clay, then covered with cow dung and rubbed hard and smooth until the surface shines. In the center is the isiko, or fireplace, and to the right side of the hut is the men's side, the isilili samadoda, to the left the isilili sesifazana, the side for the females. And in the rear, where it's cool and dark, there's the
umsamo, the place of the ancestors, who divide their time between here and the cattle kraal. And sleeping mats, clothing, gourds and skins containing water, medicine and beer are hung along the wall.

And they built their villages: circular like their huts, like the full moon. The huts arranged on a slope for better drainage and protected by an utango, or outer wall, comprising poles lashed together or a hedge of viciously spiked thorns, with the isango, the entrance to the umuzi at the lower end, and the dwellings of the village's head, his mother and wives situated at the upper end. In the center of the settlement, surrounded by a second fence: the isibaya, the sacred cattlefold. And at the top of the isibaya, the ibandla tree, where the headman greets guests or where the villagers gather to discuss matters of import and resolve disputes, with every man allowed to have his say.

And the men tended their cattle, the herdboys leaving early in the morning, while mothers and daughters began their chores, fetching water, neatening the hut, working in the fields.

And they celebrated the First Fruits …

The hoes are taken up. The planting begins. Maize, introduced to the region by the Portugiza, predominates, while sorghum, the favored cereal before ummbila, is grown mainly for use in the making of beer. Then there's the ipuzi, a large, light-yellow pumpkin, the imfe, an indigenous form of wild sugar cane, various gourds and melons and different varieties of sweet potato.

A period of intense labor as the men clear the fields, hacking away the bushes that have encroached during the fallow time. Then come the mothers and daughters, sisters and daughters-in-law: breaking up the soil, broadcasting the seed by hand, planting it in rows or thrusting it into the loam with their fingers, depending on the crop.

This becomes their time, for the women are feeding the nation, their efforts in the name of Nomkhubula, the Princess of the Sky. And the planting is accompanied by numerous ceremonies held to
entreat the Princess to keep away drought and protect the plants from pests.

After the sowing, it's time for the Phukula, when every maiden must go out and beg for beer from her sweetheart's kraal. If she hasn't yet an isoka, it's her chance to make the first move if the man she has her eye on has yet to notice her charms. She'll arrive at his homestead and be welcomed in the usual hospitable manner, for such is the way of the Amazulu, but on this day she will not return the greetings. Instead, she'll signal the reason for her visit with a phukula, or disdainful pout.

When enough beer has been collected, a feast is held, involving only women. Wearing special dresses of woven grass decorated with flowers, they sing and dance and praise Nomkhubula. The following day they'll pick up their hoes and go and plant one more field of mealies. This one is specifically for the Princess of the Sky. Its crop is never harvested, and pots of beer will be regularly left out for the princess to enjoy whenever she visits.

And so Umfumfu, the planting season, gives way to the month of the October–November moon, the fecund month of Uzibandela, the Pathfinding Moon, when everything grows abundantly and the new grass hides the trails and tracks.

And, although it'll only reach its climax in January, the First Fruits ceremony has already begun.

Ukutatamageja, the Taking Up of the Hoes, in October has marked its commencement. The second phase is Ukunyathela Unyaka, the Stepping into the New Year, which starts when the Pathfinding Moon gives way to the November–December moon. Known as Umasingana, the Peering-About Moon, this is when the women start searching the fields and gardens for the emergence of the new crops—the first fruits. This is also when select groups of men are sent out to collect soil and steal bulls from neighboring tribes. An elite within this elite are those dispatched to the coast to fetch the uselwa, and often the men will camp out for several days while waiting for the calabash they've found to ripen before picking it. The King chooses the best ones brought
before him, and it is, of course, a great honor for the warrior whose offering is chosen.