Shaka the Great (67 page)

“Is he talking?” asks Jembuluka.

“No,” replies Gudlo. “I think he knew it was me, but I said nothing.”

“His concern is real?” says the Induna, as Gudlo is allowed to go on his way.

Jembuluka thinks for a moment, then nods. Since Melekeleli, the Skin Man's sister and Vuyile's mother, was Ntokozo's ingadi, his right-hand or chief wife, and Gudlo's mother, Dwanile was his ikhohlwa or left-hand wife, and second to Melekeleli, there have been rivalries and disagreements between them, with the other wives being cajoled into joining one side or the other. But there is no sign of this animosity between the brothers, adds Jembuluka.

“They have argued and fought,” he says, “but no more than other brothers do, and they are a lot closer than some.”

He shakes his head. “Aiee, poor Vuyile!”

“He is his father's heir, and almost a man,” says the Induna.

“This is so. And he is no coward who seeks to skulk in his mother's hut, but that makes what he must have seen even more shocking.”

“And you do not know the other clan involved in this incident?”

“No, Nduna. As I have told you, they come from the high country.” It was here in Bulawayo that they first met.

The Induna nods, thanks Jembuluka, and says he may go—for he wishes to speak to Vuyile alone.

“And I will wait here,” says the udibi.

“I think that'll be wise,” says the Induna. “If we are too many, we might crowd him and unsettle him further.”

It's hot inside the temporary hut. At the inyangas' insistence, a fire is kept burning. Periodically they throw on certain kinds of herbs and wood, believing that the muthi and the heat will help Vuyile sweat out the poisons within his mind.

Certainly, the Uselwa Man's son seems thinner than the last time the Induna saw him. As his treatment has also involved purgatives, he has undoubtedly lost weight since the murder. But that was only four days ago, and the Induna suspects that what he's seeing is more a diminution of the youngster's natural arrogance. Vuyile has witnessed something that truly scared him. The real world reached out and grabbed him, and all his masks and shields, poses and postures, couldn't protect him. He will recover, of that the Induna has no doubt, and he will gradually pull together again the growls and guises that help
him on his way, but for now the youth is naked in more ways than one.

He sits cross-legged, staring at the flames, and the Induna positions himself at right angles to the youth, and a little further from the fire.

Jembuluka doesn't know it, but the Induna came here and sat in the same spot, on the night he arrived to investigate the murder. And the next morning, and the following evening; as well as this morning. He knew the inyangas allowed the family to visit Vuyile at midday, and so he had stayed away then. Besides, after viewing the body, there was the dead boy's family to talk to, as well as his brothers and friends.

“I have seen your mother,” says the Induna. “She is concerned about your welfare.”

“Mothers,” whispers Vuyile.

“They do have our best interests at heart,” continues the Induna. “But they have the strangest ways of showing it—so that sometimes a man must get away.”

“She has a sharp tongue. She …”

When it's clear Vuyile isn't going to say more, the Induna declares he is thirsty. After reaching for his waterskin, and taking a few gulps, he passes it over to Vuyile.

“You were saying?” he asks casually, after the youth has almost sucked the skin dry.

“She … she nags.”

“And so a son has to make his escape from time to time.”

A nod, the flicker of a grin.

He had got away that afternoon, and soon he was enjoying the sights and sounds, the busy activity around KwaBulawayo. Soon he was flirting with maidens, helping carry baggage for their mothers. Soon he was enjoying something he hadn't had for a long while—a good time.

He had stayed out longer than expected, for no fewer than four families he had helped that day had invited him back for supper, and he had visited them all in turn. When he was about
to leave the last party, the father advised him to take that path, over there. It was a short cut that would lead him through land already cleared for the erection of still more temporary huts. These hadn't been built yet, but there were bonfires to show him the way.

It was in one of these clearings that he saw …

Vuyile falls silent. “No,” he whispers, “I heard, then I saw …”

“You heard?” asks the Induna softly.

Slowly, Vuyile's head turns toward the Induna. “Hyena sounds.” His voice is barely audible above the crackling of the flames, which have yet to die down, and the heat coats the Induna's chest, arms and face in a sheen of sweat.

Hungry, snuffling, slurping hyena sounds.

“Yet you went on, because you couldn't believe your ears,” says the Induna. Mpisi the hyena might be a much misunderstood creature, but one that was unlikely to roam so close to a settlement of this size, especially with all the shouting and movement, the beating of drums and drunken laughter lasting until almost dawn. “You went on because it had been a good day and a good night, and so you didn't want to believe your ears.”

An almost imperceptible nod.

The Induna reaches across to place a hand on Vuyile's knee. “I know what this creature did, therefore you do not have to go there again tonight. Instead, I would know this: did he see you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Vuyile begins to nod, then stops himself. “Yes.”

“Why can you be sure?”

Because he had approached the clearing, and the sounds, in a crouch. And when he saw—when he took it all in and understood what he was seeing—he had stopped—and sunk backward on to his bottom …

… and the figure by the bonfire must have heard something, because that was when he looked up …

… but Vuyile had dropped out of sight, although he could still
see the creature, even though he's sure the creature couldn't see him—and that was when he saw who it was.

“Are you sure?” asks the Induna, because this is a serious allegation to make. Especially at this time.

“I am … sure …”

“Then why do I hear indecision in your voice?”

A good day, a better night—then those sounds.

Biting, slurping, sucking, crunching hyena sounds.

And then he was creeping forward, because there was something about those sounds that just wasn't right. They didn't belong with the distant whoops and shouts. And he crept further forward. And there, in the orange light of the bonfire, a body lying on its back. And doing something to its face, gnawing and biting, tugging and pulling, was a creature the like of which Vuyile had never seen before.

On its hands and knees, with its torso twisted, it resembled a giant lizard, but had no tail. And it was going at the body's face with a hyena's vehemence.

Somehow, Vuyile managed not to shout out. And then he was sitting on his ass, and he could still see through the branches of the bush in front of him, and he must have made some noise, because, as he watched, the creature's head came up. That was when he saw the creature's face, saw who it was. And, as the creature sniffed the night air, Vuyile shut his eyes.

When he looked again, the creature was gone. Without thinking, he turned and ran back the way he'd come, crashing into the campsite he'd just left, with a tale that, garbled as it was, had the men reaching for their spears and calling to their neighbors for help.

“He says he saw this sangoma, Kholisa?”

The Induna nods.

“Who he knows, so there can be no mistaken identity?”

Another nod.

“But you say he said the sangoma looked different …”

“Yes, loose-skinned, not quite human.”

“But it was Kholisa.”

“So he says, Master.”

“And you have no reason to doubt him?”

“No.”

“Aiee, this clan!” says Mbopa. “You said there was something odd about the whole affair, when you came before our Father after the death of this Uselwa Man. Now this!”

“Some would say it's happenstance, Master.”

“This is so: it could just as easily have been some boy who saw what Vuyile saw. Do you believe that, Nduna?”

“It could indeed have been another boy, Master. And if it had been, we would not know to seek out Kholisa.” That it
was
Vuyile who stumbled on the scene could be a further sign that Ntokozo's Umkhokha is angry and restless, and still seeking vengeance.

“Which means you were right to doubt that the boy Vala was responsible for Ntokozo's murder.” Because, if the Induna had been wrong, the dead man's Umkhokha would have come after
him
, seeking to punish him for thwarting justice.

“Master, if I may … ?”

Mbopa makes a be-my-guest gesture.

Perhaps the Umkhokha was the force that brought those two together: Kholisa and Vuyile, who was one of those able to recognize him. And the Umkhokha chose Vuyile because it wants others to know that this madness does, in some way, involve the clan—or at least Ntokozo's murder.

“Kholisa killed him,” muses Mbopa, “now he has killed again.”

“This is the way things might be, Master.”

“And Ntokozo's body? Did you recall anyone saying it had been … abused?”

Jembuluka and the dead man's wives would surely have noticed, but they said nothing of that. However, the sangoma might have
done something to the body, after it was left in his care …

“Hmm, I ask because the boy who was killed here … you know what his wounds signify? Of course you do. The nose and surrounding skin and the lips—powerful muthi. Especially if ingested on the spot.”

“He seeks the boy's youth, and his stamina. Perhaps even his balance.”

“Yes, that's right, for Kholisa walks with a limp.”

“This is so.”

“And now all who know him suddenly realize they haven't seen him since Ntokozo's death.”

“This is so, Master.” After his encounter with Mgobozi a few years ago, Kholisa stopped trying to draw attention to himself. And everyone who might be counted upon to become worried by this recent absence believed they knew where he was. Mhlangana, who arrived at KwaBulawayo a few days ago, was under the impression that the Induna had forced Kholisa to accompany him to the capital, when he had brought Vala before the King. Kholisa's students, who had been in the prince's party, believed their master had been stung by his inability to save Ntokozo's life, and had then gone on a retreat to commune with the ancestors and to collect muthi ingredients from more potent areas. But they had pretended to agree with Mhlangana's theory, out of loyalty to their master. According to the Uselwa Man's family, Kholisa had simply not been there one morning; after agreeing such behavior was rude, even for a sangoma, they hadn't given him much more thought. Jembuluka was more forthcoming, adds the Induna, for he had encountered the limping sangoma on the morning he left, and Kholisa had told him he was returning home to the war kraal overseen by Mhlangana. Kholisa had seemed unhappy, said Jembuluka.

“And now we are looking for him, I assume?”

“This is so, but as one who is missing.”

The Induna and his men have put it out that the boy was killed by a wild animal, although it's unlikely that particular story will be able to compete with the other more lurid accounts doing the
rounds. However, he has been able to ensure that word of Kholisa's involvement will not get out.

“So we hope,” murmurs Mbopa.

The Induna shrugs. The inyangas who are treating Vuyile don't know; and the Induna has threatened Jembuluka into secrecy. He's also had a word with the father of the clan Vuyile had gone to fetch that night, and explained that Vuyile had panicked and was merely calling for Kholisa. He didn't mean to imply the sangoma had been involved in the killing. As for Vuyile, the youth himself has promised he won't say a word to anyone.