Serving Shaka, page 13
Richard has not heard a question so he stays quiet.
‘I was pleased when this Bonaparte here,’ Shaka waves a large hand towards Napoleon, ‘defied the witch crone. But his magic is not what it seems to my people. I know that. I have seen many killed at a sniffing out ceremony, where these izangoma claim to identify evildoers. What I wish to know is this, if I confront them, will I be cursed?’
Richard is beginning to see into the mind of Shaka. Inside the confident moderniser seethes a sea of contradictions. He wars with himself. Richard is again thankful for the year of southern African history he took at university, devouring what scholarship there was on the rise of the Zulus and their downfall. Drawn to their story by the parallels with France’s empire.
‘You will break their power. I stake my life on it. What is your other concern?’
‘Dingiswayo.’
Richard senses Shaka’s ambivalence. This is the man who recognised his potential, raised him high and supported his takeover of the Zulu clan. Richard senses something else too.
This is his moment. He can cement his influence with a few words.
‘He will be undone by witchcraft and executed by his arch enemy, Zwide of the Ndwandwe. This will happen within a year and a half and you shall reap the benefit, inheriting your dead lord’s army.’
Shaka’s brows furrow and his eyes grow moist. His mighty chest heaves and he lets out an anguished sigh.
‘Always we are at the mercy of these witches. I feared the time when I might come to blows with Dingiswayo. It is the nature of things for the young lion to challenge the head of the pride. I am that lion! I am glad it will not have to be so, but my heart aches to think of that great man undone by sorcery.’
Napoleon looks hard at Richard with his glacial eyes. He squeezes a modest smile onto his face but his body is tense. Richard smiles back, forcing himself to bare his teeth.
Richard climbs the gentle slope towards Bulawayo’s gates. Winter is spent. Spring has greened, blossomed, and gone. Summer is faltering. The sky is dark and heavy with moisture. It presses down on the land. There is a distant rumble of thunder.
By his reckoning, which he keeps in a small, tatty notebook, it is March 1817. He looks at the markings in his makeshift diary guiltily. He has done nothing to keep his promise to Emile. The girl from E-Langeni remains a mystery.
Meanwhile, Mgobozi has married his twoscore brides and established a homestead on such a scale that even Shaka is taken aback and asks how many children he intends.
Mgobozi replies, ‘A whole army of Zulus, my lord!’
That elicits a belly laugh and an affectionate clasp of the shoulders.
Today is special because Emile is visiting the capital with several companies of his regiment. They are to take part in a royal hunt to help Shaka forget a recent sorrow: his foster father Mbiya having died a week before.
Richard has taken to walking in the early morning along the riverbank at the bottom of the shallow hill. He enjoys the succession of plants as the seasons turn. The birds that fish and the insects that skim and feed are unfamiliar but he clings to the rhythm of the seasons, even if they turn the calendar on its head. March heralding autumn not spring.
Over the months, he sees familiar flowers: wild purple lilies, yellow iris, red hot pokers, pink daisies, crimson foxgloves, white crocus, and bluebells.
He also wonders at candy-striped candelabra plants, drooping clown-hat flowers with frilled mouths in magenta and white on arching stems. These plants sprout clusters of large fruit that ripen from yellow to red. Nothing like them ever disrupted Aunt Patricia’s traditional English borders. English Bill tells him the plant is good for cattle and urinary tract infections.
Today, as he approaches the gateway at the end of his walk, he hears a commotion and hurries inside.
Royal attendants run to and fro, faces ashen, wringing hands. Seeing Bonaparte standing close to the centre of the kraal with English Bill, Richard joins them.
‘What is the matter?’ he asks, annoyed that something threatens his reunion with Emile.
Bill scowls and spits into the dirt, a dark, forceful jet of stained saliva. A roll of thunder sounds, close by.
‘A thekwane flew over the town and now, look,’ he points an accusing finger towards one of the newly built huts, ‘a porcupine wandered in, followed by two crows that speak.’
Sure enough, Richard sees the coal-black birds, with their beady eyes and grey bills, sitting atop an unthatched round hut. He strains his ears but they say nothing.
‘What is this thekwane?’ demands Richard, grumpily.
‘I have received a description. It sounds like a wading bird,’ replies Bonaparte. He is exasperated. ‘It is seen as an evil omen, as is that spiny beast peering from the doorway, and those carrion over there.’
Looking closely, Richard notes the crows have longer legs than he is used to; sheathed from thigh to knee in feathered plus fours. A purple tinge tints their feathers which form a scruffy ruff. Their beaks are long and slim.
Another peal of thunder is followed by a stab of lightning. The two crows duet in harsh voices and flutter towards the cattle pen where the herd is being released to graze.
Another fork of lightning crashes to earth, lancing into the emptying cattle compound. There is a concussion like the firing of a bullet and then another. Richard hears a strangulated moan as the first fat drops of rain bounce into the dust.
Herd boys are yelling with high-pitched voices, attracting a crowd of guards and attendants. A knot of wailing humanity gathers in a circle at the open gate of the cattle pen.
Drawn towards the melee despite his better instincts, Richard finds Bill and Napoleon walking on either shoulder. Still fifteen yards away, the odour of burned hide reaches Richard’s nostrils on the playful breeze.
The rain falls more insistently now, droplets tossed hither and thither. Wiping his face, Richard pulls up short. He can smell cooking meat. Napoleon and Bill push through the human cordon and as they do, the bodies of two cows are revealed.
Everyone is chattering and pointing. Several adults roll their eyes in terror.
‘Witchcraft!’ English Bill sneers. ‘They say witchcraft is everywhere. They call for the isangoma, the chief witch-finder, to smell out evil. She is called Nobela.’ He shakes his head, his eyes darting from side to side as if searching for a place to hide.
Bonaparte looks disgusted, a child of the Enlightenment. ‘Not another of these charlatans? Have I not demonstrated the emptiness of their claims? I shall remonstrate with Shaka if he gives this nonsense credence!’
Richard draws Napoleon to one side. ‘Tread carefully, Shaka resents the witch-doctors but he fears them too… and he is right to do so. Their word is law on matters of possession, a single word from them is a death sentence. No one is safe, no one exempt!’
Richard leaves the hut, squinting into the low sun. It is a fresh, fine morning and Bulawayo buzzes with voices. Every adult male in the Zulu kingdom has been summoned.
Three days have passed since the evil omens caused consternation in the capital. Napoleon is beside the hut entrance with English Bill, scowling at the mass of humanity crammed within the palisade.
The Zulu regiments occupy the parade ground in disciplined ranks, arrayed in an arc facing Shaka. A mound has been erected to provide a good view for the king and his advisers. Older men, exempted military service, wait nervously behind the massed impi.
Five figures emerge from behind the mound. They are led by a wizened but sprightly hag, smeared in white clay, and bedecked with all manner of bones, inflated bladders, teeth, snake skins, horns, and skulls. Her skirt is fashioned from what Richard thinks is softened cowhide and she grasps a grey tail in one claw. Her four acolytes are similarly adorned.
They parade in front of Shaka, creeping across the ground on bare feet, until they form a circle. They turn slowly, hissing and whistling through their teeth, the volume and tempo rising. Their eyes roll back in their heads as they begin to spin.
Screeching, leaping, and contorting their bodies, twisting their features into grotesque masks, they reach a crescendo of howling that raises the hair on the back of Richard’s neck.
English Bill whimpers and edges towards the hut entrance in comic slow motion, desperate to avoid drawing attention to himself.
‘I thought you were beyond such superstition?’ chides Bonaparte as the terrified translator slips behind him.
‘I do not believe in witches but I know the power these devils wield! Should they point you out, death follows. See over there!’ His voice is scratchy but unusually high-pitched.
Richard and Napoleon follow his quivering finger to spy six burly men carrying heavy battle clubs.
‘Executioners!’ Bill squeaks.
Richard senses fear cloying the air as the five izangoma begin sniffing the air with exaggerated snorts.
‘There are evil ones plaguing the land.’ Bill translates the screeching of the leading diviner. Immediately, the four others repeat her words.
‘They seek to harm our chief by witchcraft but we will smell them out.’ Again, the claim is repeated by the cacophonous chorus. ‘We can smell their thoughts. We smell them in the smoke from your fires and in the earth itself, flowing beneath the waters and in the morning mist.’ Nobela’s assistants echo her.
Throughout the kraal, not a person moves as the five figures leap and twist in the air, landing to face the assembled masses.
‘The evil ones cannot hide. They are everywhere and we will find them!’
Bonaparte ducks into the hut but emerges almost immediately. He hands a long-barrelled musket to Richard and rests the butt of the rifle on his booted foot. Bill eyes the weapons nervously and licks his lips. Napoleon pulls a pistol from his waistband and hands it to the translator who snatches at it eagerly.
‘They know how I despatched their fellow but it is good to remind an enemy of your strength before a confrontation,’ Bonaparte whispers.
Richard smiles. ‘Without a deterrent, we would be a soft target for their accusations. Blame the outsiders for ill omens. In their relief, who among these people would question their word?’
‘Exactly,’ agrees Napoleon, waving nonchalantly at Nobela as her head swivels on its thin, dewlapped neck towards them.
She scuttles towards Bonaparte, her red eyes squinting. He lifts the rifle and lazily points the muzzle in her direction. She freezes instantly, lets out a fusillade of spittle-spattered sounds and spins back towards the ranks of soldiers.
Bill lets out a ragged breath but Napoleon laughs out loud.
Nobela screams an order and the whole capital rumbles with a low-pitched chant.
‘She says all must sing so she can smell their breath,’ Bill explains.
‘I tried to convince Shaka this was not necessary. He fears his people will reject him if he defies their traditions. I offered to kill every witch-doctor in his kingdom. He thought hard about that before declining. He says he must be the one to break their power. He has concocted some plan with Mgobozi and that other councillor beside him.’ Napoleon’s frustration is palpable.
‘Mdlaka,’ English Bill offers. ‘He is from the Gazini clan, not a Zulu. He joined the impi to make himself great.’
‘A soldier of fortune,’ Richard suggests.
Bill nods and manages a weak jet of spit. ‘Already, he commands the Fasimba as Shaka’s second-in-command.’
Richard watches as Nobela drops onto all fours, snuffling between one row and the next, her eyes scanning face after face, her mouth twisted in a sneer.
Rank after rank, she terrorises the troops, doubling back to stare a second time at some, who roll their eyes in fear.
An executioner follows each isangoma, waiting for the signal that a wizard has been uncovered. The crowd’s chanting rises and falls like the ebb and flow of the ocean fizzing across sand. But not a single offender is identified in the first pass.
More than an hour has passed but there is no drop in the tension among the crowd.
‘Surely that must be an end to it?’ Richard’s voice is hopeful but lacks conviction.
‘It is always on the second pass they make selections,’ Bill clarifies in a whisper, eyes firmly on the ground in front of him.
Sure enough, the five have barely started a second sweep when Nobela strikes a grey-haired veteran firmly in the face with her grey animal tail.
Those around him chant more loudly and lean away as he is dragged to one side by the massive hands of the executioner. He kicks feebly but the limpness of his body looks like an admission of guilt.
The pattern repeats every few minutes. A man is sniffed and struck, he reacts with resignation and is dragged away. Screams soon echo across Bulawayo. Richard is glad he cannot see what is being done with those fearsome clubs.
He tries to see Emile but the companies of the Ama-Wombe are on the far side of the parade ground and too many bodies intervene. Oddly relieved, Richard turns his attention to Shaka who frowns every time a witch-doctor indicates another victim. His eyes are unusually bright and his broad chest heaves as if he has just finished a race.
Nobela moves across the empty space between the people and the mound upon which Shaka sits, surrounded by his confederates. Her deputies join her in an undulating line, swaying and snorting the air. They are hunched over, necks outstretched, nostrils distended as they pass around the front of the mound. It does not seem to matter how high his status, every man recoils, sweats and holds his breath.
Seeing this intense discomfort as the izangoma continue their second sweep, Shaka stands and raises both hands.
‘These are my tried and trusted friends!’ he bellows, ‘Look not for witchcraft among them. Leave them be!’ English Bill usually imbues Shaka’s words with great flourishes but this time he barely manages a nervous whisper.
Nobela straightens her back and shakes her head so violently that two monkey skulls collide, shattering to scatter shards of bone at her feet. ‘Nay, great lord! Do not ignore the danger. Those nearest you can prove the strongest channel for a wizard, often unaware they are possessed!’
Richard eyes Shaka closely. He looks uncomfortable. ‘I hear you, mighty mother, but what if your choice is unpopular? Do our people have no say? Remember, any condemned man who touches my feet gains sanctuary. That has ever been the custom.’ Even in Bill’s translation there is an undercurrent.
‘We can endure no more interference. It is not the place of children to teach the parent!’ Nobela insists.
‘Continue then but do not anger the hive!’ These words need no translation as they fill the silence with a low growl.
Looking triumphant and menacing at the same time, Nobela eyes much-loved Mgobozi and approaches close, hovering over him as seconds build into a minute and then another.
Sweat runs down Mgobozi’s usually cheerful face and his breathing quickens. The tall, muscled Mdlaka, sitting nearby, looks just as terrified, leaning as far from Nobela’s wrinkled form as possible.
Now all five diviners are on their hands and knees sniffing hard, heads jerking from side to side, as they converge on the two trusted generals.
‘If she removes them from Shaka’s council, he is greatly weakened and she has demonstrated her authority over the tribe.’ Bonaparte sounds horrified but his fascination is obvious.
Immediately behind the witch-finders stand the executioners. Nobela begins a hiccoughing laugh that rises into an animal howl. At its crescendo, all five leap as one. Nobela’s wrist flicks out and strikes with the grey tail. Forehand and backhand, she slaps the pair. As she completes the double blow, she hurdles Mdlaka with astonishing grace.
Before he or Mgobozi can lift a hand, the next two diviners strike and jump, one over each seated man. The final three shuffle, crab-like, to complete a human screen cutting off Mgobozi and Mdlaka from Shaka atop the mound.
‘She is wily!’ See how they cannot reach their king to claim sanctuary.’ Napoleon is engrossed.
Richard winces as four of the executioners step forward to restrain the generals, one gripping each arm.
Shaka is shaking with anger while his friends look hypnotised, as the giant enforcers begin to lead them away.
Mgobozi raises his head, teeth peeping between his parted lips. His eyes are sharp again. He drives a knee hard into the groin of one escort. The man releases his prisoner, and drops to his knees, moaning in pain.
The second guard tries to grapple with the general’s free arm but Mgobozi drops his head and charges, butting the man in the midriff so hard he is driven to the ground.
Rolling to his feet, he scoops up the second executioner’s heavy club and smashes it against the head of a third executioner. He drops to the ground as if struck by lightning, losing his grip on Mdlaka.
With his freed hand, Mdlaka thrusts his open palm upwards beneath the fourth man’s chin, forcing his jaws together. As the man staggers from the blow, Mdlaka pulls free and scrabbles in the dirt for a club. As his fingers close around a wooden handle, a grin splits his face.
He grabs Mgobozi by the shoulder and manages to catch the club his friend is swinging before it strikes him. Mgobozi is lost to the blood lust now and it takes every ounce of Mdlaka’s strength to haul his friend up the mound to his king’s feet.
‘Bayete! Nkosi,’ he cries.
‘You claim sanctuary?’ English Bill conveys Shaka’s question with excitement.
‘Yes, my father,’ Mdlaka gasps, prodding Mgobozi until he nods agreement.
Mgobozi is looking around now as if waking from a dream. He looks at the club still clenched in his hand, its heavy globe flecked with blood and brain matter.
‘The woman is evil, not those she accuses. She uses her power to kill those she hates or fears.’ His voice is loud and dripping contempt. ‘She knows my nickname for her and so she wants me dead.’
Shaka looks inquisitively at his friend.
‘Hyena’s anus!’ Mgobozi explains. Bill chuckles as he continues to translate. ‘I do not fear death. Let me kill these witch-finders who abuse their power.’
