Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  Once or twice Aidan had even seen strange-looking yellow men, said to be from the continent’s west coast. Called Chinese, they were colonists from an empire as formidable as India’s. The yellow men seemed to be moving east. The past had seen skirmishes between the empires, but ultimately there would be greater conflict there as well, he needed no seer or dream interpreter to guess the end of that clash. Inevitably, they would be crushed beneath Africa’s heel, as the black men’s ravening lust for land and power ground to splinters everything in its path.

  Aidan and Donough were on their way back out of town when it happened. A haughty face-veiled black woman recoiled as Aidan brushed by her. “You dog-haired bastard!” she screamed. “You touched me!”

  “I? No!” he protested, only belatedly grasping his danger and lowered his eyes. “But if by some mishap I touched the lady, I beg pardon.”

  The man accompanying her snarled. “Are you calling her a liar? Cheeky muzawwar!” He drew back his hand as if to strike.

  Without thinking, Aidan slid to position a porch’s wooden support beam between them. This potential disaster had to be defused at once. “I merely feel she is mistaken. I mean no harm.”

  A white-haired, street-sweeping bondsman sidled closer to whisper to him. “Sidi Aidan?” he said. “You don’ talk back to black folks. Jus’ ’pologize and back away, quiet-like.”

  Aidan seethed, but managed to bank the fires burning within him. He’d risked life and limb to be “free” and still had to lick his neighbor’s black ass?! Still, survival warred with ego and won. “I apologize for any offense. Please forgive.”

  Despite his humble tone, the woman was not mollified. “Well, that’s not enough!”

  Some of the other men bristled and began to gather about. A rotund, muscular constable plodded up. “Here now! Here now! What’s all this?”

  The woman drew herself to full and formidable height. “Constable Oba. This hinzr-batn tried to tear my veil,” she said.

  “And who witnessed this?”

  The men grumbled, but none of them stepped forward. “Well, now, I don’t know, hanam Nunz…,” one of them began.

  A searing look from the woman silenced him.

  “My word is enough.” Her tone left no room for question.

  Holy shyte, Aidan thought, collar growing hot and moist. Is this gruagach the banker’s wife or something? I’m focked!

  The bulky Oba wasn’t a bad sort. He had introduced himself the first time Aidan and his people had ventured into town, warning him against mischief. He was no white-lover, but the law was Oba’s life, and Aidan had seen that he held it above all else. Oba studied the scene as if trying to reconstruct what had happened. “Armala-t Nunz, I tell you what. You file a complaint, and we’ll look into it. And as for you—” He turned to Aidan and dropped his voice. “I think you’d better get back to your village, Aidan. I know where to find you if I want you.”

  Aidan’s anger gnawed at him. This wasn’t fair, dammit. It was more than anyone had the right to ask him to bear. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  Oba’s eyes narrowed. “That remains to be determined. Take your leave, boy. While you can.”

  Despite his ire, Aidan and Donough took Oba’s advice and retreated without further delay. The danger haunting Salima’s streets was painfully real, fed, he thought, not merely by hatred and a sense of frustrated entitlement, but a terror that their former slaves might attempt to seek revenge. The best defense was always an attack, keeping the freedmen off balance with continuous intimidation and accusation.

  His massive friend kicked at the dirt as they walked beside their horse-drawn cart. “Swear I can’t ’andle this no more. Some ways, it was better bein’ a slave. At least then we knew where we was. Now, they say we’re free, but still treat us like shyte. Where’s the justice in that?”

  Aidan sneered. “Don’t look for justice in life, just leverage.”

  “What?”

  “All we’re lookin’ for is a little piece of land, and a little peace.”

  “When I was chained,” the giant said, “I knew proper that there wasn’t nothing I could do. Now my hands are free, and they’re itchin’ to wrap those skinny black necks.”

  Aidan lost himself for a moment in pleasantly lethal speculation. “Why didn’t you when you were a slave?”

  For a long moment Donough was silent. Then: “Don’t know. But during the mosque … all that fightin’. I guess maybe I really learned what killin’ was about. Watched the shadows die, and what do you know? They cried and screamed and shyte themselves like any other men. Found out that killin’ wasn’t so hard, if you don’t mind the nightmares.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Something dark and glittering surfaced in Donough’s eyes. “Fact is, kind of like ’em,” he said softly.

  To that Aidan had no response. Donough didn’t seem to notice the uncomfortable moment and went right back to his discourse. “An’ one other thing.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Not bein’ afraid of dyin’. And once that don’t twist yer tail, you don’t let nobody push ye, nobody hurt ye.”

  Aidan smiled. Well done, old friend. “One day, they might discover it was a mistake to teach us to fight. They tried to hold back, but we could figure out what they didn’t give us.”

  Donough hammered his fist against a tree trunk. Bark chipped. “Why don’t we fight now? Ain’t so many of ’em here.”

  “No. There aren’t. But they have all the armies of the east at their command. If we fought against them we’d just attract soldiers, and more soldiers, and more, until we were crushed and dead—or slaves again. Do you want that?”

  Donough hung his head, so angry he could hardly dare trust himself to speak. “Don’t know how long I can hold onto it.”

  “The day will come,” Aidan swore. “I’m sick of it meself. Fugitive slave gangs. Feh! Any ’belly can be grabbed, clapped in chains, and returned to masters who never owned ’im in the first place.”

  It was true. Whites could be pressed into service on labor gangs, patching roads or picking seasonal crops. Wakils earned more money for declaring a white a slave than for setting him free. Whites were not allowed to testify in their own defense, or against a black man.

  Azanian Zulus sometimes traded in Salima as well, and they were even bigger arseholes than the Muslims. They strutted about as if every black heart pumped royal blood.

  The day will come. The day will come. Aidan had to believe that. There simply had to be a way out of this trap. He could control his rage as long as he believed that there would be an ending, if not a reckoning. That his son Mahon might enjoy the same freedom and hope that he, Aidan, had taken for granted as a lad.

  The day he ceased to believe that was the day he might go berserk.

  He had to believe.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  24 Ramadan A.H. 1294

  (Tuesday, October 2, 1877)

  After days of debate and discussion, New Alexandrian admiral bin Jeffar himself took the Round’s central podium to answer questions from the assembled. His short white hair contrasted sharply with his unlined face. In the Egyptian custom, he wore a false white beard attached with a chin strap. He seemed at the same moment both old and young, both terribly wise and dangerous and somehow beseeching. It was easy for Kai to believe that this man hated the prospect of war, and was hoping for any honorable means of averting that possibility.

  “It is said,” began a Yoruban senator from Wichita, “that even now, communications speed between our capital and Egypt, with the intent of bringing Bilalistan into the coming war.”

  “An unfounded rumor!” bin Jeffar protested.

  “And would you tell us if it were true, sir?” probed the senator, his twin manhood scars making his face as angular and confrontational as any fighting bird’s.

  Bin Jeffar gave a rueful sigh. “Any direct answer to that question leaves me vulnerable. Instead, I say that my record speaks for itse
lf. Every man in this room knows my word is my bond.”

  “Making you,” said the senator, “the Caliph’s perfect agent.”

  “Please, please,” said Kaleb, the representative from a non-Zulu section of southeastern Azania. “The Senator is correct—his record is impeccable. He would not have been invited here otherwise. There is another answer.”

  “And that is?” asked the first.

  “That bin Jeffar does not know all that his masters plan.” On the surface, Kaleb Al-Makur seemed the very voice of reason, but Kai did not miss the insulting use of the term masters. “After all, the Caliph might well feel that bin Jeffar’s interests are not his own.”

  This comment drew an answering murmur of agreement from the assembled.

  “Clever.” Bin Jeffar stroked his faux beard. “Inviting me to salvage my reputation at the cost of my usefulness as a negotiator.”

  Kaleb then attempted a more soothing approach. “Is it not true that the Caliph would lose power if Bilalistan severed ties? Between the two of you, who welcomes independence the more?”

  “And what form of independence?” cried another. “I have heard talk of abolishing the aristocracy.”

  “And replacing it with what? Democracy? Bah!” Kaleb sneered. “The peasants are a lazy, uneducated rabble. My ancestors did not establish this land to hand it over to the commoners! The Greeks tried that nonsense, and look what happened to them! The only decent civilization Europe ever spawned, dead and done!”

  Bin Jeffar attempted to be conciliatory. “Now, now—whatever the future brings for our good land, Senator, I assure you that your ancestors’ contributions will never be forgotten. But at the same time, this ‘common man’ that you speak of does most of the working and fighting and dying in Bilalistan. If his voice is not heard, you may believe he will find another way to express his will.”

  A low angry rumble answered bin Jeffar’s suggestion.

  The Caliphate had similarities to the office of Wakil: both were initially appointed; both could be inherited by descendants, assuming appropriate service had been rendered. The Caliph would certainly use any and all means to hold onto his position, not merely for his own sake, but for the sake of generations to come. He would certainly lose power if Bilalistan severed its ties to Egypt. Such a precariously placed politician might very well fear the wave of democratic thought. Kai thought it odd that the Yoruban Senator did not raise his voice in defense of the concept: his people had profitably experimented with democratic principles for a thousand years.

  “And the young Djiboutan Wakil?” asked the first senator. Heads turned toward Kai, who sat in the Round’s first row with fellow landowner Fodjour Berhar. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Yorubans were waiting to see how much support Kai could rally before committing themselves.

  “I say that honorable peace is preferable to war,” said Kai, choosing each word with care. “But that peace should not merely reference a possible war in mother Africa. It must relate also to our Alexandrian brothers.”

  Kaleb was swift to the attack. “Woman’s talk,” he said. “The Egyptians must learn that the south fears neither lead nor steel. They have no taste for honorable war, and would fold their tents within a fortnight. But this would require courage that some of our honored representatives seem to lack.”

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, the theme of cowardice had arisen. Abu Ali would wish his son to be cautious indeed.

  Kai regarded him carefully. “I cannot control how the honorable gentleman interprets my words. I have bled for our country and our faith, and would again if summoned. Nonetheless, I would labor at almost any price to save my fellows from the lessons I learned in that process.”

  “Yes,” said Kaleb scornfully. “You learned how to obliterate mosques!”

  That withering witticism triggered another rumble among the nobles.

  “Kai,” rasped Fodjour. Already, he had clasped his hand to his sword. “You cannot allow such a statement to go unchallenged.”

  “Even if offensive,” Kai whispered, “it is truth. This is no time for pride to lead to violence.” Despite the soft words, Kai’s blood boiled, and his heart hammered in his chest.

  “Then I will.” Fodjour began to stand.

  Kai grasped his friend’s arm, holding him in place. “No. Kaleb is one of the finest swordsmen in the south.”

  Fodjour’s hand tightened upon the hilt, but he sank back into his seat. “You think I cannot match him?” Fodjour’s lips were tightly pursed.

  “It is not a matter of wins and losses,” Kai whispered. “We need both your swords.”

  Kai bowed to the assembled and raised his voice. “I apologize if my presence offends,” he said. “Perhaps it is time I retire for the evening.” Kai and Fodjour left the Round, amid murmurings and protests both from those who had sought to hear his counsel, and those who wished blood on Kaleb’s sword.

  Barely had they exited into the hall when Fodjour exploded with anger. “I can understand why you, as Wakil, might hesitate to bloody your blade in duel. But to deny your friend the chance to strike blows in defense of your honor—this I do not comprehend.”

  “Fodjour—”

  “Unless,” he said, more slowly now, “in truth, I am not the one you love most dearly.”

  An uncomfortable pause followed that remark, as Kai searched for some palliative word. “Kaleb wants war, knowing that in such a cauldron rapid advancement is possible, and fortunes shift mightily. His father Uthman Al-Makur imports iron from Vineland—and would grow fat on the blood of soldiers.”

  Fodjour didn’t seem to hear him. “Tell me, Kai,” he said. “Would you have let Aidan strike in your defense?”

  And there it was, the wound that had bled life from their friendship for a decade. Kai did not, could not, meet his eye. “No. Your arm might match Kaleb’s. Aidan would have been slain at once.”

  Kai’s answer, optimistic as it had been, did nothing to dampen Fodjour’s ire. “But if Allah had seen fit to combine my arm and his heart, what then?”

  Why was Fodjour so upset? He should have been relieved that he was not required to match swords with Kaleb … unless of course he was relieved, and ashamed of that relief. And was hiding that shame behind a mask of anger. Kai looked at the ground, searching for words, but it was already too late.

  “You have answered me already,” Fodjour said, and stalked away.

  Kai called after him. “Fodjour!”

  His boyhood friend stood still. Then, without looking back over his shoulder, he said, “I will take in the night for a time.” He laughed bitterly. “Fear not! Even if the fog devours me, you will have lost little of value.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  25 Ramadan A.H. 1294

  (Wednesday, October 3, 1877)

  There was talk and talk in the Senate chambers, but unlike a formal session, here no vote was called, and there was nothing to transform heated speech into rash action. When most had spoken their mind, the session was dispersed. Some went to late dinners or other diversions. Others broke into small groups to continue discussions.

  In one of the local hotels, less luxurious but more private than that housing Kai and his entourage, Kaleb son of Uthman Al-Makur held council with his sword master, iTing.

  “Damn him!” the younger man snarled. “I thought certain that I could force a clash.”

  His Xhosa sword teacher laughed. “He has better sense than to test your blade, young sir. He knows your father, and knows my teaching. Whatever he was able to absorb from Malik before murdering him could be no match for you.”

  Kaleb drew, slashed the air with his blade, and returned it to his scabbard all in one flawless motion. “Tell me, iTing. Some say the Wakil was Malik’s best student. What then?”

  The big man was thoughtful. “Dar Kush’s art is great indeed, but a frontier art, no match for the Royal House. My fathers plied their craft teaching the way of steel to Caliphs and the Pharaoh’s guard, and are the finest in the worl
d.”

  “So what would have occurred?”

  “Death. As we will see tonight.”

  Kaleb seemed to shrink. He heard the intent behind the words, and even one possessed of his own lofty ambitions quailed at the thought. “You would dare?”

  “I dare. I, and my son.”

  A short, solid, very dark young man stood from his couch. His wrist flickered. A swords deadly stalk sprouted in his hand.

  “If the young Wakil will not fight for honor,” said iTing, “then he will fight for his life instead. Ndiyavuya ukudibana nawe … pardon. I do not understand how such a coward could have slain Malik.”

  “And if he will not fight when challenged directly?”

  iTing’s black eyes gleamed. “Then it is best you be seen in a public place this evening.”

  Kaleb’s own eyes widened. Hurriedly, he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. “I … believe that Radama has an excellent brothel. I feel a sudden need to bury my cares in flesh.”

  “As have I,” iTing said. “We both have pinking to perform. I daresay mine will be the more pleasurable.”

  Shivering, now fearful of what his ambitions had placed in motion, Kaleb said “Ulale kakuhle,” one of the twelve Xhosa phrases at his command, and left the room.

  How Elenya would enjoy that dress, Kai thought, peering through a clothier’s front window. How many shops were available here, and how delightful it would be to plan a shopping trip, with all of his ladies: Lamiya, Elenya, Azinza, and Aliyah, all together to enjoy the town.

  Buoyed by such happy thoughts, Kai walked the streets of Radama. Despite his years of study, his wealth, or his protestations to Babatunde, in many ways he really was a country bumpkin, one who immensely enjoyed the challenge of a new and vibrant city. He needed to clear his mind. There was much going on for which he had no instinctive understanding, and in the jungle of politics, the instinct to rend or aid, to ally and deceive, ruled all.