by Jenny Robson
Granite
Jenny Robson
Tafelberg
For DK,
who dared to reach for his dream.
For S and T,
who fought for theirs with such courage.
For Matthew Valentine:
welcome, precious little one.
Until lions learn to write,
it is the hunters who will tell their story.
– Zimbabwean proverb
Foreword
It is one of the world’s enduring mysteries: who built the granite walls of Great Zimbabwe? Walls that still stand tall today, without cement or mortar to hold them together.
Was it the Ancient Phoenicians, come this far south in their fine sailing ships? Was it the stonemasons of the Queen of Sheba, fabled friend to King Solomon of Israel?
Were the walls perhaps constructed as a market citadel by adventurous Arab traders? Were they built by Venda and Lemba clans, stopped awhile on their slow migration south? Or perhaps by the early BaKaranga, ancestors of the people who inhabit this area today?
No one can say with utter certainty.
But one thing is sure: for several hundred years a great city state existed there. Its citizens prospered within a peaceful, well-ordered society. They traded in gold, in forged iron, in ivory and salt. They imported luxury items from far-off lands: cotton goods and glass beads from Arabia and India, fine Chinese porcelain and silks. And they had the skill and the motivation to build those astounding walls.
Then the city state collapsed.
Sometime in the mid-fifteenth century, around 1445 AD, the citadel was abandoned. The towering granite walls were left to the mercy of wind and rain and creeping bush. Why? What could have happened to bring this civilisation to its sudden end?
That too is one of the world’s enduring mysteries.
Shafiq’s map of Africa (sketched circa 1440 AD)
1. Sofala
Yes, and so my name is Mokomba. I am fifteen winters in age. I am the firstborn of ReDombo, who is head of the noble Stonemason clan. And I am from the great city called Zimba Remabwe.
But there is no longer a great city called Zimba Remabwe. Now there are only empty huts and silent walls left behind – the walls built by my father and my grandfather and my ancestors of many generations.
So I am here in Sofala now. Shafiq the Arab brought me to this strange town on the coast. It is filled with Arab traders and their Arab boats that line the shore of the sunrise sea. A quiet sea.
Shafiq the Arab said to me, “Mokomba, you must tell this story of Zimba Remabwe. If you speak, then I will write down your words. Here on this paper from India. And then people will know what happened for all time.”
And yes, it will be good if our sad tale is told and remembered.
But this writing is a strange and complex craft.
I watch as Shafiq makes his small black marks on his white paper while I speak. So strange that later people will look at those marks and know what I said here today! Even if I am not close to them and my voice cannot be heard. So Shafiq says.
But it is not I who should tell this story.
No. I have no gift for speaking. I am happier to be the one listening. It should be my friend Tshangani. Tshangani is the firstborn of Chivhu who is head of the noble Storykeeper clan. They lived in the compound beside ours, there in the enclosure of the nobles at Zimba Remabwe.
Tshangani had so golden a tongue. His words could fling you upward to the heavens, then catch you again as you fell. His words could make pictures that moved and danced right before your eyes.
He practised his craft on me many times. And I was always eager to hear.
He said, “Mokomba, let me tell you of our great prophet
Funii from the earliest mists of time. Yes, he was the true founder of our city.”
Or, “Mokomba, listen to my tale of mad King Mudadi and his mad actions.”
And he told me, too. Even though this story was forbidden by our King. For Mudadi was one of our King’s direct forefathers.
I say now to Shafiq the Arab, here in Sofala, “I don’t have the right words. I can’t make the story sing through the good times or tremble through the times of disaster. Not like my friend Tshangani.”
But Shafiq says, “If not you, then who?”
And this is the truth. If not me, then who? Who else is left? So I will try. I will do as best I can.
But where, how, shall I start? Perhaps with the day that became the beginning of the end? That day we first heard the King’s command? Shafiq agrees this is a good moment to choose.
Yes, that day! With not a dark cloud gathered in the sky to warn us.
Tshangani and I were seated on a granite rock above the commoners’ well. It was our favourite early-morning post, just outside the granite walls of the enclosure of the nobles. Outside, where life was busy and full and always noisy. Whereas within the walls of the nobles, quietness and dignity were upheld. Our tradition and lore demands this: that we speak always quietly and move with calmness.
Behind Tshangani and me, the royal herds were being coaxed to new pastures. The herd boys whistled and pleaded and waved their hands because no cow of the royal herd must be touched or beaten. Below us a line of young and pretty maidens moved, their shapes showing as they balanced water-gourds on their heads. They saw us and giggled, covering their mouths with their hands. But we could still see their flashing eyes.
“And which would you pick?” asked Tshangani. “I mean, if we were already initiated. I mean, if we were allowed to marry commoners outside the noble clans.”
But I didn’t make a choice, even when Tshangani urged me further. We of the noble clans may not mix in marriage with those outside of the nobles’ enclosure. It is not only our granite walls that separate us. It is also generations of custom and tradition. And the will of our ancestors.
So I told Tshangani to let me be. He laughed and shook his head at me. He often shook his head at me.
Along the lower path we could see a hunter leading his band of slaves laden with ivory. Two to a single tusk. Across the valley, a group of Arab traders in their long robes haggled with a group of gold miners, each group shaking their heads in turn as is always the case.
There was already the steady hammering from the iron forge beside its smoking anthill. And, more softly, from behind the walls of the Queen’s enclosure, came the gentle drumming and sweet sounds of the Queen’s early-morning choir.
And above us all and always towered the hill-fortress of our King. The Nameless One. Ever present in sight and in mind.
Tshangani said, “It will be any day now, our initiation call. Surely? The harvest is well over.”
I was wishing he had not mentioned it.
Unlike Tshangani, I was not eager for this ritual to begin. I am a coward. I always have been. Thoughts of our initiation hung like darkness over the edge of my dreams. They spread terror along the outer edges of my daylight hours. How many times had we watched groups of initiates disappear into the bush, marched away by terrifying old men with whips and toothless smiles? Young boys just a little older than we were.
Then, three round moons later, sometimes more, these boys returned. Changed forever. The look in their eyes, the carrying of their shoulders so different. Well, some of them. Those still alive and capable of walking.
“It must be soon,” said Tshangani. “We have already lived through fourteen winters.”
Silently I prayed to my ancestors and even to our god Mmwahhari. “Please not today. Just not today.”
Yet that was the very day the command came.
Not an initiation call though. No. It was a call of a very different nature. And even more frightening to me.
But as I have said, I am a coward.
*
And I – I am Shafiq bin Fatmar, who will write down this chronicle.
I was born in a small town west of Cairo in Egypt, on the edges of the great desert we call Sahra. But it was always my wish to travel far and wide, from my earliest years.
Yes, to travel like my grandfather, who headed east to the strange lands of India and China beyond. To travel like my great-uncle, who headed westward to explore the exotic lands of the Crusaders, those strange and savage white-bodied peoples.
They returned, both men, with such stories! Such stories that were the sounds of my childhood!
“Come, young Shafiq, let me describe for you the court of the great Emperor of China. Such a place of luxury and magnificent gifts! Yes, my grandson. And with so many wives and all of themwith feet so tiny it is a wonder they can stand upright …”
“Come, Shafiq, my young grand-nephew, while your mother is out at the market. Come let me tell you of the strange customs of the Crusaders: the Franks, the Germanics, the Englishers. How they torture their prisoners. Aah, it is a tale to turn your blood cold …”
But I wanted to find my own stories. I wanted to explore new places of my own. So as soon as I became a man, I headed southwards. Sailing with Arab traders along the coast of Afrika, down to the Land of the Jenz, the people of the dark-brown bodies.
I was drawn to the fabled kingdom of Zimba Remabwe, from where so much gold came. And to the fabled walls of that kingdom, walls that could stand – to the height of six men – without cement between their stones. Without mortar to bind them fast and steady, and keep them from toppling. So I had heard.
“For a short time,” I told myself as I journeyed there. “Just long enough to gather stories.”
But in the end I have stayed these past seven years. Seven! And they have been years of great marvel for me. I could not tear myself from Zimba Remabwe’s many charms.
But now, as Mokomba tells us, “The walls stand silent and the huts are empty.”
I have brought Mokomba with me to the port town of Sofala. How could I leave him behind in those silent walls? His late father, ReDombo, was ever my good friend, giving me shelter in his compound. He had his slaves build a hut for my use alone.
ReDombo said, “Shafiq the Arab, it is our custom to welcome foreigners. Who knows what wonders we may learn from them?” He made a space for me at his family’s fire and ordered his wife to serve me from the family’s cooking pot. And this was before ever the King took notice of me, beforeever I was summoned up to the hill-fortress and asked for advice and information.
Poor lad! Poor fatherless and homeless lad!
Mokomba sleeps now in this small Sofala room I have rented.He murmurs constantly. He thrashes his arms about and whoknows what nightmares crowd his dreams?
My blessed mother said, “Speak your heart to ease your heart.” That is why I have asked Mokomba to dictate his story. Perhaps it will help to ease his heart? Perhaps it will give him some measure of peace?
And too, there is the matter of how I always planned to pen a chronicle, like my great-uncle before me. A chronicle that would take its place in the great libraries back home.
And also, for a third reason, there is the matter of the reams of paper here. Paper from India, good and thin and easier to write upon. Along with the pens and inks that I ordered from my friend, the trader Mustapha.
Yes, at the King’s request. Well, his command. The King of Zimba Remabwe does not request, he commands. And his commands must be obeyed with speed.
The King spoke from his high rock-throne, there in the council area of his hill-fortress. Hidden from our view as he always was. Though his voice echoed and slid down the rock face. “Yes, Shafiq, this is a fine idea. You will teach the sons of my noblemen this craft of writing. Yes, this is a project that pleases me.”
I was glad to obey such a command. With haste, I rushed to my fellow-Arab Mustapha, who was in the city at the time. I ordered the goods needed for my task. That was two years back.
But the papers have only just now arrived in Sofala. Time is always an enemy in these parts. Mustapha brought them to our rented room.
“The order is fully paid for, Shafiq,” he said. He is an honesttrader. “But I understand there is no longer a city where they can be delivered. No bearers dare to head that way.”
And then I remembered my blessed mother’s words. So I took the papers from Mustapha and piled them in the corner of our room. Then I said to Mokomba, “Speak and I will write your words. And the story of your marvellous city will not be lost to the world.”
It is difficult for me, this task.
As he dictates, I must translate his words into my own Arabic language, and then write down the translation. Difficult and tiring. But in my seven years, I learned well the language of the Kingdom.
I was always quick with new tongues. From my grandfather, I learned Chinese words and Indian phrases. From my grand-uncle, I learned sentences from the many Crusader dialects: Neapolitan and Frankish, Germanic and Englisher. So many, many dialects do the white-bodied people of the west speak.
Still, I must stop writing now. This chronicle is to be Mokomba’s story. Not mine. And tomorrow he will dictate the message of the King’s command, I think. The command that set in motion so much tragedy.
Insha’Allah.
2. Beneath the hill-fortress of Zimba Remabwe
Yes, and so it was that very morning while we sat above the well of the commoners. Tshangani and I. All the pretty common girls had left now, back to their huts and compounds that spread far across the valleys. To perform their daily duties.
Tshangani was practising his Storykeeper craft.
“There is so much to remember, Mokomba,” he said. “Most especially with the forbidden stories that cannot be recited at feasts and festivals.”
“So tell me again about mad King Mudadi.” I whispered even though it was only the two of us there.
Tshangani whispered back the whole story. From a time four kings back. His words drew pictures before my eyes, so clear they were. How King Mudadi was frightened of dirt. How his servants must carry water up the steep steps of the hill-fortress. All the way up to his private chambers so that he might wash. Seven times daily!
I looked up towards the hill of the King, so high and still hidden by morning mists. With a hundred hundred steps that twisted and turned unevenly. Poor servants, I thought.
And then there was the episode of Mudadi and the moon.
King Mudadi decreed to his councillors, “The moon is so pure and so clean and without dirt. I want the moon collected and brought down here for my throne. Yes, I will only sit on the moon. No other cushion. Then I will be safe from dirt.”
And of course his councillors had no way to collect the moon. They begged and pleaded for royal reason. They asked the priests to petition on their behalf. But the King was without reason. So the councillors were punished for their disobedience, all of them. Flung down from the highest wall atop the hill-fortress, the wall of death. Flung down to lie broken and dying in the valley below.
“I am glad we don’t live in such bloody times,” I said.
And this is true. Or this was true. It was seldom that our King executed men. Maybe only seven times in my fifteen winters did I witness such a thing, and then only for fair reasons, when the King was betrayed or his orders were disobeyed. Or when treason was proven.
Shafiq says to me now, “I think you must continue with your own story while it is still light.”
So yes, there from the archway of the enclosure of nobles, my father ReDombo appeared. Walking towards us, with Tshangani’s father Chivhu at his side. They were both returning from the King’s early-morning council meeting, up there in the mist. And there was worry on both their faces.
I do not like it when my father seems worried. It makes me afraid.
And why should he be worried? Surely all was well?
The King was pleased with him, with our whole clan. The inner walls of the enclosu
re of the Queen were fully complete now. The most beautiful section of that whole structure. The most finely wrought masonry with stones so even and balanced. With each granite block so perfectly fitted to its neighbour that not a single strand of a princess’s hair could pass between! And so solid and steady that even the Queen’s strongest bodyguards were helpless as babes to sway it. Though they tried over several days, as was their duty.
My father and his slaves had worked with greatest care for many winters and summers. Setting the fires to the perfect heat, funnelling the water in perfect lines, for the cleaving of the granite slabs. Tapping with the sharpest chisels and the lightest hammers for back-breaking hours. I know because I stood by them, marvelling while I learned the craft of my clan.
Yes, the walls were safe and steady and immovable as a mountain from the beginning of time. There was no danger that they might topple onto the heads of the fine citizens of Zimba Remabwe. Nor onto the sacred heads of the queens and their princes and princesses.
“Who knows, Mokomba,” said my father in those final days of construction. “Who knows what building this king will demand from us next. But we will be ever ready.”
And yes, the King was well pleased. He gave a special feast of celebration with two of his royal herd slaughtered in my father’s honour. My mother received fine presents for our compound: bright-red cloths and thick karosses and a gold ankle-bangle. Even a delicate porcelain bowl brought from the land of China. She treasured the bowl especially and kept it safe in the far back section of her hut.
“There must be no touching. Only looking!” my mother warned us. “And only when you have permission!”
So then: why did my father ReDombo have such worry in his eyes, coming from the King’s meeting?
“We must make ready for a journey,” my father told me.
“A journey, ReDombo sir? But where are we headed?”
“It will be a long journey, my son. We will be gone from your mother for many round moons, I understand. We will first walk far past the outer villages of the Kingdom. And then we must cross the sunset sea. In a boat.”