Granite

by Jenny Robson

  And yes, I do not know if he will bear the telling of Zimba Remabwe’s final days. I do not know if I will bear the hearing of it. Nor the writing of it.

  We shall still see.

  But aah, I was glad for my friend ReDombo! For the end of his fears and burdens concerning the cathedral.

  There was still the matter of his daughter to trouble him. But daughters are always a cause for headaches, especially the more spirited ones. In my country too. I remember such troubles with my sister Fatima.

  Headstrong daughters must be married off as early as possible, their dowries secured. Then they can rather cause headaches to their husbands. As with my sister Fatima.

  But throughout the city of Zimba Remabwe, there was a new spirit of lightness and joy. Perhaps brought about by those fireworks, by knowing they were ruled by a king who longed to please his subjects.

  And the prophet Tza was ignored. Along with his new rantings.

  For the prophet Tza was not appeased, even though no cathedral would be built to reach the clouds. No. Still he predicted doom and destruction.

  “Woe to this King who boasts that he can bring the stars down from the heavens. It is only Mmwahhari who can move the stars. It is only Mmwahhari who can order the heavens to his will. Woe to a King who forgets he is a mortal. Woe unto him and all his people!”

  My friend Mustapha shook his head at the words of Tza.

  He said, “That man will only smile on the day when the granite walls of this Kingdom tumble and crush all of its people!”

  Mustapha was already planning his return trip northwards. “I have promised the King I will acquire greater amounts of Chinese fireworks. I hope my supplier will manage such an order.”

  “And I will come with you, Mustapha,” I told him.

  Yes, the time had come for me to leave Zimba Remabwe, much as this Kingdom had become dear to me. I would accompany Mustapha on the long walk to Sofala. I would sail with him on his dhow along the coast of Afrika to reach Egypt. Then my plan was to see my beloved mother. And then to stay home quietly whilst I wrote my chronicle of the famed and fabulous city state of Zimba Remabwe.

  Such a chronicle had never been written before. Already words and sentences were drumming through my mind. My right hand was itching to hold a pen and sweep black Indian ink across white Indian paper.

  Yes, and then I would carry my chronicle in my own hands across the Sahra to the great scholarly town of Timbuktu. I would brave the dangers of the desert: the days of burning thirst when no oases appeared, the risk of wild nomad attacks, the desert-devils of the night! All to deliver my writings to that great city.

  Already dreams of fame were filling my head! That my chronicle would become known and admired throughout the Arab world! That my name, Shafiq bin Fatmar, would be celebrated from Damascus to Damietta, from Morocco to the Gobi sands and beyond. That I would be hailed as a successor to the great chronicler Ibn Battuta!

  ReDombo was distraught that I was leaving.

  “You have been a brother to me. You have been an uncle to my son. You have been a wise and valued member of our compound,” he said. And he promised me a fine feast of farewell.

  But what happened that night of the feast put an end to my plans.

  And Mustapha walked away from Zimba Remabwe alone, with­­out me.

  13. Inside the woven basket

  So an offer had been made for my sister Raii! Like me, she was now fifteen winters and that is a good age for a girl to be married.

  It was a fine offer, too, considering how wild my sister was. How difficult she found it to keep her tongue still! Considering how she had crossed distant territories in the company of male slaves and slept alongside them through the many nights it took to reach the sunset sea.

  The headman of the Drum-masters clan wanted her. Silvano was his name and he was a widower. He said, “My dear late wife was a spirited woman too. Yet we had many good years together. No, I would not take delight in a quiet and subdued woman. Raii will suit me well. And also she is young and strong. I have need of more sons.”

  There in our compound, Raii raged. “He is old. He is missing some teeth. And he smells bad.”

  My parents were shocked by her disrespect. “Silvano the Drum-master is of noble and celebrated bloodlines. He has been honoured by the King many times. His skills are known throughout Zimba Remabwe and beyond. Countless maidens would gratefully be joined to him.”

  “Well, let them take him then!” stormed my sister. She rushed into the daughters’ hut and wept without end. Worrying my parents deeply.

  My father said, “He is not so old, that Silvano. No, he is perhaps ten winters younger than me, and a fit and healthy man. Raii expects too much.”

  My mother said, “And he was a good husband to his wife. I remember her as a happy woman, who sang while she worked. And smiled often. Yes, he was a kind and tolerant husband like you, ReDombo. He grieved bitterly when she died in her childbirth. Raii should be pleased that we take such good care for her future.”

  I went to my sister later. I tried to calm her.

  “Raii, dearest sister, our parents want only what is best for you. They are older and far wiser. They believe this is a good match. And Silvano has offered a magnificent dowry to show how he values you. Karosses and clothes and gold ornaments and many head of cattle.”

  But she would not be comforted. “How can you understand what horror this is for me, Mokomba? You know well how different it will be when you are ready for marriage: our parents will consult with you. They will allow you to choose from amongst the noble maidens. How can you understand what it is to have no voice? And no choice?”

  And then the problem was clear to me. Disturbingly clear. Raii had set her heart on someone else. It happens sometimes. Usually when girls are older, when they have had time for silly ideas to enter their heads. And foolish longings to enter their hearts!

  “Who, Raii?” I demanded. Sternly, for I was the eldest son and the honour of our clan was at stake. “Who is the one you prefer? Who has stolen your heart?”

  After more weeping, she confessed.

  It was Kore, junior drummer apprenticed to Silvano. They became acquainted soon after she returned with the eunuch slave from her doomed travels. And this Kore had comforted her restless spirit, so she said.

  I was dismayed.

  Kore! Who was barely through his own initiation! Kore! Who was barely of noble birth at all! His family lived at the very edge of the enclosure, with little wealth and no honours.

  I said, “It will pass, Raii. When you realise what a fine life you have as the wife of Silvano. You will forget all about this Kore. You will be grateful to our parents for their wisdom. I promise you this.”

  But that very night Raii crept away from our compound and from our city. She and her junior drummer fled into the bush together and could not be found. Not by all the slaves my father and Silvano sent out in search parties through the days and nights that followed.

  ReDombo was wild with fury. “Such shame! She has brought shame and disgrace on our whole clan! How will we ever hold our heads high again?”

  I was angry too, even though I loved my sister.

  Strange! For today that is my single and only joy.

  That my sister got away, that she escaped the horror behind our granite walls. That somewhere, somewhere she is alive and safe with her junior drummer. And may our great god Mmwahhari and all our ancestors protect and keep them, and bless them with sons.

  And then came the evening of your farewell feast, Shafiq. My mother had cooked all day, all the traditional foods that you enjoyed most. Many chickens, I remember, and all of them killed in the correct manner.

  And my father had engaged a goldsmith to style you an arm-bangle of finest gold. Delicately wrought in the pattern of dressed granite stones. So that it should remind you always of your days with the Stonemason clan.

  And there you sat ready, Shafiq, at the place of honour beside our evening fire. There was
little talking. We were all sad, I suppose, at the thought of your departure.

  “We can eat now,” my mother said. “Mokomba, call your little sister. Tell her she must leave her basket behind in the hut.”

  I went to the daughters’ hut for my sister. I heard her talking within and for a moment I hoped that perhaps Raii had returned. I missed her so much, missed her strong bright spirit in our compound.

  But no!

  “Who are you speaking with?” I asked my little sister.

  She held out a woven basket. “See, Mokomba? It is a little mouse family. A mother mouse with her tiny babies. All fat and shiny black.”

  I smiled. “So you set the lizard free then? Mama will be glad for that! And where did you find your mouse family?”

  “There in your hut,” my sister answered. “Yes, they were wrapped in the kaross that you got from the King. All cuddled up together. I am trying to think of the best names for them.”

  And you were there beside me, Shafiq, listening to my sister’s words and then peering into the basket.

  Instantly you shouted in great consternation: “Rats! Black rats! And how in God’s name did they survive through that long journey? Through how many generations? Quick, little one, throw them in the fire!”

  You grabbed at the basket, Shafiq. But my little sister held tight, wailing that they were hers and sweet and must not be harmed.

  In the madness of those moments, the rats escaped into the darkness. Even the smallest ones. Whilst you shook your head in dread, Shafiq, and whispered, “How many more? Hidden in the karosses we carried back with us? May Allah preserve us in his mercy.”

  So in the end, your farewell feast did not fare well.

  You ate very little of the food my mother had prepared. And you gazed down at the gift of the gold bangle with great anxiety in your eyes.

  *

  Aah yes, such a dread-filled night that was! I sat at my dear friend’s fire, unable to eat for fear. If my grand-uncle was right, if it was rats that carried the Plague, then I shuddered for the people of Zimba Remabwe.

  I said to ReDombo when we were alone, “We must gather up all the slaves. We must set them to hunting out every last black rat that might be hiding here in the enclosure of the nobles. Just in case, ReDombo. Just in case it was my grand-uncle and not my grandfather who spoke the truth.”

  And I knew then that I would not be leaving the city. Not in its time of danger. So yes, Mustapha set off for Sofala without me.

  Mustapha visited our Sofala room this afternoon.

  He said, “Shafiq, you and your lad must be ready in two days, three at the very most, and then we must set sail. Sea conditions are good but they will not last.”

  I am grateful to my trader friend. He waited at Sofala with his dhow when he heard the bad news coming out of Zimba Remab­we. People heard it far and wide from the drums of the noble Silvano – until those drums were silenced forever. And then from the mouths of escaping slaves and fleeing labourers.

  Yes, Mustapha waited here at Sofala in the hopes that I too would escape the carnage. Which I did, along with Mokomba. And who knows why we were spared?

  “Three days at most, Shafiq,” Mustapha insisted this afternoon.

  “We will be ready,” I answered. “Yes, the chronicle is almost complete.”

  After Mustapha left, Mokomba said, “It will be tomorrow then? Tomorrow I must tell the ending of my story?”

  Almost I wanted to say to him: Let it be, Mokomba. I will write down this final chapter myself. Tonight while you sleep. Yes, and then it will be done and ended. You are too young to endure such agony a second time over. You have already suffered so much.

  But then I thought to myself: No! Perhaps if he tells it in his own words, if those words are spoken aloud, then it will help to cleanse the wounds of his spirit? And I cannot rob him of that chance.

  So I answered, “Tomorrow, yes.”

  He said, “I am afraid, Shafiq. How will I bear such words coming from my mouth? How will I manage?”

  So I answered, “Just tell the facts as they happened. Simply and in their order. Without straying left or right. Without dwelling on the horror or the details. That will be easiest.”

  “I do not think I will sleep tonight.”

  “Courage, son of ReDombo, heir of the Stonemason clan. Just hold your courage one more day,” I tried to comfort him.

  But I do not think I will sleep well tonight either.

  Alhamdulillah.

  14. Within the granite walls

  It should be Tshangani telling this part of the tale. He would have the right words to give dignity to such ugliness. To cover the putrid death scenes with a gauze cloth of honour. He could accentuate the haunting hymns of sorrow that rose above the mad screams and the stench of death.

  But Tshangani was one of the first taken. And in a single day. My dearest friend. I rushed to his compound. Rushed into the sons’ hut there.

  He lay shivering and sweating. Too hot and too cold at once. With the King’s kaross wrapped round him. But I could still see the boils that rose on his neck. I could smell again the smell of my grandmother’s last days.

  In a moment of clear thought, Tshangani said, “Mokomba, you must leave. Before this disease strikes you too.”

  But how could I leave him?

  At some point, he began to shout out Shumba’s name. But Shumba was already departed some days earlier.

  Shumba had marched off westward with his Arab sailors and his slaves. Bitter, I believe, because the King was more interested in fireworks than great expeditions.

  “We go to discover the southernmost point of Afrika,” he announced to the few people who had come to bid him farewell. “Yes. We will sail ever southward until the great lands of Afrika come to an end. No matter how far and how perilous that journey may be.”

  The few people gave a sparse cheer.

  I wonder now: did he carry the plague with him to those unknown southern lands? Are there other clans and tribes soon to suffer as we have suffered?

  “Shumba is gone,” I told Tshangani. But then he was screaming out the name of his long-dead uncle. His mother came into the hut with fresh water to cool his forehead. Her hands trembled as she pressed the cloth to his forehead.

  “Your uncle is no longer with us, my son,” she whispered through her tears.

  Outside, the priests walked in slow procession through our noble compounds. From those set closest to the King’s hill and on to those on the outer edges of our enclosure. Filling the air with their chants and with the smell of their burning herbs and grasses.

  I sat beside Tshangani through that long day. Talking on and on: about our initiation, about our long boat journey, about the finest maidens. Speaking without end like a fool.

  Even when he began to answer with strange sounds like a trapped and frightened animal.

  Even when the boils burst open to ooze foul-smelling pus.

  Even when froth and blood ran from his nose, from his mouth so that I thought my heart would stop from the horror. And his body twisted this way and that, like the trance-driven dance of a diviner.

  Even when he stared at me with blank eyes that no longer recognised who I was.

  Even when his eyes closed and would not open again. And his mother broke into ear-piercing lamentations.

  And I returned home to find my mother and my little sister laid low and fevered. Too hot and too cold at once.

  I wanted to scream: I cannot! I cannot watch my own family endure such sickness, knowing what is to come!

  I wanted to run out of our compound, out through the archway, back into the desert sands.

  My father knelt at our shrine, shouting prayers, his neck strained. “Blessed spirits of our ancestors, intercede for me! Only this one thing! Just that my wife and girl-child be spared! Take me instead. Yes, I will gladly come and join you, my forefathers. Only let my wife and daughter live.” While you stood beside him, Shafiq, with your hand on his shoulder and your n
ew arm-bangle shining in the sun.

  My father pleaded in vain. Within three days my mother and my little sister lay still and free of their suffering.

  Whilst to left and right of our compound, more voices were raised in grief and despair.

  And then the funerals began. Lines of wailing noblewomen followed silent noblemen who carried the bodies down into the valley of the noble bones. Two, three bodies at one time.

  With the sad songs sung to slow drums: “Gone from us and the time was not right. Why did you leave when we held you in our hearts? Gone from us and the sun must stop shining.”

  My father and I joined those processions, bearing my beloved mother and my young sister in our arms.

  The rumours spread amongst the common people, there beyond our granite walls. They called it the Sickness of Nobility, the Disease of the High-born. And they used large rocks to block up the archway of our enclosure. Common men from the common clans patrolled our walls, armed with spears and they would allow no nobles to pass through the common lands.

  Such a strange thing it was for me! Almost as frightening as the disease! To see lowborn people turning against the nobles of their city! Such a thing has never happened before!

  Always the commoners looked to us nobles as a child looks to its father: to guide and advise, and yes, to punish when laws were broken. They saw us as their leaders, just as we saw the King was our leader, just as the great Mmwahhari was leader to the King. Everyone in his rightful place. Just as grass must grow down on the ground and stars must shine high in the heavens.

  But no longer. Now the common people seemed to take pleasure in our misfortune. In our fall. Their respect disappeared like mist in the late morning.

  “You keep your pus-filled sores within your own community! Yes, hold them tightly as you have always held tightly to the best grazing land and the finest thatching reeds.” Thus they shouted over our walls.

  So after a time, noble bodies were buried right in our compounds – if indeed any of the clan survived to dig.