People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Tell me of the royal house,’ Wilson Mpande eventually asked his son, smiling a little. ‘Let me see if absence has affected your memory.’

  Dyson screwed up his forehead as he turned his mind backwards, over nearly 150 years. As a boy, his father had often quizzed him on Zulu history, explaining that it was only through knowledge and discussion that Zulus could hope to retain their pride and sense of identity. Without this, they would revert to clan rivalry and the great nation forged by Shaka would cease to exist. It surprised Dyson that his father still felt the need to test him. But he was happy enough to oblige.

  ‘We come from the Qwabe people,’ he began slowly. ‘We take our name, Zulu, from the second son of the great Malandela, our illustrious ancestor. The word Zulu means that which the white people call “heaven”. Our first king was Shaka. Before this, he was chief of the Zulu clan. It was he who ordered the stamping of the thorns.’

  Wilson Mpande nodded. The stamping of the thorns. Shaka had ordered his warriors to remove their sandals and stamp on nkunzana thorns which had been scattered over a gathering place. Shaka believed that men were impeded by footwear on the battle ground. To avoid this the soles of their feet had to become hard. It was the very beginning of the Zulu nation. In 1816, when Shaka became their chief, the Zulu clan had not been particularly large, numbering no more than a couple of thousand. Ten years later, Shaka’s kingdom spread over some 50,000 square kilometres and the population was thought to be in the vicinity of 100,000. Shaka encouraged other clans to join his. Most of the smaller ones saw the sense of strength through unity. Those who resisted were quickly defeated in battle.

  ‘Who were Shaka’s parents?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘His father was Senzangakona and his mother one they called Nandi.’

  ‘Why was their son named Shaka?’

  ‘Nandi and Senzangakona had hlobonga but,’ Dyson allowed a small grin, ‘kwehl’ itonsi.’

  His father frowned at his brevity. Pregnancy, before a man takes a woman as his wife, was still considered to be scandalous. ‘A drop descended is not a laughing matter,’ he said severely. ‘Senzangakona was a chief, Nandi the daughter of a chief. Their behaviour was unseemly.’

  ‘Sorry, Father. When Nandi discovered she was pregnant she pretended to be suffering from itshaka. That is where the great king’s name came from.’

  ‘What is itshaka?’

  ‘It is a stomach illness, Father. It is caused by a beetle.’

  Wilson nodded. His son remembered well. ‘Why was Shaka such a great king?’

  Dyson replied promptly, ‘Because he merged many small clans into one mighty Zulu nation. Before Shaka, the clans numbered in their hundreds.’

  ‘How long did he reign?’

  Again, Dyson answered without hesitation, ‘Twelve years.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Dingane, his half-brother, assassinated him.’

  ‘And what was said of Dingane?’

  ‘He had the heart of a dog and the nature of a witch.’

  Wilson Mpande broke off his questions to light a pipe. When it was burning to his satisfaction, he resumed. ‘So why did Dingane become the second king? Why not his brother Mhlangana? You will remember, it was Mhlangana who jumped over Shaka’s body, not Dingane.’

  ‘A man may not rule when his spear is red with blood,’ Dyson quoted the old taboo. ‘It was said that Dingane had not taken part in the actual stabbing.’

  ‘Ha!’ Wilson scoffed. ‘And did Mhlangana kill Shaka on his own?’

  ‘Probably not, but Dingane had him assassinated too, possibly to hide the truth.’

  ‘Who broke the rope?’

  Dyson had been waiting for this question. ‘Mpande, after whom our family was named.’

  ‘Tell me of him,’ Wilson Mpande commanded.

  ‘Mpande was Dingane’s half-brother. When the new king had all his brothers killed so that his right to the throne could not be challenged, Mpande went into hiding, eventually crossing the Tugela River to seek protection from the Boers. It was not Mpande’s intention to divide our people. He fled south to save his own life. By this time many were sick of Dingane who was constantly forcing them into battles against the Boers, battles they could not win. When Mpande went south, 17,000 people followed him, breaking the rope that had bound the clans together as a single Zulu nation.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  Dyson couldn’t understand why he was being tested like this. He knew the Zulu history backwards, so what was his father’s purpose? However, he answered the question patiently. ‘The Boers didn’t want him on their side of the Tugela but they saw him as a chance to get rid of Dingane who was friends with the British. At first they treated him with respect, even giving Mpande a grand title – Reigning Prince of the Emigrant Zulus.’ Dyson shook his head. ‘That was the only sweet plum in their basket of fruit. The Boers told Mpande they could spare him no land south of the river, at the same time warning that as soon as Dingane was defeated they would also take the land to the north. If he wanted his own kingdom he had to join the Boers in defeating Dingane and the English.’

  ‘Which he did?’

  ‘Yes. There was little choice. But the Boers had no intention of losing more men. They sat back and allowed Mpande to challenge Dingane on his own.’

  ‘Our ancestor proved to be a great warrior.’ Wilson’s face shone with pride.

  ‘As you well know, Father. Mpande’s impi defeated Dingane’s in the hills near Magudu.’

  ‘And he became our third king?’

  Dyson nodded slowly. ‘But the Boers tricked him. Claiming the spoils of war, they drove almost half of the Zulu cattle back to their lands, took our children as slaves, then tried to seize more land north of the Tugela.’

  ‘And did they succeed?’

  ‘No, Father. They were too busy arguing with the English. In the end, it was the Boers who left.’ ‘Quickly now. How long did Mpande rule?’

  ‘Thirty-two years.’

  ‘Who succeeded him?’

  ‘The slandered one, Cetshwayo.’

  ‘To be followed by?’

  ‘The satisfier of the Zulus, Dinuzulu.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then Solomon. And now Cyprian.’

  ‘And Cyprian is dying,’ Wilson stated flatly.

  Dyson bowed his head. The death of a king, especially one who had ruled for twenty years, was very bad news. ‘What are those close to him saying?’

  Wilson Mpande considered his answer for some minutes. ‘They are saying it is time to bring back the inkatha yezwe.’

  ‘Here it comes,’ Dyson thought. ‘This is where we’re heading.’ His father had referred to the sacred coil of grass that had perished in 1879, when the English set fire to Zulu military barracks in the valley where the kings were buried. The Inkatha ka Zulu movement, started in 1921 and fallen into decline by 1937, had been named after this symbol of Zulu unity.

  His father puffed on his pipe. ‘Which would you prefer?’ he asked quietly. ‘To somehow buy back our own land and live peacefully? Or to encourage disruption so that your children know nothing else? When the day comes, as it surely will, that this country achieves majority rule, how will it be possible to govern a people who know nothing but violence? Armed confrontation would spread across South Africa like a plague and all it touches will remain forever affected. Is this the future you advocate? A land of law-breakers? A land of people who know only anger? We must think beyond today. Learn from our history. Shaka proved that strength comes from standing together in unity.’

  ‘Inkatha has been tried before, Father. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now.’

  Wilson shook his head sadly. ‘Try to see, my son. Before it is too late.’

  ‘I do see, Father. I see that unless we act now, tomorrow and the next day and all the days after that will remain as they are today.’

  ‘If you are caught . . .’

  ‘I am a Zulu,’ Dyson interrupted. ‘If ne
cessary, I will die like one.’

  Wilson sighed and remained silent. Although he did not agree with his son’s beliefs, his eyes registered their silent approval of the proud words.

  Jackson Mpande watched his father and older brother deep in conversation, jealousy burning a fire deep in his gut. Since Dyson had returned the day before, his father had made it plain that he regarded Dyson as a man but Jackson was still a boy. Before his brother came back, Jackson had been treated as the elder. He resented being demoted.

  The world had turned and Jackson and his friends turned with it, catching a glimpse of the future. Their parents, however, seemed reluctant to go forward, preferring to stick with the familiarity of tradition. Even though his father had consistently tried to instil an understanding and respect for the old ways, Jackson could see that these were changing. As far as he was concerned, they couldn’t go fast enough. Traditions could not rebuild the Zulu nation.

  Jackson was fiercely Zulu. He was one of an emerging new breed who carried not the glory of past battles in his heart but rather the dream of an independent Zululand, free from the choking restraints of the whites, free to rule themselves and free to demand that they be treated as equals. He did not see himself as an idealist. To Jackson, freedom and independence were attainable. All that stood in their way was apartheid.

  It was common knowledge that many young men were leaving South Africa, heading for countries further north to undergo training in guerrilla warfare. The best, those with leadership potential, were sent on to Russia and China for specialised training. An armed struggle was coming and Jackson wanted to be a part of it.

  Excited as he was by the idea, Jackson knew he first needed an education. It was hard for him, only fourteen and filled with all the impatience of a young man. So, while accepting that he had to hang around for at least another two years, Jackson grew frustrated and difficult to handle.

  He left the compound and wandered aimlessly down the road as far as the two large rocks. He scrambled onto one and sat staring, without seeing, off towards the Indian Ocean. Here, he often came to brood on fate’s fickle finger. As far as Jackson was concerned, if things had turned out differently all those years ago, then his life, and that of his family, would now be one of luxury and eminence.

  Jackson firmly believed that it should be his family in the royal house. His father as king. And Jackson a prince.

  He knew his Zulu history as well as Dyson. His forefather, Mpande, had taken at least twenty wives and sired nearly one hundred children. Although Mpande had not named a ‘great wife’, she who would bear the next king, Nqgumbazi, his first wife, was a chief’s daughter and her firstborn son – Cetshwayo – was considered to be heir apparent. However, Cetshwayo fell from Mpande’s favour and he named another son, Mbuyazi, as the next king. Cetshwayo’s reaction had been swift. He declared war on his brother.

  The Tugela River, scene of so much fear and slaughter in the past, once again ran red with blood. Mbuyazi and five of his brothers were among the fallen. When Cetshwayo was shown Mbuyazi’s body, he jumped over it. It was a symbolic act which declared that he was now, in his eyes and those of every Zulu who witnessed the event, the rightful heir to the royal throne.

  Jackson’s lip curled. He remembered the stories of how Cetshwayo had returned in triumph, expecting his father’s acceptance. Regally dressed, his loin cover the skin of a silver jackal, his buttocks hidden by the skin of a genet, around his head a band of otter skin hung with tassels of blue monkey’s fur and, as proclamation of his royal status, a single crane feather tucked into it. He also carried a gun. When Mpande heard that his favourite son was dead he refused to see Cetshwayo.

  Seemingly unperturbed by this rebuttal, Cetshwayo was content to bide his time, knowing that his reputation as a leader was growing all the time. He was even praised in verse for his prowess on the battle field: The wild beast which looks up at its father’s sons and they bow down. As time went by, his patient acceptance of Mpande’s rejection caused a new line in his praise-poem to be written: The one who remains silent and provokes quarrels with no-one. A more impatient heir-apparent might have assisted fate to hasten the day he became king. Cetshwayo was content to wait.

  In time, Mpande’s grief subsided and he fell deeply in love with the youngest of his wives whom he affectionately called Somapa – the thighs that become the centre of attention. She bore him a son named Mthonga. It was this child who was Jackson’s direct blood link with Mpande. However, when the royal court realised that their ruler was showing signs of favouritism towards the young Mthonga, they became uneasy. Cetshwayo, without doubt, would defend his position to the death. More feuding and blood-letting was the last thing anybody wanted so they gave their blessing that Mthonga be assassinated. But the boy escaped, seeking protection from the Boers. Delighted that such a high-born Zulu had come to them, they set about grooming him to be the next king, confident that he would become their puppet.

  Cetshwayo could see what the Boers intended and made his own deal with them. He guaranteed Mthonga’s safety and offered a stretch of land in north Zululand in return for recognition of himself as heir to the royal throne.

  Jackson’s proud, young face reflected his bitterness. But for Cetshwayo, he might have been a prince, or even a king.

  Voices interrupted his thoughts and he quickly flattened himself on top of the rock. It was the young white boy from the big house and one of his twin sisters. Jackson couldn’t tell the girls apart except that one usually wore her hair long and flowing. The two went past where Jackson lay, oblivious of his presence. Jackson’s English was excellent. They were discussing the other girl, the one called Tessa, and he heard the boy say, ‘. . . and if Michael finds out half of it she’ll be sent away. Even the Standard 10 boys say she’s easy.’

  ‘Gregor,’ Jackson heard the girl protest. ‘Don’t say that about your sister.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said hotly. ‘She’s as bad as our father. I’ll bet Michael won’t put up with it. I hope she’s sent away. I hope . . .’ His voice faded as they walked away.

  Jackson lay immobile. His sympathies were very definitely with the twin called Tessa. She was obviously a rebel like himself. He was about to sit up when he spied the other sister. She was coming up the road, arms held tightly around her body. Jackson watched carefully. There was something angry in the way she walked, as if she carried a great sorrow or resentment. Or perhaps, as Jackson did, rejection. Tessa disappeared between the boulders. Jackson waited, listening carefully. When she spoke, he jumped with fright, not expecting her to appear behind him.

  ‘Why are you spying on me?’ She stood on top of the boulder, arms folded, looking down at him.

  ‘I wasn’t.’ He met her eyes defiantly. Just because she was white was no reason for him to be fearful. Besides, she didn’t look cross.

  ‘Yes you were.’ Tessa jumped down next to him, hitching her skirt over her knees and pointing back towards the cane fields. ‘I saw you from way back there.’ She stared at him, a small frown on her face. ‘You’re Jackson aren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m Tessa.’

  ‘I know who you are, Miss Tessa.’

  She smiled and bit a knuckle. ‘I said Tessa, not Miss Tessa.’

  ‘I’m supposed to call you Miss Tessa.’

  ‘I know.’ She was scrutinising his face. ‘You’re very black,’ she said candidly.

  ‘You’re very white,’ he responded quickly.

  Tessa laughed. Then scowled. ‘Oh shit!’ she said, shocking Jackson. ‘There’s that pompous arse Michael. Quick, down.’ She flung herself flat on the rock and Jackson did the same.

  They lay like that for several minutes, listening. Michael passed between the boulders and on towards the main house. When he was well out of earshot, Tessa sat up again. ‘What do you do here?’

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you work?’

  ‘I go to school.’

  Tes
sa pulled a face. ‘So do I. How come you aren’t at school today?’

  ‘I was. We get out earlier than you.’

  ‘Lucky you. I wish I didn’t have to go at all.’

  Jackson relaxed. This girl was different from other white people. She was treating him as an equal. ‘Don’t you like school?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  She was still studying his face. ‘Do you have hlobonga?’ she asked suddenly, causing him to blush.

  ‘Yes,’ he stammered.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’ Jackson was becoming acutely uncomfortable. Her eyes had narrowed. He was suddenly suspicious of her motives.

  ‘It’s a perfectly ordinary question. I asked if you like hlobonga? Do you?’

  She was wriggling as she sat. Jackson didn’t have much experience but he suddenly realised where the conversation was going. This girl really was different. ‘Yes,’ he said, watching her squirm her bottom against the hard boulder.

  ‘How do they do it?’ Tessa asked. ‘Show me.’

  Jackson threw her a sharp look but he didn’t think she was setting him up. ‘Like this.’ He shut his legs firmly together and tensed his thigh muscles.

  Tessa reached over and pushed a finger between his clamped legs, feeling the flesh quiver at her touch. ‘Is that it? You put your thing here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jackson’s voice was unsteady.

  She rubbed her finger slowly up and down. ‘It can’t be much fun for the girl.’

  He shrugged. Hlobonga was designed for a man’s pleasure, not that of a woman. Tessa’s hand lay on his leg. He was becoming aroused. She would notice. He knew he should get up and go, but he didn’t want to.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Tessa said, her voice soft and dreamy. ‘You have all the fun. The girl should like it too.’ She had a small smile on her face. Very deliberately, she brushed her hand against the front of his shorts, enjoying his obvious discomfort.