by John Wilcox
Fonthill reached into the pack at his feet. ‘A little brandy, Mzingeli?’ he enquired. ‘I think we deserve one, after all the fuss of the day. We call it a nightcap back home.’
The pain left the tracker’s face and he gave one of his rare smiles. ‘A nightcap? Ah, good word. Let us put on a nightcap then, Nkosi.’
Simon extracted the bottle and two tin cups and poured a little of the amber liquid into each. Suddenly he became aware that they were not alone.
‘If there might be a drop to spare, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, close to his right ear, ‘then I could just be persuaded, see.’
Fonthill sighed, took out another cup, and poured a dram. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I refuse to drink with a man who is in his underpants. For goodness’ sake, Jenkins, go and put your trousers on.’
Jenkins slipped away and Simon turned back to Mzingeli. ‘Have the Matabele been at war lately?’
‘In some ways they always at war, because they kill anyone who argues or stand up with them. But they careful with white men, because Lobengula hears about power of white men in south. He know they beat Zulus.’ The tracker took a sip from his cup, grimaced and wiped his lips with his hand. ‘This is problem for him. He has about twenty thousand warriors, maybe more, who have not washed their spears for long time - some of them never. They want . . . what you call it . . . honour from war and also things they take from it.’
‘Plunder.’
‘Yes. King must hold them back all the time. Like holding lid on boiling cooking pot.’
A trousered Jenkins had now rejoined them. ‘Will they attack the Dutchmen in the Transvaal, then, Jelly?’ he enquired.
‘They would like to. If Matabele have guns, perhaps. But they have only a few. And Boers have many.’
Fonthill took a sip of brandy, coughed a little and asked, ‘What about the king?’
Mzingeli’s smile reappeared. ‘He has sixty-three wives. Likes beer, brandy and champagne . . .’
‘Champagne?’
‘Yes. Traders bring it in for him. He drinks much. He just want to be left to his wives, his cattle and his white man’s drink. He don’t want war. Although . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He like to kill. Bulawayo mean Place of Man Who Was Killed. My father tell me - he the one that tell me all this - my father say that Lobengula six months ago or so send impi, war party, to punish two villages where men defy him. They kill all the men, and the children and girls taken as slaves. Then the wives and older women made to carry all good things . . . what you say, plunder . . . back to king’s kraal. Then they pushed into circle with spears and women all killed by two young warriors, who so wash their spears.’
‘Miserable bastards,’ murmured Jenkins.
Fonthill frowned. Then he drained his cup and stood. ‘It seems we shall have to handle King Lobengula with care. Bed now, I think. Good night.’
Mzingeli put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Nkosi, it was very good shooting today. Very fine. No one afraid. And you did clever talking with Matabele. Very good.’
‘Well, thank you, Mzingeli. I am just sorry that I was stupid the first time. Thank you.’
The little party made equally good time the next day, and after midday they began to climb, so much so that the three British began to gasp a little, reminding Fonthill that this country was some four thousand feet above sea level. They emerged on to a plateau, in good open country, well watered, with a smudge of high hills on the horizon to the north-east. The pace eased a little now and the party settled into a rhythm that lasted for another two and a half days. By the time Bulawayo came in sight, Simon estimated that they had travelled some eighty miles or so from the border.
Lobengula’s capital was not as big as Fonthill had expected; not as large, for instance, as he remembered Ulundi, the capital of Zululand, but big enough, perhaps half a mile in diameter. The kraal was enclosed by a great thorn fence that undulated up and down the plateau and within which hundreds of wickerwork beehive huts had been erected for Lobengula’s subjects. Grazing cattle - long-horned oxen, many of them distinctively black in colour, domestic cows and steers of a provenance unknown to Fonthill - were dotted on the plateau, almost as far as the eye could see. Smoke from many cooking fires arose and a distinctive smell came drifting across to them: a mixture of cooking fat, cattle manure and human excrement.
Fonthill wrinkled his nose and exchanged glances with Alice. A thought struck him. ‘Do you think these fellows will say that they killed the lions themselves and will get the credit for bringing them back to the king?’ he asked Mzingeli.
The tall man nodded his head slowly. ‘It could be. They like that.’
‘Right. Please tell them that we would like to take our skins to the king straight away.’
The inDuna nodded his head curtly in response. Soon they were surrounded by dozens of dogs that yapped all around them and snapped at their heels, together with troops of naked children, who looked at the white people with wide-eyed curiosity and teeth that flashed in the sun. The children were joined by two tall Matabele carrying assegais, who, on being addressed by the inDuna, turned and immediately ran back to the kraal as fast as their long legs could carry them.
‘They go to warn the king that we are coming,’ confided Mzingeli. ‘They also go to prepare the praise-singers.’
‘The what?’
‘When king meet new people, they have to wait outside his house while they are told, in song, of how wonderful king is. It is custom. It can take half an hour.’
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ wailed Jenkins. ‘I could do with a drink, see, not the chapel choir.’
They entered through a gap in the thorn hedge, where a huge pile of oxen horns had been stacked to one side. ‘This to show everyone how rich king is,’ whispered Mzingeli. ‘All cattle are owned by him. He has about three hundred and likes to count them into cattle kraal every night and see them out to graze every morning.’
Flies were now hovering around them, feasting on the perspiration that dripped down their cheeks and the backs of their shirts. The flies intensified as they neared the king’s cattle compound, now empty, and set beside a smaller enclosure within which grazed goats and some horses. Both were adjacent to the king’s kraal, a separately ringed fence of thorns enclosing huts for his wives and important members of his household. The king’s own dwelling stood out by its singularity in this uncivilised setting. It was a not unpleasant-looking low thatched house, one storey high, with a veranda running the length of its front, European style.
Mzingeli caught Simon’s eye. ‘Built for him by European trader. Man called Grant. He dead now.’
To one side of the main house and near the goats’ kraal stood a round hut built of sun-hardened mud and topped with a conical thatch. It shared with the goats the intermittent shade bestowed by a tall indaba tree, whose roots twisted and curled above ground like giant pythons frozen in time. Before the hut the ground had been beaten flat by thousands of feet, so that it seemed to glisten in the sun.
‘That where king has court,’ explained Mzingeli. ‘Gives wisdom.’
They were halted by the inDuna and the skins were lowered to the ground. Immediately two Matabele appeared, caparisoned in monkey skins and ostrich feathers, their faces and bodies streaked with red ochre and carrying what appeared to be fly whisks. They immediately began to chant, swaying in unison and beating time with their whisks. At once a crowd began to gather and started to repeat the words of the singers in a hypnotic ululation, stamping their feet to the rhythm.
‘The praise-singers,’ confided Mzingeli.
‘What are they saying?’ asked Alice.
The tracker listened for a moment, his head on one side. ‘Silly words,’ he said. ‘They say that Lobengula is King of Kings, Lord of White Men, Slayer of Men, Devourer of Whole Earth and so on . . . silly words.’ His lip curled in contempt. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he gestured to Simon, Alice and Jenkins to come close and, rai
sing his voice to be heard above the chanting, said, ‘I forget. When you meet the king you must not address him standing. You must sit. He must always be above you. The Matabele always move before him in bent position, with hands resting on knees.’
‘To hell with that,’ said Fonthill. ‘We would not do that for our Queen, so I don’t see why we should do it for some other monarch. I suggest we just bow our heads when he approaches.’
The chanting continued for at least half an hour, while the British three stood in the hot sun, shifting their weight from one foot to the other and wiping away the perspiration that dripped down from under their hats and beneath their shirts. Eventually the singing stopped and was replaced by a roar of acclamation as a tall figure emerged from the door of the house and slowly crossed the veranda threshold. Immediately, all the Matabele sat. It was the cue for the visitors to bow their heads, although Mzingeli and his boys squatted also.
From under his eyelashes, Fonthill observed the king closely. He was about six feet tall and of massive proportions. At first glance he seemed to be almost completely naked, his skin very black. Then it could be seen that his huge stomach hung down above a narrow strip of hide that encircled what once had been his waist and from which a profusion of monkey tails dangled. His posture was erect and magisterial and his features were regular and quite handsome, with the flat nose and thick lips of the Zulu, and the Zulu elder’s narrow band of fibre oiled and bound into his tightly curled hair. His eyes seemed cold until they fell upon the lion skins; then they lit up and he smiled, gesturing towards the trio with the long assegai he carried and speaking in a low, guttural voice.
Fonthill leaned down to Mzingeli. ‘Can you translate for us?’
‘He is asking the inDuna where they come from. And,’ he waited a moment, ‘man is telling truth.’
The king frowned for a moment, then his face split into a smile and he nodded cordially to the trio. He beckoned behind him, and a large wooden chair was brought and set under the broken shade of the indaba tree, and then a collection of goat skins were scattered before him. Lobengula lowered himself into the chair and beckoned with his assegai for the three to sit before him on the skins. Simon grabbed Mzingeli by the shirtsleeve and dragged him down beside him.
The king was speaking. ‘He say that you very welcome to his home and he thank you for gifts,’ interpreted Mzingeli. ‘He say that lion is not hunted here for sport because animal can contain spirit of past Matabele chiefs and bad to kill him. But if lion is attacking cattle then he must be a bad chief. King thanks you for protecting cattle of his people.’
‘Well that’s very nice of ’im, I’m sure,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘P’raps ’e’s goin’ to offer us a drop of somethin’ to drink now, d’you think?’
As if the king had heard, he turned his head and shouted an order over his shoulder towards the interior of his house. Immediately - someone must have prepared them already - gourds of beer were brought out and presented to the three Britains. Fonthill took a grateful gulp. It was similar to the Kaffir beer he had drunk in the Transvaal: made from corn, the grain from which had been left to vegetate, dried in the sun, pounded into meal and gently boiled. Cool now, and with a slightly acidic taste, it was delicious. Noticing that nothing had been brought for Mzingeli and his boys, he handed his half-full gourd to the tracker. Alice did the same with hers to Sando and, with rather less grace, Jenkins followed suit with Ntini.
‘Tell the king,’ said Fonthill, ‘that we are grateful for his welcome. We are sorry not to have sent ahead to ask for permission to cross into his land, but we were diverted by the people of the village near the Limpopo.’
The king waved his assegai in airy acknowledgement of the apology and spoke again. ‘Why did you not come here on horse or wagons, as all white people do?’
‘Because,’ replied Simon, ‘we left our horses and wagon at the village and set out to kill the lions on foot. We expected to return to the village but we were brought to you immediately.’
On translation, a frown immediately descended on the royal features, and then they twisted into an expression of fury. Within seconds the benevolent, welcoming monarch had changed into a despotic tyrant, hurling abuse at the inDuna, who bowed his head and knelt in submission, his forehead touching the ground.
‘He say that the man has caused king to lose honour with white visitors by bringing you here without horses, wagon and clothes,’ translated Mzingeli quietly. ‘I think they take him away to kill him now.’
‘Oh no. Tell him that we were so anxious to meet the king, about whom we had heard so much, that we were happy to leave our things behind. The inDuna must not be blamed.’
Hearing this, Lobengula’s face lightened and he waved his assegai to the inDuna in what appeared to a gesture of forgiveness. The man sat up slowly and shot a quick glance of thanks at Fonthill. But the king was speaking again.
‘He want to know if you have met Queen Victoria.’
Simon smiled. ‘Tell him yes. I met her at her palace in Windsor. So too did Mr Jenkins here.’ Fonthill was not lying. Both he and Jenkins had attended investiture ceremonies at Windsor Castle when they had received the order of Companion of the Bath and the Distinguished Conduct Medal, respectively, for their services on General Wolseley’s abortive expedition to relieve General Gordon at Khartoum. The king gave an expansive smile.
‘He say he has written to Queen Victoria and she has written to him.’
‘Ah. How . . . er . . . very interesting.’
Lobengula now broke off to give a string of orders to his attendants and then turned back to his visitors.
‘King say that he will send people to my father’s village to bring horses and wagon here. He also give hut for you to live in and send food. He want you to stay a while as his guest. He say he have other white people here but they have not met Queen Victoria. He say that he don’t think big man in south, Nkosi Rhodes, has met queen either. But you have. He like to talk to you later.’
‘Oh blimey,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘Neither do I,’ whispered Alice. ‘I wonder what’s wrong with his foot?’ For the first time, Fonthill noticed that the king’s right foot seemed swollen around the big toe, and remembered that he had limped as he had come towards them. ‘I would say he’s got gout,’ Alice continued. ‘Too much champagne and brandy, I would think.’
Lobengula rose slowly to his feet to indicate that the audience was at an end, and Simon and the others rose too. Fonthill bowed his head in acknowledgement.
‘The king is very kind,’ he said as Mzingeli interpreted, ‘and my wife, servants and I would be honoured to stay for a short time as his guests. But we must return to the south soon, for we have urgent business in Cape Town. In the meantime, however, we are at the service of your majesty to give you whatever assistance we can.’
With that, the king gave a cheery smile, barked further commands to his attendants and then limped back into his house. The inDuna leaped to his feet and beckoned the visitors to follow him. They all walked out of the king’s enclosure towards where a party of Matabele women were hurrying in and out of a large beehive hut set apart from the rest, crawling agilely on their hands and knees through the narrow opening carrying blankets, drinking vessels and other domestic utensils.
At the entrance, Fonthill paused and, with one restraining hand on the inDuna’s shoulder, addressed Mzingeli. ‘Tell him,’ he said, ‘that I would like proper accommodation also to be given to you and your boys.’
The tracker shook his head. ‘Thank you, but is not right here, Nkosi. We just slaves here.’
‘No you are not. The British abolished slavery in 1807 and I don’t recognise it anywhere. Go on, tell him. The man owes me a favour, dammit.’
Hesitantly Mzingeli translated. Simon’s request was treated with a frown but the Matabele shrugged his shoulders and then nodded his head in acquiescence.
Once inside the hut, Alice spread a sleeping mat, l
aid a blanket upon it and sat down. ‘Well, my darling,’ she said with a warm smile to Simon, ‘do you know, I didn’t realise that you were so well acquainted with our gracious Queen. As a result, it seems you have just been appointed Grand Vizier Extraordinary to his fat majesty here, and we are doomed, it seems, to stay here while you advise him for years and years and bloody years. Eh?’
Fonthill returned her smile sheepishly. ‘Well, I only answered a question.’ He looked around. ‘It’s not exactly the Ritz, I agree, but it will serve until our transport arrives. Then we shall be off, I promise.’
That evening, a young goat was delivered to Mzingeli from the king with instructions to slay it and cook it for his master. It came with a calabash of beer, a sack full of corn and a basket containing the delicious local umkuna plums. Later, they gathered outside the hut, squatting by firelight under the stars in the cool of the evening, tearing chunks of the goat meat apart with their hands and washing it down with the beer.