by Saul David
George shivered inwardly. The thought of taking on a Zulu armed with the iklwa was not something he wished to contemplate. 'What other weapons do you use?'
'The longer throwing assegai, which is usually released before we close in on the enemy, and the iwisa, which white men call a knobkerrie, and is best used as a club but can also be thrown.'
'What about firearms? Do many Zulus own one?'
'Some do, but they're mainly old models bought from Portuguese traders. Most Zulus prefer to fight at close quarters.'
George was quite enjoying the conversation. Then Sihayo replaced the spear in the bundle. 'One thing still troubles me. You say Sobantu sent you. Fair enough. But what's in it for you? Won't the white settlers regard you as a traitor?'
'They might, but they're not my people.'
The chief frowned. 'Are you not British like them?'
'I have white blood, it's true. But if you look closer, you might see something else.'
Sihayo stared intently at George's handsome face. There was nothing in his narrow, slightly crooked nose and luxurious black locks, swept back from a side-parting, to suggest African blood. But wait. Were not those lips just a little too full for a white man? Could he not detect a hint of colour in that glossy skin?
'What are you saying?' asked Sihayo.
'I'm saying I have African blood, the same blood that's running through your veins.'
Sihayo's eyes widened to the size of small saucers. 'I don't believe you . . .' He looked again at the face before him and realized it bore more than a passing resemblance to his own. 'It can't be true. It can't be . . .'
'It is. I'm Ngqumbazi's grandson, your great-nephew. I only found out myself a few months ago.'
The chief sat there as if in shock. At last he spoke, tears in his eyes: 'I loved her, you know. She was my favourite sister. But after her disgrace I never saw her again.'
'I just don't understand,' said George, shaking his head. 'She gave up her child, my mother. Wasn't that punishment enough?'
Sihayo's face hardened. 'No. She had been promised to another man, the son of Chief Buthelezi, but of course he wouldn't have her when the truth got out. She was tainted, as was the rest of the family. The only way to make amends was to banish her and pay over a dowry as if the marriage had gone ahead. It cost Father one hundred cattle and almost broke his heart. We couldn't forgive her after that. If you were truly a Zulu, rather than a white man with a few drops of Zulu blood, you'd understand well enough.'
George was loath to admit it, but he suspected the chief was right. He had been brought up to think like a British officer and a gentleman, and he was beginning to realize that the recent knowledge that he had Zulu forebears was not going to overturn years of social conditioning. He might admire the achievements of the Zulus, even sympathize with their political predicament, but he would never be one of them. That was not to say that he had ever felt — or been allowed to feel — entirely comfortable in the role of an English gentleman; the bigots at Harrow, Sandhurst and his regiment had seen to that. But when all was said and done, it was the only role he knew. Perhaps he was destined always to be an outsider, but for all that he would still have to choose sides.
He was about to respond when shouts sounded from outside the hut.
'It must be my son,' said the chief. 'Come!'
From the entrance to the hut they could see Mehlokazulu and two of his warriors drag a semi-naked woman into the isibaya and dump her without ceremony in the small stone enclosure reserved for calves. The warriors stood sentry while Mehlokazulu left the isibaya and made his way round to his father's hut.
'Greetings, Father,' he said, ignoring George. 'I've brought back what's rightfully yours.'
'You fool!' exploded Sihayo. 'How dare you take a war party across the Buffalo without my permission. Do you have any idea what you've done? The whites will see this as an act of aggression. It could lead to war.'
His son looked unconcerned. 'I didn't ask your permission because I knew you wouldn't give it. Anyway, all I did was recover a runaway. I even spared her lover. If that leads to war, then so be it. Zululand has been at peace for too long. The army is growing stale and the younger warriors need to prove themselves. Most of my own regiment, the Ngobama- khosi, have reached the age of twenty-four years, and yet none of us has washed his spear in blood. In Shaka's time we would all have been veterans by now.'
'And dead too, no doubt,' interjected George. 'Do you have any idea what you're up against? You can't possibly win a war against the British. If they lose one army, they'll send another, and another, until Zululand lies in ruins. Even your king knows that.'
Mehlokazulu turned to face George. They were about the same height, with the same broad shoulders and narrow waist, but the young Zulu was more physically imposing, his muscular chest glistening with sweat. 'Cetshwayo is not the warrior he was, cousin,'' he said with a sneer. 'He's getting old and jumps at the slightest shadow. Ever since he allowed himself to be crowned by the British he's been in thrall to you. Only the younger generation can save the country's honour. Take this business with Nandi. If she remains unpunished, other wives will follow her example. The Zulu people will tear apart.'
Sihayo had heard enough and raised his hand as if he meant to strike his son, but Mehlokazulu's unflinching demeanour made him think twice, and he released his anger in a torrent of abuse. 'You faithless, ungrateful viper! Your balls have barely dropped, yet you dare to insult the king, a man who has eaten up countless enemies. Have you washed your spear even once? No, yet you presume to conduct the affairs of the nation.'
His son set his jaw in defiance. 'The white man means to have this country sooner or later. Better to take the fight to him while we're still strong.'
Sihayo turned to George. 'Is he right? Will the white man let us live in peace?'
'I don't know,' replied George. 'Maybe for a while. But one thing is certain: if you provoke war, your country will be destroyed.'
'And if we do nothing, it will die just the same,' said Mehlokazulu. 'I prefer death to dishonour.'
Sihayo looked like a man who knew, deep down, that his son was right. But what good was an honourable death? His responsibility was to his clan, and he would do anything to save it from destruction. He waved his son away. 'Get out of my sight. Before I do something I regret.'
'Gladly, Father, but aren't you forgetting someone?' he said, pointing towards the brushwood fence of the calf enclosure. 'She deserves to die for what she's done.'
'The isanusi will decide her fate at dusk. Now go.'
In the few hours left before the 'smelling-out' ceremony, George did his best to persuade Sihayo to intervene and spare his errant wife. But the chief was adamant: tribal tradition could not be overruled, and when George continued to argue he was led away by two burly warriors and confined in a separate hut. There he brooded on the naive attachment that white humanitarians like the Colensos seemed to have for 'noble savages' like the Zulus. Did they truly understand the Zulus? Did their romantic notions bear any relation to reality? He suspected not.
Shortly after dark, with double-headed drums beating out a steady rhythm, George was escorted into the isibaya, where he found the whole community drawn up in a large semicircle: Sihayo and his brothers at its centre; then their sons, including a grim-looking Mehlokazulu; and finally, at the outer extremities of the crescent, the women and children. Facing them, her hands tied behind her back to a large stake, was the semi-naked Nandi, her beautiful face etched with defiance. The whole eerie scene was lit by flickering torches beneath a star-filled sky.
'Stand by me, nephew,' commanded Sihayo, 'and don't speak until the ceremony is over.'
Hardly had the chief spoken these words than the isanusi entered the cattle enclosure, leaping and chanting. He was a ghastly sight, his long hair strewn with the bladders of freshly slaughtered goats and his necklaces and belt hung with animal skulls. In his right hand he carried a wildebeest tail and in his left a short spear with
which he lunged at the clearly terrified Nandi in mock attack, leaping in the air and cackling derisively as he did so. Round and round the captive he cavorted, appealing to the spirits for help in proving her guilt.
George looked on wide-eyed. Though he despised Sihayo for putting Nandi through this ordeal, he was entranced by the spectacle and could not take his eyes off the isanusi''s wild antics. The dance seemed to go on and on. Until at last, with the crowd thoroughly subdued, the isanusi began a low chant that the onlookers emulated, the sound rising steadily in pitch and intensity. In a state of near hysteria, his eyes streaming with tears and his lips flecked with foam, the isanusi lurched towards Nandi and collapsed on the ground. He then began to sniff every inch of her statuesque frame, starting with her feet. As he worked his way up her naked torso, the tempo and volume of the chanting increased. Suddenly the isanusi's right hand shot out and flicked the wildebeest's tail in Nandi's face. She screamed as the crowd fell silent.
'What does that mean?' George whispered to Sihayo, though he knew the answer.
'She's guilty.'
'Surely you have the power to—'
'Silence!' Sihayo walked forward and turned to address his people. 'The isanusi has spoken. Nandi is guilty of adultery and must die. Mehlokazulu and Mkhumbukazulu will carry out the sentence.'
The two brothers — one broad and muscular, the other lean and wiry - walked over to Nandi, who, by this time, was tearfully pleading for her life. Ignoring her entreaties, Mehlokazulu tied a leather thong round her neck and inserted into it a wooden handle about a foot long. He then turned the handle until the thong was taught against her neck.
'Please!' implored Nandi.
Ignoring her, Mehlokazulu turned towards Sihayo for the signal to proceed. The chief nodded.
'No!' shouted George, rushing forward to intervene. But he had barely covered ten yards before he was brought down from behind by one of his two shadows. Though pinned to the ground, he turned his head in time to see his cousin viciously turning the handle so that the leather thong bit into Nandi's neck, slowly throttling her. Nandi struggled for a few seconds, her eyes bulging and her tongue extended, and then slumped forward, her hands still attached to the stake. Just to make sure, the younger brother lifted Nandi's head by her topknot and stabbed her in the throat with his iklwa, spraying himself with arterial blood in the process. George closed his eyes, unable to watch any more.
'Cut her down,' instructed Sihayo, 'and bury her in an unmarked grave. As for our squeamish relative, he can spend the night in Nandi's hut. She won't be needing it again.'
Chapter 10
Bishopstowe, 3 August 1878
Bishop Colenso stood gazing out of his French windows, shaking his head. The drawing room was silent but for the ticking of the large clock on the mantelpiece. 'Was there nothing you could do to save her?' he said at last.
George shifted uneasily on the sofa. 'No. As I've explained, I tried everything, but they were determined to kill her.'
He had been dreading this moment since his departure from Sihayo's kraal the day after Nandi's execution. A small impi — a group of Zulu warriors — had escorted him and his wagon as far as Rorke's Drift, and from there he had ridden ahead, telling Snyman to get the best price he could for the untraded goods. But during the long ride back to Pietermaritzburg, try as he might, he could not expunge the memory of that brutal killing; nor could he escape the nagging realization that, blood ties or no, he had lost all sympathy for the Zulus' predicament. It had helped him make up his mind about his future. He knew that Fanny, in particular, would find it hard to understand his decision, and feared it would give her yet another reason to favour Durnford over him. Yet he felt he had little choice. Certainly he would never again see the Zulus — his own kin — in the same uncritical light as the Colensos.
The bishop looked at him intently. 'I can see you're upset by your ordeal, George, but you mustn't blame Sihayo and his sons. It's just their way — and has been for generations.'
'Well, it needs to change. How can you, a man of God, justify the execution of a woman for adultery? Such a law in Britain would empty half the drawing rooms of Mayfair.'
'I'm trying to explain their actions, not justify them. I agree that change is necessary, but it will take time. It always does. The Zulus have to be made to see the error of their ways, and only Christ can do that.'
'You're saying missionaries are the solution?'
'Christianity is the solution. Missionaries are merely its agents.'
'But missionaries have been active in Zululand for decades and look what good it's done. Converts are routinely executed and the military system continues as before.'
'As I said, it will take time.'
'You won't thank me for saying this, but I'm beginning to think there might be a case for diplomatic pressure to speed up the process.' George turned to Fanny, who, thus far, had remained silent in an easy chair. 'Surely you, as a woman, would hate to live under the Zulu system?'
'I certainly would. But no country has the right to impose its values on another, particularly not Britain, with its child labour, workhouses and industrial slums. In any case, the colonial authorities only pretend to be interested in better government for Zululand; their real aim is conquest and their motives, as Father has already explained, are far from selfless.'
'I accept that. But if you'd only been in my place, and seen and heard what I did, you might not be so supportive of the "poor, defenceless" Zulus.'
'How can you say that? You're part Zulu yourself.'
'Yes, and I sometimes wish that wasn't the case. I found out what happened to my Zulu grandmother, by the way. She was abandoned by her so-called family and left to die alone. How do you think that makes me feel?'
'We understand your anger, George,' said the bishop. 'But you mustn't let it cloud the overall picture. Frere is determined to fight the Zulus and this Sihayo business might be just the excuse he needs. Thankfully our own lieutenant governor is less of a warmonger and has tried to calm matters down by demanding that Cetshwayo hands over the ringleaders, Mehlokazulu and his brother. Let's hope they come quietly.'
'I wouldn't hold your breath,' said George. 'Mehlokazulu is a firebrand if ever I've met one. He actually welcomes the prospect of war.'
'He's young. Wiser counsels will prevail.'
'I'm not so sure,' said George. He could see his views were not welcome and decided to leave before he said something he regretted. He had, in any case, something he wished to discuss with Fanny in private, so he made his excuses and asked her to accompany him as far as the stables.
On the way he paused and took both her hands in his. 'I did a lot of thinking on the ride back from Zululand.'
'And?'
'Let's just say that things are a little clearer than they were before I went.'
'Go on.'
'Well, I'm certain of one thing, and that's my love for you.'
'George, we've talked about this . . .'
'I know, and I realize I've got a fight on my hands to win you over. But I think you're worth fighting for. To see you arguing just now, Fanny, I admire you so much. I love you.'
'I'm flattered, George. I really am. But you're far too young to be falling in love. You've got your life ahead of you, and I'd hate to think your affection for me might blunt your ambition in any way.'
'Why would it? In any case, I've made a decision about my future. I'm going to join one of the local regiments of irregular horse. It's only part-time soldiering, but the pay's good and
I'll still be able to help my uncle out on the farm. More importantly, I'll be near you.'
Fanny released her hands and frowned. 'How can you think of joining the army at a time like this?'
'Because it's all I know. I've been fooling myself that I could make a go of farming, or even prospecting for diamonds without having money for a stake. The only thing I've ever been really good at is soldiering and I want to give it another try.'
'This would
n't have anything to do with your trip to Zululand?'
'Yes, partly. I've had the scales removed from my eyes. Now that I've seen something of Zulu life I believe that they are not the noble savages that you and your father like to think they are. Their system appears to be oppressive to its own people and is certainly a threat to their neighbours. By joining the irregular horse I'll help to guard against that threat.'
'Do you really believe that?'
'Yes, I do. The younger warriors like Mehlokazulu are itching for a war.'