The Sculptors of Mapungubwe

by Zakes Mda

  “The King has decreed that only he and Younger Father are allowed to wear silk in the kingdom,” said Rendani.

  This was a double blow for Chata. Not that wearing silk was a matter of life and death for him. In fact he had not worn his kanga since the last time he visited Rendani many moons ago. What irked him was that Rendani was getting his way in his silly games of rivalry with him. He knew immediately that the decree was all Rendani’s work.

  He was right. Rendani had been working behind the scenes relentlessly to get silk banned. After he failed to obtain Zwanga’s support he had gone directly to his father-in-law, Baba-Munene, who did not see this as a matter of any importance in the kingdom but finally relented when his son-in-law pestered him and got the Council of Elders to endorse the banning of silk for common people. The only dissenting voice was Zwanga’s; he knew why his son was so determined to have silk banned. He was really fed up with him and what he saw as petty battles of jealousy. Rendani, on the other hand, took his father’s irritation as further evidence that he was firmly and blindly in Chata’s camp and was biased in his favour in everything. Well, the decree was passed and Zwanga could do nothing about it.

  Chata suspected that even the order on banning gold for domestic use was really aimed at him and had originated with Rendani. He was not totally correct on that score. The decree emanated from the King himself through Baba-Munene’s mouth. Because the Royal Household was in deep debt with the foreign traders it was necessary to get more tribute from the miners. The last three seasons had seen declining production in the gold mines and on two occasions the Swahili traders came and left with very little gold. It seemed Mapungubwe was unable to meet the insatiable demand of the countries beyond the Zanj seas. The King feared that the Swahili traders would stop coming if they were not getting the amount of gold they needed. Hence the decree.

  Although the decree was initially not part of Rendani’s machinations he welcomed it with great enthusiasm because it served his interests well. The law would stop Chata from hoarding any further gold and would force him to get rid of his stockpile when next the Swahilis came.

  “We have run out of gold, the person who has gold is Chata,” the miners told Abdul wa Salim when he came calling with his caravan of Makonde porters laden with such goods as porcelain bowls, cotton and woollen fabrics, stone and glass beads and carved chests from Arabia and Persia which were to be bartered for gold and ivory. He was able to acquire some ivory from elephant hunters and a few gold ingots from the miners. He needed more; he still had lots of goods to exchange. He also had some rhino horns, but these he had to hide because he had got them from poachers in the outlying villages, many of whom were renegades who had fled from Mapungubwean law. All law-abiding citizens knew that it was utmost sacrilege to kill a rhino. The rhino was a sacred totem of the kingdom.

  When Abdul wa Salim got to Zwanga’s mine only Anopa and a few apprentices were there. Chata had not been there for some days, he was told, and if he had any gold at all he didn’t keep it anywhere at the mining village. Abdul wa Salim then trekked to the town. The ragtag children were huddled together across the footpath. Their eyes were fixed on Chata’s door and they were singing their clicky lullaby.

  “Do you know if Chata is in the house?” asked Abdul wa Salim’s interpreter.

  But the children did not answer. They continued with their song. Perhaps, thought the interpreter, they didn’t understand Mapungubwean. But he did not know their language. He only spoke the language of the kingdom and Kiswahili. Also a smattering of Arabic.

  Abdul wa Salim walked to the door and called out Chata’s name.

  “It is me, your friend Abdul,” he said in Kiswahili. Chata was one of the very few people in the town who spoke some Kiswahili, which he had learnt that year he went sailing across the Zanj seas with Hamisi wa Babu.

  Abdul wa Salim placed his ear against the carved wooden door to listen for any sound from the house, but moved his head away quickly when his nostrils were assailed by pungent smoke that leaked through the door. He sniffed the air once or twice and then stood away. He knew that Chata, or someone else, was in the house.

  “I have beautiful things for you, my friend,” said Abdul wa Salim. “I know you’re there; please come out.”

  Neighbours were beginning to gather. The Swahili caravan always attracted attention. Even those who could never afford imported goods, which was most people in Mapungubwe, gathered just to admire the rich foreigners and their wares. An added incentive in this case was Chata and the Namaqua woman. Hopefully the Swahili trader would goad them out of their shameless hole and finally people would get to see them in all their dishonour.

  “Maybe he is not there,” said the interpreter.

  “He’s there all right,” said Chido’s mother. “When you see these children sitting here singing then you know their mother is in there with him.”

  After a while Chata opened the door slightly and peeped out. He looked unperturbed even when he saw that the neighbourhood had gathered. He smiled at Abdul wa Salim, walked out of the door and stood on the veranda. He was wearing his silk kanga and his eyes were red as if he had been crying. More smoke leaked out of the door. That was another strange thing about Chata and the Namaqua woman. A few moments after she went into Chata’s house, smoke began to seep out of the door. Always. Perhaps she was cooking for Chata, people surmised. But why would she cook inside the house? And if the cooking was done at the hearth at all, then why would they close the door? Why were the children not allowed in the house? All these were questions that the people asked among themselves and of course provided their own answers drawn from their collective imagination. Whatever it was the two were doing in there, it was perverse.

  “What ails you, son of Salim?” Chata asked.

  “Is that how you greet an old friend?” asked Abdul wa Salim. “Nothing ails me except for the fact that I hate to come all the way from Kilwa with all these beautiful things only to return with them.”

  “He is wearing a silk kanga,” said Chido’s father to Chido’s mother.

  “He is wearing silk,” repeated Chido’s mother to Chido’s father.

  They would have something new to report to Rendani.

  “Not you, son of Salim,” said Chata. “Of all the Swahilis we see in this town you are the best trader. I am sure you’ll dispose of the goods in no time.”

  “I will not barter all of these just for ivory. I need gold, Chata. I am told you’re the only one with gold.”

  “Who’s spreading such falsehoods about me?” laughed Chata.

  “He hoards gold,” yelled a man from the crowd that was now beginning to swell. “We all know that.”

  Chata ignored the heckler.

  “When I have gold to sell, son of Salim, you know that I am the first in line as soon as you hit town.”

  “If I understand you well, you do have gold but you don’t want to sell it?”

  “Let’s not complicate our conversation, son of Salim. I don’t have gold to sell this time.”

  The Swahili trader begged and cajoled but Chata would not budge. Instead he advised Abdul wa Salim to take his caravan to the far north of the Limpopo River where new gold mines were being discovered and a new town of zimbabwes was said to be developing. He had never been there himself but some enterprising people were migrating from Mapungubwe to be part of the new development.

  The trader left without convincing Chata to part with any of his gold. Chata went inside and closed the door. The crowd remained outside for a while and then left. The children resumed their lullaby which they had halted while the trader was negotiating with Chata and the crowd was heckling and offering various commentaries on what might be happening in the house. Chido’s parents did not return to their home, which was near Ma Chirikure’s dilapidated house, but climbed the hill to report to Rendani.

  CHATA’S TRIAL WAS A cause célèbr
e. He appeared before the Council of Elders under the baobab tree at Baba-Munene’s compound. As was always the case in such hearings Baba-Munene presided on behalf of the King. Many other men had gathered; it was incumbent upon all adult males to participate in the proceedings. For many this particular case was titillating since it involved some wrong-doing with a woman. So even those who had important business elsewhere cancelled it to attend the trial and hopefully bombard the accused person with questions that would elicit the true nature of his wicked activities.

  Baba-Munene, a tall sinewy middle-aged man in a tanned quagga-hide front-and-back apron, sat on a carved stool in front of the men directly under the sparse leafless branches of the gigantic tree. Because of the heat he was not wearing a kaross but had a few strings of glass beads around his neck that dangled between his pectoral muscles. His head was adorned with a crown of colourful feathers. He stood up and cast his eyes on the men sitting on boulders, stools, the adobe embankment and the grass. None of them was wearing a kaross. Their torsos shimmered in the sun, almost purple in colour. They wore a variety of cotton loincloths, tanned loin skins, tanned skin aprons and cotton kangas. Most carried accoutrements of shields and spears.

  A man blew the bugle-sounding hwamanda. Baba-Munene raised his hand ceremonially and there was sudden silence.

  “Where is Chatambudza, the ward of our esteemed elder Zwanga?”

  Chata stood up among the men who were sitting on the embankment near the palisade and responded that he was present and was ready to hear what the complaint of Mapungubwe against him was. It was obvious that he wanted to assert himself in the trial because he was wearing foreign garb, the white flowing robes of the Swahili and a big turban of the same colour. This was a defiant statement: if the powers-that-be were bent on dragging him to court for dressing in his own silk which he had bought with his own gold in Mogadishu and which he rescued with his own sweat and blood from slavers in the faraway land of the Barbaroi, then he was going to show them that he had more foreign apparel in his arsenal. He had acquired this particular outfit from a Swahili trader long after his return from his wanderlust.

  “Come forward and stand before the Council of Elders,” said one of the elders in the shaky voice of experience.

  Chata walked among the sitting men and stood in front of Baba-Munene and the elders.

  “In the name of the King,” said Baba-Munene averting his eyes from Chata’s blinding white, “you have to answer to the accusation that you have defiled the land, hence the lack of rain, despite all the work that our rain doctors have done. You have flouted our customs and our traditions and the rain-giving and therefore life-giving Mwali is not pleased with us.”

  “Who is the complainant in this matter? Why don’t I see the complainant in front of me?” asked Chata.

  “There is no specific complainant since you are not in dispute with any individual,” said Baba-Munene. “No one claims you stole anything of his. Your cattle have not grazed in anyone’s fields. You have not offended any specific person; it is the whole nation of Mapungubwe that you have offended. It is your behaviour that is on trial.”

  Baba-Munene then outlined the nation’s complaint.

  “You have shown contempt for the King by wearing silk.”

  “If our Younger Father can explain for my hard head to understand, how is my wearing silk defilement of the land? How is it responsible for the absence of rain?”

  “Our Great Ńanga will give you an answer.”

  The Great Ńanga, who was the King’s spiritual adviser, diviner and traditional healer, stood up. He was resplendent in skins of different animals and horns of varied sizes and beads made from assorted seeds of trees and cowrie shells from distant seas. In soft patient tones he explained that when the Royal Ancestors saw Mwali’s representative on earth, namely the King, treated with disrespect they told Mwali to withhold the rain as punishment. It would not rain until the culprit made amends.

  “You, Chatambudza, disrespected our King by wearing silk in defiance of the King’s own decree. As if that was not enough, you defied yet another decree of our Royal Father. All the gold produced in the kingdom for at least four seasons should only be used for paying tribute to the King and for trading with the foreigners. None of it should be for domestic use.”

  When Rendani stood up Chata knew that he was going to add one more nail to his coffin. But he was surprised when Rendani said, “I do not want to appear to be defending Chatambudza. As the Royal Sculptor I must stay neutral in disputes that involve the sculptors of the kingdom. But the question I want to ask must be asked. What evidence is there that this man wore silk after the decree was made? Who saw him wearing silk? And about the gold, the decree says it must not be for domestic use. It does not say one cannot hoard it as Chatambudza is reputed to be doing. There is no evidence that he is creating anything with it. We only know that he keeps it and refuses to part with it. The decree says nothing about that, and therefore Chatambudza has not broken the law. We cannot punish a man for being a ṅame. We may laugh at his foolishness and condemn his greed, but it is not a crime to be a miser.”

  Baba-Munene’s expression could not hide his amazement at Rendani’s spirited defence of the accused person. His mind was reeling with questions: Was it not Rendani himself who convinced him to hold this trial? Was he having second thoughts about it? He gained new respect for his son-in-law. He was truly a wise man concerned only with justice. He didn’t have a wicked bone in his body.

  Another amazed face was Zwanga’s. Surely he had misjudged his son. He was a man of integrity after all. Pride swelled in his aged chest as he sat there with the other members of the Council of Elders.

  Chido’s father stood up and said that the Royal Sculptor was mistaken when he said there was no evidence for any of these things. He was present, together with other people of the neighbourhood, when the accused man emerged from his house to talk to Abdul wa Salim. He was wearing a silk kanga. It was long after the decree had been announced at a public meeting on the hill. He further heard him refuse to sell his gold to the Swahili trader. On top of all that he had seen him lock himself in his house with a Khoikhoi beggar woman for a number of days.

  “We have not come to that yet,” said Baba-Munene. “This thing about the woman is the worst of the complaints before us and we’ll address it shortly. So, people did see you contravene our laws, Chatambudza. How do you answer?”

  “They saw what they think they saw,” said Chata. “I do not acknowledge guilt.”

  “Which brings us to the woman,” said Baba-Munene. “You have heard your own neighbour telling these gathered men of the court that people below the hill have seen you doing very dirty things with a foreign woman in the glare of the sunlight. How do you answer these charges, Chatambudza?”

  “There is dirt in what I do,” responded Chata. “But it is the dirt of creation.”

  The gathered men growled their astonishment that Chata was in fact confessing his guilt. And was not evincing any shame about it.

  “I am not confessing any guilt. I did nothing wrong. I’m merely saying that whenever there is great creation there is bound to be dirt as a by-product.”

  “Are you therefore denying what we saw?” asked a man.

  “Are you saying we are lying?” asked another.

  “He’s talking in riddles, this man.”

  “Even children know that you do dirty things in your house with the strange woman while her children sing a dirge outside.”

  “A lullaby,” said Chata. “They sing a lullaby.”

  “There is no clearer admission of your guilt than that,” said a member of the Council of Elders.

  “I am not guilty of anything,” said Chata.

  “You insist you are innocent,” said Baba-Munene. “What do you do with that woman in your house?”

  “I refuse to say anything about that,” said Chata. “W
hat makes me different from the other men of Mapungubwe is that I was taught by my mother how to be a man.”

  There was silence after he said this. No one knew what it meant or how it was related to the trial. Baba-Munene chuckled and everyone took his cue and burst out laughing. Chata noticed that Zwanga was not laughing. He looked very sad instead. Perhaps he was disappointed with him. He felt very bad that the old man must be thinking he had let him down.

  “Bring the woman,” said Baba-Munene.

  The Namaqua woman was ushered into the compound by two elderly women who left her standing in front of Baba-Munene, next to Chata. Despite the heat she was wearing the kaross that he had given her. Chata did not even glance in her direction.

  “Is she going to understand the questions?” asked one heckler.

  “She understands very well when she begs for food in the town,” said another.

  “She understands very well when she’s doing dirty things with Chata,” shouted yet another.

  The court burst out laughing. Zwanga had a pained look on his face.

  “They took my children away,” said the Namaqua woman in a smattering of Mapungubwean combined with the clicks of her own language. “Where are my children?”

  “Your children are safe, woman,” Baba-Munene said. “All you need is to answer our questions truthfully and honestly and you and your children will be on your way.”

  The woman started whining and began a diatribe that the men could only fathom in snatches. She was talking of the abuse she had had to endure from her own people who called her family San, an insulting word that was reserved only for such people as !Kung and the !Khwe and all those puny people who were wanderers and owned no cattle and no property of any kind and survived on hunting and gathering wild fruit. But they were not born San. They were true Khoikhoi who had cattle and enjoyed the respect of their community. Misfortune could attack anyone, as it did in their case. They lost everything and became San. Until they got to Mapungubwe where they thrived on the kindness of strangers. Until now, when they were being blamed for the drought that was attacking the land. Until now, when their God, Tsui-goab, had abandoned them to the mercy of strangers.