The Sculptors of Mapungubwe

by Zakes Mda

  Chenayi said nothing. It was as though he had not heard him. It was his turn to stare fixedly into empty space.

  “It is not for its own sake that I need gold, Chenayi. I need to create. The Rain Dancer shall never be complete as long as there are yearnings in my life.”

  Chenayi only frowned.

  On another occasion Ma Chirikure confronted him when she saw him wandering on the footpath in the moonlight.

  “People will say you are involved in vhuloi when they see you wandering about in the night,” said Ma Chirikure after catching up with him.

  “Yes, they will accuse me of witchcraft,” said Chata. “It is the only thing they have not accused me of so far.”

  “Why are you beating yourself like this, my child?”

  She invited him to her house. He perched on a stool made from the trunk of a tree. The tallow lamp gave a soft yellow glow. It struck him that he had never been inside Ma Chirikure’s house all the years he had known her. Ages ago, when he was a little boy at Zwanga’s mine, she had shared a house with his mother; he was born under that roof. Ma Chirikure was the midwife. It was strange how this home captured the aura of that old house at the mine. Except for the smell of old age. Even the way things were arranged was the same. The bowls on the adobe rack, the clay pots on the floor, the grass mats, the tanned animal hides, the patterns on the wall. It was as though his mother would suddenly appear and say, “What is wrong with you, Chatambudza? You’ve not practised your trance dances today.” He remembered how sometimes he would avoid dance practices because none of the other children his age were expected to perform such strange rituals. They made him the butt of their jokes and he felt very foreign. But later, as he mastered the trance, he felt special, especially when he was able to draw on the world he visited in his reverie to mould with clay the wonderful creatures that entranced a Muvhaḓi Makone like Zwanga.

  “Beat myself? I don’t know if you can call it that. I need gold, Ma Chirikure.”

  She gave him a bowl of fermented sorghum porridge.

  “You have a mine. So why don’t you go and get it?”

  He took a gulp and exclaimed that she had excelled herself.

  “I’ll tell you why, Chatambudza. You are torn between your gold and Marubini.”

  “You and Chenayi are bent on foisting her on me.”

  “That’s another thing. Chenayi. You’ve become attached to each other and you don’t know what will happen to him if you leave him here.”

  He couldn’t understand how Ma Chirikure had got to know him so well, how she had such a clear understanding of things about him that he had not admitted even to himself.

  “He’ll feel betrayed if I go.”

  “And so you must sit in your house and waste away?”

  “Your hand is always so beautiful, Ma Chirikure. I pity those who have not tasted the wonders that you cook.” He said this between slurps. “I don’t know where I would be without the delicacies you spoil me with.”

  “You’d be with Marubini. You’ll be a fulfilled man if you bring Marubini back from wherever she is and marry her. Your mother would be a happy ancestor. She yearns for grandchildren.”

  Chata could only respond with a dismissive snicker.

  “You cannot deny that you yearn for Marubini,” insisted Ma Chirikure.

  Ah, Ma Chirikure did not know him that well after all! He had always yearned for something. That was what made him a great creator. He yearned for a father, a real one. One he could idealise without feeling guilty that he was taking someone’s place; he yearned for a mother who had died even before he went to initiation school; he yearned for a woman to love when he became a man. He could easily have fulfilled that last yearning. But he feared he would lose his flair to create. He had discovered that his power to create lay in unfulfilled yearning.

  “Maybe I do,” Chata said. “But once my yearnings are fulfilled my creativity will seep away.”

  Ma Chirikure stared at him in astonishment.

  “Your father used to say that too. You are truly your father’s son.”

  “I didn’t know you knew my father. I never heard you mention him before.”

  “I am not talking of the Zhun/twasi man. I vaguely knew the Zhun/twasi man who was your mother’s husband. I am talking of Zwanga. He’s the one you take after because you’re of his blood.”

  The disclosure had not just slipped out. Ma Chirikure had made a conscious decision that it was time the young man knew the truth. The atmosphere that night was right. The truth had been eating away at her for many years.

  “Why do you think you are not as short as the Zhun/twasi?” asked Ma Chirikure when Chata seemed to be lost for words.

  “You knew this and you said nothing about it?”

  “I promised your mother that I would never mention it. But there comes a time when one must break a promise even to the dead, especially when it involves a secret that perpetuates the pain of the living.”

  “I refuse to believe that Zwanga was my father.”

  “Why do you think he cared so much about you? You were of his loins.”

  “And the Zhun/twasi man . . . my mother’s husband?”

  The story that Ma Chirikure narrated left Chata feeling very angry towards Zwanga. His mother had been Zwanga’s phuli – one of a number of slaves – at the time and his mother’s husband had become a rain doctor who travelled to small chiefdoms helping the rulers create rain. Zwanga coveted the petite !Kung and forced himself on her, as he had forced himself on many others who laboured at his mine. She became a muimana. Ma Chirikure whispered the word for a pregnant woman as if she was ashamed some eavesdropper might hear it. Indeed, the whole matter was hush-hushed at the mining compound. Ma Chirikure did not know whether the husband ever found out about the wife’s “indiscretion”. He was waylaid on a journey back from some chiefdom and was slain. There were rumours that Zwanga had something to do with it, but nothing ever came of them. He never spoke about it. But even if he had stood on top of a mountain and announced to the world that he had murdered the man with his bare hands no one would have bothered him for killing a !Kung man.

  “I honoured Zwanga for all those years, yet he is the man who killed my father.”

  “Zwanga was your father. He may have killed your mother’s husband. We don’t know about that. You don’t blame a man who is with the ancestors when you have no proof of his transgressions. He may turn your ancestors against you and you’ll be dogged by misfortune throughout your life.”

  “The man never acknowledged me.”

  “He treated you like a son.”

  “And pretended it was charity. I don’t want to be treated like a son; I want to be a son. He can keep his charity.”

  He stood up to leave. He was not feeling very fond of Ma Chirikure at that moment. He wished he had known about this before Zwanga’s death. He would have confronted him. He would have given him an earful.

  “Make peace with Rendani; he’s of your blood,” said Ma Chirikure. “I told you all this in the hope that you will see your conflict with him with new eyes.”

  Chata feared he would have terrible dreams that night. He believed he was too angry to rest. Angry with Zwanga for forcing himself on his mother. Angry with his mother for . . . he couldn’t figure out why he was angry with her, but he was still angry. Angry with Ma Chirikure for keeping all these secrets from him. Angry with Rendani for being the acknowledged one. And with all the other siblings from the wombs of Zwanga’s wives, those who never saw him as a human being but as the son of their father’s phuli.

  But he had a peaceful sleep.

  When he woke up in the morning Chenayi was sitting on the veranda waiting for him, as he did every morning. Chata did not know where he spent his nights and Chenayi seemed determined to keep that a secret. The Gapers were not at the grotto yet. They came towards midday a
fter performing their household chores.

  Chata no longer bothered to greet the boy because he never returned his greeting. Instead he took the bundle of mopane leaves that the boy brought with him and went to the old cattle enclosure where he kept his quagga. The boy followed. He loved to watch the quagga eat. But even before they got to the enclosure the boy became agitated, uttering sounds Chata couldn’t understand. The boy bolted ahead of him to the enclosure. He stood at the entrance and wailed.

  The quagga was gone.

  It had done this before and Chenayi had followed its track and brought it back. He was jumping about excitedly and repeating: “I’ll bring it back. I’ll bring it back.”

  “Let’s leave it alone. A quagga belongs in the wild.”

  He chastised himself for having kept it captive in the first place. Clearly he had adopted the ways of Mapungubweans who enslaved animals and used them at will as beasts of burden. Young men rode oxen and used them for transportation. His mother’s people frowned upon the practice of keeping animals for selfish reasons. They never raised animals of any kind. If they needed meat they chased a wild animal, killed it, apologised for killing it, and then ate it. They despised the neighbouring Khoikhoi clans who kept cattle for milk and meat, and as beasts of burden. He regretted that he had taken a different direction from the path laid down by his mother’s people and had followed that of his father’s people – now that he knew who his father was. Never again would he keep animals.

  “Let’s forget about the quagga, Chenayi. It will have a beautiful life with its kind. It will have to learn to be free. It’s not easy to be free but it will have to learn. Let’s rather visit animals of our own kind this morning.”

  Chenayi looked at him questioningly.

  “I am talking of my brother Rendani on top of the hill. I need to have a long-overdue conversation with him.”

  Chenayi became agitated again. It was clear that the thought of going to the top of the hill distressed him greatly. Chata remembered why. After the rainmaking festival where Chenayi had performed a dance after him, he had wandered among the homesteads of the grandees scouring their middens for anything that fascinated him. The Royal Guards got hold of him and gave him the beating of his life. They told him he was an abomination and shouldn’t be desecrating the ground on which the nobility walked. Some said, as they whipped him, that he must have been sent by enemies to plant witchcraft medicine in the middens to harm the owners of the homesteads. They left him for dead on the side of the path. Fortunately that was not his chosen day to join the ancestors; he was saved by passers-by. The beating had traumatised Chenayi. The very thought of venturing to the top of the hill left him shaking.

  “You’ll be with me, Chenayi, no one will touch you.”

  Chenayi grabbed his mirror and dashed away.

  “Come back, Chenayi, I’ll not force you to accompany me,” Chata called after him.

  He did not stop.

  Chata went up the hill. As he got close to the compound he could hear the leopards roaring in their cage. He stood on the veranda and called out Rendani’s name. Rendani opened the door and his mien instantly turned hostile when he saw Chata. So, when it was just the two of them he was not welcoming, whereas when there was company around he pretended to be the big man with a big heart who had no room for grudges.

  “What do you want?”

  “We must talk,” said Chata.

  Princess Dova walked out of the house. It had been her turn last night to visit Rendani. She did not greet Chata, which was rather rude, but just walked past him to her house a short distance away.

  “What do we have left to talk about, Chatambudza?”

  The grunts and growls of the leopards got louder. Perhaps they were feeding.

  “First of all about releasing your leopards. They belong in the wild. You must set them free, Rendi.”

  “They’re going to suffer if I let them go. They don’t know anybody but me. They have never hunted for themselves.”

  “I can introduce them to the wild for you. I can teach them how to hunt.”

  It dawned on Rendani that he didn’t have to stand there explaining himself to Chata.

  “You came all the way from the town to give me lessons about my animals?”

  “It’s not a lesson, Rendi. I am begging you on their behalf: show them kindness by setting them free. It will make you more human. And, while you’re at it, set free your two quaggas as well.”

  “The quaggas escaped long since. I show the leopards kindness by feeding them and letting them laze about. Do you know how many goats I have to kill to satisfy them?”

  “Free your goats too. Free everything, Rendi.”

  Rendani decided that Chata had gone mad. He went back into his house and closed the carved wooden door after him.

  “I also want to talk about our father, Rendani,” Chata called after him.

  “Let my father rest in peace,” Rendani yelled.

  “He’s my father too, you must know that.”

  “I only know that you’re the son of my father’s phuli.”

  He suddenly flung the door open and stood right in front of Chata, looking down on him.

  “There’s no inheritance left. Do you hear that? No inheritance.”

  “I’m not after anyone’s inheritance, you silly man. I am not after anything at all. I don’t even want to know any of you, Zwanga’s children. His memory is soiled in my head; I don’t want to have anything to do with anything that smacks of Zwanga.”

  “You insult the dead, Chatambudza. The ancestors don’t look kindly on that.”

  “They know that sitting among them is a man of dishonour.”

  He walked away. Rendani watched him go; he was seething at the man’s temerity. But Chata decided he was not done with him. He needed something with which to annoy him even further. Marubini. That should get his goat. He stopped and waved at Rendani.

  “Hey, mukomana, I forgot to tell you. I am going to look for Marubini. The time has come for me to think seriously of marriage.”

  “Silly dreams of a silly man,” Rendani yelled back. “The King won’t allow any silliness between the two of you. She’s a national treasure.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  MUVHAḒI WA VHAVHAḒI. CARVER of Carvers. No one had ever been awarded that title in the kingdom’s history. There had been great carvers in Mapungubwe before, but none held that title. The highest honour ever received by those who had attained the highest level of expertise was Muvhaḓi Makone, which simply meant Master Carver. That had been Zwanga’s title. There were few others, and all of them were grey-haired men who had accumulated vast experience in working with wood first and foremost – the spirits of the dead and the unborn inhabited trees – but also in moulding clay and shaping gold, iron and other metals. It was unheard of for a young man of Chata’s age to hold that title. Even Rendani, the Royal Sculptor, wouldn’t qualify to be Muvhaḓi Makone. In fact, it was clear to everyone that he would never even come close enough to the title to get a whiff of it. He was no longer bothering to create any art. The only time he did anything with his hands was during the carving of the palisades. He found more joy in strutting around as Royal Sculptor, dispensing orders and relishing the prestige of being a member of the Council of Elders. Even if he had wished to be a Muvhaḓi Makone he wouldn’t have been able to confer that title on himself. It was an honour bestowed on a carver (sculptor or smith) by other carvers. It usually went to those who had had great artists serve under them as apprentices. No carver in Mapungubwe had developed under Rendani’s tutelage. Nor under Chata’s.

  It came as a surprise therefore to other carvers when they were invited to Baba-Munene’s compound to celebrate the granting of a title to Chatambudza. What puzzled them most was that it was a title no one had ever heard of in Mapungubwe. The gathering was therefore well attend
ed. Most carvers came from the town below the hill, but quite a few others were from the mines almost a day’s journey from the town and from those outlying villages that paid tribute to the King of Mapungubwe. Usually such great numbers of artists were seen only at the carving of the palisades.

  Curious townspeople also came, but of course kept their distance from the revered personages sitting under the ancient baobab tree. These spectators were not part of the proceedings but, as Mapungubweans liked to say, the ear is a thief. They listened with interest as if the words were addressed to them and laughed when the speakers made jokes.

  The meeting was opened by the King’s Chief Diviner who called upon the ancestors of all present to look after their progeny and pass the message to Mwali to bless them with great fortune, and of course with rain. He used his quagga tail whisk to splash the gathering with water mixed with juices of aloe and other secret medicines.

  Baba-Munene then addressed the carvers. They were gathered there, he said, to honour a carver who had created a sculpture of gold and ivory that was a wonder to behold. It was currently at his house where its beauty had overwhelmed the people so much that some were even worshipping it. The sculpture had caused such a sensation that even in lands far away people were talking about it. The Swahili had come, seen it, and marvelled. They said they had never seen anything like it even in Arabia or in India or in China, lands whose carvers portrayed life as if they were Mwali Himself.

  Chata sat on a stool next to Rendani and other members of the Council of Elders as Baba-Munene sang his praises. He was puzzled by these developments. Not so long ago Baba-Munene was hoping he would stop the heresies at his compound by commanding those who broke the wall to build it back, hiding the Rain Dancer from public view. But as soon as the soldiers had done so, the Community of Gapers had removed the fresh adobe and the wall had its hole again. It was their shrine, and no one could interfere with it. Not even the owner of the house and creator of the Rain Dancer. There was nothing further that Baba-Munene could do; it was Chata’s property after all. If he wanted a hole in his wall no one could stop that. And now he was being honoured for that very sculpture?