by Zakes Mda
When the December sun rose and scorched his back, he took circuitous routes through the bushes. But soon he would be out in the open veld and the humid heat would do its business on his skin. Occasionally he stood on a hillock and looked back. There was no sign of anyone chasing him and he was relieved. But he would not feel safe until he reached uKhahlamba Mountains and crossed rivers into the land of King Letsie, where he would seek asylum.
Letsie’s father, Moshoeshoe, had established a reputation for wisdom and generosity. From the exiles of many nations, he had formed his formidable Basotho nation. Perhaps his son had inherited similar traits and would give succour to Mpiyezintombi, son of Mkhize, who was running away from the wrath of Ozithulele, the Silent One, as Cetshwayo was called.
Mpiyezintombi cursed his foolish lust as if it was something out there acting independently of him. It was fine when he was just playing the fool with the young women of the King’s isigodlo, clowning about, making them laugh with his antics and gourmandising the delicacies left over from the King’s bowls that the young women furtively placed at his door. The mistake happened when he fell in love with one of them – the plump, yellow-coloured Nomalanga. It was an illicit desire, for she belonged to the isigodlo – the royal household comprising the residences of the King’s wives and children, and also the private enclosures of the girls presented to him by various vassals as tribute, or selected by him from distinguished families among his subjects to serve him, purportedly as his adopted daughters. Nomalanga was one such girl.
As he traversed hills and crossed rivers, Mpiyezintombi regretted that he had not stolen one of John Dunn’s horses. His flight would have been more comfortable, and he would be far by now. Jantoni, as his fellow amaZulu called John Dunn, wouldn’t have missed one measly horse when he boasted a harras of thoroughbreds. Even if he eventually discovered the theft, Mpiyezintombi would be in other kings’ jurisdiction by then.
His biggest regret was that of betraying the trust of the Silent One in the first place. It was trust that had been earned over many years, from as early as the days he sat on his father’s knee as a toddler listening to stories of his heroic service to the kingdom. Although at first it was only the songs accompanying the stories that interested him, at the age of about three they began to mean something and became part of him.
His father was a member of iHlaba Regiment under King Dingane kaSenzangakhona. He took pride in the one act that brought universal fame to that regiment – the assassination of the Trek-Boer leader Piet Retief and his men. He narrated with delight how Dingane had initially given Piet Retief tracts of land and how his councillors had objected. Most vocal was the induna of the Ntuli clan, Ndlela kaSompisi. He was the man who took the decision that Retief should be killed.
Retief and his men were invited to join the King in a corralled assembly yard. They were instructed to leave their weapons outside. When the discussion was proceeding, the infantrymen of iHlaba Regiment entered singing a war song. Mpiyezintombi always remembered how his father used to sing a few bars of the chorus as he narrated the story: ‘Muntu wami kwaZulu / Wangena! / Wakhuza iwawa / Wangena!’ ‘My person of kwaZulu / He entered! / He yelled out a war cry / And he entered!’
His father’s voice would quiver with excitement at this point.
At the sound of the war cry iwa-w-a-a-a, the men of iHlaba Regiment fell upon the Trek-Boers and beat them to death with sticks and knobkerries. Their Black servants suffered the same fate. All the bodies were dumped in a donga whose banks were then collapsed, burying the dead in a mass grave.
As the son of a man from such a distinguished regiment, Mpiyezintombi was therefore held in high esteem by King Mpande, who succeeded King Dingane, and by Prince Cetshwayo, whose praise poetry included the lines ‘Nango ke ozithulele ji, akaqali muntu’, ‘Here is the silent one, he does not provoke anyone.’
Indeed, the Prince was known as a man who never started conflict. But if anyone dared to provoke him, his response was swift and final. People did not forget how ruthlessly he dealt with his brother-princes when they were bludgeoning one another in some battle of succession.
Six years before his escape from his comrades-in-arms, Mpiyezintombi was a member of the regiment of one thousand and five hundred soldiers who accompanied Prince Cetshwayo, soon after King Mponde’s death, on a long march from his homestead in the western region to the capital to claim the throne. The regiment was ready for battle in case any of the other princes got some twisted idea that he was a more rightful heir than Cetshwayo.
This lives in Mpiyezintombi’s memory as the most pleasant adventure he has ever undertaken. The entourage included isigodlo girls who carried on their heads all the household items. Their song was echoed by the hills miles away, as were the chants of the warriors and the stamping of their rock-hard soles on the ground. Hundreds of bulls filled the air with their bellowing and, occasionally, some broke away from the herd, running amok and giving the herdboys much joy and laughter as they chased them back into the herd.
Oxen carrying sacks of sorghum followed obediently, as did the heavy-uddered cows that were sulking because they were separated from their calves.
Most memorable were the hunts. The biggest of them was the inqina hunt where Mpiyezintombi and his comrades had to wash their spears in the blood of the gemsbok and other game that they killed as part of the cleansing ritual to remove the misfortune brought about by Mpande’s death. The day of the inqina ended excellently for him; he was part of a small group that killed a lion, a rare beast in those parts. It was his spear that found its heart and the beast died immediately without further ado. His spear was therefore washed in the blood of a lion, an honour that followed him for years after that. The Crown Prince was very pleased with his heroism; it augured well for his mission of taking over the throne. He therefore elevated him to command the regiment.
‘We know of the great deeds of his father who was a leader of iHlaba Regiment that killed Piet Retief. We can see that, in this case, glowing embers begot other glowing embers instead of ash.’
As he climbed and rappelled the steep cliffs of uKhahlamba, a cool breeze giving him some respite from the December sun, Mpiyezintombi did not look remotely like anyone whose praise-name was He-Who-Washed-His-Spear-With-The-Blood-Of-A-Lion. He was emaciated and haggard, but he was determined not to give in to exhaustion. The arm of Cetshwayo was so long that it could reach to the end of the earth.
The man he was fleeing was the man for whom he had danced after the long journey to claim the crown had come to an end. At Mlambongwenya Royal Homestead on 1 September 1873, Mpiyezintombi had led his regiment as it rattled the shields and the spears while singing of Ozithulele, yena ongaqali muntu – the Silent One, the one who does not provoke anyone. Women ululated when Theophilus Shepstone, the Secretary for Native Affairs of the Natal government, arrived from Pietermaritzburg, which was the name his people had given to uMgungundlovu, and crowned Cetshwayo the new King of amaZulu.
After Cetshwayo moved to Ondini, where he established his Royal Homestead, Mpiyezintombi was one of four trusted warriors charged with taking care of the King when he did his business on the iNkatha, a sacred work of conceptual art woven into a coil of grass, reeds, supple branches and colourful cloths. It was so respected that common people were not allowed even to mention it.
The iNkatha was kept in eNkatheni, a hut at the centre of the isigodlo that was so private that only the King, the four warriors who took turns looking after him and a venerable old woman who was designated Keeper of the iNkatha were allowed inside. Not even his trusted councillors, his brother-princes or his wives and children could enter eNkatheni. This was also where sacred spears were kept, including the nation’s Inhlendla, the barbed sacred spear that was passed from one king of amaZulu to the next, beginning with King Shaka kaSenzangakhona.
When the King wanted to listen to himself – that is, to brood and introspect – he went to eNkatheni and reposed on the iNkatha in silence and total privacy.
However, during important ceremonies, the iNkatha was brought out and the King sat on it in full public gaze. He also sat on it when he was addressing his people on some dire issue that affected the nation, such as a declaration of war or the announcement of a death sentence on some noble personage who had vexed the monarch.
King Cetshwayo also performed his ablution rituals in eNkatheni while sitting on the iNkatha. The four young men took turns to fetch water in glazed clay pots from a well in the distant Hlophekhulu Mountains.
Mpiyezintombi recalled when he saw Nomalanga for the first time. He had come back from the mountain carrying a pot of water and had duly mixed it with sacred herbs to create a rich foam. The Silent One was naked on the iNkatha and was rubbing the foam on his body. Mpiyezintombi was splashing water on his body with a whisk when he thought he saw a shadow in the gap between the reed-woven door and the threshold. He ignored it and continued with his duties. The shadow disappeared briefly.
When it returned, he excused himself, claiming he needed to pee, and rushed outside. Three girls dashed away in different directions as he opened the door. He ran after one of them. When he caught up with the chubby girl, he dragged her behind one of the huts while she protested, ‘What do you want with me? I didn’t do anything.’
That was Nomalanga, obviously named after the sun because of her bright complexion.
‘So, it is true … this is what you girls do?’ said Mpiyezintombi.
He had heard that naughty isigodlo girls liked to take a peep when the King was bathing, but it was the first time he had caught one in the act.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said.
‘Then why did you run away?’
‘Because you were chasing me.’
He threatened to report her to Ozithulele. She begged him not to, all the while smiling as if she didn’t really believe he would carry out his threat. Of course, he dared not, for her punishment would be so dire that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself afterwards. So he just stood there and allowed himself to be dazzled by the cheeky smile.
That was how the trouble started, resulting in the present situation where his every sneeze, every cough, echoed off the cliffs and the caves of uKhahlamba. No one messed around with isigodlo girls without incurring the wrath of the Silent One. Despite himself, and despite numerous warnings from his comrades-in-arms, Mpiyezintombi had sneaked in a few trysts with her.
An occasional doubt assailed him as he smoked out bees in the crags for their honey, robbed birds’ nests of their eggs, or dug out roots and harvested berries. Perhaps he should have stayed and faced the consequences. What could be worse than losing Nomalanga? Execution, the rational side of him said. Execution. He had betrayed the trust of the King, after being elevated to such an eminent position in society.
He remembered how he had once confided in John Dunn, who was a regular visitor and had free access to the isigodlo. He was Cetshwayo’s brother-in-law; some of his forty-something amaZulu wives were King Mpande’s daughters. Jantoni spoke isiZulu as if he were born into the language and isigodlo girls giggled as he entertained them with stories of a wondrous world called London across the seas, in the land of Queen Victoria, where people travelled in streetcars drawn by horses on iron rails and everyone was White like him except for a few Black faces that could be spotted occasionally in the streets, possibly on some errand for their White masters. He enjoyed the company of isigodlo girls and lay under a tree while they served him sorghum beer, amadumbe, amaqunube berries and roasted game meat. They laughed at his inventive imagination when he described in vivid detail the Metropolitan Railway with its underground electric traction trains.
Though he had married many times, his eye never stopped roaming. In fact, some of his wives were once isigodlo girls who he had spotted and fancied on such visits. He sent delegations with herds of cattle to the Silent One to ask for his wards’ hand in marriage, and because he was the King’s favourite induna, he always returned with his trophy.
Mpiyezintombi envied him his life of abundance and abandon. Here was a man who could visit his brother-in-law and stay for the whole month just whiling away the time, eating, drinking, telling stories and doing things in the night that Mpiyezintombi could only fantasise about as he lay alone in his hut playing with himself. It was known at the Royal Homestead that Jantoni could have his pick of isigodlo girls any time he felt like it, as if he were the Silent One himself.
When he got tired of this indolence, he rode back to his own homestead at the coast to do the rounds with his half-White, half-Indonesian wife Catherine, and his more than forty Zulu wives.
Mpiyezintombi vowed that one day he would be like Jantoni. He was already on his way there as one of the military leaders who served the King at the nation’s sacred space, where not even Jantoni himself could enter. Soon he would be one of the Silent One’s indunas. After that there would be no stopping him.
Mpiyezintombi was taken aback when Jantoni discouraged him from ever entertaining thoughts about an isigodlo girl, particularly Nomalanga. The Silent One already had his eye on her, either for himself or for one of his councillors, generals or indunas as a reward for loyal service. He was waiting for her to ripen a bit more before he made his final decision.
Mpiyezintombi instinctively felt sick at the callous way Jantoni was talking about Nomalanga, as if she was just a fruit hanging on the lowest of branches, waiting to be picked by any passer-by. He remembered the mischievous twinkle in her eye and saw in his mind only a woman of flesh and blood, and of humour and passion, not some succulent produce that must be bargained for and possessed by the highest bidder. He began to suspect that perhaps Jantoni had designs of his own on the young woman.
Mpiyezintombi became very angry at himself for lacking Jantoni’s power and influence. He was impatient. The vultures perching on high branches drooling over Nomalanga would swoop long before he attained the clout that he needed to convince the Silent One that he was a more deserving suitor than any other man, including the Silent One himself. He loved her, and from all indications, she loved him too.
Things had become more difficult for Mpiyezintombi when Nomalanga was transferred from isigodlo esimhlophe – the white isigodlo – a section that contained the huts of the royal children and younger isigodlo girls, to the black isigodlo. The two isigodlos were both at the Royal Homestead but were separated by a palisade fence. The latter contained the King’s private house, the huts of his wives and of his mothers – that is, his father’s widows – and the elite isigodlo girls who lived in their special hut, called umndlunkulu. The role of these very special isigodlo girls was to serve the King’s wives and mothers. Occasionally they serviced the King’s needs as concubines.
The King was the only male who had unrestricted access to isigodlo esimnyama – the black isigodlo. His councillors and indunas went there only to hold meetings with him and had to leave immediately after such meetings. An unauthorised male found in the black isigodlo could be executed.
The King’s four-walled house, which was built by Christian converts of sundried bricks and had a thatched roof, was in the black isigodlo. Other building materials such as glass windows, doors, and even a wall mirror were supplied by the Norwegian pastor. It was named indlu emnyama, the black house. It had four rooms, one of which was used by the King to meet his councillors and indunas. Among other tasks, Nomalanga was assigned to clean this house, including the chamber in which the King lounged and ruminated on affairs of state.
At night the black house was guarded by two isigodlo girls who kept its keys; the King slept in his own separate, dome-shaped grass hut.
There were three gates to the isigodlo esimnyama, one of which was reserved for the King, his servants and isigodlo girls. The second gate was for use only by his birth-mother when she was still alive, and by her most senior co-wife after the birth-mother’s death. The third gate was for the rest of the wives and mothers.
It was with the connivance of the two girls that Mpiyezin
tombi sneaked into the black isigodlo using the King’s gate and had a tryst with Nomalanga in the black house. All four of these young people were risking their lives; girls had been executed for lesser crimes. For instance, the story was told of how the King ordered the execution of two girls who had failed in their duties to feed the banker masons and bricklayers who were constructing the black house. And there were men who had been caught associating with the royal wives and were taken to the execution place at the banks of the Umfolozi River, where strong men twisted their necks in a spiral until they were dead.
Nomalanga was worth the risk.
One afternoon Mpiyezintombi was woken from a reverie by the music of the reed pipes, a significant occurrence, for they had been silent for the entire year. He knew at once that they were proclaiming the new year. The King had tasted the new harvest and the populace was now allowed to eat the season’s new crops.
After leaving the barracks – which consisted of several dome-shaped grass huts separated from the white isigodlo by a palisade fence – he joined the rest of the warriors in the festivities, dances and such rituals as the mass bathing in the river.
This was such an important festival that even the White missionaries attended it. So did John Dunn, whose whiteness qualified him to be referred to as umfundisi – pastor – by some ignorant villagers. The White folk all sat with the Silent One enjoying his favourite food of curdled milk, amadumbe cocoyams, wild spinach, roasted meat and sorghum beer.
This was the only time people could speak while the King was eating. Normally there would be silence in the whole of the Royal Homestead when the King was having his meal. An announcement would be made by his grooms, who would go around the Royal Homestead shouting, ‘Ungathinti! Do not touch! Do not disturb! The King is eating!’ One could not even cough until the announcement was made that the King had eaten to his satisfaction. But today, because of the presence of the White men, things were different. People talked, laughed and even coughed as the Silent One and his guests gourmandised.