by Zakes Mda
Mpiyezintombi narrated to his classmates the details of the battle as if he had been there himself. After all, he was part of the command structure that had planned the manoeuvres in readiness for the British attack. For this reason, his heart bled even more that he had missed the action. All thanks to Nomalanga.
His classmates took his stories with more than just a pinch of salt. He was in Cape Town when this battle was fought. How could he know so much about it? Even narrating the arguments that ensued after the British had fled? He surely was a man of rich imagination, which did not surprise them in the least. After all, he had learned to read and write and speak the language of the White man with so much skill that the teacher, a doddering retired Lieutenant of the Hallelujah Army, left him to mind the class when he had other errands to run or was otherwise indisposed.
It was during those moments that he re-enacted the battle, emitting war cries that would have curdled the blood of the most hot-blooded British warrior, and dancing the victory dance. When the teacher returned in the middle of such performances, he would not stop them but would watch till the final applause. Then he would join the debate as to whether Cetshwayo was correct in not pursuing the British across the river into Natal. Mpiyezintombi felt quite bitter that the military might of amaZulu stopped at the river, as the king expressly forbade the incursion into what had become British territory. He knew that his comrades-in-arms, especially Mavumengwana kaNdlela, would have urged the king to make the most of the victory by rooting out Chelmsford’s forces in the colonial settlements and farms, and taking those lands back into the fold of the kwaZulu Kingdom.
‘The British did not come with any land from England,’ said Mpiyezintombi. ‘Every bit of what you call Natal once belonged to my ancestors.’
‘Cetewayo is wise,’ said the teacher, using the English corruption of the king’s name. ‘It is a kingly gesture, as even the Argus has reported. It is the only way to sue for peace and establish good neighbourly relations with us. If he violated that border, things would be worse. It would be the end of his kingdom.’
The teacher was drawing the line as an Englishman, though of a liberal ilk, and including himself among those who felt they had a justifiable stake in Natal. He was English and Mpiyezintombi was Zulu.
‘Why should we sue for peace? We won the war. We should take the spoils. They belong to us in any case.’
‘You didn’t win a war; you won a battle. Obviously Cetewayo is wiser than you’ll ever be. That’s why he is king and you’re here, a thousand miles away, scraping a living in the docklands.’
Mpiyezintombi retreated into a grudging silence that lasted many days. The teacher seemed amused by his sulk and continued with his lessons. Until one day when the teacher called him to his desk after class and showed him the previous day’s Cape Argus. William Hunt was back in town. The teacher explained that he was a North American man, famous for walking across Niagara Falls on a tightrope in his native Canada, and as part of a group of trapeze artists called the Flying Farinis who had travelled to many countries performing gymnastic feats.
He had since retired as a performer and was a successful impresario who had curated some of the most amazing ethnographic displays and performances in London. He called himself The Great Farini, and he had come to this part of Africa looking for performers and exhibits for his human curiosity spectacles. He was returning from the Kalahari, where he had discovered the famous Lost City, with a family of Kalahari Bushmen who were going to be part of his display of primitive races. He was keen to get a few Zulu men, Cetewayo’s warriors who had defeated the most powerful army in the world, and take them with him to London.
‘He’d better go to kwaZulu if he wants men who fought at Isandlwana,’ said Mpiyezintombi.
‘You are from there,’ said the teacher. ‘You can be of assistance to this man, and maybe earn yourself a few quid.’
It was not difficult for the teacher to locate The Great Farini at a boarding house in Claremont. Mpiyezintombi was struck by his singular look, quite different from any White man he had seen in Cape Town or back home in kwaZulu. He must have been in his early forties, with a long black beard, an imperial moustache waxed so that it stood out long and straight like a pencil on either side of his face, a long black cape over a black suit, a black top hat – everything about him was dark, like a character who had just walked out of the pages of a Varney the Vampire story.
The Great Farini was excited to hear Mpiyezintombi’s story. He was just the man he was looking for.
For the first time Mpiyezintombi learned that Cetshwayo was quite a celebrity in England for his defeat of the British army. This did not make sense to him. How could the British celebrate their own defeat? They were indeed strange creatures. The British admired bravery, Farini explained. A group of primitive Zulus chanting their war dances would be a hit, and the performers would make a lot of money.
It didn’t take much to convince Mpiyezintombi to join The Great Farini. Four more men – dockworkers in their day jobs – were recruited from the night school. It did not matter that some were not Zulus. The British would not know the difference.
In March 1879 they set off, spending about two months sailing in steerage to England. Mpiyezintombi spent most of the voyage teaching the men how to be Zulus, between bouts of seasickness. He also spent a lot of time drumming it into his own head, as Farini had instructed, that he had indeed personally fought at Isandlwana and killed a few British soldiers with his assegai, and that he was in fact a Zulu prince, son of King Cetshwayo himself.
The assegai and shield he had brought with him when he escaped came in handy.
* * *
Slaw, Em-Pee and the rest of the troupe are settled between decks. Em-Pee’s special assegai and shield are safely packed with the drums, the costumes of tiger and leopard skins, ostrich and peacock feathers and the rest of the performance paraphernalia in the cargo hold of the ship.
The crate contains more spears forged for Farini by blacksmiths in London for use by the rest of the Zulus, and shields shaped by the performers themselves from cowhides bought at an abattoir and horse hides from a glue factory.
The Zulus have lived together as Zulus for one year; it has long become irrelevant that two of them are amaXhosa and one is an Owambo man. There is only one other man, Samson, who has any genuine claim to Zuluness. Now they are all amaZulu, even among themselves, as much as they are Zulus to the spectators. Perhaps one day, when they get back home, if they ever do, they will resume their various ethnic identities. They long bonded under the leadership of Em-Pee, who attained that status naturally as a genuine Cetshwayo warrior and faux prince who also was wise to the ways of the White man due to his ability to read and speak his language.
In steerage, the Zulus in their khaki uniforms huddle together on straw mattresses near the long tables that separate the front bunks reserved for single men from the middle ones that are for families. Single women have their bunks further aft.
The Irish emigrants hog all the berths to themselves, and they eye the Zulus suspiciously. The Zulus return the gaze nonchalantly. The emigrants are mostly men, but there are quite a few families – that is, husband, wife and kids. There is also a handful of women who were on their own initially, but some have now loosely paired with single men or have joined the merry-making over rum with a group of swashbucklers.
In the first two days of the voyage, the Zulus were happy to take a rest from their hectic schedule of daily performances. They enjoyed lazing about on the mattresses while occasionally nibbling on their provisions. And listening to the rum-fuelled songs of the Irishmen. But now their legs are itching for action. The restricted walks between decks give very little respite.
* * *
It is an understatement to characterise the performances as hectic. In the beginning, they were only once a day at the glass-roofed Royal Westminster Aquarium, endearingly called the Aq by its patrons, in downtown London. Thousands of spectators flocked to see th
eir favourites, such as Zazel the human cannonball shot out of a cannon by The Great Farini himself, who would stand there in his Gothic suit and cape and wicked beard and, to the beat of drums and blare of bugles. The cannon would shoot the beautiful Zazel out right across the hall into a net that Farini himself had invented. In fact, he claimed that this whole act was of his origination. Crowds went wild as Zazel flew over their heads, men raising their top hats in awe and women screeching with excitement.
There were quite a few other amazing performances and displays of human and non-human curiosities. For instance, there was the Two-Headed Nightingale, African-American conjoined twins imported from North Carolina who sang in two-part harmony and danced an awkward jig. Some of the favourites were frightening gorillas from the forests of Africa, clownish midgets, and, of course, Daughter of Hottentot Venus.
And then there were the Zulus.
The Great Farini would stride on to the stage and announce, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and now for the highlight of the day, the ferocious Zulus. Yes, the very warriors of the Battle of Isandlwana, who killed eight hundred of the Empire’s bravest soldiers under the leadership of their savage king, Cetewayo!’
At this point Cetshwayo was a celebrity in Britain, and the mention of his name provoked cheers of admiration as well as boos of loathing from the audience.
This was the cue for Em-Pee to lead his men on to the stage, screaming and kicking their legs, throwing themselves to the floor, rolling their eyes and baring their blood-soaked teeth, flicking their tongues enhanced with deep-red dye and emitting blood-curdling war chants. All this to the frenzy of the drums. Audiences of thousands would be mesmerised and recoil in fear. Sometimes the Zulus would jump off the stage and dash among the audience, waving their shields and assegais as the people cringed in terror. Those macho men in the company of ladies would take a stance that clearly indicated that they were prepared to fight back if the savages dared to attack them.
Em-Pee hated this performance intensely. In the beginning, even as they were between decks on their voyage from Cape Town to Britain, he had taught the men proper Zulu dances, very rhythmic, orderly and beautifully choreographed. But The Great Farini banned those dances. Though they comprised aggressive foot-stomping and the dancers throwing themselves violently to the ground, all this was done in a graceful and deliberate manner. It was not savage enough. The British audiences would not buy it. He wanted the Zulus to perform in a disorderly, noisy and chaotic manner, screaming and jumping about as befitting savages.
The Great Farini paid the piper, so he called the tune. Even though it was discordant to Em-Pee’s ears, he had to go along with it. Sometimes the performers would sneak in dance movements from their various ethnic groups, but as soon as Farini saw that they were becoming too beautiful, he would warn them, ‘You cannot have beautiful dances, you are savages; otherwise you’ll alienate the audiences; everything about you must be ugly.’
To the audiences the Zulu dancers represented authentic Africa, the epicentre of man-eating barbarism. They were the mythical beasts butchering British sons and fathers in exotic lands far, far away. And here, The Great Farini had brought them to life in front of their eyes, compelling them to face the monstrosity. Ever the educationist, this wonderful impresario would begin the performances by strutting across the stage and reading, with much dramatic flair, a letter from Sir Theophilus Shepstone, the Secretary for Native Affairs in Natal, attesting that the men were genuine Zulus placed by him, a servant of Her Majesty’s Government, in the custody of The Great Farini, and that one of them was the son of the Zulu principal chief, Cetewayo of Isandlwana infamy. These men had fought in that battle, and each one’s assegai was stained with the blood of Englishmen.
Sometimes the assegais were taken to the streets. The Zulus in their ostrich and peacock feathers and tiger skins would prance up and down Hyde Park Corner, attracting curious onlookers, with a barker loudhailing prospective spectators to come and witness the height of titillating savagery at St George’s Gallery. Titillation was a big part of The Great Farini’s philosophy of entertainment. So was education. A good show educated the audience about the primitive races and their cultures, thrilled them with their performances and traditions, and, most importantly, offended and outraged the audiences with their manners and practices, or even their looks. It was from the outrage that titillation came. The naked parts of Daughter of Hottentot Venus. The warrior bodies of the Zulus that radiated pulsating maleness.
The erotic charge that The Great Farini injected into his exhibits was so popular that the Zulus had to perform their routine three or four times a day. And each routine was becoming longer as the impresario thought of more items to add to keep the audiences coming. The new favourite was a demonstration of how the Zulus killed their enemies. It was so thrilling that newspapers wrote about it, the London Times reporting that the savages’ method of killing their victims was so real it struck terror ‘into the stoutest heart’ and ‘the fiendish reality of their war dances and songs is marvellous in its true and horrible intensity’.
Farini was good at conjuring innovative ways of promoting the show. On one occasion, for instance, he took them to the London Zoo, where they marvelled at wild animals in their cages. Newspaper reporters were on hand to record for posterity as Em-Pee shed a tear at the sight of so majestic a creature as a lion confined behind iron bars instead of roaming the wilds. But the Zulus were also intrigued by many other animals they had never seen before in their country, such as Bengal tigers, pumas and grizzly bears. The next day newspapers had pictures of the Zulus at the zoo with captions on how they blended so well and were at home in an environment that must have made them nostalgic for their country.
Such publicity stunts introduced the spectacles to wider audiences; the Aq was packed, and Farini added more items to the repertoire.
‘You are killing us with work, Farini,’said Em-Pee when the impresario had finally agreed to give him an audience after weeks of requesting a meeting. ‘My mates have sent me to ask for a raise. Either you cut down the number of shows we have to do per day or you pay us more.’
‘What is this, Em-Pee?’ asked Farini. ‘I feed you people. I give you accommodation. I can’t afford to pay you more. I am losing a lot of money.’
‘The venues are always full.’
‘That’s how it looks to you. But you don’t know the expenses. And now I am losing Matilda. You know how much money I am going to lose when Matilda leaves?’
Em-Pee did not know who Matilda was, and he said so.
‘Miss Rossa Matilda Richter. Zazel.’
‘Zazel? Zazel is leaving?’
‘She’s going to America. She’s joining P.T. Barnum. I need a replacement as of yesterday. And you come with your money problems?’
‘You can shoot one of us from the cannon,’ said Em-Pee jokingly.
‘For more money, of course. That’s all you people think about.’
‘Yes, the same salary you were giving Zazel.’
Farini’s imperial moustache twitched.
‘Thanks for offering, but it would not work,’ he said. ‘Who gives a damn if a native dies?’
‘I do,’ said Em-Pee.
‘I do too, old chap. You know you’re all my friends. More like family. But the spectators don’t see things that way. We need somebody Caucasoid. Someone they empathise with and therefore fear for her life. They must root for her safety because she looks like them. They don’t want her to get hurt. You shoot a Negro from a cannon, no one gives a hoot. They don’t see it as anything to marvel at. He’s from a different world, some may even think a subhuman world. In their minds the Negro is made of different stuff. We need a beautiful, frail White person. A woman is much better. Or a man disguised as a woman. They are interested in her survival, so the whole performance grabs their emotions and they hold their breath until she falls safely in the net.’
It was the kind of diatribe Em-Pee did not understand. He stopped listening at Cauca
soid, a term he had heard at Farini’s anthropology lectures before the performances, often contrasted with Negroid and Mongoloid.
The Zulus decided to give The Great Farini some breathing space while he looked for Zazel’s replacement.
‘You tell him only until he finds Zazel’s replacement,’ said Samson as they walked to their quarters at the Devil’s Acre near Westminster Abbey.
As usual, the darkest London loafers sleeping rough after befuddling and numbing themselves in opium dens hollered a few choice expletives at them. ‘Hey, Sambo, how many White explorers have you eaten today?’
‘Sambo is your father’s whore pipe!’ Em-Pee hollered back. The other Zulus joined in with expletives of their own, mostly about the private parts of the loafers’ mothers. This meant nothing to the loafers; they merely laughed. One ragamuffin was particularly loud, following the Zulus and yelling something about blackamoors. He was a familiar nuisance to the Zulus. They cracked a few jokes about his being an emaciated fleabag and walked on.
A vintage landau dropped an elderly couple dressed in tattered clothes and rode away. Their mode of transport and well-fed pampered faces gave them away at once. They were well-heeled Londoners from exclusive neighbourhoods who relished visiting the slums to immerse themselves in poverty and grime and then, after the dirty weekend, returned to their lives of luxury. Em-Pee joked that if he had that kind of money he would not be seen dead in the slums.
Some slummers came just to satisfy their curiosity about how the other half lived, others to dispense charity. Young gentlemen slummers, however, were really tothunting, looking for what they called dirty puzzle. Or just seeking degenerate amusements of other kinds, such as opium dens.
The emaciated ragamuffin redirected his attention from the Zulus to the elderly couple. Suddenly he became a pitiful figure. With hands cupped, he begged for money. The gentleman addressed him as if he was some cute pet, patted him on the head and ruffled his dirty hair. He took a coin from his pocket and gave it to him.