by Zakes Mda
But soon the White member of the group found himself taking the lead in negotiating deals because the White promoters and impresarios would talk only to a fellow White. By the time the group woke up to the fact, Slaw was the dealmaker and decision maker. He was regarded as the master and the Zulus as the servants.
He often forgot and carried himself like a master. Only Em-Pee called him to order occasionally and reminded him of his true station.
Whereas Slaw spends most of the time dealing with administrative issues, Em-Pee’s creative decisions usually carry the day. For instance, the Genu-Wine Zulus distinguish themselves from all the other Zulus of New York by their performances, which are based on authentic Zulu dances such as isishameni from the Msinga area of kwaZulu, isizingili from the southern coastal areas, and khwenxa from uKhahlamba region. All these dances are graceful to watch and have a deep cultural meaning, especially to Em-Pee, who used to be much admired by the maidens for being a nimble dancer. The dancers perform in unison in formations, with rhythmic foot-stomping to the song they sing themselves. Occasionally a dancer breaks out into a solo, kicking his legs up high and then throwing himself to the ground. The performers try very hard to be different from the deadly Zulus of Farini’s creation. They smile a lot, and exchange friendly banter with spectators, led by Slaw, who passes for an impresario.
Their greatest difficulty is in booking venues. They perform often at the small clubs in the Tenderloin, competing with blackface banjo-strumming White men passing for Zulu, and with strippers, revues and sundry vaudeville acts. When they have failed to hire a venue or to be hired by a club, they busk in the street. Em-Pee’s dream is that one day they will hit the big time and perform at Madison Square Garden.
But Slaw is not a skilled impresario and does not know how to negotiate with promoters and venue owners. Often, they don’t take him seriously; he is puny and not that well groomed. He has taken to wearing a bowler hat and smoking a cigar to look more important. His accent helps him with those Americans who associate British accents with class and erudition but betrays him to those who are well travelled and notice that it is peppered with too much street argot.
When Em-Pee is sent by his mates to scout for venues, he goes to admire the Dinka Princess instead. Work suffers. His mates are worried about him, though none of them is aware of his new pastime.
Recently a stroke of luck took the Genu-Wine Zulus to a performance venue in Hartford, Connecticut. They were away for eight days, and Em-Pee couldn’t visit the Dinka Princess for that long. Hence her disapproving gaze today. He is certain he is not imagining it. In fact, it is not just a disapproving gaze that welcomes him when he stands in front of the cage after elbowing his way confidently through the crowd with a lot of ‘excuse me’s, pretending to be a labourer who has something to do at the cage. He sees a flash of anger in her eyes, accompanied by a twitch of her lips. He shapes his mouth into ‘I’m sorry’. He has no idea what he is sorry about.
Her eyes become softer and playful. Then they become glassy with unshed tears. His become glassy too, but he is unable to imprison the tears in his eyes. They drop down his cheeks one by one. He is embarrassed. He tries to hide his face as he rubs them away with the back of his hand. She breaks into a smile. And a tiny tinny giggle. The spectators have never seen this before. They have never heard a single sound uttered from her lips. They all sigh in unison and exclaim, ‘Aah!’ Their heads turn from side to side, attempting to see what could have caused this unheard-of occurrence. None of them can see Em-Pee. He is invisible. So are his tears.
He is ashamed of himself. He is also angry with her for making him cry in public. He pushes his way out of the crowd and runs out of the park and down Broadway into the inner Tenderloin. He catches a coach to the Black Bull, an English pub on the Bowery.
Slaw is at the bar, puffing on a cigar.
‘Maybe we should just give this up, guv, and go back to Farini,’ says Slaw before Em-Pee even pulls up a stool.
‘He said we burned our bridges when we left him,’ says Em-Pee.
‘We can beg him to take us back. I know how to beg.’
‘Yeah, you mastered that on the streets of London. But I’m no beggar. I am a Zulu, son of Mavovo. I haven’t come to America to beg anyone.’
‘But your heart is no longer on this, guv,’ says Slaw.
‘If you got us good venues my heart would be in it.’
‘If you stopped all this nonsense of friendly Zulus we would be popular again. We used to make a lot of money when you guys were savages. All of a sudden you’re too hoity-toity to be a savage.’
This kind of debate has become heated lately, with the other members of the troupe supporting Slaw’s view that the Genu-Wine Zulus will only reclaim their glory if they perform dances that are menacing. As they did when they were with The Great Farini, who was not called great for nothing, they should demonstrate how they slaughtered White men at Isandlwana and curdle the spectators’ blood by pretending to attack them with assegais. The orderly dances that are beautifully choreographed and reflect the true culture of the Zulus do not put bread on the table. Americans want to see savages, not some namby-pamby Zulus who are all smiles and kiss babies.
‘Remember Farini’s Friendly Zulus?’ asks Em-Pee. ‘They worked in London, they can work here too.’
‘They worked only for a while, but people lost interest in them. People want blood. Horror is the thing these days.’
‘Vaudeville is doing great, yet they don’t frighten anybody. Instead they make their audiences laugh. We can do the same; we can create joy and laughter.’
‘You’re Zulus, not vaudeville. In vaudeville, audiences laugh with the comedians. Who wants to laugh with the Zulus? Folks would rather laugh at you, not with you. That’s what pays the bills.’
The argument always goes back to Davis. Almost two years ago the Genu-Wine Zulus had sent Em-Pee to watch The Wild Zulu presented at Longacre Square by the impresario Davis. The hope was that the Genu-Wine Zulus would get a few lessons on how to make their show as popular as Davis. Staged outdoors, without paying exorbitant venue fees, his shows were garnering even upper-crust audiences who otherwise would be in concert halls and opera houses. Slaw had consulted Davis who, for a small fee, had agreed to give them a few tips on how to change the focus of their dwindling business into a going concern.
However, after watching The Wild Zulu eat raw meat and perform savagery in the most disgusting manner, Em-Pee put his foot down that the Genu-Wine Zulus would keep to their authentic Zuluness.
Things are getting worse for the Genu-Wine Zulus. Perhaps Em-Pee will now change his mind and do the sensible thing, thinks Slaw.
‘I think we should go back to Davis,’ says Slaw.
‘I’m not going to eat raw meat,’ says Em-Pee. ‘None of my people will. You can eat raw meat, Slaw, if you have the taste for it.’
‘But I’m not a Zulu, Em-Pee, otherwise I would eat it. We must follow Davis’s advice if we want to survive. Maybe even go for a partnership with him. He told us Americans ain’t no pussies. They want action. Maybe we can think of some interesting savage action, even if it’s not eating raw meat.’
This quarrel follows Em-Pee home. This time with Aoife, who has become increasingly impatient with him. Em-Pee is not bringing home much money; they have to survive on what she earns from her discordant singing stints, which are now becoming old with the audiences and the calls are few and far between.
‘I must present my people with dignity,’ he tells Aoife.
‘We cannot eat dignity,’ she says.
The following week Aoife runs away with the circus, doing minstrelsy singing of what she claims are Zulu songs and some clowning for the kids.
Em-Pee is stuck with Mavo. He toys with the idea of finding his way back home. But what is he going to do with a kid who looks so white in kwaZulu? He recalls that there were kids like that in his country. Mavo would not be out of place. John Dunn had made numerous Mulatto kids with hi
s Zulu wives.
5
New York City – December 1886
The Snow Princess
Snow piles up on the sidewalks and pavements as Em-Pee trudges towards Madison Square Park. His boots leave a trail of prints that quickly fill up. She will not be there; he knows that already. It would be foolish of him to expect her to be there in this kind of weather. Though owners of human curiosities are a greedy lot, they would not be so inhuman as to expose their meal tickets to such inclement conditions. They would not even expect paying customers to brave the cold just to ogle a pygmy or a Dinka woman. Except, perhaps, the White men in stylish suits who he has observed masturbating covertly under their broad capes to this hapless caged woman. Even under the patchwork of furs that she wears in even the hottest of summers, she would be frostbitten to death today.
He knows all this, yet he goes. He needs his fix. Just to gaze at her. Or at the spot where the wagon with her cage would have been parked. Unlike the masturbating men, there is nothing perverse in his obsession. Just a gaze and he will be satisfied. He has been coming to Madison Square Park for the past seventeen months just for the gaze. He has never thought of her in any sexual manner. He wonders if he even sees her as a woman. Maybe as a child. Or just a marvel.
Of course, she is not there. No cages of human curiosities, no men and women leering, no exotic creatures of South American jungles, no dog-walkers. Only trees, shrubs and benches dressed in the white that has transformed them into phenomenal monsters.
He is not disappointed. At least he tried. One day she will know that he made an effort to see her even when he knew she would not be there. The attempt itself is satisfaction enough. Hopefully it will be satisfaction to her too, when she gets to know of it. Perhaps she knows already. She has this habit of scrutinising him with an all-knowing eye whenever he comes after an absence of a few days. As if she is saying, I know where you’ve been; I was there with you in spirit.
He must return home before it gets dark. Must arrive there before Mavo. He gave him permission to shovel snow in the neighbourhood for a few coins. He worries about Mavo. If Em-Pee had already performed amasiko rituals to fortify him for the world out there, he wouldn’t be so perturbed.
Em-Pee is obsessed with the idea of taking Mavo to the old country – that’s what he calls kwaZulu, after the Irish circus folk who call Ireland that – to introduce him to the ancestors. He does not know when that will be or how it will be achieved. In the meantime, he teaches him all he knows about reading and writing, and about the story of his people. He is wary of sending him to the Five Points Mission, an institution that provides aid to the destitute, holds literacy classes for their children, and attempts to convert the stubborn Irish Catholics to Methodism on Sundays. Or back to the Five Points House of Industry, just across from the mission, where he had been a pupil until he absconded.
Em-Pee used to take Mavo to the House of Industry in the morning, go to gaze at the Dinka Princess, and then pick him up in the afternoon. Sometimes, on the few occasions Em-Pee was performing with the Friendly Zulus, Mavo would be the only child waiting on the steps of the mission building long after the others had gone home. Each day Em-Pee was torn between his parental duties as a single father, his commitment to gazing at the Dinka Princess, and his obligations to the Friendly Zulus.
He had finally managed to convince his partners to call the troupe that instead of the Genu-Wine Zulus. Slaw and the other partners had resisted because friendliness was not paying the bills, and the name was clearly stolen from The Great Farini. Em-Pee stood his ground; The Great Farini did not own the name and had no copyright on it. He, on the other hand, was an authentic Zulu who was also very friendly, as all the troupe members could vouch, and was more entitled to the name than a White man from Canada. It also helped that some folks laughed at the name Genu-Wine Zulus. It was a fake name, they said, reflecting the fakeness of the performers.
‘Ain’t nothing genuine about Genu-Wine Zulus,’ prospective spectators said.
Darkness had already fallen one day when he arrived at the House of Industry, and Mavo was nowhere to be seen. Em-Pee hoped he was in the building with the children who were resident there and were being taken care of by the institution. But the caretakers had last seen him when he came to eat his meal of bread and gruel, and then left to wait outside for his father.
Em-Pee prayed that Aoife, wherever she was travelling in the circus train, would not discover that he had lost their son. He searched the streets and alleys of Five Points every day, enquiring of hoboes and homeless kids if they had seen Mavo. They had, of course, seen many Mavos and would not have had any idea which one was his. The streets of Five Points were littered with Mavos.
Nevertheless, he continued to visit Madison Square Park to gaze at the woman in a cage.
After two weeks, he heard from women neighbours who knew Aoife that Mavo had been seen with a group of Street Arabs hawking newspapers on one occasion, and blacking shoes at Park Row on another. Em-Pee went there but did not find him. He did not give up. He spent hours gazing at the woman by day, and searching alleys known to be frequented by Street Arabs by night. Once he was chased by the New York Metropolitan Police, who suspected he was a mischief-maker.
A few days later two men from the Children’s Aid Society came knocking at Em-Pee’s tenement, one of them holding Mavo by the scruff of the neck as if he were a criminal. He had been spending his nights at a home for orphan newsboys and bootblacks run by the society. They took care of him, thinking he was an orphan or a homeless kid like the rest. It was only recently that he told them he had a father and a mother right there at Five Points. They did not believe him, but took a chance and brought him in case he was telling the truth.
‘You done beat up this boy,’ said one of them. ‘He told us his dad is a Zulu.’
‘No, I did no such thing,’ said Em-Pee. ‘I am a working man and went to fetch him at the House of Industry but he was gone.’
‘Your papa works so hard for you and you run with Street Arabs?’
‘He hates me,’ screamed Mavo. ‘My mama hates me too. She left me with him, and he don’t care nothing and is gone all day long.’
This, to Em-Pee, was like an assegai ripping his diaphragm. But he is a Zulu warrior. He must pretend to be unscathed by tenderness.
‘You’re a Zulu man, all of six years old. You must be tough,’ said Em-Pee. He turned to the men. ‘I must work. He can’t run away with Street Arabs every time I am late picking him up. He must be tough. In the old country, boys his age look after goats already.’
‘This ain’t no old country,’ said one of the men. ‘Ain’t no goats here. Only pigs roaming the streets.’
‘Your papa has to work for you, boy,’ said the second man. ‘You lucky you have a papa who works himself to the bone for you.’
‘I work for myself,’ said Mavo, taking some coins from his pocket and showing them to the men. ‘I don’t need nobody to work for me. I work for myself.’
The man advised Em-Pee to arrange with one of the lodging houses run by the Children’s Aid Society to look after Mavo when he was working. There he would get a warm meal and a warm bed and would be taught a trade to boot.
* * *
Snow has stopped falling, but Em-Pee does not bother brushing off the pile on his cap and frock coat. He stands by the entrance to the park for a while, debating whether or not he should take a horsecar. They may or may not allow him inside, depending on the kindness of the conductor. In this kind of weather, he is not inclined to ride on the exterior platform at the rear of the car or upfront with the horses.
The mood of some of those conductors who allowed Black folk inside the car, provided there was no objection from the White passengers, has changed so much lately – ever since newspapers have been publishing horror stories of uppity Negroes who are talking of equality. Worse still, when they hear his voice they know immediately he is a foreigner.
They always ask, ‘You have an accent,
where are you from?’ When he tells them he is a Zulu, an authentic one, some turn their noses the other way. To many White folk, Zulus are no longer the heroes they used to be, thanks to Black and White American charlatans who populate the streets in the guise of Zulus.
Even the New York Times recently complained of the wild behaviour of Arab, Turkish and Zulu performers who were accused of commandeering a train on their way to a fair in Chicago after some dispute with their impresario. The paper accused the business people who brought these natives of ‘picking up in Cairo, Constantinople and Cape Town the cheapest and dirtiest Arabs, Turks and Zulus they could find’. Although these events happened in Illinois, some White New Yorkers look at these foreigners with suspicion and would be wary of sitting next to one in a streetcar.
He walks slowly on a recently shovelled sidewalk past the rows of brownstone mansions of the upper-crust Manhattanites in the Madison Square Park neighbourhood. His thoughts have drifted to the business. He wonders if Slaw and the other partners will agree to relocate to another city, since Zulus are losing their shine in New York. The Midwest may be thrilled by the graceful dance of a different breed of Zulus – the Friendly Zulus. There are many county and state fairs that would be enriched culturally by their performances.
And there she is, sitting in the middle of a flight of steps leading to the ornate door of a brownstone mansion. At first he thinks she is an apparition. But as he walks closer he decides she cannot but be real. She holds a black and brown box that he cannot make out and is looking intently into it. She raises her head, and as soon as she sees him she points the box at him. He is confused for a while and just stands there staring at her. She is peering at the box. He walks towards the stairs.