The Female Elephant was beginning to show her age, and Shaka was terrified by the possibility that one day she might die, so he tended her lovingly, and once when she caught something in her eye and could not dislodge it, she began to wail so loudly that messengers were sent for the king, and when he found her in despair, he summoned all his herbalists, but before they arrived, Thetiwe, whose regiment barracked nearby, was called to the queen’s hut, and with the deftness she exhibited on so many occasions, extracted the thorn-tip which had tormented the queen. Nandi was ecstatic, and told her son, ‘There’s a splendid woman. I’ve waited all these years for you to give me a grandson. There’s the one.’
When Shaka studied his young military leader he saw quickly that his mother was right, and this frightened him, for he did not want a Paramount Wife nor did he want any children by one. On both accounts his thinking was clear and accurate. A king, when he was making his way, could have as many wives as he wished; Shaka had twelve hundred now. And with them he could have as many children as he was capable of siring; some chiefs had sixty or more. But none of this counted; the early mothers had no special standing, for among the Zulu there was no primogeniture.
What a prudent king did was wait till his reign had been securely established; then he carefully chose from some family that could assist him in time of trouble a young woman of proved stability. She became his Paramount Wife, acknowledged by all others, and her sons stood in line to inherit the kingdom. And that’s where the trouble came, for in Zululand princes killed kings.
So as soon as the Female Elephant announced that she had selected Thetiwe to be this Paramount Wife, Shaka bowed, backed out the door of his mother’s kraal, and had Nxumalo summoned: ‘Didn’t you tell me that you fancied the girl Thetiwe, of the women’s regiment?’
‘I did.’
‘You’re to marry her this afternoon.’
‘Mighty Lion, I haven’t cattle enough to pay lobola for such a woman.’
‘I give you three hundred cattle.’
‘But her family …’
‘I will command her family to approve. Now!’
Hasty and flimsy arrangements were made on the spot, and before the Female Elephant could protest, a wedding was arranged. The king himself officiated, and when the witch doctors had shaken their matted locks and rattled their dried gall bladders, blessings were said and the surprised couple were married. Then, to spirit them away from Nandi’s wrath, they were sent north to conduct a negotiation which would determine the future course of their lives.
Their quarry was Mzilikazi of the Kumalo clan, an extraordinary young commander who even now, at the youthful age of twenty-seven, was betraying signs of challenging Shaka. This Mzilikazi had refused to send Shaka three thousand cattle captured in his raids, and twice he had rebuffed emissaries sent to collect them. Now Nxumalo and Thetiwe, armed with plenipotentiary powers and one hundred warriors, went to recover the cattle.
They found Mzilikazi at his unpretentious kraal in the northern forests, and when they saw him they simply could not believe that this reticent, whisper-speaking young warrior would dare antagonize the King of the Zulu. But that was the case. Bowing in servility, the young leader extended every hospitality to his guests, but no cattle. Whenever Nxumalo raised the question of the cattle—‘The lion grows impatient, Mzilikazi, and he wants to eat’—the young leader smiled, blinked his hooded eyes, and did nothing.
They stayed with him for two weeks, and the more they saw, the more impressed they became. One night, upon retiring, Nxumalo made a final threat—‘If we don’t take the cattle home with us, Mzilikazi, the regiments will come north’—and when he wakened next morning he found that all his men had been surrounded by the commander’s warriors and were immobilized.
Mzilikazi ruled wisely and with a minimum of passion. He was so considerate of his subjects that he kept about him no gang of assassins to inflict his will. No rhinoceros whips were allowed to sting his cattle; supple reeds from the river had to be used. In all things he was gentle: speech, movement, the giving of orders, his manner of dress, his love of singing. He was so utterly different from Shaka that whenever Nxumalo looked at him he thought: How pleasant it would be for a warrior to serve in the retinue of this noble man.
But in the end Nxumalo and Thetiwe returned home without a single cow. At the final meeting Mzilikazi said in his silken way, ‘Tell Shaka not to waste his energies sending for the cattle. They will never be released.’
Nxumalo knew that he was obligated to resist such arrogance, but he said, without raising his voice, ‘Then you must build high fences of thorn to protect them.’
And Mzilikazi replied, ‘The love my people bear me is my fence of thorn.’
When Shaka heard of this insolence he ordered his regiments to assemble, and within the week Nxumalo was at the head of his iziCwe marching right back to Mzilikazi’s kraals. The siege was short … and bloody, but the boy-general with the quiet manners escaped in some safe direction that could not be detected.
Now the beneficial results of Shaka’s approach to government manifested themselves. An area larger than many European nations, which had festered for centuries in petty anarchy, became a unit, orderly and prosperous. The two hundred tribal loyalties which had previously rendered sensible action impossible were now melded into one, and families that two decades ago had not even heard the word Zulu now proudly proclaimed themselves as such. Whatever new triumph Shaka attained brought a shared glory to them, so that what had begun as a small clan of thirteen hundred Zulu was magically transformed by his genius into a powerful nation of half a million.
Order reigned in the land, and advancement was open to even the latest convert to the Zulu cause. A boy from the Sixolobo tribe entering his Zulu regiment at fourteen had just as fair a chance of becoming its commander as did any son of a distinguished Zulu family. In fact, by the time he was fifteen, with a year’s training behind him, he was a Zulu, and no one ever again referred to him as a Sixolobo. And such citizenship was not reserved for the young; this boy’s parents could come into Shaka’s court and demand justice the same as anyone else, and his sisters could enter the kraals as wives to men who were born Zulu.
Peace also prevailed, and the central kraals along the Umfolozi River would pass years without experiencing attack, so that Shaka’s name became revered throughout his kingdom. Citizens cheered when he appeared, waited on his commands, and were gratified with the benefits he brought them.
Nxumalo, for example, had scores of reasons for loving his powerful friend. He had already served as general of the finest regiment and as plenipotentiary in arranging peace with outlying clans. In 1826 Shaka gave further proof of his affection for the man who served him so well.
‘Nxumalo, you must come to my kraal,’ the king said, and when they reached the sacred area two beautiful Zulu girls were waiting. ‘These are your brides,’ Shaka said, ordering the seventeen-year-old girls forward.
‘This time, Mighty Lion, I have the cattle to pay for them.’
‘Their parents have already received their lobola … from me.’
‘I am most grateful.’ It was a considerate thing Shaka had done, for in Zulu custom a husband was not permitted to go near his first wife, or any other for that matter, so long as she was pregnant or nursing a baby, and since she continued to nurse till the child was four and a half, this meant that the man was without sexual affection for about five years at a stretch. The problem was solved by allowing the man to take multiple wives, always supposing that he could pay for them in cattle, because this meant that as one wife after another became pregnant, there would be replacements, and one of the standard jokes in Zulu regiments dealt with the fiery commander who had seven wives, all pregnant at the same time: ‘He might as well have been unmarried.’ Now that Thetiwe had a baby, it was helpful to her for Nxumalo to take additional wives; Nxumalo, on his part, was made additionally beholden to his king.
But in a wonderfully subtle and correc
tive way Nxumalo’s good fortune was beginning to produce its own penalties, for an ancient black tradition had been amended to provide a clever strategy for leveling society and cutting off any upstart whose popularity and power might begin to threaten the king’s. This was the smelling-out ritual; now when the witch-seekers coursed through the crowd, they were identifying those subversive persons whose removal would purify the tribe.
A smelling-out was conducted on sound psychological principles: as the witch-seekers with their gall bladders, snake skeletons and wildebeest tails dashed through the assembly, the crowd uttered the low, throbbing sound of a thousand voices moaning. If the seekers approached someone who by common consent ought to be removed from society, the humming increased to an audible roar, assuring the seekers that this man’s death would be popular. In this way Zulu society cleansed itself. With subtle tactic it announced a consensus that was immediately enforced, for as soon as the witch-seekers nominated a man by waving their wildebeest tails in his face, he was grabbed, bent double, and destroyed with four bamboo skewers.
Nxumalo, as he accumulated fresh proofs of the king’s favor, realized that he was moving into the realm of danger when the witch-seekers could mysteriously decide that the Zulu had had just about enough of him. Rumors were already circulating: ‘Nxumalo? He came from nowhere. Connived against better men to win leadership of the iziCwe. Failed in his mission to Mzilikazi. Now has more cattle than a man should dream of owning. Nxumalo, like the white stork, flies too high.’ So now whenever the Zulu were summoned for the next batch of removals, he began to sweat, appreciating like an ancient philosopher the transient nature of human glory.
In spite of this encroaching danger, he was needed by the Zulu, for although Shaka’s system was well-nigh perfect, it had one self-destroying weakness: if a nation is totally geared to the waging of war, it had better ensure that war keeps occurring somewhere; and if incessant warfare is the rule, then trusted leaders like Nxumalo are essential. Every improvement that Shaka made obligated him to seek opponents against whom to test it, for he dared not allow his war machine to rest. It had to be housed and fed and armed with iron-tipped assegais: whole communities did nothing but forge iron; others spent their days fabricating stinkwood shafts.
So, like the emperors of Rome dispatching their legions to the far frontiers in search of new enemies, Shaka sent his regiments to distant valleys, where tribes that had committed no offense found themselves surrounded. And because Zulu warriors needed constant practice with their stabbing assegais, they collected few prisoners, but many cattle and women. This increased the wealth of the victors but not their stability, and many men discovered that as they acquired more cattle and wives, they also acquired the enmity of their friends. Many a prospering Zulu who was nominated by the witch-seekers wondered as he died in skewered agony how it all happened. War threw men upward, but the moaning of the populace dragged them back down.
It was in 1826, when Hilary and Emma Saltwood were entering Salisbury to visit his mother, that Shaka became acutely aware that he, too, formed part of this vast, impersonal process of advance and decline. He did not have to fear the diviners, for they were his agents; by subtle means he indicated whom he wanted them to remove, so that the leadership of the kingdom would always remain at a dead level, with no new heads rising suddenly above the multitude. What did threaten him, and all men, was the inexorable passing of time, the loss of a tooth now and then, the death of an uncle, the sad, sad wasting away of a man’s life. Diviners were the enemy of Nxumalo; time, the enemy of Shaka.
By now a set of daring British traders had settled on the coast well to the south of Zululand, and among them was a tough, ingratiating Irish-Englishman named Henry Francis Fynn, a man whose personal courage equaled his brazen ingenuity. He introduced Shaka to Western ways, instructed him regarding the powers of the English king, and doctored his sick followers in the kraals. The extraordinary details of Shaka’s final years might never have been known to the world at large had it not been for the recollections of Fynn, and the colorful journal of an imaginative eighteen-year-old, Nathaniel Isaacs, who had also made his way into the area.
No one will ever know what really went on in the minds of these traders as they observed customs and ancient traditions so utterly alien; their remembered response was clear, though, and in their writings they created the portrait of Shaka, the monster, driven by an unconquerable lust for slaughter:
His eyes evinced his pleasure, his iron heart exulted, his whole frame seemed as if it felt a joyous impulse at seeing the blood of innocent creatures flowing at his feet; his hands grasped, his herculean and muscular limbs exhibiting by their motion a desire to aid in the execution of the victims of his vengeance; in short, he seemed a being in human form with more than the physical capabilities of a man; a giant without reason, a monster created with more than ordinary power and disposition for doing mischief, and from whom we recoil as we would at the serpent’s hiss or the lion’s growl.
Confronted by such a horror, Fynn, Isaacs and the other Europeans who joined them were nevertheless to stay in Shaka’s domain up to four years, unharmed, desperately trying to make money, and conniving constantly to have the British Colonial Office bail them out.
If Fynn and Isaacs were horrified by Shaka’s killings, he was appalled to learn that the British imprisoned their offenders: ‘Nothing could be more cruel than to keep a man lingering, when one swift blow would free him forever.’
But Fynn was a clever man, seeking any chance to gain the approval of the Zulu ruler, and after studying the man, he came up with a brilliant approach: a promise of liquid which prevented hair from turning gray.
‘Yes,’ said Fynn, ‘you rub this magic liquid in your hair, and it never becomes white.’
‘Immortality!’ Shaka cried, demanding to know what this elixir was called.
‘Rowland’s Macassar Oil,’ Fynn said.
‘Have you any?’
‘No, but a year from now, when the trading ship comes in …’
It was a year of anxiety. To all parts of his realm Shaka sent messengers seeking to learn if anyone had Rowland’s Macassar Oil, and his tragic countenance when none was produced alerted Nxumalo to the king’s confused state of mind: ‘If I could live another twenty years … forty … I could have all the land ever seen under my control. Nxumalo, we must find the oil that prevents a man from growing old.’
‘Do you really think there is such a thing?’
‘Yes. The white men know of it. That’s why they have guns and horses. The oil!’
When the oil did not arrive and gray hairs multiplied, Shaka had to face the problem of a successor. He was only forty, with death far off, but as he said to Nxumalo, ‘Look at my mother, how she fades. I don’t want the magic oil for myself. I want it to save her life.’
‘She’s old—’ Nxumalo started to say, hoping to prepare the king for his mother’s eventual death, but Shaka would hear no such words.
In terrible rage he shouted at his aide, ‘Go—leave me! You spoke against the Female Elephant! I’ll kill you with my own hands.’
But two days later Nxumalo was summoned back: ‘Trusted friend, no man can rule forever.’ As Shaka uttered these bitter words tears filled his eyes and he sat with his shoulders heaving, finally regaining enough control to add, ‘If you and I could have another twenty years, we’d bring order to all the lands. We’d even bring the Xhosa into our fold.’ With bitter regret he shook his head, then seemed to discharge his apprehensions: ‘Nxumalo, you must go north again. Find Mzilikazi.’
‘My King, I’ve seen your hatred for this traitor who stole your cattle.’
‘It is so, Nxumalo, but you will take ten men and find him. Bring him to me. For if he rules the north and I the south, together we can protect this land from strangers.’
‘What strangers?’
‘Strangers will always come,’ Shaka said.
Nxumalo’s secret mission involved a long trip into land that n
o Zulu had ever entered, but they were guided toward Mzilikazi by the battered clans who trembled in the wake of the fleeing Kumalo commander, and at the end of a most tiring journey the kraal was located, and in it waited not a regimental commander but a self-proclaimed king.
‘King of what?’ Nxumalo asked.
‘King-of-All-He-Will-See. Is that not enough?’
Nxumalo looked at the eyes still hooded, the face still handsome and delicately brown, but it was the voice that haunted—soft, whispery, extremely gentle, like the man himself: ‘Why should Shaka invite me, an enemy, to his kraal?’
‘Because he needs you. He knows you are the greatest king in the north, as he is in the south.’
‘If I stay here, I’m safe. If I go there …’ He indicated an assegai in his side.
‘No, Shaka needs you.’
‘But I hate battle. I want no more of killing.’ He spoke with such intensity, in that silken voice, that Nxumalo had to believe him, and at the end of six days’ talking it was apparent that Mzilikazi, in many ways as able a king as Shaka, was not going to combine forces with the Zulu.
‘This time, Mzilikazi, no threats from me,’ Nxumalo said.
‘Friends don’t threaten each other. But because I know that you will listen to my reasoning I have a gift for you. Look!’ And when the lion skins decorating his kraal—an indulgence Shaka would never have permitted—were parted, there stood a lissome girl of twenty prepared to go with Nxumalo as a gift.
‘Shaka will think that you gave me that present because I did not argue diligently.’
‘Shaka knew I would not join the Zulu. He’ll understand the gift,’ said Mzilikazi, and while Nxumalo stood next to the attractive girl he studied this strange king, so different from his own. Shaka was tall, iron-hard and lean; Mzilikazi seemed to be getting fat and soft. When Shaka spoke the earth seemed to cringe in obedience, but Mzilikazi smiled much more than he frowned and his voice never rose in anger. Furthermore, Shaka was a brilliant but violent man, somewhat distant even to his friends, while Mzilikazi was frank and open to all, a man who seemed always to do the right thing. He was much too clever to be trapped by the great King of the Zulu, and told Nxumalo, as the latter started south with his fourth bride, Nonsizi, ‘We shall not meet again, Nxumalo. But I shall always remember you as a man of good heart. Tell Shaka that the conversations are ended. I shall move far from his reach.’