Indaba, My Children: African Tribal History, Legends, Customs And Religious Beliefs. Vusamazulu Credo Mutwa
blow! Who, then, could the midnight fugitive and murderer be? In the whole of the empire there were now only two people left alive to whom the title of ‘Your Highness’ could be applied. The first of them was, of course, the High Emperor himself; the other was his dead brother’s widow whom I had never seen, but about whom I had heard a lot of fantastic rumours.
The visitor entered the house like a white ghost. Then came the next surprise of that memorable night. Loud shouting in three different voices erupted within our master’s house and the voices were those of our owner himself, his son, and the woman who had been my mother’s mistress. Then the blood-curdling sounds of a murderous sword fight, punctuated by the crash of breaking furniture, reached our shocked ears as we turned and ran to the front to get the long spears we carried when guarding our owner’s house at night. A loud, quavering scream split the night air as we reached the front entrance. Then we heard the voice of my mother’s former mistress shrieking loudly and accusingly:
‘You killed him . . . you killed your own son, you foul murderer! But I am going out to tell the Emperor that you are plotting against him. You false traitor . . . you are trying to play a double game. I shall tell the soldiers you are hiding this bitch in your house!’
The door burst open and the woman came running out, wrapped in a blue cloak, with her hair flying behind her. Our owner was close behind her, bleeding from a cut above one eye. ‘To me, slaves, seize her . . . kill her . . . quick!’
WHAT SECRETS HATH HEAVEN?
For a few moments we hesitated as the female came running towards us. Then we sprang to obey our owner and barred her way just as she reached the gate.
Lubo pushed her violently and she stumbled backwards just as the master drew back his arm and threw his needle-sharp sword with all his might at her back. We heard the thud and the female fell backwards with the blade protruding from her bosom. ‘Your parent has been avenged, Oh Lumukanda,’ whispered Lubo in my ear.
Never before had I seen a night in which so much happened at the same time. Never before had I experienced a night that left so many memories in my mind. By the time we finished our task of burying the two dead Strange Ones and cleaning up the master’s house, dawn was not far away and in fact, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten. Three very tired slaves descended the stone steps leading down to the underground stalls where other slaves were sleeping.
‘Ka-whew!’ said Lubo. ‘Oh my doddering father! What a night we have had!’
‘Be quiet, my son, and sleep,’ said the old man Obu. ‘We shall soon have to get up, so try and get what sleep you can.’
But I could not sleep and dawn found me tossing and writhing in the vermin-infested grass piled on the damp floor of my sleeping stall. My mind was in turmoil and I could not think straight. But uppermost in my seething, troubled mind was the realisation that I was guilty of the worst crime any man can ever commit – the murder of my own parent.
Pictures, clear and astonishingly real, flashed like thunderflashes through my troubled brain: pictures of my childhood and my mother as I remembered her then – the silly sounds she used to make when I cried. But I recalled most clearly the little toy she had made for me out of wood – a puppet I used to play with in my lonely hours. I cried and moaned in incurable agony and remorse. But I knew that no matter how long and how loud I cried I could never, never bring my parent back again. I knew with a terrible finality that whether I lived a short life or a long one, I would carry my guilt to the grave.
I cursed the masters, I cursed the gods and I cursed myself bitterly for what had happened. But always present in the back of my mind was the realisation that all this would never bring my parent back again. I suddenly found myself longing for death.
Morning came and we all crawled out of our sleeping stalls – twenty male and sixteen female slaves in all – and followed Obu to the lake for our morning wash. As I bathed in the living water one of the younger female slaves Luluma waded up to me and laid her small hand on my chest, asking: ‘How do you feel today, Oh Lumukanda?’
‘I wish I were dead, Oh Luluma,’ I replied. ‘I really wish I were dead.’
‘Try and forget, Oh my brother-in-suffering,’ said the girl soothingly. ‘It was not your fault – it was their fault.’
‘I will never forget what happened last night for as long as I live,’ I said. ‘No water on earth can ever wash my parent’s blood off these guilty hands.’
‘Do not judge yourself, Oh Lumukanda. We are the playthings of fate and can never be responsible for all that we do or what happens to us any more than toys are responsible for what the playing child does with them.’
‘The Old Ones tell us there are gods somewhere,’ I said bitterly, ‘but I am afraid these so-called gods are but figments of some . . .’
‘No, Lumukanda!’ cried she. ‘Do not say that.’
‘I shall say what I please,’ I sneered. ‘If there are any gods, or if there is the Great Spirit, why in the name of all that is foul and rotten do they let such things happen to human beings? Why are we slaves and the Strange Ones our masters? Why is there so much misery, murder, theft and strife under the sun? I dare any of those non-existent, imaginary, somnolent, gods-so-called to . . . to . . .’
‘Lumukanda!’ gasped the girl. ‘You are blaspheming. You might regret your words one day.’
And she was right.
After finishing our morning wash we followed the old man Obu into the master’s house to present ourselves and to do obeisance before him as was the custom amongst slaves. As we entered the master’s great hall we found him sitting on his great couch with his two young concubines, one on either side. But there was also someone else with them in the hall, someone who did not belong there at all – who was a total and unusual and frightening stranger. This was a tall, well-moulded beautiful woman whose skin was almost as dark as my own and who looked like the daughter of a Strange One and a Black woman. This woman wore a tight-fitting garment that reached from her midriff to her ankles. On her arms and forearms she wore heavy, broad and skilfully engraved gold bracelets while around her shoulders she wore a great white cloak made of a woven, shiny material. Around her head she wore a broad golden band and she looked at the world through a pair of deep-set glittering eyes with lashes as long as the first joint of a man’s thumb.
I realised with a shock that she was the white-clad one whom we had seen the night before, climbing over the garden wall. So this was the sorceress – the feared witch Kadesi-Makira – the dreaded opponent of the Emperor Karesu!
From where she sat in the far corner of the hall she flayed us with her pitiless stare as we filed past our master and briefly prostrated ourselves before him and his concubines.
My turn came and I fell on my knees before our owner and crossed my forearms before my face as was the custom. Then I stood up and turned to go.
‘Wait!’
That one single command stung the silent hall like a slave-trainer’s whip-stroke and all eyes turned to the white-clad dark woman who had uttered it.
‘Where did you get that slave?’ she demanded of our master.
‘Your Highness?’
‘I asked you, where did you get that slave?’
‘I bought him as a pup, Oh Great One,’ he replied humbly. ‘Does your Highness know this slave from somewhere?’
‘No,’ said she grimly, ‘I have never seen the dog before in real life. But I do know what you must do to him immediately. Kill him!’
‘Kill him, your Highness?’ gasped my owner. ‘Pray why? He is my favourite fighting slave – he has won many prizes . . .’
‘Fool . . . fool, what a fool you are!’ cried Makira, rising to her