Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  “Maidens beware.”

  “You wound me. But continue.”

  “No, no…,” Kai protested halfheartedly. “I wouldn’t want to offend your ears.”

  “It is my other parts that seem most affected.”

  “An answer, then, to my earlier query. Nandi is … something very different, from either Lamiya or Sophia. I think she may frighten me a bit.”

  “Then, my son, you have found a woman indeed.”

  “She makes love the way she rides a horse. She commits all, holding nothing in reserve.”

  “If that is true, you have nothing to fear. There is little room for dissembling in such a woman.”

  “But I cannot tell her my true mind.…”

  “Thereby creating the room for her own dishonesty.” Babatunde sighed, but managed a comforting smile as well. “You have dug yourself a deep hole, young Wakil. I pray you will not have to sleep in it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The shores of Lake A’zam had begun to resemble a Bedouin camp. The Dahomy were lodged southwest of the great house, and Nandi; her mother, Munji; and her retinue were welcomed into great billowing tents southeast near the public gardens. There they would remain until the wedding, at which time the Zulu princess would move into her new rooms.

  After she had refreshed herself, attendants escorted Nandi to Dar Kush’s main door, where Lamiya met her with arms outstretched.

  “Welcome to my home,” Lamiya said. “Soon to be yours. I ask that you accept me as a sister.”

  “It is my heart’s wish,” Nandi said from behind her golden mask. She stepped forward. IziLomo’s ears perked up, but at a subtle, fluttering hand command, the hound remained seated, although he watched the humans carefully, as if searching for signs of treachery.

  Nandi and Lamiya hugged, the Zulu girl taller by three or four digits.

  Munji smiled with obvious pleasure. “It will be my pleasure to bring you into the company of my daughters. I know they would welcome you.”

  Lamiya motioned to her servants. “I know you have sufficient retinue to manage your affairs. We have made room in the house and also an encampment by the lake. It is quite comfortable.”

  Lamiya escorted Nandi to her new quarters. Although most of the human servants and attendants were shown to their temporary dwellings, Nandi’s mother and canine companion went, with her. IziLomo padded quietly behind them as they walked up the central staircase to the second floor. Lamiya’s room had once been Abu Ali’s, in the northeast corner of the house, as Kai’s was at the northwest. Nandi’s room had been brother Ali’s, in the southeast corner of the second floor. It was spacious but rather barren, currently occupied by only a bed, empty dressers, and a bureau drawer. Of course, all of its appointments would be modified, added to, or replaced at Nandi’s whim.

  “You may keep as many of your belongings here as you wish,” Lamiya said.

  “Thank you,” Nandi replied. “But until the wedding, I will remain in the tent city with my mother and guardians.” She scratched IziLomo behind the ear as she said this. The dog pressed his head against her thigh in response, and panted. And watched.

  “I understand,” said Lamiya. “But you may wish to begin your decoration or restructuring.”

  “You are very kind.” She turned to Lamiya. “We two must come to terms, must be able to communicate directly. It is best you know quickly that I speak my mind, and have little patience for protocol over honesty.”

  “It is not necessary for these two things to be in conflict,” said Lamiya. “However, if ever they are, please know that I would prefer honesty over false courtesies of any kind.”

  “Well said. Then I will take you at your word and speak plainly: men have been known to play wives against each other. We both know that we are here to knit empires and nations together.”

  Lamiya inclined her head. “Although a feqer näfs, I know that among the gentry, marriages are more often matters of the head than the heart.”

  “How, then,” asked Nandi, “can we be sisters?” She reached up and undid the golden mesh concealing her face. “How then, can I remove my mask?”

  Lamiya faced her prospective co-wife squarely, evaluating with great care. “It is my understanding that the Zulus desire nothing contrary to the wishes and needs of the Empress. Is that your understanding?”

  “Indeed. We seek a homeland. My marriage to the Wakil is seen as a step in that direction.”

  “Then there is no conflict between us.”

  “To the degree that we can trust each other’s words, no,” Nandi agreed. “None.”

  “Then all that remains is time. In time, we will find common ground, and learn to trust, if that is what we both desire.”

  “Yes. I am certain that is true. If it is what we both desire.”

  They exchanged a wary smile—perhaps the first genuine one since Nandi’s arrival.

  “I will leave you now,” said Lamiya, then bowed and retreated with Bitta.

  When they had walked far enough down the hall to be out of earshot, Lamiya asked, “What do you think?”

  Bitta made a brief, sharp series of motions. She will speak honestly, in her way, she signed. If she seeks to displace you as First, it will be by winning Kai’s heart. She will not risk the Empress’s wrath—unless she believes that the Immortal One will pay no heed to your destruction.

  Lamiya chuckled. “If her sense of honor is as yours, I need not fear. I do not know the Zulu well. I sense that in coming weeks, that gap in my education will be filled.”

  Nandi closed the door to her room and spent the next few minutes examining the room’s furnishings. She was a long way from home, and despite the presence of IziLomo, her mother, and the accompanying entourage, she had never felt so alone in her entire life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  12 Dhu’l-Qa’dah A.H. 1294

  (Sunday, November 18, 1877)

  Nandi had waited a decade for her marriage, but in some ways the final thirty-six hours at Dar Kush were the hardest to bear. Despite her fear that time itself might die, the time of joining did indeed finally arrive.

  Despite its delayed beginnings it promised to be a memorable affair, attracting celebrants from hundreds of miles around.

  Some of them noted the pomp and were impressed. Others considered such an affair ostentatious. After all, they reasoned, no such elaborate ceremony had attended the Wakil’s first wedding.

  Indeed, the Empress had never formally acknowledged the marriage, sending no representative, or present, or anything at all save a terse note wishing her niece health and happiness. The Wakil, mindful of Lamiya’s feelings, had attempted to mount a suitable wedding, but expenditure is not the same as enthusiasm: the nuptials had been imposing, but not impressive.

  This Zulu affair, on the other hand, was another matter altogether. The guests were vetted by a combination of Kai’s personal guard, his regiment, and the Dahomy women, all in full regalia. Musicians culled from the finest in New Djibouti played in a half dozen locations around the grounds, and servants circulated constantly with plates of confections and bite-sized morsels of lamb and buffalo.

  By complex negotiation, it had been agreed that there would be two ceremonies, one bonding in the manner prescribed by the Prophet, and the other conforming to the way of the Zulu.

  During the nikah, the Muslim wedding ceremony, the guests crowded into Dar Kush’s main indoor garden as Kai and Nandi took their place before Babatunde. There were witnesses from Djibouti Harbor and Radama, but most were local friends, or members of Djibouti Pride. There were also a few pale faces, Aidan’s among them, standing with a clutch of servants honored to witness the proceedings.

  Nandi’s face was obscured by the golden mask. Gazing upon it, Kai realized he had not seen his new wife’s face in more than three years. Babatunde began the ceremony. “Do you, Nandi kaSenzangakhona, wish to be married to this man, to assume the responsibilities of his household, to be his friend and companion, and t
o uphold his honor?”

  “Yes,” she said, voice clear despite the golden mesh. “I so desire.”

  The Yoruba turned to his student. “And do you, Kai ibn Jallaleddin ibn Rashid al Kushi, wish to be married to this woman, to take her into your household with all the responsibilities and privileges that entails, to be her friend and companion, and to protect her honor with your life?”

  “Yes, I so wish.”

  “Then may the two of you live your days in peace and contentment under the sky, upon the earth, and in the eyes of Allah. You are now man and wife.”

  He turned to the guests and pronounced, “I marry this man and woman.” Babatunde turned to the left side of the garden. “I marry this man and woman,” he repeated, and then turned right. “I marry this man and woman,” he said for the third and final time, and in that manner, Allah came to smile upon their union.

  In every way, the Zulu ceremony was more complex and challenging.

  It began almost an hour after the Islamic ritual, and during those sixty minutes, the roads leading to Dar Kush streamed with arriving guests.

  “It is hard to believe that no formal invitations were ever sent,” Kai said to his teacher.

  “Word of mouth, Kai—and the command of Cetshwayo. In a Zulu community, everyone wants to be involved in an indwendwe.”

  “Indwendwe?”

  “Wedding.” Babatunde clucked. “Best learn your new bride’s language.”

  Swarms of Zulus, as well as locals temporarily adopting their customs, crowded the gate, dancing and singing joyously.

  Everywhere he looked, Zulus indulged in ancient dances, swirling and capering. Whenever two drew close together, they seemed to automatically coordinate as if they had practiced for weeks. Then they separated and found other partners or pairings, and the exact same phenomenon reoccurred.

  He felt their call, knew again for the first time why the Zulus were so loved and feared: they were not Bilalian, but were in some ways the very spirit of Bilalistan. They refused to abandon their dream of a separate empire, yet were in war and science the very finest of citizens. They were infidels who had been the first to march to the defense of the mosque.

  They were still a mystery to him, and Kai felt he was about to embark on the journey of his life.

  In glittering rows, Zulu warriors twirled sticks and spears, chanting as they danced their way in. They dressed representing clans and families rather than towns or cities. They wore kilts, sandals, short jackets festooned with cow or lion tails. Some carried rifles and spears in a sort of honor guard, all metal finishes gleaming.

  The unmarried Dahomy women evaluated the fine young Zulu warriors with interest. Kai’s men watched, growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  “How many of them are there?” asked Kebwe.

  “More than us,” Fodjour replied. “We’d best be glad this is a wedding, not a fight.”

  The Zulu warriors made aggressive combative motions, that often seemed on the very edge of insult to Kai’s men.

  “What are they doing, Sufi?” Kebwe asked Babatunde.

  “Fighting giya, battles with imaginary enemies,” Babatunde replied.

  “As if they hadn’t enough real ones.”

  There was a pause, like a lull before the storm, filled with joyous singing and ululating, ancient dances and mock fighting by lone warriors as they slaughtered giya by the score.

  Single girls with bright colored ibaye wraps covering their shoulders danced onto Dar Kush. Married women in indloko headdresses, beaded necklaces, and soft leather aprons swayed behind them.

  The young maidens danced gentle steps together, as one, again moving in that odd, unplanned coordination. Kai was swept away by the images. “If I close my eyes, I feel as if I can see their ancestors, rank upon rank of them, stretching back into eternity, all dancing the same movements.”

  “That’s all well and good,” said Fodjour. “But leave your eyes open. Please.”

  “Allah gave you a heart devoid of romance.”

  “Not a drop, I’m proud to say. Eyes open, please.”

  Cetshwayo and Munji had joined Kai by this time, and seemed both relaxed and focused: the waiting was over, the day of their daughter’s marriage had arrived. They would remain with Kai until the ceremony was complete.

  Powerful men bearing sticks and shields appeared as regiment after regiment arrived. All the while, respective family groups sang over the existing sounds of celebration and song. An ordered mass of humanity swayed back and forth, performing different steps to the same beat, as old women ululated and waved branches of green leaves, staggering tiredly back and forth ahead of the girls and young men.

  Where had they all come from? He imagined endless streams of wagons and horses, boatloads of Zulus and steam-dragon compartments by the score crammed with celebrants, eager to attend the party of their lives.

  “Is this really a celebration of a marriage,” Kai asked, “or a show of force?”

  “Both, I think,” Fodjour replied. “It is their way.”

  “Again,” Kai said softly. “I wonder what they know. And what they think they know.”

  Fodjour checked to be certain Cetshwayo was occupied elsewhere, and then whispered, “You must also ask yourself what your reaction would be were it not colored so with guilt.”

  At that truth, Kai flinched.

  Throughout the day, a friendly banter of insults was exchanged as each party tried to outdo the other to show that they had a superior status.

  “Who is that one?” Kai said, pointing out a tall, leanly handsome warrior who had first dazzled and then disarmed his hapless opponent, one of Kai’s territorial guards.

  “He is Chalo, my finest houndsman,” said Cetshwayo.

  “He is skilled,” noted Kai. Strangely for a Bilalian, Chalo wielded the spear with his left side forward. That would create a momentary hesitation in his opponent, a lack of tactical alignment that an experienced fighter could exploit. Dangerous.

  With almost contemptuous ease, Chalo disarmed another of Kai’s men. He reversed his grip on his spear and knocked the wind out of the hapless loser with the butt, laughing heartily the entire time.

  Kai found the jollity unsettling. “It is unseemly to laugh at another man’s pain,” he said.

  “The laughter is not mockery,” said Cetshwayo. “Rather, it is a celebration of existence. From birth, we train our sons to thrive in the crucible of death. Every victory means another day of life. And so we laugh, but there is no cruelty there.” He paused, perhaps weighing his words. “At least, no more than exists in nature herself.”

  Then there was the lone, powerful call from a single voice—fast, staccato. A unified response burst from the men, sitting up expectantly, calling. Then another solitary call.

  Suddenly, hands were being clapped as if to the beat of a drum, a blood-stirring chant, powerful voices rising. All in unity.

  A lone warrior appeared, flaying sticks and a shield about him in an almost mystical battle with imaginary enemies. A great giya had been won, a great warrior defeated. Kai glimpsed another truth about the Zulus that seemed difficult to grasp consciously. Their contrasts were intoxicating. They scaled the heights in the fields of military, biological, and legal sciences. (Shaka himself, for instance, had never attended Bilalian military academy. He had been skilled in martial science by his own people, and sent by his family to study Bilalian law. Kai knew that Shaka had in fact been his class laureate, said to be lethal in debate. Kai guessed that that was an understatement.) Yet these people exalted in a pure sensual celebration of life.

  Ululating women rushed around the triumphant warrior, careful to remain clear of the whistling sticks. They encouraged, teased, and challenged, but he strutted off, unconcerned, as if he were alone and nothing had happened. The women remained, dancing.

  Then, a rush of wind, as the amaqhikazi, the young engaged girls, ran forward from one side. They were brash, bold, beautiful, and powerful in their quasi-martial movemen
ts. With pebbles in cans tied to their ankles, they performed a strange mixture of jumps and offbeat steps.

  “They are neither unattached virgins, nor married women,” Cetshwayo said.

  “What are they, then?” asked Kai.

  “We call them ‘in-betweens.’ They unite today to mark the passage of the bride from her first family to her second.”

  Now, finally, came the bridal party, the dignified matron’s dances contrasting with that of the amaqhikazi. Some of them also wore thinner, lighter veils—some of gold, but others of silver or even copper. They mimed cutting at the veils with their knives, which in turn symbolized a severing of the past.

  Nandi, face still invisible behind her golden veil, approached with Munji at her side.

  This was, perhaps, the most important part of the ritual for the bride’s family, as it meant the loss of a valuable family member and was the very basis of the tradition of Lobola, brideprice.

  This was very much in alignment with the Islamic practice, and therefore had been one of the easier points of contention during the earlier negotiations. There were ways in which this ceremony and the events leading up to it were a subtle conversation between people who could not speak their true minds. The implications of every action, every game of spear and staff, every shrill ululation created tension aplenty.

  Lobola placed a physical value on the girl’s contribution to her family and the subsequent loss they experienced once she was married.

  Therefore Kai felt some trepidation as Nandi’s father turned to him in a confrontational posture.

  Cetshwayo stood two digits taller than Kai, and loomed over him in a manner calculated to intimidate. “You have stabbed me,” he glowered.

  There was a moment in which all was still, and dust seemed to hang suspended in the air. Cetshwayo leaned forward. “Something must be done to soften the blow.”

  It was all that Kai could do to keep from retreating. Almost, he could feel Cetshwayo’s blade sliding into his guts. But he knew that this was another ritual, one for which he was thankfully prepared.