Granite

by Jenny Robson

  You and I together, Shafiq, we buried the body of my father thus. Close to the granite shrine so that he might join his ancestors quickly and gain comfort from their spirits. That was the day I felt my heart break apart. Break apart and crumble to dust so that it seemed my chest held only a great hollow emptiness.

  The common people blocked our gateways in vain. Their spears and their patrols did nothing to keep the Plague imprisoned in our enclosure. Soon the wailing and the stench rose up from even the lowest and the poorest compounds. Soon their wailing women followed their silent and burdened men toward their own graveyards.

  Many of the common people blamed the Prophet Tza. He was bound and tethered, there beside the well where Tshangani and I used to sit and admire the young maidens fetching water.

  They circled him, shouting insults and blame. Saying, “It is you, Tza! You have willed this evil upon us. You have used your powers for witchcraft. You have befriended the dark forces.”

  Then they threw rocks at him, on and on. Until his body lay crumpled and broken and bloody and unmoving. And still they continued to throw rocks. So he died, the very last descendant of the great Prophet Funii, who had brought our people out of their misery in the lowlands.

  As for the King, he stayed up in his hill-fortress, alone save for his oldest and most faithful servant, the one who had cared for him from his boyhood years. All others, even his bodyguards, were ordered to leave. None was allowed to approach him. He had fires set on the lower slopes, burning herbs day and night. But still he died. Some said it was from the Plague. Some said it was from thirst and starvation. Some said it was from a broken heart.

  Whichever it was, there came a day when his oldest and most faithful servant stood up on the high wall of death, looking down upon us all.

  He cried out in a voice that echoed down the slope of jagged rocks, between the fires, “The King is dead. The Nameless One is nameless no longer. Let all Zimba Remabwe weep and curse this tragic day!”

  And then this old man hurled himself down from the wall so that his body followed the path of his voice. Until he lay broken and dying at the hill’s feet. Some nobles gathered around him in his death throes, demanding that he declare the true name of the King. But he was no longer able to speak. Only blood trickled from his lips.

  So our late great King, who brought down the stars for his people, will remain forever un-named.

  Meanwhile the slaves and bonded labourers from the outskirts had run off into the bush. No search parties were formed to bring them back. Martijen too. He had not joined Shumba’s expedition to the southernmost point of Afrika. I hope he found his way home to Mogadishu and his family.

  There were few survivors amongst our citizens.

  I watched as small bands of sorrow-dazed common people gathered their belongings and their few cattle and headed back to the lowlands. And to the other diseases that awaited them there.

  Leaving wide open the gateway from the nobles’ enclosure, which just days before had been so violently guarded.

  From amongst the nobles, it was only you and I, Shafiq, who remained alive. As well as a few old women from the Iron-forgers’ clan. But they were quite mad with grief. And Vasili the Sculptor with his wife, both of them drunk and staggering about their empty compound.

  Yes, and the deformed princess Foneli, who paced the inner walls of the enclosure of the Queen, laughing and singing her strange songs.

  “Skip a little, one queen falls. Skip some more, and down goes a second. Hop, hop, hop and another queen is finished off.”

  Yes, and a Queen’s bodyguard named Onzike. In his arms he carried out a baby, the one remaining prince. Wrapped in his royal blankets. Accompanied by the babe’s wet-nurse slave.

  Onzike addressed the babe. He said, “Little MweneLa, you are become King now. You are the new Nameless One. And I will carry you northwards to your mother’s clan across the river of white foam. Yes, and you will be safe there, little one. For I will protect you with my every breath. Until you are grown strong.”

  I cried then, for the first time. I cried to see this rough giant of a man behave with such gentleness. To see this babe smiling and making its infant sounds and waving its fists in the air as if the world were a good place filled with promise. I cried and thought perhaps I would never stop.

  But you put your arm around me, Shafiq. You said, “Mokomba, your father was my truest friend. And now I take you as my son. But come, we must leave this place.”

  And so we walked away: you and I and the bodyguard carrying his precious burden. With the wet nurse trailing silent behind us, ready to suckle the babe each time he cried.

  I did not even ask where we were headed. We left behind us the silent, empty granite walls that my ancestors had built with such care and belief and skill. Through their many generations. We left behind the graves of all my family except for Raii.

  Those, then, are the facts as they happened.

  *

  It is done now.

  Mokomba sleeps. Even though the sun is not yet gone from the sky. With his breath soft and even. A peaceful sleep, like the sleep of a child with few memories to trouble its dreams. So perhaps my mother’s words are true.

  Or perhaps it is a sleep of great weariness? After so harsh a task. For this has been a long and difficult day. Many times Mokomba must leave off his dictation to weep. With bowed and shuddering shoulders. With his face buried in his blankets as though weeping were shameful. So that my heart ached for his pain. And I offered to take up the story myself.

  Yet each time he gathered himself once more to continue. “No, Shafiq. This must be completed. It is one last duty I can perform for my people.”

  Yes, we walked away from Zimba Remabwe, the three of us with the babe and the slave. Not looking back. Speaking little. Mokomba did not ask where I was taking him. He did not speak at all. There were times I worried that both his heart and his mind were broken beyond repair and for all time.

  The bodyguard Onzike left us to head north to the river he sought. Still talking to the babe about the great kingdom that would arise one day.

  “Yes, oh Nameless One! A kingdom greater than that of your father. A kingdom without end. Because you will be a humble king, taking your rightful place beneath the power of almighty Mmwahhari. Not boastful and arrogant. Not striving to prove your own importance. Yes, and the sun will shine down upon you and upon your people.”

  While the wet-nurse slave trailed behind them, ever ready.

  I continued with Mokomba through the mountains towards the port of Sofala on the sunrise sea. We met up with some traders who helped us on our way and shared their provisions with us.

  But I did not tell them where we had come from, afraid that they would desert us. When they spoke of Zimba Remabwe, I nodded with interest as though I knew nothing. And Mokomba stayed dumb so that the traders believed he was not of full mind.

  “Yes,” said the traders. “Not a single survivor! Can you imagine? To change from such a powerful, prosperous city! To become a ruin filled only with ghosts amongst once-proud walls! And in such a short space of time. It is a thing of great wonder.”

  How was it that we survived, I wonder, when all around us people perished? But there is no answer to that question, I suppose. Not in this world.

  *

  And then Mokomba stirred. Even though it was night now, the lamp extinguished. Even though the sounds of Sofala coming through our open window had quieted to silence.

  In the darkness he said, “Shafiq, I did as you advised. I told the facts. But it is not enough.”

  I lit the lamp once more, weary as I was. I readied my pen and paper.

  But Mokomba shook his head. “No, Shafiq. This is not for writing. This is not for others, this is for myself. Because of all the rituals that were not performed.”

  I understood. I was there when his grandmother died. I watched from the edges as the many ceremonies and rites and orations took place. The shaving of heads, the slicing of ch
ests with thin blades to allow the grief and pain to escape.

  And I saw what comfort all these measures gave to ReDombo and his family.

  I thought then: How wise this society in its dealings with loss and grief. All is ordered and controlled and done according to strict custom. So that those stricken down by grief are guided through to its end.

  Yet when the Plague struck Zimba Remabwe, death came too fast and too often. There was no time, nor heart for ritual. Those who were bereaved waited for the boils to rise on their own bodies, waited for disease and death to carry them away too.

  We all of us were dully surprised each daybreak to find ourselves still breathing. We none of us had any expectations that we would watch the sunset.

  I was reminded of something I read as a boy, some history of some massacre. Perhaps it was a Crusader attack, or perhaps a Mongol invasion. But the chronicler had written: “No eye was left open to weep for the dead.”

  That was how it seemed too, in those final days of Zimba Remabwe. No eye was left open to mourn.

  So I said now, “Speak your heart, Mokomba, and I will listen.”

  And he spoke on and on as if a flood were sweeping through our small room. He spoke of his little sister, of her delightful actions and her endearing words. He spoke of his beloved mother, of her gentleness and consideration for others.

  Lastly he spoke of his well-respected and much-admired father, of his fine achievements both as a Stonemason and as a man.

  Mokomba’s words held beauty and dignity, such as I have never heard. Not even in the tales of the Storykeepers. And it was as if, in the dim shadows of our room, the spirits of his family were present and listening too. And what they heard quieted them and gave them peace.

  Then he took up my knife. And with his own hand, he made the row of required slits in the skin of his chest. So that the pain and the grief might escape at last.

  “Yes, and now I shall sleep,” said Mokomba when he was done.

  Was I mistaken or had a deeper, more manly tone come into his voice?

  It was he who extinguished the lamp. It was he who bade goodnight. I could not reply for the tears swelling in my throat.

  Allahu Akbar.

  15. Into the hinterland

  I awoke this morning to find Mokomba already up and dressed. Even though the sunrise had only begun to spread its red glow across the sea-horizon. Even though he had talked so late into the night.

  Wearily I said, “Mokomba, it is only tomorrow that we will set sail. Mustapha must still provision his dhow.”

  He said, “No Shafiq. I will leave today.”

  “Leave? Where to?”

  “Back to my own people, Shafiq. I cannot follow you into your world. I must return to where I belong. That I am sure of. Yes, I will find my sister Raii and her new husband Kore. Yes, I will find whoever else has survived.”

  In truth I was sad to hear this. But as the sunrise strengthened, I saw that Mokomba held his shoulders straight and proud and untroubled. And that his eyes shone with purpose.

  I saw too a new certainty about him, a confidence in his decision. And that made my heart glad.

  So I nodded and tried to smile. “I understand. But I will miss you. More than I can say.”

  He continued, “Most important of all, Shafiq, I must find some old men of my people so that I can undergo my initiation. Even if they are commoners. I am past fifteen winters now. It is a shame for me to walk about uncircumcised, like a cowardly boy. I need to test my courage. I need to prove that I am brave and worthy to become a man.”

  I thought then: Brave? After what he has endured in telling this chronicle? Facing it right to its bitter end? Does he not realise what courage he has shown? Courage of spirit – and that is a far greater challenge than courage of body.

  Truly he has already proved his manhood!

  But it is not for me to question the customs and beliefs of others. No. A true traveller is a man of open mind who can respect traditions different from his own. Respect and even try to understand their worth and their purpose. If he cannot do so, then it is better for that traveller to remain in his own home and country, and cease to call himself a traveller.

  Mokomba placed his hand on the pile of papers now. “Promise that you will take this to a place where people can read my words and know the story of my home, Zimba Remabwe.”

  I promised. I told him I would wrap the manuscripts in leather to keep them dry on the long sea voyage. And I would carry them in my very own hands through the wadis and regs of the Sahra. And deliver them to the libraries of Timbuktu.

  I did not add: If indeed I survive the dangers of that journey. The thirst and the burning heat, the marauding bands of Tuaregs and nomads, the desert-devils that hiss and shuffle through the lonely nights.

  I did not want to place my fears on him.

  I confess, though, that these fears are real for me and tap often at my mind. Even if nothing will stop me from living out my dream to cross the great Sahra.

  Instead I said, “Yes, Timbuktu! The golden city! That is wherepeople gather from far and wide, those who love and respect knowledge. Your story will be known. Your name will be spoken and the name of your fine city.”

  And so we said goodbye. I took his arm in the traditional greeting of Zimba Remabwe. Arm to arm. Man to man. For in my mind, he was already become a man.

  And then he was gone.

  In a short while, I went up onto the roof so I could watch his progress: a lone figure striding away from the sea and back into the hinterland. With his head lifted and his shoulders straight.

  The sun had risen higher now. It cast its light across the dry bushes, turning the path before him bright and golden. Golden as the arm-bangle my dear friend ReDombo had gifted me with.

  And I wished then that I had told him: Mokomba, your spirit is as strong and as sure and as indestructible as the granite walls your father and your ancestors built.

  He turned once to wave, as if perhaps he had heard those words in my heart.

  And then the wild generous trees of Afrika reached out to embrace him and he disappeared from my sight.

  The End

  With many thanks to Shirley Cook:

  most gentle reader, goddess of feedback.

  And to Lauri Kubuitsile:

  fellow-traveller, fellow-mokwadi.

  About the Book

  Our King had heard tales of tall buildings in faraway lands. Buildings that were far higher than my father’s walls. Buildings that stretched up to touch the very clouds. Buildings that were called by the name “cathedral”.

  And the King wanted such a cathedral built here in Zimba Remabwe.

  “We must make ready for a journey,” my father told me.

  “A journey, ReDombo sir? But where are we headed?”

  “It will be a long journey, my son. We will be gone from your mother for many round moons, I understand. We will first walk far past the outer villages of the Kingdom. And then we must cross the sunset sea. In a boat.”

  “The sea? The sunset sea?” I was filled with dread. I knew the stories, even though the sunset sea was far away and I had never laid eyes on it. “But it is full of monsters and fish larger than elephants and fiercer than lions! And water that boils suddenly as if in a giant’s pot on a giant’s fire!”

  “This is the King’s command,” said my father with stern warning in his voice.

  About the Author

  Granite is Jenny Robson’s twelfth novel for young readers. Her work has been published internationally in Germany, Ireland, Korea, Slovenia, Spain and the Netherlands. She lives in Botswana.

  Other titles by the same author, published by Tafelberg:

  Mellow Yellow

  Don’t Panic, Mechanic

  Dark Waters

  One Magic Moment

  The Denials of Kow-Ten

  Because Pula Means Rain

  Savannah 2116 AD

  The Ugliest Animal in All the World

  Die lelik
ste dier in die hele wêreld

  Praise Song

  Balaclava Boy

  Back to Villa Park

  Monday Evening, Thursday Afternoon

  First English edition in 2015 by Tafelberg,

  an imprint of NB Publishers,

  a division of Media24 Boeke (Pty) Ltd,

  40 Heerengracht, Cape Town, South Africa

  P.O. Box 879, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa

  www.tafelberg.com

  Text © 2015 J.M. Robson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this electronic book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording, or by any other information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Cover design by Hanneke du Toit

  E-book design by Trace Digital Services

  Available in print:

  First edition in 2015

  ISBN: 978-0-624-07309-3

  Epub edition:

  First edition in 2015

  ISBN: 978-0-624-07310-9 (epub)

  Mobi edition:

  First edition in 2015

  ISBN: 978-0-624-07311-6 (mobi)