Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  Dallas nodded. ‘Several.’

  ‘Then let them advise as well. They’ll know when you’re being lied to.’

  ‘Are we likely to encounter many hostile natives?’

  ‘They’re all hostile. I wouldn’t want my life in any of their hands. But they do like to trade. You’ll be fine as long as you have what they want.’

  The talk went on in that vein for some time. Logan joined them and quickly adopted an ‘I-told-you-so’ look on his face. That is, until someone mentioned elephants.

  ‘I’m telling you, man, the place is crawling with them.’

  Logan brightened considerably at the news.

  Dallas could have listened to these men all night, but like most who are up with the sun and put in a demanding day’s work of at least twelve hours and very often much more, by seven-thirty the majority had drifted off to find their bedrolls. A few hardy souls stayed on, Will among them, but by nine o’clock the volume of alcohol consumed meant that conversations had become repetitive and rambling. Dallas and Logan left Will to it.

  In the morning, had Dallas been receptive to omens, he would have been reassured by the weather. It was perfect. A cloudless blue sky, hot sun teasing out the pleasant sweaty odour of oxen and horses, and a light breeze. All augured well for their journey. The scenery was a different matter. In the distance, running east to west, the Drakensberg Mountains reared skyward, a silhouette, rendered featureless in the dusty air, misty and mysterious. Almost lost against this ghostly bulk, closer hills seemed insignificant, their contours blurred by shimmering heat. Nearer town, stretching to infinity where the mountains didn’t block its path, the Colenso plain bared its flat, stony countenance making Dallas wonder what on earth caused Sarah to claim that this was good farming country.

  Logan rode up beside him. ‘Bit boring,’ he commented, staring out. ‘Thank God we’re not staying here. Whenever I pass through this place it reminds me of a crossroads to better things. Whichever way you go from here, the scenery only improves.’

  They reached the Thukela around midday. Its waters flowed swift and brown but signs were that the river level was dropping. For once, Logan and Will were in agreement. For now, they should stick to the Thukela’s southern bank. The river’s name, as Dallas already knew, meant ‘the startling one’ – a reference to sudden floods which could sweep, with no warning, through the valley. At such times, crossings were virtually impossible. Since they planned to trade mainly with the unexploited southern tribes, it made sense to start on their side of the river. Admittedly, Will’s agreement with that might have been tempered by the fact that he was decidedly ill.

  The man had barely spoken all morning. Unusually for him, he’d chosen to ride on the wagon rather than his horse. Once settled beside the driver, he pulled down a battered hat for shade, folded his arms and slumped everything – head, shoulders and spine. Dallas could have sworn that even his ears drooped. Snores and groans of protest whenever the steel-rimmed wheels hit uneven ground were the only indication that Will was actually alive.

  ‘Here we go,’ he croaked as they turned off the road. ‘One of them fellows yesterday was telling me there’s a big village about ten mile from here. Good place to start.’ The effort cost Will dearly and he winced with pain. Having contributed that one burst of enthusiasm, he subsided, yet again, into the misery of his hangover.

  Mister David confirmed the location. ‘I have never visited this place but the village Master Green mentions is known to me. I have a brother living there.’

  Dallas hitched Tosca to the side of the wagon and jumped up next to Mister David. ‘You seem to call many people your brother. In my culture, only the children of my own parents are called brother or sister.’

  ‘Hau!’ Mister David seemed surprised. Then he smiled. ‘To understand the tree, you must go to its seed.’

  ‘The father?’ Dallas guessed out loud.

  ‘Baba,’ Mister David confirmed. ‘We call this father, the man who planted his seed inside our mother, baba. But he is not the only father we have. All his brothers and sisters are also our father. We respect these fathers as much as baba. Sometimes even more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If such a person is older than our baba, he must be shown greater respect.’

  ‘What if he is an older sister?’ Dallas asked, understanding for the first time that Mister David did not necessarily mix up his pronouns.

  Mister David wagged his head ambiguously. ‘Not so much.’

  ‘These fathers,’ Dallas ventured, feeling his way. ‘Must they be from the same mother?’

  ‘No. Only from the father of baba. It is possible to have a father younger than yourself if he was born of a young wife to the grandfather.’

  ‘Does this also apply to your mother?’

  ‘Yes. A birth mother is called umame. Her sisters and brothers are also our mother.’

  ‘Doesn’t this get confusing?’

  ‘We have different names that tell us who is who.’

  ‘Tell me a few. The important ones. What do you call your father’s older brother?’

  ‘Ubaba omkhulu. If he is younger, he is called ubaba omncane. If he is a sister, ubabekazi. A sister of umame is umamekazi. Her brother is malume. All the children of our father’s brothers and our mother’s sisters are our own brothers and sisters. But the children of a sister of our father or the brother of our mother are called umzala.’

  Dallas had to guess that this word had the same meaning as cousin. When he put the question to Mister David, the Zulu looked blank and shrugged.

  ‘Do you know the word isibongo?’ he asked by way of a response.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will try to explain. It is a praise name that all those coming from the same ancestor use. So if I meet a man who gives his praise name and it is the same isibongo as mine, then he is a brother.’

  ‘Even if you’ve never heard of him?’

  ‘Of course. It would be a great insult for me not to treat him as such.’

  ‘How is the brother in this village we go to your brother?’

  ‘He has the same isibongo. Otherwise, I do not know.’

  ‘How come you know about him?’

  ‘My mother told me.’

  ‘Which mother?’

  Mister David laughed. ‘Umamekazi.’

  ‘Your birth mother’s sister?’

  ‘Yes. You are learning.’

  Dallas shook his head. ‘Slowly, Mister David. It is not easy.’

  The normally expressionless eyes of his driver glanced at him. There was a look of approval in them. ‘You at least try to understand. That is very good.’

  The village, which Mister David referred to as Chief Ngetho’s, came into sight a little before four-thirty. By then, Dallas had been told what to expect and how to behave.

  ‘You will see that what Master Green calls a village has many different kraals. We call them umuzi. Because some umuzi are close together, white people make the mistake of thinking they are all part of the same village. This is not so. When umuzi are close we are of the same tribe, this is true. But each has a chief.’

  ‘How many people would there be in one umuzi?’

  ‘Some are big. Others not so big. The chief, his wives and children. His younger brothers and their wives –’

  ‘When you say brothers, do you mean all brothers or only those from his umame and baba?’ Dallas interrupted.

  ‘All brothers. There is no difference with us.’

  ‘So a kraal or umuzi can be very large indeed.’

  ‘Some sons also stay. Even non-related people can place themselves under a chief’s protection. If the umuzi is very big then its chief will be an important man.’ At a questioning glance from Dallas, Mister David explained. ‘He must be very rich to afford many wives and take care of so many people.’

  ‘The umuzi we go to now, how many people will live there?’

  Mister David shrugged. ‘I am not knowing but it will be too very bi
g. Chief Ngetho is an important man.’

  Dallas had heard his driver use the words ‘too very’ on more than one occasion when he was trying to indicate that something was on a large scale. For some reason, most Africans resorted to these words, always in a surprised tone, rather than use a more appropriate word that gave an accurate indication of size, importance or numbers. So he knew that by saying the umuzi was ‘too very’ big was not a criticism, rather a description. A small point of understanding but every bit as significant in the learning process as tribal matters. ‘Will they make us welcome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because of your brother with the same isibongo?’

  ‘That is so. When that is learned we will be invited to enter.’

  Dallas was concerned with making a good impression. He had no wish, through ignorance, to insult anyone. ‘Tell me the things to remember so that I show good manners.’

  ‘You must expect the same. That is important. You will be offered refreshment. It should come from the inkosikazi or you have been insulted.’

  ‘Who is this inkosikazi?’

  ‘The great wife of a chief.’

  ‘Great wife?’

  ‘A chief has many wives but only one can bear him a son who will become chief when he dies. She is the great wife, selected after much consultation with others because it is her duty to look after the ancestors.’

  ‘How do I know which one is the great wife?’

  ‘Her house will be the largest in the kraal. You will also see that it is at the back of the umuzi, exactly opposite the entrance.’

  Dallas was coming to realise how much discipline and order existed in a society that, to an outsider, appeared to lack any kind of structure or formality.

  ‘If you are invited into a dwelling you must sit here.’ Mister David waved his right hand. ‘This is the side for a man. Women and children will be on the other. Do not go to the back, opposite the entrance, for it is here that a place is kept for the spirits. It is called umsamo and no-one is allowed to sit there. Never linger in the doorway, go immediately inside.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘When a house is built we bury medicine there to protect against evil and also lightning. It is bad manners to stand on that place.’

  Dallas nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘A mat will be provided. Do not sit on the bare floor. And you must sit like this.’ Mister David demonstrated, drawing his knees up. ‘When you eat always wait until the chief has started. It is bad manners to place your fingers over the rim of a pot containing food. If you are offered beer, hold the bowl with your right hand and its saucer with the other. Never stand to drink and always remove your hat. To show you like the beer, rub your stomach or make a loud wind noise.’

  Dallas was still digesting this information when Mister David continued. ‘Remember to walk behind the chief. If you pass other men be sure to show them your strong side.’

  ‘My strong side?’

  Mister David indicated his right arm. ‘It is with this hand that you hold any weapons. Present it empty to another man and he knows you pass in friendship.’

  Good grief! Dallas thought. Ignorance won’t just insult these people, it could get one killed.

  Mister David saw his look of confusion and smiled. ‘Do not worry. People will know you are a stranger to our ways. If you are seen to be trying they will forgive any mistakes.’

  It was as his driver said. Had it not been for Mister David’s explanation that each circular stockade was an umuzi in its own right, self-contained, self-supporting and entirely different from the next, Dallas would have mistaken the distant kraals as belonging to one village. Chief Ngetho’s umuzi was quite large, housing some forty or more huts.

  By the time their wagons rumbled to a stop, a large number of curious onlookers had gathered at the entrance to watch their approach. Excited murmurings came from the assembled crowd. Children peeped shyly from behind their mothers, dogs barked hysterically, chickens and pigs scratched on unconcerned, rummaging for sustenance. The scene was primitive, but to Dallas, whose rudimentary knowledge of these people allowed him to look deeper, it was tranquil and not in the least threatening.

  The children were naked, save for a string of beads many wore around their waist. They looked plump and well nourished, bright-eyed and happy. Dallas noticed several girls, no more than six or seven years old, with babies strapped to their backs. Mister David had explained that one of the tasks performed by young girls was to babysit for their mothers. The ease with which they appeared to carry out this duty said much for their sense of responsibility.

  Teenagers covered their genitals – the boys with leather strips, girls using grass or bead aprons. The girls, bare-breasted, showed no embarrassment, or indeed boastfulness, over that which to them was a natural bodily feature. Some older women wore a complete covering of cowhide and cloth, while others displayed a colourful strip of material across their breasts. Mister David’s explanation enabled Dallas to know that fully covered women were married, bare-breasted girls remained single and those with a short skirt and breast-wrap had been promised to a man. Dallas could see now why the beads they carried with them were an important trading item. As well as their skirts, all the women decorated themselves with necklaces and headbands.

  Older men, though less colourful than the women, were nonetheless resplendent in animal skins and feathers. Modestly covered front and back by strips of leather or an apron of monkey tails, most displayed armbands and leggings of teased ox tail. Many wore a headband to which they had affixed the feathers of a male ostrich or cockerel.

  Some of the men and a large number of women bore evidence of scarification on their cheeks and upper arms. Two or three rows of no more than six small round scars to each. Dallas knew that the initial cuts were self-inflicted with a knife, then covered with cow dung before a burning cinder was placed on top to penetrate the manure and scorch underlying flesh. There was no cultural significance to this form of decoration and not everyone indulged in it.

  Watching the ever-growing group who silently scrutinised the new arrivals, Dallas wondered what he’d have made of them without the education he was receiving from his driver. He would have considered them uncivilised, most certainly. But even with no understanding of these people he could not have failed to see a dignity and pride in their bearing. They had a culture probably older than his and far less concerned with meaningless convention. Theirs was a tough life in which ways had evolved to accommodate circumstances. Doffing a hat in greeting as a mark of respect back home seemed such an empty gesture compared to revealing your strong side as a demonstration of friendship.

  Mister David jumped down from the wagon and made his way towards the entrance. Those crowding around it parted to let him to pass. Squatting to one side, just outside the kraal, he spoke in Zulu. Logan, who had reined in next to Dallas, quietly told him what was happening.

  ‘He’s told them his praise name and requested that we be granted an audience with the chief.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  Out of the corner of one eye, Dallas saw Will come awake, stretch, yawn and open his mouth to speak. Immediately the driver clamped a hand on Will’s arm and shook his head in silent warning. Will looked around, saw where they were, took in the silent crowd, then sat back and said nothing.

  Logan, who had also been watching, nodded slightly in approval.

  An older man, more decoratively attired than most, made his way through the entrance to where Mister David waited.

  ‘Ah!’ Logan breathed quietly. ‘A member of the council is here.’

  ‘Council?’

  ‘An elder. Not as important as the chief but one who advises him.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Younger Zulus wear less decoration. It gets in the way of their activities. Once a man gains full maturity, he is not expected to work as hard physically. His main duties are as a member of council. He can wear
his clothing longer. See how the skins around his legs touch the ground.’

  Dallas was still admiring the man’s attire when Mister David beckoned. ‘Show’s about to start,’ Logan muttered. ‘Don’t, whatever you do, sit on the left inside a hut.’

  ‘Women’s side.’

  Logan glanced at him. ‘Good. Keep learning.’

  Mister David did not accompany them to see the chief. Dallas caught a glimpse of his driver walking hand-in-hand with another young man, presumably his ‘brother’. They were clearly delighted to meet each other and their conversation rang loud and clear so that all around knew this was a meeting of kinsmen and, as such, the newcomer should be treated with every respect.

  Chief Ngetho was waiting for them. After the build-up, Dallas found himself somewhat disappointed. He had expected strength, maybe even a streak of cruelty. The wrinkled old man with a potbelly and bowed legs came as a bit of a surprise. His eyes, however, were shrewd and alert as he sized up the strangers. ‘Sanibona,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yebo, baba,’ Logan replied.

  Will remained silent so Dallas also said nothing.

  A lengthy conversation followed between Logan and the chief. Without understanding what was being said, Dallas could see that Logan initiated none of it. Chief Ngetho asked a question, Logan responded then fell silent waiting for the next. Dallas’s newfound knowledge also explained why the chief spoke only to Logan and why Logan behaved as if he were the leader of their expedition. He was the oldest of the three white men. Will obviously understood that too, for although he could follow the conversation, he made no attempt to join in. Finally, Logan turned to Dallas. ‘We are invited to drink beer. The chief suggests we sit outside in the shade where his council will join us. A social occasion in honour of our visit.’

  With no obvious sign from anyone, a woman appeared bearing a large clay pot. She knelt in front of Chief Ngetho, holding out the vessel for his approval. When he nodded, she began to skim froth off the top and onto the ground. ‘Offering to the spirits,’ Will muttered in an undertone.