by Zakes Mda
“You took your time,” said Rendani. “I sent the boy very early in the morning, but you are only coming now?”
Chata ignored his annoyance.
“I didn’t know you took a fourth wife.”
“I was supposed to appear before the Council of Elders about the next palisade ceremony, but I had to wait for you.”
“You took a fourth wife and you didn’t even invite me, mukomana?”
Mukomana. My brother. They had always called each other that from the days they used to play silly boyhood games on the banks of the Limpopo River. Although the word was used specifically for an older brother or sister, the two boys called each other mukomana despite the fact that they were almost the same age.
“What makes you think I married a fourth wife?”
“The new house.”
“Oh, that! It’s just there in case I decide to do so.”
“Have an eye on someone?”
Actually Chata was wondering if Rendani had received Princess Dova’s approval. It was the tradition for men to obtain the approval of all their wives before they could marry another one. Indeed, a man could have an eye on one maiden only to find that his wives were keen on a completely different woman. Chata doubted if Princess Dova would be thrilled to lose her status as the youngest wife. As a princess she would certainly not want to be one of the nondescript middle wives. Only first and last wives had any semblance of power in a marriage. The middle wives were more like servants, not only of the man but of the senior and junior wives. Surely Rendani would not want to alienate the Royal Family by turning the daughter of the most powerful man in the kingdom after the King into a chattel. But Chata did not voice these thoughts.
“I didn’t call you here to discuss my private life,” said Rendani abruptly.
“Since when have your marriages been private, Rendi?”
Rendani flinched a bit at the use of the nickname. Even his father no longer called him that since he had been elevated to the position of Royal Sculptor.
“I didn’t summon you here for chitchat, Chatambudza,” he said, stressing his full name. Chata chuckled to himself at Rendani’s choice of words. He used “summon” to assert his authority, to show him that he was no longer the Rendani of yesterday. In a not too distant past he would have used “invite”.
Chata followed him as he led his leopards to their cage.
“Ah, I see, mukomana, that you now wear silk like our King?” said Rendani as he tied the palisade door of the leopard cage tightly with a leather rope.
He called him his brother. Now that was the Rendani of old.
“Only when I come to see important people like you, mukomana.”
Chata was trying to humour him; it sounded sarcastic instead.
“You don’t think people will say you like big things?”
Chata stretched his legs to display the silk in its full glory.
“What is big about a kanga?”
“You know how the people of Mapungubwe are, Chatambudza. They like to gossip. They see you wearing the same fabric as our sacred leader and they start saying that Chata likes big things. Chata this, Chata that. They may even see it as a sign of disrespect to our King.”
“I don’t think the people of Mapungubwe care about what Chata is wearing today or what he is not wearing. They have more important things on their minds . . . like whether the King will make enough rain next summer for the prosperity to continue.”
“You are right. Since they made me the Royal Sculptor I sometimes become overly concerned about small matters of culture. And of course I always want to look out for you. It hurts me when I hear people gossip about you.”
Chata smiled when he remembered that he was the one who used to look out for Rendani. Now he had power as one of the grandees of the kingdom, and he wanted Chata to know it. Of course, Rendani might be right. He shouldn’t judge him harshly. There was a lot of pettiness doing the rounds among the idle higher classes. But still, he couldn’t see a whole storm brewing over a fabric. Perhaps it was Rendani himself who was being petty.
Chata could not tell Rendani that his was not the same cloth as the King’s because he did not know what the King’s looked like. In fact, Chata’s silk was a much cheaper type. It was the more trendy Yunjin cloud brocade in shimmering blue and white which he had bought at a market in Mogadishu two years before. It was during the days of his wanderlust. He had disappeared from Mapungubwe for many full moons – perhaps for four full seasons – and no one knew that he had sailed the Zanj seas in the Swahili dhows. The dhows always docked in Mogadishu to be taxed before proceeding to Persia, Arabia, India or China, or before returning to the Swahili coast and to Sofala further south. The Chinese cloud brocade was all the rage in Mogadishu and was swept off the stalls as soon as it was unrolled from the bales.
The King’s silk, on the other hand, was brought to Mapungubwe by Swahili traders who bartered it with members of the Royal Family for gold and ivory. It was the most expensive kind from a Chinese tradition that was more than a thousand years old – the Hunan silk embroidery with fire-breathing dragons in shades of red, blue and yellow.
Of course Rendani did not know the difference; to him silk was silk. A material fit only for royalty. A material that even he or his wealthy father Zwanga did not own. Rendani saw Chata as an upstart who needed to be put in his place.
“Let’s talk about what you summoned me for,” said Chata.
“You don’t have to adopt that kind of tone.”
“I can get you nice silk too, Rendi. Next time I sail with the Swahili I can get you the best material in Mogadishu, or even in Sidonia or in Persia.”
He was just being nice. Even as he said this he knew that there would be no next time, not after his experiences in Mogadishu. If ever he was attacked by the wanderlust again he would head south, to the valleys, hills and deserts of his mother’s people, where the Zhun/twasi roamed with the animals of the wild.
“Forget about the silk, mukomana. It is not what I wanted to see you about. I am sorry I even mentioned it.”
He invited Chata into his house, but not before hollering to one of the wives to send a calabash of beer. They sat on stools carved out of baobab trunks, and in no time a girl of about eight, Rendani’s daughter, knelt before her father and placed a calabash of foaming marula beer and two gourds on the floor in front of him. Rendani scooped the beer with his gourd and drank. Chata did likewise with his. His face brightened with each gulp.
“The hand of your wife is still excellent, Rendi,” said Chata as he wiped the foam from his lips and chin with his palm.
The compliment tickled Rendani.
“You’d be enjoying such pleasures too if you grew up and became a husband.”
It was the same refrain that Chata heard from all and sundry. He didn’t understand why his marital status seemed to bother people – not only Rendani, who could claim some form of kinship with him, but total strangers. But then a bachelor at his age was not the most usual thing in Mapungubwe. Rendani, who was the same age as him, give or take a month or two, had already spawned sons and daughters, the oldest a son in his mid-teens.
Townsfolk believed that Chata did not marry because he was too selfish to share himself with anyone else. How did a man survive without a woman in his life? Leaving aside the lack of conjugal pleasures, how did he manage to go through his day cooking for himself and cleaning up after himself? And to cook for himself, remember, he had to place the millet or the sorghum on the large guyo grindstone and then mill it with the smaller huyo grindstone, and no man’s hands were ever known to have acquired expertise in that physically exacting labour. Chata, however, did not see how these chores could be beyond his capabilities. He had two hands and strong arms and a firm back as good as any woman’s in the land. He managed quite well, thank you, while at the same time mining gold both for his livelihood and
for his pleasure. He did not farm but his hozi was full because he exchanged gold ingots for food, and bartered tools and implements that he forged from iron and tin and copper for the oxen that he occasionally needed to slaughter for the ancestors. He still enjoyed a good hunt, and most of his meat came from game – the warthog, the kudu and the wildebeest that abounded in the plains south of the town.
Occasionally, perhaps once or twice a week, he was spoilt silly by Ma Chirikure, the old lady who lived in the dilapidated house next to his and had a soft spot for Chata because she knew his mother when they all worked for the master carver and blacksmith Zwanga. Ma Chirikure had this habit of announcing herself with a clay pot full of sorghum or marula beer early in the morning, which she would leave outside Chata’s door. Or sometimes she would surprise him with a steaming bowl of bean stew. In return, Chata shared some of his corn with her and gave her some of the meat after a successful hunt.
So, you see, Chata didn’t need to have a wife in order to have a regular supply of good beer. And Ma Chirikure had a beautiful hand too. Her beer was potent and had the stinging taste that remained singing in the mouth long after the last swig. She did not confine herself to sorghum and marula; in season she fermented baobab fruit and even leaves to make the kind of beer that left the heads of men buzzing and spinning after just a few gulps.
“I want to talk to you about the palisades,” said Rendani.
It was that time of the year when the palisade surrounding the house with the rainmaking medicine at the Royal Palace had to be replaced with freshly carved pales. The last time this ritual was performed Chata was being tossed by the storms of the Zanj seas.
“I cannot see how you can live with yourself when your carvings are not represented at the Royal Palisade.”
“I was away at the time. The ancestors understand that.”
“Well, you are here now and I am giving you the honour of being in charge of the carving.”
“I will carve something and present it to you for the Royal Palisade.”
“I’m not talking about your own personal carvings, Chata. I want you to be in charge of the whole ritual, from organising the carvers to installing the new palisade.”
“You are the Royal Sculptor, Rendi. It is the work of the Royal Sculptor.”
“As you say, I am the Royal Sculptor and I can delegate.”
Any of the sculptors of Mapungubwe would feel honoured to be chosen for such a task. They would see it as a path towards greater recognition of their work by the grandees on top of the hill and a way of attracting rich patrons. They would seize the opportunity, already imagining themselves as the next Royal Sculptor on the demise of the incumbent. But Chata had no interest in positions within the establishment. He was a free spirit who wanted to create his own work in his own time, and Rendani knew that. He also remembered that even when they were boys Chata used to boast that he was destined to create greater works of art than the carvings of palisades; indeed Chata found the carving of palisades demeaning. That was exactly why Rendani wanted him to take charge of the ritual. This was his way of imprisoning him, at least for the period of the palisade ritual, which could last for days on end. Sometimes up to one full moon. Rendani knew that what would have been an honour to others was punishment for Chata.
“Our father did not delegate when he was the Royal Sculptor,” said Chata. “He did the work himself and gloried in it.”
“Our father” was actually Rendani’s father – the master carver and blacksmith Zwanga.
“It was his choice,” said Rendani. “Those who know the history of our people will tell you that some Royal Sculptors of the past did delegate some of the sacred duties while others did not. It just depends on the man who is holding the position at the time. I choose to delegate because I am not a greedy man. I want to share the glory of some of my sacred duties.”
Rendani smiled and stood up to indicate that the meeting was over. Chata was fuming inside. But he dared not let Rendani see that he had succeeded in riling him. He smiled back at him instead, picked up his shield and knobkierie and walked out of the house.
Rendani watched Chata as he walked along the stone-paved path until he disappeared among the neighbouring houses.
Later that afternoon Rendani sauntered to his father’s house a short distance away. Zwanga was sitting on a mat on the veranda carving a knife handle from ivory. Even in old age the arthritic hands of the master carver could not stay idle. He no longer went to his mine though, nor did he undertake any more work in gold. His revered crucible rested in a place of honour in the very room where he slept. It shared his old age close to him and he had already made his wishes known to his children: when he was laid to rest the crucible must be right there with him in the grave. His wives and children and grandchildren tried and failed to make him give up his carving. Only the flare-ups of his arthritis managed to rein him in. But even that could not stop him from performing his duties as a member of the Council of Elders. He could be seen tottering to Baba-Munene’s compound to attend the meetings even in the midst of rain and hail and storms.
“What did I do to deserve a visit from the Royal Sculptor?” asked Zwanga.
He gave his son a toothless smile. He was proud of him. He had manned-up so quickly. He never thought he had it in him to handle with such dignity the highest position any artist in the land could wish for. Rendani, on the other hand, had no illusions about how the position, previously occupied by his father, had become his. He knew that the old codger pulled some strings with the Council of Elders and even with Baba-Munene himself, despite the fact that initially he favoured Chata for the position. But for Chata’s wanderlust and his disdain for the shackles of power, there was no doubt in Rendani’s mind that he would have been the Royal Sculptor.
“I just want to get your opinion, father, on a matter of national import.”
“I am listening,” said Zwanga as he resumed carving geometric patterns on the elephant tusk.
“The rains were good last year. The people are happy with the King because their granaries are overflowing.”
“It is a good thing the King is potent.”
“It is because his ancestors are happy with him. We need to keep them that way by showing more respect to their representative on earth – the King.”
“The King is sacred, my son, and everyone in Mapungubwe knows that. Everyone respects the King.”
“Not enough,” said Rendani. “Now that there is all this wealth flowing in the land there may be some people who delude themselves that they are equal to the King, who may even want to dress like the King.”
Zwanga gave his son a long puzzled look.
“I am not saying there are such people already,” Rendani added hastily, “but I think it is our responsibility to stop bad things before they happen.”
“I still don’t understand what you are suggesting, Rendani.”
Deliberately and respectfully, Rendani outlined his plan to the old man: in the same way that the Swahili merchants brought mirrors, glass beads, fine cotton cloth and ceramics into the town in exchange for gold, copper and ivory, they were bound to bring more silk sooner or later. Some wealthy commoners down the hill might get it into their heads to buy silk to wrap around their common bodies, which would be casting a slur on the King who should be the only one fit for that kind of material. His humble request, therefore, was that his father should raise the matter at the next Council of Elders meeting.
“We need a decree prohibiting any citizen of Mapungubwe from wearing silk,” said Rendani. “Silk must be reserved for royalty by law.”
Zwanga squinted his eyes and gazed at his son’s face for a long time. And then he burst out laughing. Rendani stood there, fidgeting and looking stupefied. He could not understand what was so funny.
“At least think about the matter, father, before you find mirth in it,” said Rendani finally. “An
d stay well.”
Rendani left, still puzzled by his father’s amusement. It must be old age, he surmised. Zwanga never used to laugh even when there was cause for laughter. He used to be a stern taskmaster who had no time for frivolities. But there he was, laughing like a madman at nothing at all.
Rendani. He did not know that when Chata left his house after enjoying his wife’s beer, he went straight to Zwanga’s house to pay his respects before descending the hill to the town. The first thing Zwanga did was admire the cloth he was wearing. Chata told him that it was a very special material called silk and came from worms in China, although he had bought his in Mogadishu. Zwanga was fascinated more by the story of worms that could make cloth than the cloth itself. He didn’t care for cloth, anyway, whether it was the muslin woven by some of the women in the town or the imported cotton. He was an old traditionalist who dressed in tanned skins both for his loin-covering apron and his kaross. He did not care for fashion. His face did not hide the fact that he didn’t quite believe Chata’s story of cloth-making worms, just like many other tales that Chata came back with after his wanderlust.
They had then talked about the Royal Palisades and Chata told the old man that he had offered to help Rendani to organise the whole ritual. Yes, that’s how he put it to Zwanga; he, out of the goodness of his heart, had offered to take some of the load off Rendani’s shoulders.
“It is a good thing that you continue to look out for your mukomana, Chata,” old Zwanga said as he waved him goodbye.
And now here was Rendani coming with his story about banning silk. Did he think he had grown so senile that he would allow himself to be used as a tool in their silly rivalries? He burst out laughing. Whatever happened to these boys? They were not like this when they were growing up.
