Acacia - Secrets of an African Painting

by Paul Bondsfield

CHAPTER SEVEN – MBOKU GROWS

  After that initial shock, seeing the witchdoctor emerge from the bushes like a spirit, we were taken almost in a trance deeper into the bush and eventually to some caves where simple sleeping mats had been laid out. Before we got the chance to use these meagre arrangements, however, we were force marched again for another hour or more and then left to find our own way back to the cave.

  I thought that he had a good sense of direction, but after a short time, Malinka and I found ourselves totally lost and desperate for sleep. It didn’t occur to either of us just to rest where we were and find our way back when the sun had risen in the morning. My father’s lessons taught me not to stop when limbs were able as tiredness could take you at any time. But, we aimlessly cast about in the bush searching for anything familiar which might help our cause. Just as we were about to give up, I noticed a track where fresh footprints had been laid. The prints seemed to go in both directions, but we decided to follow the route that looked the tougher and narrower of the two. Our reasoning was simple. So far nothing had been made easy for us and so why would the easy way be the correct one now?

  Within minutes, we were back at the caves and amazingly found that we were the first boys back. We could hear others thrashing around in the bush nearby and so we called out to guide our friends to their sleeping mats. We kept calling until the last of the boys had made it back and only then did we rest.

  I saw the witchdoctor looking at me directly. His eyes didn’t waver and I forced mine to return his gaze. I was unwilling to show weakness even in that small act.

  The next morning, only a short two hours after we had laid our heads down on the cold floor, a chorus of shouting woke us. Surrounding the cave were warriors in full battle dress. Huge shields of hardened leather with large wooden bosses, spears both long and short, painted faces, bare chests and plumes of ostrich feathers adorned each man. We were scared again. Tired from too little sleep and by now hungry, for we had not eaten since the middle of the previous day. We rose as one and huddled together waiting for whatever was to come.

  The days that followed were a blur. We trained to fight, were deprived of sleep and food, and suffered the twin demons of pain and hunger. But we also learned much and marvelled at the skills demonstrated to us. The time eventually came when the final ritual of our transformation to manhood was to be carried out. This was the one event that none of us were looking forward to, although none would admit their fear. There was much false bravado amongst us as we were lined up naked and awaited the knife that would separate us from boyhood. The witchdoctor performed a ritual dance around the great fire outside the cave. The shadows that passed over his face as he whirled and twisted gave him the look of a madman. The feathers and furs that covered his body flew and rustled in the half-light and the flames danced as he danced and then there was a flash that filled our eyes. The knife was huge and one boy fainted from fear. His two companions either side picked him up and slapped his face until he came round, but the sweat poured from him. The drums that had accompanied the feverish movements of the witchdoctor suddenly stopped and everything was silent, save for the crackle of the wood being consumed by the fire.

  Starting at one end of the line, the witchdoctor swiftly did his work. He was as precise as the finest surgeon and each of us was not even aware that the cut had been made until the knife had passed to the next boy. Following along the line a warrior passed handing out a swab of moss infused with a secret potion of herbs, honey, and fat with which he wrapped each bleeding member.

  Once the last of us had been attended, the warriors came forward with an assegai, the short stabbing spear, a long spear and a shield for each of us and placed them at our feet. The witchdoctor stood before them and said, ‘You came here as boys, but you have proved yourselves to be men in the tradition of the men of our people. Your ordeal is nearly over, but now you must rest for you will need all your energy for the events that are to come.’

  We newly-born men were then led back to the cave and each was handed a potion to drink that first made us drowsy and then rendered us unconscious. We then slept for a full two days without stirring.

  I dreamt of my life to come. I dreamt of girls, of battle and glory, but mostly, I dreamt of my grandfather who had died a season before and who I love still with every fibre of my being. It was my grandfather who had taught me the morals by which I hoped to live my life. Of putting the village and my people first in my endeavours, as it was the people who were strong only when united and working together, fighting together, always growing and gaining strength through their warriors. I believed in the freedom of my people. I had heard the stories of their flight from the southern lands and the tyranny of Chaka years before. I knew of the battles they had fought to find the land they now called home; against Chaka’s forces, against the white man and against the dogs called Mashona who were like old women with their still and un-warlike existence.

  When we woke we were fed and then the witchdoctor again came before us.

  ‘You have been chosen for a special task,’ he said, seeking each out with his eyes. ‘On your shoulders lies the responsibility of the future of our people. What you must now do will take time and will take you away from your homes and your families, but will secure the future of every member of our greater family. From here you will walk south, to the white man’s enclosures and to where they scrabble in the dirt for yellow metal and the rocks that shine. You will work for them; you will do their bidding and suffer the indignities that will go with this task.’

  We tried to hide our dismay at this news. We all had expected to go back to our villages and celebrate our manhood with beer and women. We had wanted to be warriors and fight for our people as our fathers and grandfathers had done.

  ‘How will this task help our people? We are warriors from a proud people and you want us to work like slaves for the white man?’ How can this be?’ I was the first to speak and was quaking with anger at what I had heard.

  ‘You should control the anger that you feel now and direct it towards surviving in the task that you have been set,’ the witchdoctor spoke not unkindly. ‘What we ask of you will not be easy, the work will be hard and many of you will not survive the hardships of working in the great pits.’

  ‘So how then will our deaths at the hands of these white devils help our people? Please explain to us what it is we must do.’ I spoke with a firmer tone now as I fought to control my anger. The witchdoctor smiled.

  ‘That is better my warrior friend. Channel and direct those feelings you have, for the most important task you will carry out will take all the cunning of the leopard, the patience of the elephant and the teamwork of the ant. While you work digging for the valuable rocks, you will learn to hide small pieces, to smuggle them out from under the eyes of the white men and hide them where they cannot be found. You are one group of many who will be accomplishing this for us. When we have amassed a great wealth of these stones, we shall use them against the men who think they can rule us.’

  ‘But why can we not just fight them as we have done in the past. We are warriors, not slaves. Surely this is the way of the dogs to pretend and to lie and cheat.’ I had truly found my voice and questioned the wisdom of the plan.

  The witchdoctor smiled again at the words he was hearing, but slowly shook his head. ‘Things have changed for us here in our own land. Since the white man has come with his guns and his brightly coloured armies we have had to adapt to fight him with his own weapons. We do not have the knowledge to make guns, so we must use the greater weapon to defeat him. That weapon is the wealth of stones, because that is why they are here. That is why they steal our land and our cattle. To them, the stones that glitter are all powerful and they will kill or be killed in their service. So we must learn this lesson and use these things against them and let them be killed for them.’

  This speech ended and the group was silent. My mind churned, but I had made a decision. I stood and spoke. ‘I am ready to go no
w to work in the pits. This challenge will not beat me and I will work until I drop for the great Matabele nation. I have a fire inside of me that burns bright as the stones I will dig from the earth and I will tend that fire so that one day it will erupt to destroy the white man and drive him from our lands.’

  One by one, the rest of the group stood and repeated these words until we all stood. I felt pride stir deep within me.

  Then the drums started again and the celebrations began.

  Later that day, us new men of the tribe packed some small provisions and were led from our home of the past weeks heading south towards the white man. We walked all day, except for a short period of rest in the middle of the day when the sun was at its height and the heat sapped all strength from our bodies. After the first two days, our guides told us that they must make better time if they were to reach their destination at the appointed moment.

  When we asked why they had to be there at a certain moment, we were told more of the plan to rob the white man of his treasure. This group was indeed one of many such groups of young warriors heading for the pits and mines. All together there were going to be many thousands of warriors working together to make the plan successful. As well as the workers in the mines themselves, there would be networks of couriers waiting to receive the piles of rock and transport them to secret locations deep in the hills where skilled workers would extract the precious metal and stones. These craftsmen had learnt their skills from the white man himself, patiently watching and noting how extraction took place over many months before quietly disappearing back into the north where they set up workshops to replicate the process.

  After this, there were just a few highly favoured men who would transport the treasure to a highly secret location where they would remain hidden until such time as a fortune had been amassed and the Matabele Nation could use it to beat the white man at his own game.

  This then was the plan that had been put in place and which the thousands of men, including me and my friends, would give our freedom to for the next few years, and possibly even, I realised, our lives.

  From this point on, we were pushed harder every day to make good time. We settled into the loping run that the Zulu fighting man had used to great effect further to the south and which our Matabele warriors had perfected to cover great distances without tiring. As we ran, we sang songs of fighting great battles and crushing enemies, of winning women, of the animals and lands of our birth, and of the hard times to come we would face with courage and patience. We were looking forward to the day we could be free again and walk amongst our families back in the villages north of the Limpopo.

  After a further five days of travel, we arrived at the banks of the great river. ‘From here we must pretend that we are a hunting party and let the white men think they have captured us to work for them.’ The lead guide spoke quietly to us all while crouched in some thick bush by the water’s edge. ‘It is important that they do not suspect we have come here on purpose. Although they do not understand our ways, they are cunning and will know if we are pretending.’ He motioned for us to dispose of any but the barest essential equipment we had with us. A Matabele hunting party would travel light with just spears with which to make the kills necessary to feed their village. Then we made their way across the river at a shallow point where we could wade through the swift waters. On the other side, a stranger came forward as the first of us clambered up the bank and we immediately raised their spears to attack.

  ‘Hold, warriors,’ their guide called, ‘this is Shangani, who will lead you to the mines. He pretends to work for the white men, gathering our brothers to work the mines. However, he knows of our plans and has been helping us from the start.’ I saw the guide smile to himself at the raised spears of the new men. Only weeks before we had been boys in our villages but we were ready to be brave in the face of the dangers to come. Then he frowned and I considered that a fast reaction like this could put us in more danger.

  ‘My brothers,’ he called us together, ‘you now are warriors of the Matabele people, you are sworn to protect and fight for our tribe, but you must also learn the lessons of patience. Think of the great cat waiting for a kill. He learns to bide his time, to keep clear of his quarry until the time to strike is right, the breeze always in his face. He will make sure his position is the best for a swift attack, giving his enemy the least chance for escape. You must all learn this lesson well in the coming months. The white man will be watching you as a gazelle watches the lion, except that the white man will not run if he suspects you, he will strike you down as swiftly and as surely as the lion. He is dangerous because the lives of our people are cheap to him. To kill you all would cause him no more thought than if he had swatted a fly. It will be hard for you to do for no warrior has ever had to be as patient as you will now have to be. No warrior has ever had to swallow his pride as you will now have to do. And no warrior will ever have to do so again when this great plan has been completed. At that time, we will fight back, we will reclaim what is ours and drive the white men back to where they came from.’

  This speech left a silence across the crouched men and he looked each of us in the eye to see that we had understood the message he had tried to deliver. He looked happy at what he saw until he looked into mine. I could feel my eyes burn with a fervour to go to battle. But as he continued to look at me, the passion faded and understanding returned to my mind. Shangani continued to gaze at me with consternation on his face. But quickly his features softened once again.

  That night as I lay silent under the stars, I was woken by the touch of a hand. My eyes flew open and I stared into the face of Shangani who bade me silent and gestured for me to follow him. When we were a short distance from the other sleeping forms, Shangani spoke in a hushed tone.

  ‘You are indeed a warrior as I saw in your eyes today. It is important that you do not let your heart take over your mind in the coming months however, so I am going to tell you more of this task and hope that the words will help you understand.’

  I nodded, but deep inside, I was still unsure and this reaction betrayed itself to Shangani, again through my eyes.

  ‘I understand your feelings, but listen to the words I have to say and you will recognise the wisdom in them and see how important your role is to be to all the Matabele people. One day your story will be told around the fireplaces of every clan within every impi in the Matabele nation and the indunas will praise you and your fellow warriors for the work you have done.’

  ‘But how will that happen?’ I had found my voice and was still uncertain that Shangani’s fine words could ever be true.

  ‘Listen to my story and you will understand.’ Shangani gestured for me to sit close in the cool of the night.

  ‘Many years ago, a prophecy was made by the spirits, through Mlimo which said that the white man would come and that nothing would stop him coming. It was said that the impis would have no effect against the invasion and that only by using our heads as well as our hearts would we be rid of the pale devils from our lands. It was also said that stones that glitter would be needed to fight the white skin.’

  I had heard of Mlimo’s prophecies and knew that the words from the spirit world were to be heeded and accepted as truth. The prophecies were only for the ears of the King and his indunas though, so I was intrigued that Shangani should know of them.

  ‘I do not understand that we are to know the words of the spirits. Why are you able to tell me of this and how do you know of what they tell?’

  Shangani hesitated before he answered. ‘The indunas summoned me to handle this task and I was unsure as you are now. They told me as I now tell you, with the same condition that you will never tell another soul for fear of a fate worse than death, at the behest of Mlimo.’

  I immediately seized on the obvious point that Shangani having now broken his oath was in danger of such a terrible fate.

  Shangani smiled at my quick wits. ‘But I have had permission from the King himself to divul
ge this to one warrior only; the warrior who shows himself to me as a true leader of men; one whose inner spirit is strong and ready for the battle ahead. You are that man and I would wish that you do not disappoint me in my faith in you, for now our fates are entwined.’

  I felt a surge of pride and I was ready to burst from the feelings inside me. However, I managed to control this emotion and merely nodded solemnly at Shangani’s words. ‘But there must be more to this tale than you have spoken. A prophecy must be enacted surely.’

  ‘Yes you are right,’ Shangani continued, ‘and I will now tell you the rest as I know it. The prophecy was told many years before Lobengula came to the throne, when his father Mzilikasi ruled our nation. The natural successor to Mzilikazi was his first son Kuruman, but mysteriously, he could not be found. After much debating by the leading indunas, the crown was offered to Lobengula. Lobengula was son by an inferior wife and had a reputation as a great warrior who was brave in battle and cunning with it. However, his problem was that as he was not the natural successor to rule his people, he had enemies, some of whom he had fought after he was crowned. From that point on, he realised that he could show no weakness to his indunas and the warriors around him, as it would be a signal to remove him with all haste. At first he resolved to remove any opposition and there was a period when the older indunas were executed one by one until he had support from everyone. He also knew that the biggest threat to the Matabele nation was the advance of the white man. He believed the prophecies of Mlimo and knew that to fight them on their own terms would result in failure. He understood also the prophecy about the stones that glitter and set the task of obtaining these stones to one of his senior indunas, Lotshe. Now Lotshe knew that the people did not have the knowledge to dig these stones from the ground and so he devised the plan that you are now a part of.’

  I had started to understand how important this duty was, as it was a plan from the very highest levels of those who ruled the nation, but I still did not understand how the stones could be used against the white man. ‘Please Shangani; explain this to me, what good will these stones do us? The white men will always have many more than we can ever remove and there must be a limit as to how many we take as they will surely notice and the plan will fail before it has started.’

  Shangani looked pleased with this question and with me for asking it.

  ‘You are right Mboku, we must take all care to remove only very few stones at any time. The success of this plan will be in the length of time it lasts and in no other cause. Lobengula is a great warrior and the impis of the Matabele are able to fight and win in almost every circumstance. But we have learnt already that the bravest of warriors is no match to the weakest red breast with a gun in his hand. We fight close to our enemies. We can see the fear in their eyes; smell the sweat of their bodies when we wash our spears in their blood. The white man can fight from a distance; he has no need to breed strength into his impis because they have the gun to hide behind. The only way that we can fight them is to be like them and use the gun against them. We are fortunate then that the one thing that drives the white man to fight and to invade is greed and greed will be the undoing of them. We will use the stones to buy their guns from them. We will welcome them to our lands, be friends to their women and children, talk to their three-headed god, and make them comfortable and weak. All the time we will be buying guns from them and from their enemies until one day we will attack them with a ferocity that will drive them from our lands, never to return. We will fight them on our terms, and show them what it is to be a true warrior of the Matabele.’

  I felt passions burn deep inside me once more at these words and I felt a force and energy such as never before. I made a vow that I would face every danger, every challenge and become the most productive of the warriors sent for this task. I vowed that the white man would someday know my name above all others and that I would become powerful amongst my people, able to walk tall with kings and elders alike, revered and loved for my courage and wisdom. My eyes were wide as I stared into the older man’s face, wanting to start this task and be all I could be.