by Zakes Mda
THE ZULUS OF NEW YORK
NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Ways of Dying (1995)
She Plays with the Darkness (1995)
The Heart of Redness (2000)
The Madonna of Excelsior (2002)
The Whale Caller (2005)
Cion (2007)
Black Diamond (2009)
The Sculptors of Mapungubwe (2013)
Rachel’s Blue (2014)
Little Suns (2015)
Published in 2019 by Umuzi,
an imprint of Penguin Random House South Africa (Pty) Ltd
Company Reg No 1953/000441/07
The Estuaries No 4, Oxbow Crescent, Century Avenue,
Century City, 7441, South Africa
PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
[email protected]
www.penguinrandomhouse.co.za
© 2019 Zakes Mda
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
First edition, first printing 2019
987654321
ISBN 978-1-4152-1015-4 (Print)
ISBN 978-1-4152-1039-0 (ePub)
Cover design by Gretchen van der Byl
Text design by Chérie Collins
Set in 12 on 17 pt Adobe Caslon Pro
I dedicate this novel to my dear friend Robert ‘Bob’ Edgar, a Howard University Professor Emeritus, whose work, co-written with Robert Trent Vinson, ‘Zulus Abroad: Cultural Representations and Educational Experiences of Zulus in America, 1880 –1945’ (published in the Journal of Southern African Studies, Volume 33, Number 1, March 2007), sparked my interest in the subject. I am grateful for his encouragement in writing this novel.
I am also grateful to Shane Peacock for his work ‘Africa Meets The Great Farini’ in Africans on Stage: Studies in Ethnological Show Business, edited by Bernth Lindfors (Indiana University Press, Bloomington 1999); to Paulina Dlamini for Servant of Two Kings, compiled by H. Filter and translated by S. Bourquin (University of Natal Press, Pietermaritzburg 1986); to Francis Mading Deng for The Dinka of Sudan (Waveland Press, Prospect Heights 1984); and to Godfrey Lienhardt for Divinity and Experience: The Religion of the Dinka (Clarendon Press, Oxford 1961). Thanks to Elelwani Netshifhire for her contribution in shaping this story.
The novel was completed and fine-tuned during my sojourn as Artist in Residence at the Stellenbosch Institute for Advanced Study (STIAS). I am grateful to stias for the generous support.
Contents
1. New York City – November 1885: The Wild Zulu
2. kwaZulu – December 1878: Ozithulele The Silent One
3. London – April 1880: The Great Farini
4. New York City – July 1885: The Dinka Princess
5. New York City – December 1886: The Snow Princess
6. New York City – June 1887: The Photograph
7. New York City – November 1887: Courtship
8. New York City – July/August 1889: The Aesthetic of Dignity
9. New York City – September 1890: The Wild Zulu
10. New York City – October 1892: The Passing Carnival
11. Athens, Ohio – May 1893: Searching for the Atoc Bird
12. Union-America Line – November 1893: She is Nhialic She is God
1
New York City – November 1885
The Wild Zulu
The Wild Zulu. That’s what the banner says. Crowds line up at Longacre Square to pay their admission fee into an arena encompassed by bales of hay. Some are already sitting on the bales that are randomly placed on the ground, while others are massing in front of an iron cage.
The Wild Zulu sits in the cage and is resplendent in faux tiger skins and ostrich feathers. He is a giant of a man, bigger than any man Em-Pee has seen. He roars and the spectators gasp in anticipation. A Mulatto urchin outside the cage accompanies the rumble with a conga drum and a tambourine.
The spectators are a motley assemblage of dandies who must have strayed from the saloons, peep shows and gambling dens of the nearby Tenderloin, and workmen in overalls on a lunch break from the carriage factories, tanneries, saddleries, harness shops and horse dealerships that pervade the vicinity. Some of the gentlemen, probably out-of-towners, are accompanied by ladies in their finery.
The drummer boy performs a grotesque jig as he beats the conga. He is, however, subdued so as not to steal attention from the main attraction in the cage.
The Wild Zulu’s pecs ripple and his bloodshot eyes protrude and roll out of sync. The impresario, a pudgy White man in friendly muttonchops and a shiny stovepipe hat, struts in front of the cage. He is no longer the genial Davis that Em-Pee and Slaw met a week ago when he arranged for Em-Pee to come check out the show. He is all business and does not even cast a glance in Em-Pee’s direction. He cracks a whip; The Wild Zulu roars even louder. The dudes cheer and their ladies quiver, holding tightly on their beaux’s arms. The workmen, clustering mostly at the rear of the makeshift arena in deference to the upper-crust folks, heckle as they chomp from their lunch boxes, ‘Come on, let’s see some action! We ain’t got all day!’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, dudes, dudines and dudesses, now for the most exciting part,’ says the impresario, playing to the ladies. He turns to those who are so close to the cage they are almost touching the bars. ‘Be careful,’ he warns them ominously. ‘Stay clear of the cage lest The Wild Zulu reach for your limb between the bars and tear it to pieces with his teeth. He’s very hungry, and like all the race of his tribe he is partial to human flesh. He hasn’t had a morsel for two days.’
A kindly lady throws a banana into the cage. The Wild Zulu roars and kicks it out.
‘What a waste of luxury fruit,’ exclaims a man, reaching for the banana.
Davis, on the other hand, is livid.
‘Don’t feed The Wild Zulu!’ he yells. ‘What makes you think he eats bananas like a monkey? The Wild Zulu ain’t no monkey. He’s deadly. He’s not called The Wild Zulu for nothing. In their natural habitat baby Zulus suckle from she-wolves. They wrestle with grizzly bears as a rite of passage when they are teenagers. Stand back, stand back! You don’t want to provoke The Wild Zulu or he’ll eat you for breakfast.’
The crowd is on edge as it gives way for a Black man in dungarees pushing a wooden wheelbarrow laden with raw meat and a live cockerel, its legs tied together with twine. The bird flaps its wings frantically as the Black man transfers the wheelbarrow and its contents to Davis. The impresario carefully unlocks the cage, throws in the chicken and the meat and shuts the door quickly before The Wild Zulu can pounce on him. The spectators scream and shriek as The Wild Zulu dives for the chicken. He rips it to pieces with his bare hands and teeth and begins to eat it alive. Blood splashes all over the cage as he chews voraciously on its innards. He reaches for a chunk of meat and takes a bite from it and then from the chicken, chewing it with feathers and all. The spectators are frenzied, as if thrilling currents are jolting their way through their bodies.
Em-Pee can no longer stomach it. He walks away. But only a few steps behind the cage. His mouth fills with saliva and he spits it out in a jet.
He lingers for some time near the baled-hay barrier but does not exit, fearing that the entrance-keepers may not let him in again. Davis will not be there to explain to them that he is his special guest. Some bouncers are busy shooing away the opportunists who are trying to view the performance from outside over the barrier.
He stands on a bale and watches a barker walking up and down the sidewalk reciting superl
atives about the ferociousness and savage prowess of The Wild Zulu and inviting passers-by to come and see the spectacle for themselves. The barker strays into the street, still touting the merits of the show among stagecoaches and hansoms whose drivers are yelling and shaking their fists at what has developed into a traffic jam. For Em-Pee they are more entertaining than The Wild Zulu. He watches for a while and wonders if Slaw will make it on time.
His stomach has calmed down. He must force himself to watch the whole performance. He has no choice. Slaw will demand a full report. Every detail from the beginning to the end. So he drags his feet back. People give way until he is at his original spot in front of the cage. Curious eyes follow him. Perhaps they think he’s connected to the show somehow; maybe he’s a labourer in the employ of the impresario. He is the only Black man in this audience of New York’s gentry and sundry aspirants to status.
Once such spectacles were the preserve of the lower rungs of society while the crème de la crème took refuge in the private boxes of the Academy of Music Opera House and, most recently, the Metropolitan Opera House – opened only a month ago by old money that feels squeezed out of the Academy by the nouveaux riches. But these days not only do these circuses attract the vulgus and the pretenders to wealth and class, but some of the important names of the city have been spotted enjoying the gore, especially when they are staged at such venues as Madison Square Garden. Even the denizens of Broadway theatre establishments can be sighted occasionally indulging in them. All thanks to the most supreme impresario of all time, the one and only, The Great Farini, who has popularised such shows and has turned them into respectable entertainment. Many a member of the New York intelligentsia becomes a regular at these spectacles of primitive races under the pretext of being an exponent of popular anthropology or an aficionado of Charles Darwin’s postulations.
The Wild Zulu is now performing a crude dance, groaning and simulating sexual activity. Under the array of skins hanging from his waist to mid-thigh Em-Pee can see what purports to be his mammoth truncheon bobbing up and down. The ladies blush and giggle shyly and the gentlemen are mostly stone-faced.
Some of the workmen begin to stream out, not as a protest against the performance, for they are laughing and egging The Wild Zulu on. It must be time to return to their workstations.
‘The Zulus are a very virile race of people,’ announces the impresario, winking at the audience.
Em-Pee grimaces.
The drummer boy beats his conga faster, both with his hand and with the tambourine. The Wild Zulu becomes even more frenzied in his dance. He is now focusing his gaze on one particular lady in the audience and is beckoning her, pointing at his ungovernable truncheon. He is ogling her with bedroom eyes while dazzling her with what he imagines is a come-hither smile but looks like a menacing grin instead. The lady cringes into the protective arms of her beau, her face contorted in disgust. The Wild Zulu is persistent in targeting the hapless lady with his rude gestures.
Her beau cannot take it any longer. He hurls some choice invective at both The Wild Zulu and Davis. All hell breaks loose as the spectators heckle and curse while throwing all sorts of missiles at the cage, mostly chicken bones, bits of food and peanuts on which they were snacking. The remaining workmen are armed with even more potent weapons – rotten eggs and fruit, which they hurl into the cage. Davis raises his hands, pleading with the crowd to stop. But The Wild Zulu continues dancing while either ducking the missiles or catching some and flinging them back at the crowd.
Em-Pee takes this as his cue to leave. He negotiates his way through the mayhem until he reaches the entrance. ‘You’ll be missing the best part,’ says the entrance-keeper. ‘You’ll have to pay again if you come back.’
‘He didn’t pay the first time,’ says another. ‘The boss said to let him in.’
‘How come they let you in? You don’t see no one like you here.’
‘Ask your boss,’ says Em-Pee as he pushes his way out.
He hastens his gait as he passes vendors who seem to be competing as to who can yell the loudest for his custom. ‘Fresh roasted peanuts!’
He stands on the sidewalk and watches the traffic, now less chock-a-block than before. A small group of boisterous smithies and wheelwrights from a nearby carriage factory tease him about his muscular arms, expressing their nostalgia for the good old days when he would have been pulling a coach like a mule instead of loitering in the street.
A hansom comes to an abrupt stop near him, and Slaw alights. He could be mistaken for an Old West dandy, with a riding whip in one hand, which makes Em-Pee chuckle because Slaw is neither a horse rider nor a horse owner. The whip is mere accoutrement.
‘How did it go?’ Slaw asks.
Em-Pee leads him down the street to the horsecar station. They have only a while to wait. As soon as the horsecar stops, they both climb on the back platform.
‘There is room for you inside, sir,’ says the conductor, beckoning Slaw.
‘I’ll be good,’ says Slaw. ‘I need to conversate with my man here.’
They can hold their conversation only on the exterior platform either at the back or the front because Em-Pee is not usually permitted into the horsecars and omnibuses except at the occasional whim of the conductor – provided the White passengers don’t object. Otherwise he must wait for the Coloured cars, which are often rickety and dilapidated and are few and far between. He hates it when Slaw pleads with the conductor on his behalf, pretending that Em-Pee is his domestic help. But when the weather is inclement, he has no choice but to keep up the charade.
They are silent for a while, listening to the clip-clop of the shod hooves and the grinding wheels on the metal rails.
‘There is nothing we can learn from those folks,’ Em-Pee says finally.
‘Those folks mint dough. Lots of it. And you say there’s nothing we can learn from them?’ asks Slaw.
‘They don’t make it the right way,’ says Em-Pee.
He tells Slaw about the performance of The Wild Zulu and how offensive it was. Slaw shakes his head and laughs.
‘That’s exactly what people want to see,’ he says. ‘They come in their hundreds to be offended.’
‘But they threw stuff at Davis and his huge Zulu guy.’
‘Where do you think they got the stuff from?’ asks Slaw. ‘They bring it with them specially for that … rotten tomatoes and rotten eggs. You know why?’ Cause they expect to be offended. They look forward to it. Listen to me, Em-Pee, Davis is smart and ambitious. He aims to be the next Farini.’
‘No one can be like The Great Farini,’ says Em-Pee.
‘Davis don’t work blindly. He analyses stuff like a scientist. Like The Great Farini.’
Slaw explains that successful impresarios operate on two pleasure principles, either to titillate or to offend. He learned that from The Great Farini himself. They often choose one or the other. The genius of Davis has combined the two principles in one show. At one moment he titillates, at another he offends.
‘I didn’t see nothing titillating in The Wild Zulu,’ says Em-Pee.
‘Because you decided from the outset that you were disgusted and therefore didn’t pay any attention. And I sent you there to pay attention. From what you outlined to me, he began by titillating the crowds. Folks get titillated like hell when they watch a savage tear a live chicken with his bare hands and teeth. All that blood gives them orgasms. Then he offends them with his crude sexual dance. You saw their crazed eyes. Sheer genius.’
They get off at Worth Street and walk towards Five Points.
‘I don’t like the idea of performing out there in the open,’ says Em-Pee.
‘Davis makes more money with outdoor performances. He doesn’t have to pay high venue fees. And he can move his show to any place in the city where folks are concentrated.’
They are only a few yards into Five Points when a stench assails them. Soon they see its source – the carcass of a horse in the street. It’s been there for two day
s already and no one has bothered to remove it. It happens like that in these rookeries, the worst in New York. A black cloud of flies is hovering over the feast.
The men skirt around a pool of dirty water and a herd of pigs grunting their way to a pile of street-side garbage.
‘I think we should just continue with our Friendly Zulus,’ says Em-Pee, as they reach their Mulberry Bend tenement.
‘You say the damnedest things, Em-Pee, you know that?’ says Slaw. ‘Who the hell wants to see friendly Zulus in America?’
2
kwaZulu – December 1878
Ozithulele The Silent One
His Zulu colleagues call him Mpi, which has become Em-Pee to the English-speakers. It is less punishing to the inexperienced tongue than Mpiyezintombi – Battle of the Maidens – so named because his father thought he was so handsome that women were going to fight over him.
When they are drinking beer all by themselves, without the White troupe members, the Zulus recite their clan praises. He takes pride in his name, Mpiyezintombi Mkhize, begotten by Khabazela kaMavovo, descendant of Sibiside, he who led the abaMbo people from the blue lakes of central Africa, many centuries ago, to the area that later became known as kwaZulu, where they were incorporated into the amaZulu nation through King Shaka’s spear in the nineteenth century.
When he recites his praises, his colleagues ululate like women and it takes Mpi back to the old country where he used to carouse with the young women of King Cetshwayo kaMpande’s isigodlo – the very behaviour that brought about his downfall and his flight from the kingdom.
His escape had been unpremeditated. He carried nothing but his spear and shield when he set off from Ondini in the deep of the night. Occasionally he listened on the ground to the sounds of the night, hoping that none of them would be from the heavy gait of amabutho, his warrior colleagues, sent by King Cetshwayo to capture him.
