Induna. Soon they were all clucking and exclaiming over the imprint, the wax impression passing from hand to hand. Bakela, ' the King told Zouga, 'you must come to me again on the day following the Chawala ceremony. You and I have much to discuss.'
Then with a wave of his hand he dismissed the splendid young man from his presence, and patiently, resignedly, gave himself up to the ministrations of the hovering doctor.
The full moon rose well past midnight, and the fires were stacked with new logs to welcome it, and the singing; and drumming began. No man nor woman had dared to pick a single grain of corn from the harvest before this moment, for the rise of the moon heralded the Chawala, the dance of the first fruits, and the entire nation gave itself up to rejoicing.
The ceremony began in the middle of the first morning. The massed regiments assembled before their King, filing in column into the vast arena of the cattle stockade, and the earth shook to the crash of bare feet lifted in unison, twenty-five thousand at a time, lifted to the level of the shoulder and then brought down with the full force of the muscular, hardened bodies of highly trained warriors.
Bayete! ' they greeted the King with the royal salute.
Bayete! ' the crash of feet once more.
Bayete! ' a third time, and then the dancing began.
One regiment at a time coming forward in swaying, singing ranks, to perform before Mzilikazi's armchair throne. The perfect timing and execution of the intricate steps made it seem as though they were a single living organism, the shields interlocking and revolving and twisting together like the scales of some gigantic reptile, the dust rising and swirling through their ranks like smoke so that they appeared as wraiths, and their cloaks of furs and their kilts of civets' tails and monkeyskins, of the pelts of foxes and cats, swirled about their legs so they appeared to be divorced from earth, suspended above it on the moving cloud of dust and the soft waves of fur.
From the ranks sprang the great champions and the heroes of each regiment, to giya in their pride. Leaping as high as their own heads, and stabbing furiously at the air, screaming challenge and triumph, the sweat greased their muscles and flew in explosive droplets in the sunlight.
Mzilikazi was caught up in the building sea of excitement, and he quaffed from the beer pots that the maidens brought him until his eyes rolled in his head and he could not contain himself further. He struggled from his chair, and hobbled out on his swollen and deformed legs, and the champions fell back to give him place. My father is the finest dancer in all of Matabeleland, said Gandang, squatting beside Zouga.
The old King tried to leap, but his feet did not leav the ground. He shuffled back and forth, making little pawing gestures, hacking at the air with his toy war spear. Thus I struck down Barend the Griqua, and thus his sons died.'
The nation roared. The bull elephant dances, and the earth shakes.'
And the slamming of ten thousand feet goaded the King to circle in a painful and pathetic parody of the young champions' wild gyrations. Thus I spurned the tyrant Chaka, and thus I cut the plumes from the headdress of his messengers and sent them back to him, squealed Mzilikazi. Bayete! ' thundered the nation.
'THe father of the world.'
Exhausted within minutes, the ancient King sank into the dust, and Gandang and two other of the King's sons leapt to their feet from the half circle of Indunas and raced to his side.
Gently they bore him up and carried him back to his chair, and Lobengula, the King's senior son, held a beer pot for him to drink from. The beer dribbled from his chin and ran down the King's heaving chest. Let the nation dance, gasped the King, and Gandang returned to Zouga's side and squatted beside him. After war, my father loves best the dance, he explained.
The maidens came, rank upon lovely rank, their naked skin shimmering in the glaring sunlight of noon. The tiny beaded apron that barely covered their little triangular sex was all they wore, and their singing was sweet and clear.
Mzilikazi hoisted himself from his chair once more, and hobbled out to dance with them, passing along the foremost rank, directing the singing with his ritual warspear pointed to the skies. The King danced until he dropped once more, and was again carried back to his chair by his sons.
By nightfall, Zouga was exhausted. His sweaty neck was chafed by the high stock of his dress coat, and sweat had soaked through the thick scarlet serge in dark patches. His eyes were bloodshot and inflamed from the dust and the glare, his head ached from the cacophony of drums and the roar of Matabele voices, his tongue felt thick and furry from the draughts of sorghum beer that had been pressed upon him and his back and legs ached from the unfamiliar squatting attitude he had been forced into all that day, but the King was still dancing, bobbling and prancing and squeaking on those twisted and deformed legs of his.
The following morning Mzilikazi was on his throne again, so undaunted by the previous day's exertions, that when the Chawala bull was loosed into the arena his sons had bodily to restrain him from rushing out to slay it with his bare hands.
A champion from each regiment had been chosen, and stripped down to a loincloth. They waited in squatting ranks on each side of Mzilikazi's chair.
The bull came into the ring at the charge, homed head held high, red dust spurting from under his hooves, and his wild eyes glaring. He was pure, untainted black, with a huge humped back and glossy burnished hide.
Carefully picked from all the King's herds, he was the finest animal in the whole of Matabeleland and he made an arrogant circuit of the arena, stepping high, snorting and dropping his head to hook with curved horns at anything in his path.
The King, held by his sons, but struggling against their grip, was almost incoherent with excitement, and now he lifted his spear and his arms shook violently as he screamed, Tulala inkunzi! Kill the bull! ' The waiting men leapt to their feet, saluted the King, and then raced out, spreading into a half-moon-shape line, instinctively adopting the fikela, the movement of encirclement.
The black bull swung to meet them, came up short on locked front legs, his head swinging as he measured his charge; then the great rounded quarters bunched under him and he surged forward, picking a man in the centre of the line and thundering down on him.
The man he had chosen stood his ground, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture and the bull dropped his head and hit him. Clearly Zouga heard the brittle snap of bone as the warrior absorbed the shock of impact against
