Trojian Horse

2

“Is that really what he said?” she asked.

“Yes, he saw it long before we all did,” the old man replied, staring blankly into the distant cloudless horizon. The sun was slowly drifting toward the horizon letting a cool breeze sweep over the land as the heat waned.

“So why didn’t he try to do something about it sooner?”

“My daughter, I don’t think there was anything he could do. He knew it and he tried to contain it. There was nothing anybody could do, not even you. I know you are rather critical of everything that happened and I understand it but you really don’t know everything.”

“And you do?” she asked, her nostrils flaring slightly. She did not take well to being chided on this matter or any other really.

“Yes, in fact I do,” the old man replied smiling widely then quickly taking on the air of seriousness once again. “He was the fly.”

“And they were the chameleon. Yes, I know,” she added abruptly. She had heard the story from him countless times and her mind began to wonder as the old man spoke on, determined to make his point.

“It was more than that. It was the way he spoke the words,” he said waiting just long enough for her to become interested again. “They were heavy on his heart, feeling for a moment that a sort of fear like a spear was hanging over him ready to pierce his heart. He was the fly, which is otherwise oblivious, except that he knew what was coming. He could see that terrible end coming so you can only imagine how terrified he must have been. For all of us.”

Something about the way the old man articulated the words seemed to transport Cebisa back to that moment when that pronouncement of impending doom had been proclaimed. The pain, pity and fear were still fresh in the old man’s voice. When Lobengula had pronounced those words, he felt that the end of life as they knew it was near but she did not imagine that he would have expected his kingdom to crumble in such an unimaginably catastrophic way.

This was the beginning of a new age. An age when the Ndebele were no longer at the peak of their powers, no longer the greatest power in the region. There was a new power now, that which they called the maxim gun. She sat in silence with the old man for a long while, contemplating the story of the fly and the chameleon, contemplating the end of the Ndebele as a state, contemplating the changes that they had been forced to grow accustomed to, contemplating the future for herself, her daughters and the little bundle that lay asleep, wrapped in warm skins in the makeshift grass hut behind her.

Zibulo, their only son, would never knew the great world that existed before he was born. She had named him Zibulo as he was her first son, her true first born child. All he would know is this world that they had created for them. A world of fear, indoctrination and re-calibration. A world without his father, who had not been seen for over a year now since the king Lobengula had disappeared with Magwegwe in tow. Many had accepted that King Lobengula was dead but the truth she suspected was that they all were, all who had gone off into the night with their king leaving a burning city behind and a leaderless people. Magwegwe would never know his son, a parting gift to her, one they had always wanted under better circumstances and would never be able to share.

“Chameleon indeed,” she said at last breaking the silence, more to herself than in any attempt to continue the early conversation with the old man, Khulu Zwangedwa. “Khulu (grandfather), what do you think is going to be happen to us?”

“I really don’t know but I understand how this works. Our way of life is over. There are whispers of a rebellion and maybe we could claim back a part of that old life but it will never be the same. Our world will never be the same.” The old man spoke with such a finality on the matter that even she dared not question it.

“How do I tell my boy all this?” She glanced into the hut toward the little bundle sleeping soundly, her hands clasped together.

“You tell him that change was always going to come. Just like change will continue long after we are all gone. Imagine our surprise when we discovered those many years ago, that there was something, someone, beyond those great bodies of water at the edge of the world. Now that they are here the world will continue to change.”

“It’s not fair. They must go back to where they came from!” She said, the anger seething inside her and erupting in a steady stream of tears that refused to be restrained any longer.

“I’m sure the people we found here when we came this way with Mzilikazi felt the same way. The truth is that we conquer or we are conquered and this time an enemy more powerful than us has find their way into our kingdom.” The old man shrugged his shoulders distinctly aware of the glaring eyes staring back at him. “At my age you begin to see the world for what it really is.”

“I can’t believe you would say that.”

“You have the benefit of not knowing what we left behind, what we were running from.”

“Shaka.”

“Yes, but to you he is more of a fable you tell the children before they go to bed but to us…he was very real. He is the thing that haunts our dreams,” the old man cast a thoughtful glance into the blue sky above him. “I’m thirsty.”

She knew what sort of drink he needed when he was ‘thirsty’. Khulu Zwangedwa steadied himself using his gnarly wooden walking stick, rising to his feet after protracted groaning then wobbling off in the direction of the little gatherings of men where the gourd was passed around until the crickets were long asleep. Cebisa watched him disappear behind some shrubs before getting to her feet and walking into the hut. Zibulo, her son, opened his eyes just as she walked in. The sun had begun dipping beyond the hills to its resting place for the night.

“Zi-zi,” she said, as she so often affectionately called him and smiling at the happy infant lying on the floor.

He shuffled around, following her with his eyes as she walked around the room, collecting utensils she would use to prepare their meal at the fires. The old man would be hungry when he came back later that evening. Zibulo giggled in obvious elation as a fly zipped all over the hut, his little hands and feet flapping around hysterically.

“Ma…ma,” he mumbled when his little game with the fly ended when the fly eventually found its way out of the hut. She was surprised at how quickly he had started speaking mumbling his first words after just six months. Sometimes she felt he had a look in his eyes that betrayed an ancient soul stuck in a little body.

“Yebo, ndodana (yes, my son),” she said. She smiled a wide smile which transformed into a grin. Magwegwe would have been proud of this amazing boy that lay before her. She thought about Magwegwe often, sometimes wondering how his demise came about while at other times she wondered whether he and Lobengula would have recognised the world the Ndebele people were living in now. Lifting Zibulo into her arms she exited the hut, carrying him in one hand and her cooking utensils in the other hand, and made her way to the cooking area where she found her daughters playing with the other little girls around the other women who were preparing meals. It was of great benefit that the whole village was involved in raising their children, especially now.

“Nkazimulo, Nosipho come here,” she called motioning for her daughters to come to her. They scurried to her side with wide smiles and quite out of breath. “Help me with this. Go get the meat then I’ll start on it. Are you hungry?”

“Yebo!” they both shouted in unison, helping their mother with her load of utensils and pots. Cebisa walked over to the nearest fire greeting the group of women huddled over their pots chatting loudly against the backdrop of the orange sky.

“Sawubona (hello) Ntombi,” she said to the lady next to her who was busying herself with adding pieces of meat to her broth.

“Sawubona Cebisa,” Ntombi replied.

“Why do they all seem so excited?” Cebisa asked.

“It’s all this talk of a rebellion. They seem to think there is a way back from all this.”

“And you don’t?” Cebisa asked her forehead furrowing.

“I think we need to accept where we have found ourselves.”

“What is that supposed to mean Ntombi?”

“Our young men are being drafted into their ranks as police officers to watch over us, our girls are being taken into their employ to work in their homes and I’ve heard the stories about some of those young girls in those homes…I could go on all night.” Ntombi spoke softly so the other women wouldn’t hear her.

“But they are doing this to us. Shouldn’t we fight for our homes back? For our freedom?” Cebisa asked, speaking equally softly.

“I think our will to fight is slowly being drained from us. Who will fight for us? We are divided and we are slowly growing accustomed to their way of life. Our idea of self is slowly being drained from us and we haven’t even noticed it.” Ntombi peered in the direction of her eldest daughter, who was just about reaching puberty. “The other day she told me when she’s old enough she would like to work in the homes of the pale men and learn about their way of life. Life for our children will never be what we hoped it would be.”

“The oppressors have become the oppressed…” Cebisa said to herself, remembering a statement Khulu had made a few days ago.

“What?” Ntombi asked.

“Nothing,” she said in hushed tones then quickly went on with her counter argument. “I understand what you mean but if we do not fight against oppression then who will do it for us? This is our land! We came here looking for a home and sure we displaced a few but we also gave many a home, protection and assimilated them into our way of life. Ultimately WE wanted a home but they want EVERYONE’S home. They will not stop until we are flies pressed beneath their thumbs.” Cebisa slammed her wooden spoon in the pot. Her voice rising ever so slightly as she spoke, and a vein throbbing in the middle of her forehead. There was some finality in her statement. Many surprised faces looked in their direction.

The rest of the evening progressed with little incident. The children ate, the women and men ate and soon everyone retired to their huts for the night. Cebisa felt the anger occasionally come back when she thought of Ntombi’s words when she lay to sleep at night but when she was not feeling angry she could reflect that Ntombi’s attitude was one that had become commonplace in their community. Hope and pride had been drained from them. Perhaps this was their life now and the story of the Ndebele would fade from the history books never to be thought of again. This was the world Zibulo was going to be grow up in. Her thoughts morphed into nightmares.