Had it been only twelve years since his half-brother Shah had been crowned king of the Zulus? Dingane wondered. For him it had been an eternity. He sat in the darkness away from the fires that marked the king’s kraal (encampment), his iKlwa across his knees. It was a wide, heavy-bladed thrusting spear, an invention of Shaka’s. Most warriors carried it now, instead of the traditional assegais, the long, thin throwing javelin that had been the weapon of choice of the Zulu before Shaka. The iKlwa, in combination with the heavier cowhide shields Shan had also developed, allowed mass formations of Zulus to smash their lighter armed enemies into submission. That, along with the ironclad discipline and innovative tactics with which Shan had molded his army, made them the most potent military force in Africa.
Before Shah, battle had been mostly a ceremonial event, with both sides posturing. Some blood was drawn, true, but few deaths occurred. Shaka had changed all that. Now battles were fought to the point of annihilation. Dingane knew of entire tribes that now ceased to exist, that had been wiped out to the last man, woman, and child. While he had little sympathy for those the Zulu had vanquished, he was dismayed to see Shaka turning that same deadly focus against his own people.
Dingane was discontent, as were many. For years, they · had tried to get Shaka back on the path of light. Away from the dark path of the mfecane. But to no avail. The last straw though, was the white men. They’d arrived four years ago and at first had been treated with suspicion by Shaka and all around him. But then the king had been wounded in battle and the Europeans nursed him back to health — and things had never been the same. Shaka had signed over vast amounts of Zulu territory to the whites, something Dingane saw as ultimately only bringing great trouble to the land. Yes, the whites were few in number now, but like the dung beetle, he had a feeling they would multiply. And they had different, powerful weapons that could kill at great ranges, beyond even the range of an assegais thrown by the strongest warrior.
Also, the way of the whites was different. Dingane and others saw them as a corrupting force with their religion, which they did not hesitate to press on those who were willing to listen to them. He did not see the path the whites called “Christian” and the path of the Zulu warrior heading in the same direction. And if the Zulu warrior lost his edge in battle, there were many all around their territory who could not wait to wreak revenge on the Zulu.
Shaka was — had been — a great leader, of that Dingane was one of the first to admit. But the last several years, particularly since the death of Shah’s mother, had seen the great man deteriorate. Shaka had had seven thousand people put to death when he’d heard his mother was gravely ill, in the hopes such a sacrifice would bring her back to health. And then. After her death. had ordered a nationwide fast that had lasted three months and almost destroyed the tribe with starvation. It had only been when Dingane and the other war chiefs had begged Shaka for several days straight, that the king had lifted the fast. But then he kept the army on the move, attacking, always attacking, even when there was no need. Even when the next opponent threw open their kraals and begged for mercy, still Shaka attacked and killed as if blood were a salve for his grief.
Dingane heard movement in the bush and sprang to his feet, the iKlwa at the ready. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air and his eyes darted about, trying to see in the dark. A slight figure ran by, less than two feet away and Dingane stuck out his leg, tripping the intruder. He had a knee on the person’s chest and the tip of the iKlwa against the throat in a second.
In the moonlight, a young woman’s scared face looked up at him, eyes wide. “Please, great warrior, spare me.”
She Was holding something tight to her chest, a bundle wrapped in a blanket. Dingane poked at it with the tip of the iKlwa and was rewarded with a baby’s yelp of pain.
“I know you,” Dingane said as he saw her features more clearly in the moonlight. “You belong to Shaka’s seraglio.” He knew he should return her to the kraal, but he truly could not blame her for trying to get away. Just two days earlier, Shah had had twenty-five members of his seraglio (cluster of wives) executed because he’d found a locust in his sleeping mat.
“Please,” she repeated once more, getting to her knees, the baby held tight against her chest.
“Whose child is that?” Dingane demanded.
She lowered her head. “It is Shaka’s daughter.”
“You lie.” Dingane put the sharp tip of the iKlwa against her throat. “Shaka does not have intercourse, only the ukuHlobonga.” The latter, external intercourse, was the only sexual contact allowed among unwed couples, and Shaka had always been adamant that he would not father a child, given his own horrible childhood. Dingane also knew that Shaka feared bringing a son into the world, because that would automatically be a threat to his own rule. As long as there was only Shaka, with no clear heir, he felt his position to be safe.
The woman met his gaze, not flinching at the added · pressure of the blade at her throat. “I do not lie.” She held out the baby. “This is Shakan, daughter of Shaka. And I am Takir, princess of Butelezi and possessor of the Sight.”
Dingane pulled the blade back. The Sight was a rare thing, and those that possessed it very dangerous. Some said Shah himself had it, and Dingane thought it might be true. Certainly, the king had made many wise decisions, particularly in combat, when the way to be taken had been anything but clear.
“This is not about Shaka,” Takir continued, “or about me. This child, my daughter, Shakan, will one day, many years from now, do something very important. Something more important than Shaka or even the Zulu people.”
Dingane felt the power of her words. He pulled back the iKlwa as he remembered what he had been contemplating alone here in the dark before Takir and the child stumbled by. “Apparently the Sight does not help to see in the dark,” he muttered.
To his surprise, Takir laughed. “No, it does not. It is not very useful at times.”
“Tell me something,” Dingane began, but then he halted.
“You want me to tell you of Shah and what the future holds,” Takir said as she got her feet, holding the bundle tight.
“Your Sight told you this?”
Once more Takir quietly laughed. “No. I just speculated what Shaka’s half-brother would be doing sitting alone in the dark with a weapon in his hands. Even one without the Sight knows there is much trouble about.”
“Does your Sight see Shaka’s future?”
Takir looked down at the iKlwa. “Shaka’s future is in your hands.”
“What do you — ” Dingane halted as he realized he was gripping the iKlwa so tightly his fingers were screaming with pain.
“You are doing the right thing for the people,” Takir said. She turned and then was gone into the darkness.
Dingane waited a few moments, and then turned toward the kraal. He hefted the iKlwa and headed to meet Shaka for the last time. He paused as he heard the rumble of thunder to the south and west, then continued to his half-brother’s tent.