The Valley of the Kings
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| Shaka, twelfth king of the Zulus |
In the late 1500s, under the
ageing patriarch Malandela’ s leadership, a small group of people who were in
due course to form the main line of Zulu kings, migrated down the Umfolozi
River with their followers to settle in the country that became known as
Zululand. During their migration, Malandela’s two sons Zulu and Qwabe began to
deepen a festering quarrel.
Day by day the feud sizzled
on, with a remark here and a jibe there, and mutual loathing evident between
the leaders. Then, early one morning, Qwabe confronted his father Malandela.
As the grizzled patriarch sat outside his hut
eating sorghum bread prepared by his wife, Qwabe strode up to him. The aggressive
young man wore the sullen look of an aggrieved party, and his greeting was
curt. Squatting a few paces away, he scowling at his father. His face was grim
and angry. There was a long silence. Malandela could see Qwabe’s supporters
shuffle uneasily in the background and then bend to get their spears, awaiting
the outcome of the confrontation.
“Speak,
my son,” he prompted, leaning forward with his hands open to show that he had
no weapon hidden from his son.
“It is
the cow,” was the surly reply. Qwabe wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Little
rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks to drip onto his bare chest.
“The
cow?”
“The
white cow. The heifer with the short horns. It is now with the herd of Zulu. Yet
it is mine!”
The old
man stirred uneasily, his eyes carefully searching the hard faces of those
beyond. Turning back to Qwabe, he looked him straight in the eyes.
“But
that is not true,” he said.
The
young man shuffled uneasily and tried to hold his father’s gaze.
“And I,
Qwabe, am the oldest son!”
Malandela
paused, his brow knitted. He stood up stiffly. At sixty-three, he was a tall, impressive
figure. Looking down at Qwabe, he spoke firmly.
“Nozinja
is my great wife. It was her cow, for I gave it to her. The heifer now belongs
to Zulu.”
Qwabe
merely grunted.
Malandela
now stood with feet apart to face his son more squarely. They had travelled a
long way, he and his wives and sons. It had been a difficult journey. Despite
the hard times, they had stood together. They must not now tear themselves
apart over the matter of a cow!
“I said:
the heifer is now Zulu’s.”
Qwabe
leapt up to confront his father, his face like thunder. His eyes were little
pinpricks of fury as he spat out his reply.
“So you
have chosen Zulu!” he hissed.
“There
has been no choosing yet!” Malandela responded decisively. He, too, was now
angry. He stood firmly erect, his breath coming in gasps as he strove to
control his anger. Then, with an imperious wave of his hand, he said, “Now go. And
let that be an end of it!”
For a
time the two men stood glaring at each other; then Qwabe spun on his heel and
stalked raging back to his supporters. There were muttered growls of anger from
the men, and for a moment, it looked as if they would surge forward to attack
Zulu’s group. Then they checked, and the awful moment passed.
The next
morning the clan set off early. They moved east, leaving behind the little
gurgling waters of the Mpembeni and Mkhumbane streams, and headed over the
Mtonjaneni heights to get into the valley of the Mfule River beyond.
Qwabe’s
men led the migrants through a growth of long yellow thatching grass, driving
their own small herd of cattle that now included two heifers stolen from the
herd of Zulu. The heir saw this. Accompanied by a band of close friends, all
armed and ready for action, he approached his father to demand retribution.
“Do you
see, father, they have stolen my beasts,” he asserted, pointing out where the
backs of his cows showed for a moment above the grass. “Do you expect me to
stand back?”
In reply
to his younger son’s question, Malandela was firm. “Let them go,” he ordered.
“But he
is a thief!” the younger man asserted, with a vicious swipe of his assegai that
severed neatly a thick tuft of grass growing beside the path.
“He is
also your brother,” Malandela responded quickly. He paused, bent over, and
picked the severed stems of grass from the ground to hold them high in his
right hand. “Do you see,” he said gently, counting the stems, “there are more
stems here than there are people in all of our clan.” Do you want to see them
also wither and die?” He let the stems fall, one by one, to the ground.
“But
remember, father, it was you who wanted to reckon with the Lembe thieves.”
“Yes, my
son, but the Lembe were not our people.”
Zulu
stalked for a time at his father’s side, striving hard to control his anger,
then decided not to challenge the old man who had so skilfully guided them
through the terrors and triumphs of their journey. The day would come, he felt,
when the followers of Zulu would reckon with the men of Qwabe. From that time
on, he lingered at the back of the migration with forty of his close followers,
who drove before them the remaining white cattle, including the beautiful
heifer that was the main cause of the row, and a dozen goats.
Zulu was
tempted to turn from the path, and make his way back to the shallow valley they
had left. He had liked the little valley, and had been reluctant to move from
its green summer pastures. Set within gently rolling hills, the basin drew its
liquid nourishment from the Mpembeni, Nzololo, Mkumbane, and Mzimhlanga
streams. Most of these watercourses looked
as if they would provide enough reserves even in the dry winter months, when
much of the stony ground would show amidst the rank, dry grass scattered with
thorny mimosa scrub and common tree euphorbias. In the worst drought years, the
great Umfolozi River was always there to the north, and the Mhlatuze to the south.
The low
hills would make good sites for homesteads, from which one could see the cattle
grazing. Although Zulu was tempted to split from the group, he knew that the
rumour of a ‘smelling out’ by the people of Babanango had now reached his
father. If any hostile group caught up with them, the old man would need his
son’s support. With a great effort of will, Zulu followed as Malandela urged
his followers on towards the Mfule River and an uncertain future.
As the
party moved down the Mfule River towards the Mhlatuze River valley to the south,
Malandela lost more members of his clan. The main party had passed a patch of
wild melons in the dusk without seeing it, and had gone on to cross a nearby
stream as it rose in the summer rains; but a few who had stayed behind to
forage for food had stumbled across the ripe fruit. Finding themselves unable
to cross the churning brown waters, they had squatted where they had found the
melons and begun to gorge on them. They then settled down to sleep after their feast.
Next
morning when the river had subsided, the melon-eaters refused to join
Malandela, saying they were tired of the endless quarrelling. The old man had
shouted back angrily at them, telling them he had no use for laggards. He
challenged them to stay where they were camped, if that was their wish. They
had responded by shouting back rudely, and the parties had split. During the
following weeks, the foragers established a small village, calling themselves
the amaNgadeni clan, meaning ‘those amongst the melons.’
It was
only after the main party had moved on again that Malandela realized that some
of the precious white cattle had remained with those left behind.
Malandela
and his remaining followers trudged southwards into the beautiful valley of the
Mhlatuze River, and then camped on the fertile
lands of a low ridge on the south bank, above which the church of the Mandawe
Cross was built three hundred years later. The clan erected a homestead named
Odwini, which means ‘the nest of bees’.
The
little settlement flourished, with Nozinja and the other women planting fields
of sorghum, wild melons, and sweet potatoes. Their herds and flocks grazed on
the grasslands beside the dense reed beds of the Mhlatuze. Wild game was more
plentiful here than in any part the migrants had visited. There were elephant,
hippopotamus and buffalo in great numbers, also a wide variety of antelope and
birds. The community thrived, and grew in numbers.
Then old
Malandela, grizzled and worn out with the burden of his leadership, fell ill.
When he
heard of his father’s illness, Zulu hurried to the old man’s side to be with
him as he died. Unsure of his reception, he found his father lying on a bed of
softened hide, with Nosinja and their attendants seated around the old chief. Malandela
turned his head to catch a glimpse of the son who he loved despite the grief the
young man had caused him. There was a flicker of recognition. He gestured for
the attendants to leave.
“You, my
son, will be a great leader,” he murmured at last. “And they shall call you
Nkosinkulu. There shall be many after you.”
Zulu sat
for a long time in respectful silence, waiting for Malandela to summon the strength
to go on.
“But
there will come another, one of your descendants. He will endure great
hardships. He will have a will of iron. He will live by the blade of the
assegai. He will make your descendants a mighty people, as great in number as
the grass in the fields.”
Turning
his face away, the great patriarch died quietly in peace. Bereft at the loss of
her husband, in due course Nozinja went back to her own clan, the Qwabe.
Malandela’s
retainers buried him in some green place, beneath a great euphorbia tree, that people
can no longer recall with precision; and took up abode with the ancient shades
that resided there.
After
the death of Malandela, the old tensions between Qwabe and Zulu surfaced again,
and there was a final, ugly row between the parties. The opposing sides hurled
insults and threats at each other, and then the groups split finally amidst a
torrent of abuse.
Flushed
with resentment and set on moving away from his rival, Qwabe trudged off to the
southeast, driving most of the cattle with him. His followers settled amongst
the Ngoye Hills, and during the years that followed also established themselves
in increasing numbers on the lower Mhlatuze River. Indeed, they were to name
themselves “The great reed bed of the Umhlatuze,” growing into a tribe whose
hatred of the Zulu clan was still felt after the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879, when
Qwabe trackers helped with the capture of King Cetshwayo.
Still
attracted to the valley they had left a year or two before, Zulu and his mother
trudged back up the course of the Mfule River to Mtonjaneni, and skirted the
heights to work their way down the Mkumbane Stream. With a few dozen followers
and some cattle and goats, they settled on a low ridge between the Mkumbane and
Nzololo Streams, with a good view of the surrounding hills.
Here
Zulu lived for many years, with his small clan expanding through judicious
marriages and the incorporation of a few followers from other clans.
Zulu was
a well-respected leader, although his followers were few. In accord with his father’s
prophesy, in later years he became known as Nkosinkulu, the great chief. When he died in about the year 1709, he
had established the lineage of the small group of people who were to rise to
become the mighty Zulu nation.
The
story of these great chiefs (let us call them kings, since the valley in which
many of them are buried is known as ‘The valley of the kings’, or eMakhoseni) is
cast in deep shadows. A man by the name of Ntombela might have acted as regent
until a new king was of age to rule; but since the lists of kings handed down
by oral tradition vary greatly, there is no certainty on the matter.
It seems
that Phunga followed Zulu, with Mageba, ‘the friendly and well-liked one’
assuming the kingship after him. Mageba built Makheni, ‘the sweet-smelling
place’ that became a site for debates of great tribal importance. Next in line came
Ndaba, ‘the man of affairs’ with Jama, an awe-inspiring and powerful figure, following
in the royal lineage. Jama built his capital village near the Mpembeni Stream a
few kilometres above its confluence with the Maphophoma. The king named it Nobamba,
meaning ‘the place of unity’. Over time, it became a most important site in the
national life of the Zulus. Some accounts say they built Nobamba even before
the reign of Jama, perhaps as early as the time of Mageba, thus gaining great
venerability and adding distinction to the lives of the Zulus living in its
surrounds.
These
ancient kings held their positions as descendants in the direct line of
ancestors of the clan. They were the only ones who could approach the ancestors
directly for their help and blessing for the people as a whole. They had great
powers and privileges but, in turn, their duties demanded much of them. They
had to be on good terms with their forebears, and must be mentally and
physically capable; also capable of making powerful magic that would benefit
their people.
The
kings also represented unity in the tribe, were the centre of agricultural and
war ritual, and were the main practitioners of ‘medicine’. To injure the king
was to injure the people who owed allegiance to him. The nation universally abhorred
and condemned regicide by an assassin from within their ranks.
The
people revered and praised the king as ‘father’. Their welfare was in his hands. He
must bring rain in times of drought, by his own devices or through the
employment of doctors. He also presided on such great occasions as the
First-fruits Ceremony to mark the time of harvest, after which the people might
eat their crops. He was also the state treasurer. The king controlled much of
the cattle wealth of the tribe and the people consequently expected him to use
it to their benefit. In times of stress and misfortune such as a prolonged
drought, they would look to the king for benefits in the form of cattle and
grain.
The king
was also custodian of the Inkatha, or royal coil. As thick as a tractor tyre,
this great symbol of unity was a coil of grass covered with several python
skins. It was
saturated with
powerful medicines that senior sangomas had added to it from time to time. They derived these substances from
the body dirt, or insila, of the great kings, as well as from such other
regular additions as a sample of vomit from the army as the war doctors
prepared the warriors with magic medicines before a campaign. Over many, many
years, with each new accretion of medicine, the inkatha gained enormously in
magical power and potency. The nation held the giant coil in awe.
Consecrated
during important ceremonies, the inkatha safeguarded the nation and served to
ward off malignant influences. The kings used it for all great occasions when there
was a need to bring blessings from the ancestors on the tribe and for this
purpose it was kept at the military kraal, or ikhanda, known as isiKlebene.
Gradually
the little valley in which Zulu had settled so many years before became the
focal point of Zulu tribal life. The early kings who came after Zulu lie buried
there, and the Zulus gave the name eMakhoseni (Kings) to the valley. Just as the
Nile Valley has its ‘Valley of the Kings’, the Zulus could soon claim the same
distinction.
In these
earlier times, councillors buried a notable person such as a chief in a deep
pit with a pile of rocks placed overhead to keep scavengers such as hyenas from
getting to the body. In later times, during the period when villages of a
thousand huts became more common and the administrative senior died, burials
became more complex and steeped in ritual.
To bury
a notable person, especially someone recognized as a paramount chief, or in Western
terms, a king, the retainers left the body for a time to desiccate and
dehydrate. The period immediately after a natural death was a time of
reflection during which period the population referred to the person as if he
or she were still living, although the occurrence of their death might be
widely known.
“The
king is slightly indisposed,” the senior councillors would say, with some
delicacy, of the dead man. “It is not convenient at this time to see him.”
This
allowed domestic matters, and if applicable state affairs, to be settled.
Retainers
then dug a deep pit at the top end of the main cattle enclosure, where dung and
urine washed downhill by rain did not penetrate. It was often where the great
person had held court. It would be the depth of a man’s height, or sometimes
deeper.
For people of note, the diggers constructed a side chamber so that only
hard compacted soil would be overhead. This prevented wild, predatory creatures
such as hyenas from getting to the body.
Attendants
usually wrapped the body in a sitting position within the hide of a steer, with
thongs to secure the coverings. They left the body in its hut to dry out. A
fire of aromatic wood would disguise the stench and people stuffed aromatic
herbs up their nostrils as a further barrier. On desiccation of the body, the
stench would dissipate. Only then would burial take place.
Attendants might be
strangled, and interred to serve the monarch in the afterlife. Retainers buried
precious objects with the king, but not his spears lest he use these in due
course to wreak vengeance on the living.
Since communities
often abandoned their homestead or village after the death and burial of its
head, it would gradually return to grassland, nourished by the considerable
covering of cattle dung in the kraal. Guards assumed duty at the gravesite to
ensure that the rocks covering the grave stayed in place, and that fires did
not desecrate it.
With the absence of fires, the seeds of shrubs and trees
would thrive, bringing a small thicket. This could attract various creatures,
amongst which might be snakes. When a small snake appeared, some regarded it as
the spirit of the notable, who was signifying his satisfaction with the burial
proceedings. When someone observed a large snake in the vicinity, the
satisfaction had clearly evolved to approval. The king was then well pleased
with his burial arrangements.
If servants
were obliged to bury a king far from the Makhosini, retainers would select a site
in the valley and plant a tree such as zizifus
mucronata, the buffalo thorn, on his behalf. A pile of rocks marked the
spot and kept scavengers away. They then brought the ancestral spirit back home
by transporting it in a fresh, resilient mucronata
branch, to reside at last in the famous valley.
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| King Cetshwayo is buried in the Nkandla forest area to the south of eMakhoseni |
Although he lies buried not far
from the Nsuze River near the Mome Gorge far to the south, Cetshwayo’s
Emakhoseni 'site' is near that of Mageba. Zulu, Phunga, Mageba, Ndaba, Jama, and
Senzangakhona all lie in the valley, several kilometres from each other in a
great semi-circle. According to oral testimony, Ndaba and Jama are the most
revered of all the ancient kings.
When the
great king Jama, ‘the man with the stern countenance’ died, his son Senzangakhona
was in his teens. Regarding the youngster as too young for the burdens of
state, Mudhli and Mnkhabayi (the grandson and granddaughter of Ndaba, father of
Jama), acted as regents.
A
handsome and well-proportioned youngster, Senzangakhona was in every way a good
candidate for the future kingship. The regents expected him to rule well,
drawing strength from the long line of capable kings going back to the
patriarch Zulu.
He knew
of the prophesy of Malandela those many years before, since the remarkable oral
tradition of the Zulus had ensured that such things were kept alive This
tradition was now the responsibility of the regents Mudhli and especially Mnkhabayi.
Mnkhabayi was Senzangakhona’s domineering older sister. She had been co-regent
since Jama died in 1781, and exuded power.
Senzangakhona
felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Perhaps he would become the
long-awaited, great military leader, or else father a remarkable son who in
adulthood would raise the fortunes of the Zulu nation and bring them to
statehood. Unknown to him at the time, in due course it was the latter
imagining that was to triumph with the birth of a son known as Shaka.
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