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  The bubbling pot of dissension boiled most fiercely south of the Black Mfolozi, among the Mthethwa peoples. Their chief, Dingiswayo, was an ambitious ruler, determined to shape his people into the most powerful tribe in the country and a young man, Shaka – a fearless and cunning fighter – was installed as leader of the army, and later as Zulu chief. From his royal kraal, Bulawayo, he trained his warriors to fight to the death. When Mzilikazi’s father died – he was, in fact, murdered – Mzilikazi did not return to his home to take his place as the new chief. He knew of Shaka, realised that this chief was destined to become all-powerful, and so rather than suffer defeat at Shaka’s hands, he decided to join him. And so Mzilikazi and his Khumalo clan trekked to Bulawayo.

  Shaka was pleased. The Khumalo brought with them their cattle and their warriors and their promising young chief. In time Mzilikazi and Shaka became good friends. Mzilikazi proved to be a brilliant leader and fearless fighter, and Shaka appointed him commander-in-chief of the army he was mustering to attack a Sotho tribe. It was fortunate that Shaka favoured Mzilikazi, for he was an excessively cruel chief, and anyone who displeased him was shown no mercy. Torture and bloodshed, mass murders, live burial and impalement were common at Gibixhegu, Shaka’s new kraal.

  And then this same bloody fate almost befell Mzilikazi. He grew tired of being subservient to Shaka. ‘It was I who defeated the Sotho and captured their cattle, so why should I not keep them?’ he reasoned. ‘Why must I give everything I fight for to Shaka?’ And so he and his warriors drove the cattle to his own kraal, and kept them. Shaka was furious. Immediately he sent a group of envoys to demand that Mzilikazi bring back the cattle, or he would take revenge.

  Knowing that Shaka’s revenge would be terrible, Mzilikazi mustered his little clan of just 300 warriors and a number of women and children, and fled. ‘Let us move far away and establish our own kingdom, where we will be free of Shaka and his wrath. I hear the grazing is good in the north, and I, Mzilikazi, will show you the way.’

  And so, in 1823, the Great March started, and the incredible, bloody saga of Mzilikazi and his people, the Matabele, began.

  At the start it was a story of one hard battle after another. Mzilikazi’s army was small compared to the other clans, but he had the ability to plan and to lead, and such was his charisma that his people followed him like a god. For him, his warriors would destroy themselves without hesitation, and confidently they followed him beyond the Drakensberg and into Sotho territory. The Sotho were a cattle-breeding nation, and their numbers were vast, but Mzilikazi wanted their cattle, and his strategy was lethal.

  During the day his scouts would prowl the countryside, establishing the area to be raided. And then, during the night, they would steal silently through the long grass, oval shields in one hand, short stabbing spears in the other. Soundlessly they would encircle the slumbering villages, waiting, until at a given signal they would leap into the air with a terrible shouting and rattling of shields. And as the terrified Sotho ran out of their huts they would butcher them, set fire to the thatch, ransack the entire village and drive the cattle back to their headquarters.

  As Mzilikazi became richer and more powerful, he fearlessly led his regiments himself. Behind him came his warriors in their monkey-tail kilts, clusters of feathers waving on their heads, garters of ox-hair below their knees, carrying their huge shields, assegais, spears and knobkieries. And as they conquered one clan after the other the numbers in their army swelled, as the triumphant warriors brought back their captives. Mzilikazi knew that his power was great, but he also knew that he would be in constant danger if he did not increase the numbers of his tribe; it was not only cattle and food and land that a ruler needed, he also needed recruits for his army and women to serve as their concubines. And so the young boys and girls were spared, but the old people and the babies were left to die in their smouldering villages.

  Finally Mzilikazi decided that he had put enough distance between him and Shaka, and the time had come to settle. He would have his own royal kraal, an established settlement, where crops could be grown and a harem set up for his entertainment. And so, near the Middelburg (Mpumalanga) of today, close to the upper Olifants River, where the climate was mild and the land rich with game, ekuPhumuleni – the Place of Rest – came into being. For months his people toiled, little domed huts mushroomed, military barracks took shape, and the great royal enclosure was completed.

  During this year of 1824, Mzilikazi’s star burned ever more brightly. More tribes were conquered, more warriors recruited into his army, and more cattle added to his herds. For a time he and his people lived in plenty. He was the Lion of the Land, the Great Bull Elephant. But then the summer came and even the Great Elephant could not make rain. The sun burnt furiously, day after day, in a cloudless sky. And when their crops shrivelled and died, the scorched fields lay bare and cracked, the cattle lowed pitifully and collapsed at the empty water holes, then Mzilikazi knew that this Place of Rest was, perhaps, not his divine destiny after all. A nation needed food and a king’s wealth lay in his cattle. A hungry nation was a dissatisfied nation, and when their bellies were empty, men could not fight.

  He sent his spies out to the west. They returned with tales of the wonderful country that lay between the Magaliesberg mountains and the Limpopo. This was the land of the Bakwena – the Crocodile People, whose cattle were fat, and whose cornfields stretched for miles. Here, too, he would be even further away from Shaka, and so, in l825, at the close of the summer, the second great exodus began. In a solid, rumbling mass they went, a wave of virile but obedient people, led by their king Mzilikazi, The Great Road.

  By the time they reached the bushveld, it was too late for the Bakwena to flee. Mzilikazi sent a large regiment to wipe them out, and in a short time the Matabele were stronger and richer than ever.

  Close to the junction of the Apies and Crocodile rivers, Mzilikazi started again, and built his next royal kraal, Hlahlandlela.

  ‘I, Mzilikazi, must be the strongest and greatest of them all,’ he reasoned ‘or I, Mzilikazi, shall die.’ You either annihilated your enemies, or were annihilated yourself, and because of this need for protection, more and more clans chose to join his ranks: Ndwandwe and Mkwanazi, Koza and Nalovu, emaNewageni, Gumedi, Hlubi, Nguni, Bapedi. And from the heights of his new royal kraal he ruled his vast nation.

  Powerful as the Matabele now were, however, peace was not to be. There were attacks by the Korana, by Dingaan (who had succeeded Shaka), the Basuto and the Griquas. The Basuto attack in particular had been devastating and Mzilikazi knew he would have to move again. Further west, this time. And so, in a seemingly never-ending column, weaving between the foothills, and swarming over the plains, the Matabele migrated once more. And when they reached the lush Marico district, they simply crushed the Bahurutsi who lived there – like an elephant crushes an anthill. Then they spread out, and started all over.

  Mzilikazi built his famous eGabeni, with a high wooden palisade that protected his own royal kraal and harem. Military barracks were built at Mosega, with Mkalipi in charge of the regiments. He was protected on all sides. ‘Here,’ he thought, ‘I will be safe. Here I will rest.’

  And then, in August l836, he received the terrible, shocking reports that people were coming over the rivers. His spies brought the news. ‘They stream up like ants from the south. They come with their wagons and their cattle, their guns and their yellow servants. And they walk over the water of the rivers and now they camp in our territory.’ He was stunned. They did not have permission. It was his country. What did they want? Their guns were dangerous. What should he do? What could he do?

  Suddenly conscious of his indunas standing staring at him and jerked back to the present, Mzilikazi’s great daydream came to an end. They had heard his story through, as they had done before, standing mutely before him, heads bowed. But at this point he needed advice, not a regiment of wooden statues. For the rest of the day they sat in parliament, and by the end of it, when the
sun finally sank behind the olivewood trees, when the shadows fell thick on eGabeni and the sweat dried on their agitated faces, by the end of that day their minds were made up.

  Mkalipi would leave the following morning. He would lead a regiment – one of the best – against the men who had crossed the Vaal.

  ‘Barend! Barend! What is that noise?’ Estella Liebenberg shook her husband awake. ‘Listen! Do you hear it?’ He turned to her; nodded. ‘What is it, Barend? I have never heard such a noise before! It makes me shiver. Barend, what is it?’

  Her husband climbed out of bed. Grabbing his muzzle loader in one hand, he thrust the flap of the tent aside and stepped out into the sharp, half-dark red-sky morning. A tall, gaunt man in a long white nightshirt.

  The entire horizon was shaking and heaving. Coal-black figures, etched against the wakening sky, were creeping steadily forward. And as they advanced they rattled their shields and the dreadful hissing came nearer and nearer and still he stood limp, motionless, while they crept ever closer to the group of wagons, hunched up, sleeping, on the edge of the Vaal.

  Inside the tent, Sara lay awake next to her mother. Too afraid to venture out, they lay together, trembling, heads turned to the open flap in the canvas. ‘Papa has gone to see,’ her mother told her. ‘Everything will be alright, just lie very quietly.’ But the terrible hissing came nearer, and Sara could lie there no longer. Flinging back the bedclothes, she burst from the tent and ran outside.

  The Matabele were almost upon them, and a savage war-cry now rose from their ranks. A yell of triumph, a scream of rage. The earth moved as they stamped and beat out their war dance, pounding, shaking, rattling, closer and ever closer.

  ‘Get back, Sara! Get back!’ Her father, together with Oom Johannes and her Oupa, were loading their rifles. ‘Get into the wagon at once!’ But Sara could not move. She stood there, the early-morning breeze wrapping her nightdress around her legs, her long, fair hair blowing loose, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

  Her eyes were wide with disbelief and horror and she could not move at all. She was not flesh and blood, her limbs were liquid, like hot candle wax.

  Now she could see the monkey-tail kilts they wore round their hips, the circlets of ox tails above their elbows, the jackal skin capes. And on their heads those monstrous, leering feather headdresses. She could see their enormous, hairy shields and their assegaais and the screaming and stamping roared in her head and she could not move.

  Sara heard the first deafening blast of musket fire. Then her legs buckled, and she fell to the ground.

  When Sara opened her eyes, she saw that a man stood over her. The earth on which she lay was alive, it shook and pounded, the dust filled her nose and throat, her tongue stuck to her palate, she could not breathe. But worst of all was the smell. Sara did not know what it was, but the smell slapped against her in great bilious waves until she turned her head and threw up. It was the deathly stench of gunpowder, sweat and fear.

  Still the man stood over her. Sara saw the shivering, sharp-pointed spear; above it the beaded black face; the nightmare of feathers and furs, the broad cracked feet with the ox tails twined above the ankles planted on either side of her head. She wanted her father. She had no voice, so she tried to get up, to find him. Like a striking snake the assegaai jabbed at her, forced her back onto the ground and kept her there.

  When the man picked her up she did not struggle. It was all a dreadful dream, and her consciousness ebbed feebly and then lay still inside her. She knew she was being bumped and pushed and jostled and she didn’t care. She simply slumped over his shoulder, and shut her eyes.

  And then, like a sack of meal, but more gently, he off-loaded her onto a wagon. Sara felt the hard planks beneath her, and slowly she raised herself on one elbow and looked around. She recognised their old cedarwood kist, the big family Bible, the enamelled coffee pot with blue flowers. She was in their wagon and her parents were not there! The bed was terribly rumpled, and two chairs had been knocked over, and on the floor … on the floor … a thick, spreading, sliding red sheet of blood.

  The wagon started to move. Not slowly, ponderously, with the comforting snort and jerk of the oxen she knew so well, but rapidly, almost wildly, wheels clanking over stones, and rocking from side to side. Sara got up to get away from the creeping, sticky blood that was now rolling to the front of the wagon. She looked out. The wheel of the wagon passed over the legs of a man. He was lying face downwards, his musket beside him, and his back was soaked with blood and Sara screamed and screamed and when she eventually stopped, the screaming went on because Anna Maria and Christiaan had been thrust in with her, and they were screaming too.

  Sara burst into tears at the sight of her brother and sister. Tears of relief, and tears of distress at their pale, terrified faces. She cried because Anna Maria was vomiting and because Christiaan’s head was bleeding in a stream down the side of his neck; and they were being carted away in their family wagon. Not by the familiar span of black and white oxen, but by a bunch of black men with feathers on their heads and furs round their hips, all clutching the disselboom and trotting alongside: stamp – thud – stamp – thud, as their feet hit the ground. And behind them and beside them thundered the cattle, driven onwards by the force of the warriors behind.

  For two full days and nights they travelled north in this manner, before Mkalipi demonstrated to Sara that she should show them how to make the oxen pull the wagon. She pointed out twelve strong oxen from the herd. The riems were there, the disselboom still intact. She was rewarded with several handfuls of berries and roots and a large calabash of curdled milk. The children were, by this time, weak from thirst and hunger and the food tasted very good to them. After this they were fed regularly, sometimes with strips of seared meat, always sour milk, occasionally some boiled pumpkin. Several times each day, when the oxen were changed, they were allowed to get off the wagon, but they were carefully watched and fetched if they wandered too far.

  The plains stretched flat and endless. Waving grass, fertile valleys, scrubby trees, plenty of game. ‘Konyana! Konyana!’ the men would call, pointing out prides of lions to the children. ‘Konyana! Grrr!’ Once they came across piles of elephant droppings. A warrior drew an elephant in the sand with a stick. ‘Enkholu,’ he told the children.

  ‘Enkholu,’ they repeated.

  For fourteen long days they jolted northwards over the veld. A horde of triumphant warriors, three bewildered Voortrekker children, and the chief of the Matabele army, Mkalipi, who had spared their lives. Running beside the wagon, he told an uncomprehending Sara, ‘We are going to take you to our king as a present! He will be pleased with you. And even more pleased with the cattle.’

  He jabbered on, but Sara understood nothing. The only word she came to remember was eGabeni, through hearing it so often. And when they eventually reached the great kraal, and the name echoed and re-echoed throughout the ranks of soldiers, Sara realised that eGabeni was a place, and that they had arrived. She wanted to cry again. Physically, she had adjusted to sitting in the wagon, eating, sleeping, not thinking, just jolting over the veld. Now any change, anything new, flooded her with terror and a painful longing for her parents.

  When they finally stopped, she retreated and lay under the bed, but Mkalipi soon found her. He lifted the children off the wagon, one by one, and hustled them through a large gap in a hedge of thorns. Inside, they saw little brown huts with low doors and thatched roofs, between which they threaded a path, picking their way amongst stinking, rotten carcasses of wild animals, stepping over mounds of bleached bones, skins, and twisted horns. Through the opening in a high wooden fence they went, and suddenly all their escorts, everybody but Mkalipi, who walked beside them, fell down on their hands and knees and started crawling like dogs.

  Before her, Sara saw a shortish, rather plump black man sitting on a stool. Round his waist, under his belly, he wore a leopard-tail kilt. On his head was bunched a plume of green feathers, and round his neck hung a
necklace of brilliant, blue beads. He let out a loud exclamation of surprise when he saw the children. He pointed, the indunas jabbered, and when he spoke his voice was soft and quizzical, not harsh.

  Christiaan began to cry, and Sara shushed him, realising they were being inspected and discussed. Then abruptly the conversation ceased. The man in front of them raised his arm and pointed to several large huts on his right, where his women stood in groups, peering, whispering together. Mkalipi urged the children on, calling to the women as he walked.

  Two came forward. They were the largest women Sara had ever seen. With every step they took, their bellies wobbled and shook; ripples ran round their great arms and necks and their breasts billowed full and heavy, swinging from side to side. They took the children. Their bodies and ox-hide skirts smelt of animal fat, rank and stale, but they smiled timidly at the children, and held out their hands. And at this, the first real sign of affection in fourteen, harrowing days, they all three burst into tears and cried till their eyes swelled up and their breaths came in short, hiccupping gasps.

  For two weeks the children stayed with the wives of the royal harem. They were well fed and cared for, and all day the women clucked round in astonishment and wonder, fingering their fair hair, gently touching their pale cheeks. The women taught them some words, pointing and repeating, then clapping their hands when the children repeated them after them. ‘Mbali,’ they said, pointing to the wild flowers in the veld. ‘Mbali,’ the children repeated. ‘Isigodhlo,’ they chanted, taking in the harem with a sweep of their wobbling arms. ‘Induka,’ they shouted, brandishing a knobkierie over a woolly head. ‘Induka,’ the children repeated. And the women repeated the children’s names slowly. ‘Sara, Anna Maria, Christiaan.’ But they had difficulty with the R’s and never mastered the pronunciation completely.