THE DUST SETTLES

The dust had not even completely settled when the junior intermediates dragged the chief midwife from the dance arena. Her blood-curdling scream pierced the African night – the drummers halted their rhythmic poundings, the elderly women poring over calabashes of fermented maize drink, hwahwa, ignored the gourds that impatient young men of drinking age waved irritably in their ancient brown faces. Dancers, swishing and gyrating in decorated hides, mhapa neshashiko,–for it was a special occasion- had paused. The festivities had only just begun….. 

Colored beads and necklaces adorned the young women who had attended the celebration, mhandara, they are called in the language of Shona. Ribbons of green, red, yellow and blue tied to their ankles appeared in a kaleidoscope through the dust as the girls danced, their hides flying up as they leapt into the air. The young men, majaya, donned majestic headpieces decorated with striking feathers from the rarest of birds. Around some of the young men’s necks were lion or hyena teeth held firmly with treated bark, a testament to past deadly encounters with the beasts. The necklaces impressed ladies to no end, and some small groups of young women huddled around alpha males to hear fables of peril and victory. The people of Dzimbabwe feasted on game meat and sadza, a hardened maize porridge, and drank to good life and good harvest.

Pairs had formed on the circular dance arena, in whose centre was a blazing inferno tended to by small herd boys who added bits of wood to it in faithful fashion. A cloud of dust had erupted from the frantic dancing which was characterised by gigantic leaps into the air and continuous swivelling. Sweat glazed the dancers’ skin where dust particles glued to and accumulated. At this point, the dancers’ thick bushy black hair had become grey with dust - they resembled zvigure, a social group of outcasts who had been banished from Dzimbabwe, the great city of stone. The city was a thing of wonder, not one blob of plaster or cement kept the city in place – everyone knew the great ancestors, madzitateguru, kept the stones intact, one on top of each other, until the walls of the city threatened to reach up to them in the hallowed skies. The walls had never once toppled. Zvigure were a group of murderers, thieves and social pariahs whom, the whole city presumed, had abandoned personal hygiene once outside the city walls and had morphed into cannibals. The dancers looked quite like how the savages were thought to look like.

Chayarutsa, the chief midwife, had stumbled into the dance arena from the surrounding darkness and thrown herself onto the hard dust in languish, wallowing in her grief and making a scene. The theatrics drew everyone’s attention, including the king, Ishe, and his table of advisors and tribal chiefs. They sat on an elevated platform of stone to the north of the bonfire, the Ishe at the head of the table in a stone throne, while his immediate subordinates were seated in significantly lower carved wooden stools, flanking the king. On the platform was the only sign of foreign possession – the throne was padded with fleece blankets and the king’s assortment of meats, as well as drink, was served in china. Each chief owned something of foreign make, some socks or a cotton shirt brought in by traders from the East in exchange for minerals, or hunting rights. Presently, some servants had been ushered onto the Ishe’s platform to serve some more goats’ meat, but they too had stopped dead in their tracks. 

Murmers rose from those gathered at the Festival of the First Harvest, Zhizha. The Queen’s first child had surely died, they chattered amongst themselves. Or she herself had succumbed to child birth - the gods took whom they pleased; as long as it was time to reunite with the ancestors, even the Queen could go. It was the norm of the land that when royalty died the whole city wept and rolled in the dust in agony and pain. Chayarutsa was that exact picture of misery. She lay still on the grass, small twigs protruding from her knotted hair which was grey with dirt. One could easily mistake her for the outcasts. The junior midwives consoled her so she could speak, as she was the only midwife who could address a crowd in the presence of the Ishe. Those gathered looked on in bewilderment as the king arose and uttered in a commanding voice: 

“Taura Chayarutsa! Speak Chayarutsa!”

Chayarutsa composed herself and bowed to the king. She quaked, and so did everyone at the festival; the king rarely stood and he almost never addressed common folk by name. There still he stood, a menacing hulk of a man, clothed in leopard skin from head to toe. Leopard skin, mbada, was a symbol of kingship, the king himself had to hunt and catch the elusive creature; 

that alone was a mountain of a task. Chayarutsa spoke, her head bowed and her voice trembling. It was hardly audible when she said: 

“The Queen, she has given birth to two sons.”

But they heard her. A quiet enveloped the place. So much so, that the birds of night could be heard clearly as if the city grounds were deserted. Owls, the infamous companions of evil witches that made children sick and charmed away their neighbours’ harvests, hooted in the still night. The gibber of monkeys high up on the stone castle’s summit, the resting place of the king, could be heard quite loudly by those on the ground. Some screeched and the groan of nearby trees as they swung from one branch to another was resounding.

“Two sons, you say?” the king repeated, more loudly.

Chayarutsa nodded then bowed. The common folk whispered amongst themselves. Some pieces of conversation resounded from all corners of the crowd: “It’s the first moon, blood cannot be spilled….”, “But the gods instructed explicitly……”, “Surely they must die……”

Hushed conversation befell the king and his subordinates also. They deliberated for a short period amongst themselves until the chief justice stood to address the crowd. He silenced them then spoke:

“This news, of the two sons, has vexed us. How this evil could have befallen our beloved queen, our king is at a loss. But no one is above the truth of the gods. If we keep this abomination amongst us, a bad omen will wash over the land, queen or not. Surely, the sons must both die, for between them is a demon and we cannot tell which is which. But we do not forget. This is the first moon, the Festival of the First Harvest. No blood can be spilled on such a day, the ancestors forbid it. Even the gods will not allow it, and our harvest will be cursed for ten seasons. We cannot risk it. The sons will die tomorrow.”

The Ishe’s expression was stone, quite like the throne on which he sat. There was no pain in his eyes and no underlying emotions he seemed to be harbouring. He concluded the festival and dispersed the gatherers. The Ishe’s courtyard was soon empty, the red hot ambers of the fire the only reminder of the dead celebration. The Ishe hurried to Imba Huru, the Queen’s abode. He refused escort and wielded his gilded assegai, a short spear, just in case. He exited the Great Enclosure; a stone walled monument apt to its name for it held the spirits of past kings and ancestors that dwelled in the inner caverns below the Ishe’s own royal abode. He made the uphill trek to Imba Huru which was also a stone-walled construction with big mauyu trees looming above the walls. A conical tower grew high and mighty from the centre of Imba Huru, a symbol of power and economic wellbeing that drew in traders from far and wide. Ishe entered the queen’s abode and handmaiden fell to the ground at the sight of him. 

Even in night his royal regalia was imposing. He was let in to see his wife, whom he found lying meekly on a bundle of blankets on top of a reed mat, rupasa. A junior midwife attended to the perspiring Queen in candlelight. She dabbed the Queen’s forehead with a damp and soft cotton towel and adjusted her bedding.

“Go get my sons” the king ordered her.

The junior midwife hesitated for a moment, and then withdrew from the Ishe’s presence to do what she had been commanded.

They were left alone in the eerie light of the candle, husband and wife, Ishe and the queen, their shadows dancing on the walls with each movement.The Queen turned to look into her husband’s eyes. Her pain seeped through from her being, and her eyes were red from crying.

“Ishe, before you see them…” she said weakly

“No, rest.” The king paused. He looked outside the entrance of the room then returned to his wife’s side and spoke in a hushed tone: 

“The gods be damned. You must run away from this place, before sunrise. There’s not long. I will tell Taurai to escort you and the babies outside the city. To a safe place, you can……”

“Please, I must….”

The Queen fell silent. The junior midwife had returned, clasping a small bundle of blankets in her arms. Another midwife followed closely behind, holding the other identical baby. They both eyed the king in reserved fashion as he took one baby in his arms. He gazed down at the wriggly child in the blanket. 

“What is this?” he demanded. 

The queen broke into hysterical and convulsive sobs. The midwives rushed to her side to calm her -wiping away the mucus that ran freely from her nostrils- but they failed to subdue her. The baby – both of them – were white little children with pink lips. The Ishe shook with rage. 

“It is Gonzalo, the missionary eh? You betray me so?” The Queen sobbed more loudly.

She shook as she cried and in between gasps of air she tried to talk.

“I didn’t mean for it……my Ishe, please I….. pardon me I beg of you….”

“It is the white Gonzalo, a man with no knees, that you go to and bring this atrocity among my people” The king was black with fury.

He took a deep breath, so deep he felt rivulets of tension escape his body and leave a numb serenity in their place. Ishe finally spoke, in his stately voice: 

“I do not hear your pleas. The gods decided your fate before your inception. You turned away from them, and committed an abomination with the Portuguese who openly condemns the gods. This is the price, you see for yourself. And you will justly pay it.”

~.~

On the other side of the city, a harrowing scream was heard in every mud hut. Men clenched their spears, and some women gave out shrieks of fear. Dogs barked in the silence of night as if in response. The scream shook even the heaviest sleepers from their dreams and many woke up with a jolt. Parents who were still up, bolstered by the scream, recited ancient stories of zvigure to their petrified children. Some said that maybe a witch had been caught mid-act in someone’s house. Others joked that it was Chayarutsa practising for tomorrow.