Trojian Horse

Perhaps in answer to the pleas of many who shared Cebisa’s sentiments, the war they wanted eventually came. What remained of KwaBulawayo had been abandoned hurriedly in the middle of the night as the violence in the region escalated. Mlimo, their spiritual leader, had convinced many of the Ndebele that fighting for their freedom was the only option left for the Ndebele and a life of servitude was beneath them. The clear majority believed him and those who did not thought better of remaining behind under the rule of the mlungu (white person), and joined the ranks anyway. The Ndebele resolved to fight or die.

Despite her borderline arrogance when it came to political issues, Cebisa’s thoughts were continually on the posterity of her children. She thought about the kind of life they would have, the legacy that would be left behind for them especially if they did not win the war. Her son, Zibulo, garnered the greatest sympathy from her particularly because he would never taste the might of the Ndebele, never know what it felt like to walk like a king among men and maybe even enjoy the benefit of taking it all for granted. Instead, his future seemed full of uncertainty. This was not the life she hoped for him and that glimpse of a better life for him was beyond her control.

The violence around the settlement of KwaBulawayo, or what remained of it, had grown exponentially with regular raids being conducted on the white settlements that had been established in the area and many young Ndebele men and women being hung, quite publicly, for various petty misdemeanours. In that climate, Mlimo decided to take the reins of the rebellion and opted for guerrilla tactics which dictated that the enemy needed to come to them where they could control the environment better. As much as they all hated to admit it, KwaBulawayo was no longer that stronghold and so he had declared that at the earliest opportunity they would make their way to Matobos, their spiritual capital. And so, that morning, with only a crescent moon and the dim stars as company the Ndebele around KwaBulawayo had quietly snuck away and turned their thoughts and feet towards Matobos. Here they meant to make their last stand against the oppression that stared down at them behind the barrel of a gun.

The burden of motherhood weighed heavier on Cebisa with every step she took forward. She would often wonder what her life would have been like had she not known the suckling of an infant on her breast, if she had never held those little bundles of oblivious joy in her arms. If she had never met Magwegwe. What she had considered an unbearable burden then, her apparent barrenness, seemed a mercy in her eyes now. The lines on her forehead seemed to become etched ever deeper with each passing day. On they marched through the open plains, through the sparse bushes, through the dense thicket never stopping except to sleep and eat until, after a fortnight, they spied massive boulders protruding from behind the horizon. Matobos.

Cebisa had been wary of the invaders from the very start but even she, despite her paranoia, could never have anticipate the devastation the visitors would bring with them. They had been forced to burn their homes and flee. Twice. Them. The Ndebele. If she had not been a part of it she would never have believed that they had run from any enemy. It was unthinkable particularly when Mzingwane was alive. Lobengula, she felt had been lax. He lacked the focus required to lead the Ndebele people to victory. He was more interested in gifts and never-ending conversations. It was no wonder the lions came out when they smelled blood. Now they, the Ndebele, were on their way to hide although Mlimo appropriately called it strategy. The thought of how far they had fallen down the pecking order caused involuntary spams in her arms which often ended in her clenching her fists.

And of course there was him. Leander Starr Jameson he called himself. He was the ultimate deceiver, claiming to be their friend, lulling them into a sense of security until the opportune time came. Then he laid a paper before Lobengula that apparently offered him many gifts in exchange for unrestricted entry into their country, and the mining areas. As if a piece of paper could ever be worth what they were really offering him. Shackles. She had not seen this exchange or heard these conversations but she had heard this from Khulu Zwangedwa and her husband. They would often tell her she was too severe in her criticism but she felt she was justified. She hated seeing weakness in any man least of all a king of such a people as they were. Very rarely, she would find that she was being a bit too harsh and posit that there was little Lobengula could have done to stop a horde of strange men who had every intention of occupying his land whether he agreed to it or not. Particularly if these men were armed with weapons of mass extermination? Not much. Very rarely would she find herself thinking such supple thoughts.

All the gifts Starr, as she had chosen to call him, offered Lobengula were obviously a ploy. She imagined though that no matter what Lobengula did, war was inevitable. They would most likely have gone back across the seas and come back with even larger numbers to claim what they considered to be theirs. Now that they had a second chance at the war, it had to be different. This time they would not be armed with assegais and their bravery alone. They had a knowledge of the mlungus guns, his strategies putting the Ndebele in a better position to win it. It also made sense to her with Mlimo in charge the heavens would be on their side. That and the Ndebele’s superior numbers.

Her daughters walked by her side, singing, and laughing loudly as they walked while she held Zibulo in her arms. It always amazed her how resilient children were. The walk was torturous but having her daughters around her to lighten the mood made it much more bearable. How she yearned for Magwegwe’s strong arms now to ease her burdens!

Nkazimulo, her eldest daughter, seemed to understand more of what was happening than Cebisa could have possibly explained. Nkazi, as Cebisa called her, took it upon herself to help her mother handle her younger siblings. It felt unfair for Cebisa to place such a load on the arms of a daughter who was herself still a child but she was glad of the help. Nkazi somehow managed to convince her siblings that they were all on an adventure and the warriors would come to save them when the time was right. Cebisa would listen to her daughter’s ingenuity with sharp pangs of guilt but mostly with admiration at her ingenuity, as they huddled around a fire when the camp would stop marching for the day. Khulu Zwangedwa would not be left behind and he insisted they needed him, which she knew she did. If there was freedom to be had, then he would be making history with the rest of the group he had insisted. She was glad he was there. He was not much use in most capacities, being senile and bent, but his stories around the fire, when he was not gulping down a gourd with the other men, were entertaining and even inspirational at times. He was, uncannily, able to keep up with the pace of the camp despite his painfully slow movements at every other time and always had enough energy to spend late nights gulping down gourds full of brew.

Cebisa had never been to Matobos before this. It was an honour that was generally left to the men and the spiritual leaders. Since the disappearance of Lobengula more than a year ago, the Ndebele had been lost, until Mlimo had taken up the mantle and given them a sense of purpose again, a united front. Matobos was their spiritual capital and who better to lead them there than Mlimo.

Mlimo would often go around the groups of Ndebele, before the uprising, reminding them of what they had lost and telling them that if they returned to the way of Mwali they could be guided to victory against the invaders. Perhaps it was something in his eyes the one (and only) night she had heard Mlimo speak but she knew she would be among those who would follow Mlimo and continue the fight to regain their freedom. He had a strong conviction in his message, a belief that transcended the visible world, an unshakeable view that all could be righted and the mlungu could be cast from their land. So, follow him she did and not once did she waiver even when they were forced to flee in the dead of the night knowing that their enemy would soon be in pursuit. These were the days of the rebellion.