Trojian Horse

Summer had long bid her goodbyes leaving the icy winter days to reign over the hungry Ndebele. The winter was not as harsh as it often was, something that was certainly appreciated. The favour of Mwali was the reason offered by Mlimo whenever the topic came up. Winter, it seemed, was in no mood to stay because the winter days were very mild and the days were gradually getting warmer meaning less and less people spent their time huddled around the campfires as the days went by.

The war had been raging on at the border of Matobos and the North-eastern parts of the Ndebele territories for many months now with no clear winner in sight. There were many casualties during the war, mostly the Ndebele warriors but the white men seemed to be hurting just as badly as the Ndebele. A long drawn out war seemed to favour a Ndebele victory. Frustrations were evident in the invaders camp as they strayed further into the Matobos seeking Mlimo. It was becoming obvious to the white camp their only chance of victory lay in eliminating Mlimo and that was proving much more difficult than they had anticipated. No matter who they sent after him, they never made it back to their camp, in one piece, and definitely not alive, if at all.

A strange disease began spreading among the Ndebele since the retreat into Matobos. Small spots would appear on those who had contracted it, painful spots that were accompanied by a high temperature and often, within weeks, death would result. Many survived. Just as many assumed the white men had resolved on using whatever strange forms of sorcery they had available to them in one of their many attempts to win this war. Cebisa was among those women that had volunteered to care for the sick and wounded from the battlefront. She worked diligently, spending less and less time with her daughters and Zibulo, whom she entrusted to Ntombi, one of her few remaining friends who remained alive, when she was busy tending to the war-ravaged. Since the disease had broken out though, Mlimo had instructed the nursing and pregnant women and those with children to stay away from those infected as it seemed to affect them and their children more severely, and they needed someone to survive and perpetuate the legacy of the Ndebele. If they won. The white men seemed lost in this strange new world that the Ndebele had drawn them into while the Ndebele knew every crevice as if they had etched the patterns in the stones themselves.

Just as quickly as the disease had begun spreading, it was gone and Cebisa found herself with more time for herself and her children once again. One such chilly night she found herself sitting by one of the campfires, with the few who enjoyed those late nights sharing stories, next to Khulu Zwangedwa who had decided to drink his brew more locally, his large oval belly looking like it would burst with each sip of brew he took. His sips became more frequent as the night went on and the boy he kept sending to get him refills seemed ready to forgo the warmth of the fire to avoid going for another refill. The old man was in exemplary mood that night and his gaiety was infectious. Laughter surrounded the campfire in response to the numerous stories they heard, stories that Cebisa knew very well from her own childhood, that had somehow merged into one long never-ending story. She wasn’t complaining though. They definitely needed a little joy. Even if it was just for a night.

Cebisa held Zibulo in her hands, rocking him gently to sleep. He had been up unusually long today. Normally he would be fast asleep when the sun had just descended beyond the edge of the earth and the owls fluttered above their heads just beyond the reach of the light. He lay there wide-eyed staring back at her with a wide smile. His lack of sleep kept her at the fire longer than she normally would have been. The cave where they slept was a very visible distance from the campfire, very close to help in the event they needed it as the encampment never truly went to sleep, especially in these perilous times. Just the way she preferred it.

The old man had those around the fire in raucous laughter with his antics and animated stories. He was an infinitely deep well of stories particularly about the hare and the spider though his speech had gotten quite slurry at this point as is bound to happen with the brew, leading to another old man who was familiar with his stories taking over the story-telling. Khulu was not one to quickly concede the centre of attention quite so easily but the brew had drowned his ego sufficiently enough for him to allow it. Somehow, he noticed that while everyone else around the fire was actively engaged in his stories, Cebisa had a scowl on her face accompanied by a blank stare lost in the hungry flames. Turning his attention to her, he asked what was causing her so much distress that she could not smile at the witty charms of the spider.

“Nothing. I just wasn’t listening,” she replied a little disinterestedly.

“Have some brew?” The old man offered her a sip from his gourd. She kindly but firmly declined.

The old man chuckled to himself, greatly amused by his own drunkenness. Despite her mood Cebisa was a little amused by him as well. She quickly got lost in the flames again.

“You need to be ready,” he declared with a sudden shift to a more serious mood. Cebisa was a little taken aback.

“Ready for what,” she asked turning her face to him. She was met by incredibly lucid eyes, almost as if they didn’t belong to the old man.

“You know the ancestors guide those who seek their help,” the old man said his breath heavy with the stink of brew. “Your prayers have been heard.”

“I... I…”

“You may not know it yet but you are in danger. Your son is in danger. He is important, more than you could possibly understand.”

“What do you mean? I think that brew has really gotten to you head Khulu.”

“Heed my words.”

“Okay, let’s say I know what you are talking about. Danger from what? The way I see it we’re all in danger.”

“He’ll be back. You need to protect the boy. By any means necessary. You must keep yours open for the sign.”

“What sign?! What are you on about?” Cebisa asked, visibly confused, and frustrated at the conversation.

“You sure you won’t take a sip?” the old man asked, slurring as he had before and a stupid smile punctuating his slightly red face. The seriousness she had seen on his face only a moment ago, was gone. She was not sure at all what to make of the conversation apart from wholesale confusion. Khulu seemed oblivious of what had transpired. She knew who was meant by ‘he’ when she was told about his return. She could almost see Cetshwayo’s fiercely red eyes dancing in the flames.

“I am going to sleep,” she announced to the group rather abruptly. The old man simply smiled, a drunken stupid smile, and continued sipping on his brew.

Cebisa got to her feet and woke her daughters who had fallen asleep around her feet. Nkazi got to work waking her sisters and getting them get to bed. Khulu’s words played over and over in her head, if indeed they were his words, as they made the short journey to their beds. She wondered what kind of sign to expect and the exact nature of the danger that Cetshwayo posed. The feeling that she was caught in a dream refused to be shaken.

Her daughters were soon huddled together under some furs and soon drifted off to sleep. Zibulo was the last of her children to fall asleep then left her to dwell on her thoughts. The moon shone brightly into the cave. She could still hear the laughter and conversation drifting from the camp fire. It was reassuring to her, made her feel less alone, almost safe. As safe as she could feel under the circumstances.

She held Zibulo in her arms staring at his lovely face, admiring how peaceful he looked when he slept. What she would give to have a small share of that peace. The old man’s cryptic message was the last thing she thought of that night. Sleep whisked her away still replaying the old man’s words in her head, as she visualized a pair of blood-red eyes looking back at her from within the flames.