human, using the same weird
dialect, and Tanase strained forward to catch each syllable and
then repeated calmly:
‘When the cattle lie with their heads twisted to touch
their flank, and cannot rise, then warriors of Matabele take
heart, for the time will be nigh.’
This time there was a slight difference in the wording of the
prophecy from the one that they had heard before, and all of them
pondered it silently as the Umlimo fell forward onto her face and
flopped limply as a boneless jellyfish. Slowly all movement of
the albino’s body ceased, and she lay like death.
Gandang made as if to rise, but Tanase hissed a warning, and
he arrested the movement and they waited, the only sound in the
cavern was the click and rustle of the fire and the flirt of
bats’ wings high against the domed roof.
Then another convulsion ran down the Umlimo’s back, and
her spine arched, her hideous face lifted, but this time her
voice was childlike and sweet, and she spoke in the Matabele
language for all of them to understand.
‘When the hornless cattle are eaten up by the great
cross, let the storm begin.’
Her head sagged forward, and the child covered her with a
kaross of fluffy jackal furs.
‘It is over,’ said Tanase. ‘There will be no
more.’
Thankfully the four indunas rose, and crept back along the
gloomy pathway through the catacombs, but as they saw the glimmer
of sunlight through the entrance ahead, so their steps quickened,
until they burst out in the valley with such indecent and
undignified haste that they avoided each other’s eyes.
That night, sitting in the open-sided setenghi on the
floor of the valley, Somabula repeated the prophecies of the
Umlimo to the assembled indunas. They nodded over the first two
familiar riddles, and as they had a hundred times before, they
delved inconclusively for the meaning, and then agreed: ‘We
will find the meaning when the time is appointed – it is
always the way.’
Then Somabula went on to relate the third prophecy of the
Umlimo, the new and unfamiliar riddle: ‘When the hornless
cattle are eaten up by the great cross.’
The indunas took snuff and passed the beerpots from hand to
hand, as they talked and argued the hidden meaning, and only when
they had all spoken did Somabula look beyond them to where Tanase
sat holding the child under her leather cloak to protect him from
the night chill.
‘What is the true meaning, woman?’ he asked.
‘Not even the Umlimo herself knows that,’ Tanase
replied, ‘but when our ancestors first saw the white man
riding up from the south, they believed that their mounts were
hornless cattle.’
‘Horses?’ Gandang asked thoughtfully.
‘It may be so,’ Tanase agreed. ‘Yet a single
word of the Umlimo may have as many meanings as there are
crocodiles in the Limpopo river.’
‘What is the cross, the great cross, of the
prophecy?’ Bazo asked.
‘The cross is the sign of the white men’s
three-headed god,’ Gandang answered. ‘My senior wife,
Juba, the little Dove, wears that sign about her neck, given to
her by the missionary at Khami when she poured water on her
head.’
‘Is it possible that the white men’s god will eat
up the white men’s horses?’ doubted Babiaan.
‘Surely he is their protector, not their
destroyer.’
And the discussion passed from elder to elder, while the
watchfire burned low and over the valley the vast shining
firmament of the heavens turned with weighty dignity.
To the south of the valley, amongst the other heavenly bodies,
burned a group of four great white stars that the Matabele called
the ‘Sons of Manatassi’. They told how Manatassi,
that terrible queen, had birth-strangled her offspring with her
own hands, so that none of them might ever challenge her
monarchy. According to the legend, the souls of the little ones
had ascended to shine on high, eternal witness to the cruelty of
their dam.
Not one of the indunas knew
dialect, and Tanase strained forward to catch each syllable and
then repeated calmly:
‘When the cattle lie with their heads twisted to touch
their flank, and cannot rise, then warriors of Matabele take
heart, for the time will be nigh.’
This time there was a slight difference in the wording of the
prophecy from the one that they had heard before, and all of them
pondered it silently as the Umlimo fell forward onto her face and
flopped limply as a boneless jellyfish. Slowly all movement of
the albino’s body ceased, and she lay like death.
Gandang made as if to rise, but Tanase hissed a warning, and
he arrested the movement and they waited, the only sound in the
cavern was the click and rustle of the fire and the flirt of
bats’ wings high against the domed roof.
Then another convulsion ran down the Umlimo’s back, and
her spine arched, her hideous face lifted, but this time her
voice was childlike and sweet, and she spoke in the Matabele
language for all of them to understand.
‘When the hornless cattle are eaten up by the great
cross, let the storm begin.’
Her head sagged forward, and the child covered her with a
kaross of fluffy jackal furs.
‘It is over,’ said Tanase. ‘There will be no
more.’
Thankfully the four indunas rose, and crept back along the
gloomy pathway through the catacombs, but as they saw the glimmer
of sunlight through the entrance ahead, so their steps quickened,
until they burst out in the valley with such indecent and
undignified haste that they avoided each other’s eyes.
That night, sitting in the open-sided setenghi on the
floor of the valley, Somabula repeated the prophecies of the
Umlimo to the assembled indunas. They nodded over the first two
familiar riddles, and as they had a hundred times before, they
delved inconclusively for the meaning, and then agreed: ‘We
will find the meaning when the time is appointed – it is
always the way.’
Then Somabula went on to relate the third prophecy of the
Umlimo, the new and unfamiliar riddle: ‘When the hornless
cattle are eaten up by the great cross.’
The indunas took snuff and passed the beerpots from hand to
hand, as they talked and argued the hidden meaning, and only when
they had all spoken did Somabula look beyond them to where Tanase
sat holding the child under her leather cloak to protect him from
the night chill.
‘What is the true meaning, woman?’ he asked.
‘Not even the Umlimo herself knows that,’ Tanase
replied, ‘but when our ancestors first saw the white man
riding up from the south, they believed that their mounts were
hornless cattle.’
‘Horses?’ Gandang asked thoughtfully.
‘It may be so,’ Tanase agreed. ‘Yet a single
word of the Umlimo may have as many meanings as there are
crocodiles in the Limpopo river.’
‘What is the cross, the great cross, of the
prophecy?’ Bazo asked.
‘The cross is the sign of the white men’s
three-headed god,’ Gandang answered. ‘My senior wife,
Juba, the little Dove, wears that sign about her neck, given to
her by the missionary at Khami when she poured water on her
head.’
‘Is it possible that the white men’s god will eat
up the white men’s horses?’ doubted Babiaan.
‘Surely he is their protector, not their
destroyer.’
And the discussion passed from elder to elder, while the
watchfire burned low and over the valley the vast shining
firmament of the heavens turned with weighty dignity.
To the south of the valley, amongst the other heavenly bodies,
burned a group of four great white stars that the Matabele called
the ‘Sons of Manatassi’. They told how Manatassi,
that terrible queen, had birth-strangled her offspring with her
own hands, so that none of them might ever challenge her
monarchy. According to the legend, the souls of the little ones
had ascended to shine on high, eternal witness to the cruelty of
their dam.
Not one of the indunas knew
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