Granite. Jenny Robson

      Granite

      Jenny Robson

      Tafelberg

      For DK,

      who dared to reach for his dream.

      For S and T,

      who fought for theirs with such courage.

      For Matthew Valentine:

      welcome, precious little one.

      Until lions learn to write,

      it is the hunters who will tell their story.

      – Zimbabwean proverb

      Foreword

      It is one of the world’s enduring mysteries: who built the granite walls of Great Zimbabwe? Walls that still stand tall today, without cement or mortar to hold them together.

      Was it the Ancient Phoenicians, come this far south in their fine sailing ships? Was it the stonemasons of the Queen of Sheba, fabled friend to King Solomon of Israel?

      Were the walls perhaps constructed as a market citadel by adventurous Arab traders? Were they built by Venda and Lemba clans, stopped awhile on their slow migration south? Or perhaps by the early BaKaranga, ancestors of the people who inhabit this area today?

      No one can say with utter certainty.

      But one thing is sure: for several hundred years a great city state existed there. Its citizens prospered within a peaceful, well-ordered society. They traded in gold, in forged iron, in ivory and salt. They imported luxury items from far-off lands: cotton goods and glass beads from Arabia and India, fine Chinese porcelain and silks. And they had the skill and the motivation to build those astounding walls.

      Then the city state collapsed.

      Sometime in the mid-fifteenth century, around 1445 AD, the citadel was abandoned. The towering granite walls were left to the mercy of wind and rain and creeping bush. Why? What could have happened to bring this civilisation to its sudden end?

      That too is one of the world’s enduring mysteries.

      Shafiq’s map of Africa (sketched circa 1440 AD)

      1. Sofala

      Yes, and so my name is Mokomba. I am fifteen winters in age. I am the firstborn of ReDombo, who is head of the noble Stonemason clan. And I am from the great city called Zimba Remabwe.

      But there is no longer a great city called Zimba Remabwe. Now there are only empty huts and silent walls left behind – the walls built by my father and my grandfather and my ancestors of many generations.

      So I am here in Sofala now. Shafiq the Arab brought me to this strange town on the coast. It is filled with Arab traders and their Arab boats that line the shore of the sunrise sea. A quiet sea.

      Shafiq the Arab said to me, “Mokomba, you must tell this story of Zimba Remabwe. If you speak, then I will write down your words. Here on this paper from India. And then people will know what happened for all time.”

      And yes, it will be good if our sad tale is told and remembered.

      But this writing is a strange and complex craft.

      I watch as Shafiq makes his small black marks on his white paper while I speak. So strange that later people will look at those marks and know what I said here today! Even if I am not close to them and my voice cannot be heard. So Shafiq says.

      But it is not I who should tell this story.

      No. I have no gift for speaking. I am happier to be the one listening. It should be my friend Tshangani. Tshangani is the firstborn of Chivhu who is head of the noble Storykeeper clan. They lived in the compound beside ours, there in the enclosure of the nobles at Zimba Remabwe.

      Tshangani had so golden a tongue. His words could fling you upward to the heavens, then catch you again as you fell. His words could make pictures that moved and danced right before your eyes.

      He practised his craft on me many times. And I was always eager to hear.

      He said, “Mokomba, let me tell you of our great prophet­

      Funii from the earliest mists of time. Yes, he was the true founder of our city.”

      Or, “Mokomba, listen to my tale of mad King Mudadi and his mad actions.”

      And he told me, too. Even though this story was forbidden by our King. For Mudadi was one of our King’s direct fore­fathers.

      I say now to Shafiq the Arab, here in Sofala, “I don’t have the right words. I can’t make the story sing through the good times or tremble through the times of disaster. Not like my friend Tshangani.”

      But Shafiq says, “If not you, then who?”

      And this is the truth. If not me, then who? Who else is left? So I will try. I will do as best I can.

      But where, how, shall I start? Perhaps with the day that became the beginning of the end? That day we first heard the King’s command? Shafiq agrees this is a good moment to choose.

      Yes, that day! With not a dark cloud gathered in the sky to warn us.

      Tshangani and I were seated on a granite rock above the commoners’ well. It was our favourite early-morning post, just outside the granite walls of the enclosure of the nobles. Outside, where life was busy and full and always noisy. Whereas within the walls of the nobles, quietness and dignity were upheld. Our tradition and lore demands this: that we speak always quietly and move with calmness.

      Behind Tshangani and me, the royal herds were being coaxed to new pastures. The herd boys whistled and pleaded and waved their hands because no cow of the royal herd must be touched or beaten. Below us a line of young and pretty maidens moved, their shapes showing as they balanced water-gourds on their heads. They saw us and giggled, covering their mouths with their hands. But we could still see their flashing eyes.

      “And which would you pick?” asked Tshangani. “I mean, if we were already initiated. I mean, if we were allowed to marry commoners outside the noble clans.”

      But I didn’t make a choice, even when Tshangani urged me further. We of the noble clans may not mix in marriage with those outside of the nobles’ enclosure. It is not only our granite walls that separate us. It is also generations of custom and tradition. And the will of our ancestors.

      So I told Tshangani to let me be. He laughed and shook his head at me. He often shook his head at me.

      Along the lower path we could see a hunter leading his band of slaves laden with ivory. Two to a single tusk. Across the valley, a group of Arab traders in their long robes haggled with a group of gold miners, each group shaking their heads in turn as is always the case.

      There was already the steady hammering from the iron forge beside its smoking anthill. And, more softly, from behind the walls of the Queen’s enclosure, came the gentle drumming and sweet sounds of the Queen’s early-morning choir.

      And above us all and always towered the hill-fortress of our King. The Nameless One. Ever present in sight and in mind.

      Tshangani said, “It will be any day now, our initiation call. Surely? The harvest is well over.”

      I was wishing he had not mentioned it.

      Unlike Tshangani, I was not eager for this ritual to begin. I am a coward. I always have been. Thoughts of our initiation hung like darkness over the edge of my dreams. They spread terror along the outer edges of my daylight hours. How many times had we watched groups of initiates disappear into the bush, marched away by terrifying old men with whips and toothless smiles? Young boys just a little older than we were.

      Then, three round moons later, sometimes more, these boys returned. Changed forever. The look in their eyes, the carrying of their shoulders so different. Well, some of them.