was when my own heart began to quake with terror. I wanted to cut out my tongue forever speaking that word “cathedral”. Why had I not told the King about the pyramids instead? Those high, high structures left behind by the ancients of my own country. True, the pyramids did not touch the clouds. But in my country, in Egypt, there are few clouds in the sky.
And so I am to blame for the calamity which followed.
Allahu Akbar.
3. At the mouth of the cave of Mmwahhari
So let me speak about this trouble with my sister Raii.
It was evening and we were sharing our evening meal. You were not there, Shafiq. You went out walking alone beside the forests that night of the King’s command. You were gone till deep into that night.
And my mother was sobbing.
“I don’t understand this thing. Why must my husband and my son take this dangerous journey?”
My father ReDombo explained over and over. He is a kind and tolerant husband. “The King needs a building of his own. One that will bear his name in generations to come. Once he is late and his name can be spoken again. Just as the people look at the hill-fortress and say: ‘Those mighty walls were the project of the great King LaShisha.’ Just as they look at the enclosure of the Queen that we have now completed and say: ‘Yes, that is the memorial to King Mzakane. It was the great King Mzakane who commanded its construction.’ So now the Nameless One commands that a cathedral be built.”
“But if you never return?” sobbed my mother.
Then Raii stamped her foot beside the fire. Yes, stamped in anger. Right there in the presence of our parents.
“I want to go too. I want to ride in a boat across the sea of sunset. I want to visit the lands of these Milk people and see their hair the colour of gold and their eyes blue as sky. Why is it that Mokomba can but I cannot?”
My father held his temper. “Don’t be silly, child. Don’t behave as if you have no sense. You are a girl. A girl’s place is within her family compound. Not wandering through foreign territories.”
“But why?”
“Because you have a girl’s duties to perform. You have firewood to collect and water to draw. There is sweeping to be done. And cooking. And who else will watch your little sister?”
“This is not fair!” Raii screamed. Yes, screamed. Then she ran sobbing into the daughters’ hut with her meal half-eaten.
My mother and father shook their heads, despairing.
“I fear for that child,” said my father ReDombo. “Some wicked spirit surely entered her body as she lay there at the watering hole. When I return we will take her to the spirit-cleanser once more. Something must be done before she brings disgrace to our clan.”
In those days of waiting for the journey to begin, my father spent much time praying at our family shrine. He spoke long and earnestly to our ancestors, naming each by name. Back through the generations.
“Protect us, oh departed ones. Travel always by the side of my son and myself. Be our shield in the dangerous moments.”
But not naming my grandfather of course. That is because of the terrible matter of the towers there in the Queen’s enclosure. My grandfather could not help himself in those dark days, back when my father was a boy.
So how could his spirit help us? And besides, his spirit did not inhabit the granite shrine in our compound. No, it wandered the unhealthy lowlands, lost and broken.
I often think of my grandfather, even now. Always with sadness. Even though he was gone before I was born.
And you were praying too, Shafiq. I remember how you unrolled your prayer mat in the corner of the compound. Always facing to the north.
“That is where the blessed town of Mecca lies,” you explained. “That is the holy city of our prophet Muhammad, peace fall upon him.”
And you went back to your prayers to your god, long and earnest and with much kneeling and bowing and holding out your hands. And I hoped with all my heart that your god Allah and our spirit ancestors were listening well and with loving hearts.
Yet and still my friend Tshangani bubbled over with too much excitement. Like a pot forgotten over a fire.
“Come, Mokomba, you must smile, my friend. We will come back heroes as adored as Shumba. We will take our pick of the daughters of the nobles. Maybe even the King will grant us one of the lesser princesses for a wife. Once our initiation is done.”
“Yes, like Foneli,” I answered. “Maybe you can have Foneli?”
Foneli was the fourth daughter of the King’s fourth wife and mad and with a crooked arm and bright pink patches across her cheeks. She was mostly hidden from view though her moans and her strange songs were heard often beyond the Queen’s walls.
Tshangani punched my arm. “Hear me, Mokomba! This will be a great and wonderful adventure. I am impatient to be moving!”
Two days before we left, a full meeting was called for all the citizens: nobles and common people. There at the mouth of the holy cave of Mmwahhari, at sunset.
My sister Raii did not attend. She was still sobbing and stamping and screaming inside her hut that it wasn’t fair.
I confess I wished with my whole heart that we could swop bodies. So that she could be the boy and go, and I could be the girl and stay.
How shameful is that? How cowardly? Even if I was not yet initiated.
I never spoke that wish out loud. Otherwise my parents would have taken me to the spirit-cleanser. Immediately and with deep concern.
So. This full meeting.
Outside the mouth of the holy cave, it is strange and frightening and nothing grows. Granite slabs lie at angles as though they have oozed like slime from the hill slope.
The senior priests were gathered in their robes and wearing their fearsome masks.
Six cows had to be slaughtered before the voice of Mmwahhari finally came from the depths of the cave. Making the rock beneath us tremble.
“Our God is pleased,” the chief priest interpreted.
And Shumba knelt to receive the blood-blessing on his forehead, rubbing at the stump of his severed arm. Around which so many stories had grown.
Now the singing began. The King stayed awhile, there in his sedan chair behind the silk and gauze curtains that hid him from us. With his giant bodyguards posted around him.
The King had gifted us travellers with new strong sandals. And with fine karosses: soft and thick and wide and warm. Made of the finest skins.
His spokesman said, “It is a cold place where you are headed. So says Shafiq the Arab. But these karosses have been specially blessed. They will keep you warm and safe from harm. No spear can penetrate.”
The singing continued. And dancing and drumbeating.
