Shaka II

3.

When he was a child, he always found a way to get what he wanted. He never cried, never screamed, never threatened—but somehow things would always work out for him. His methods were subtle. The children who stood in his way never showed up cowed or beaten…but twice they never showed up again at all.

Robert told me that his opponent for the office he wanted was Hector ole Kunene, a nondescript little civil servant who was being given the job as payment for his loyalty to the party over the years. Both sides agreed that he deserved the office, and he was running unopposed.

“Will you run as an independent, then?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I have a party.”

“Oh?”

“The Zulu Party.”

I frowned. “There is no Zulu Party,” I said.

“There is now.”

“Shall I assume you are its only member?” I asked with a smile.

“You would be mistaken,” he said seriously. “You are also a member.”

“I am?” I said, surprised.

He nodded. “I must repay you for the generosity you have shown me tonight,” he said. “You will come to Ulundi with me and be my assistant.”

“I have a job and a home right here.”

“Leave them,” he said with a look of contempt. “Come with me and you shall be rewarded beyond your expectations.”

“I am happy where I am,” I said. “I love the children I teach, and Ulundi is a crowded, filthy, dangerous city.”

That amused smile again. “Do you think Ulundi is my destination? It is merely a brief stop along the way, nothing more.”

“Pretoria?” I asked, amazed at his raw ambition.

“Soon.”

“And beyond that?”

“We shall see.”

“Every twenty years or so someone envisions himself as the new Shaka,” I said. “Yet thirty-five million Zulus are still living in Natal Province, and we are still without power of any kind—military, political, or economic. Why should anyone believe you are the One we have been waiting for?”

“I do not claim to be anyone’s reincarnation,” he said. “And as a Zulu, you should know that his name was Tchaka, not Shaka, which is the Europeans’ corruption of it.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I persisted. “Why should we believe in you? What have you done thus far to inspire confidence?”

“I am just beginning,” he said.

“And have accomplished nothing.”

He reached into a pocket and tossed something to me. “Here is the nothing I have accomplished.”

They were medals. More to the point, they included three of the highest medals the American Space Fleet had to offer.

“This is very impressive,” I said. “I had no idea. We heard nothing of this here in Natal.”

“It was nothing,” he said. “I could fight or I could die. I chose not to die. But it will impress the voters, who have always been more concerned with bravery than accomplishment.”

“Winning these medals was a major accomplishment,” I corrected him. “A splendid one.”

“Well,” he said, “let us hope the public is as easily beguiled by them as you are.”

“These three,” I said, indicating the three medals for Outstanding Bravery. “What particular actions were they for?”

“This one,” he said, “was for attacking the enemy’s flagship while in a small shuttlecraft.” He snorted contemptuously. “As if I had a choice. The shuttle was three thousand miles away from the mother ship when the enemy suddenly appeared between us.”

“And the other two?”

He shrugged. “I’ve no idea. You would have to ask the man I took them from.”

“You stole them?” I asked.

“Only after he attacked me in a drunken rage and I killed him. If he was brave enough to win them, and I was brave enough to defend myself and take them away from him, then I won them by proxy.” A quick smile. “And I will make sure no one asks me about their origin during the campaign.”

“You have only one month before the election,” I noted. “Perhaps it will not come up.” Then: “When will you go to Ulundi to begin campaigning?”

“As soon as you take me there,” he replied.

“I can’t,” I said. “I told you—I have a job and responsibilities.”

“Forget them,” he said. “You are working for me now.”

“I am?” I said with a smile. “When is payday?”

“Soon,” he said with no show of embarrassment.

“Soon,” I repeated sardonically.

“And often.”

I knew I should refuse, that I should put him on public transport to Ulundi the next morning and show up at my job, as boring and poorly paid as it was, but I must confess that I was curious to watch him campaign—he always had such control of his emotions that I wanted to see how he whipped a crowd into a frenzy while remaining cool and collected himself. Then, too, if he was successful, if he actually gained a modicum of political power, there was the possibility that I could do more good for more people than just teaching one impoverished group of children. I would miss them, and I hoped they would miss me, but if things worked out, maybe I could help them more in Ulundi than in the classroom.

I called in sick, we arrived in Ulundi the next afternoon, Robert registered his party and announced his candidacy, and then we took a room in a hotel that was one step above being a flophouse.

The next morning Hector ole Kunene failed to show up at a small breakfast for the party faithful. He didn’t appear for a noon interview and an afternoon rally, and in fact was never seen again.

And twenty-seven days later Robert ole Buthelezi, representing the Zulu Party, won an uncontested election for the office of Clerk of Records.

It didn’t seem like much at the time, but years later historians would want all the details, however insignificant.