Shaka II

8.

I thought when word got out the people would be outraged. After all, Shaka was the father of the Zulu people, the reason we ruled the world—well, our world—for almost a century, the reason even men in the farthest reaches of Europe, Asia and America knew that the Zulus were the fiercest, mightiest warriors. And here was my brother, not much over thirty, of obscure birth, a stranger to morality, taking that name for himself.

And to my surprise, the citizens were thrilled beyond belief—and when I looked at it from their point of view, it suddenly made sense. He was the first Zulu to preside over South Africa since our humiliating defeats just before the turn of the 20th Century. He had doubled our land with the addition of Mozambique, Namibia and Botswana. Other African nations were racing to form alliances with the Europeans and Americans, with the Chinese and Indians and Australians, all because they knew that this Zulu leader would soon be looking north. It was the second coming of Shaka, and their joy and pride knew no bounds.

Something else that knew no bounds was my brother’s ambition.

His first step was to dissolve the Parliament. None of our African neighbors said a word—they were too busy preparing to defend their borders—but the rest of the world reacted with outrage. They demanded that Parliament be restored. Tchaka responded by announcing that he was resigning from the Presidency. The world breathed a sigh of relief. It lasted three days—until his coronation as king.

“They will never stand for this,” I said when the ceremony was over. We were in his office, and he had removed the ceremonial crown and robes, and sat at his desk, relaxed in a tunic and slacks.

“Of course they will,” he replied easily. “If they stood for my annexing Botswana and Mozambique, they will stand for my wearing a crown, for nothing else has changed.”

“You have gone too far,” I said.

“I have barely begun,” he replied, and suddenly I knew that when he looked to the north, he looked beyond Zimbabwe, beyond the Congo, beyond Egypt, that he looked north to Polaris and the stars beyond it. “They are civilized men,” he said, his face contorting in a sneer at the word, “and they will behave in a civilized manner. They will talk, and talk some more, and threaten, and entreat, and eventually they will bribe, and finally they will shrug and learn to live with the situation. Mark my words: you will never see a single European or American or Asian soldier enter our land with hostile intent.”

And somehow I knew he was right.

The international cries of outrage began that night. Every newsdisk, every holo, every diplomatic missive, demanded that he resign and restore the constitution. He ignored them all for almost a month, and when the rest of the world had whipped itself into a frenzy, he announced that he would address the world via a holo-transmission that would be seen on every continent.

The so-called Great Powers thought they had won, that he was preparing to make a resignation speech and, in essence, make peace with the rest of the world, but those of us who knew him best knew better. I got the distinct feeling that he was toying with them the way a cat toys with a mouse, that far from feeling any pressure he was enjoying their discomfiture enormously.

Finally the night came. I had expected him to wear a conservative suit, or even a tuxedo, but instead he wore a tattered tribal robe and a tarnished, unimpressive replica of his crown.

“It will put them at their ease,” he said with a smile. “After all, they think they are dealing with a barbarian. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them by not looking the part.”

An aide brought him an iced tea, and he began sipping it calmly.

“You are about to address fourteen billion people,” I said. “Aren’t you at all nervous?”

“It is they who should be nervous, not I,” he replied.

Soon the time arrived, and the rest of us moved out of camera range while he seated himself behind his desk, waited for the half-dozen cameras to position themselves, and then nodded to the director, whose sole duty seemed to be to count down and tell the cameramen when to start shooting.

“Good evening,” he said in perfect English. “I am speaking to you because some grievous wrongs have been done, and I have been asked to put them right again. This I shall do to the best of my ability.”

There was a screen in the corner of the room, showing the reaction of the huge crowd just outside the Presidential Palace, and I could see them mouthing the words: “No, Tchaka! No!” But there was no sound in the office, other than my brother’s voice.

“I think everyone listening will agree that it is immoral, indeed evil, to take another people’s land by force—and this is something I would never do.” He held up three treaties. “These are treaties I have signed with the leaders of the former nations of Namibia, Mozambique and Botswana, in which they petitioned me to annex their countries into the Union of South Africa, and since that was the wish of their people, I acceded to their request.”

He paused and looked at the camera. “South Africa did not take their land by force, but at their own request. Any other reason would have been against the laws of God and man. Therefore, I must—in keeping with my earlier pledge to you—demand that the United States of America forthwith return its entire holdings on the North American continent to the Native Americans from whom they stole it. By the same token, I demand that the British give up all claim to…” He ran through a list of most of the Commonwealth countries, then did the same for the French and the Russians.

“I cannot, of course, force these nations to do the right thing, but I will lend my support to those who oppose their policies.”

He stared unblinking at the camera. “Next, I want to address the question of hereditary royalty. I should begin by saying that I am not king because my father was. There is no royal blood in my veins. Indeed, there is no royal blood in the whole of South Africa. I became king by the will of my people, and should I produce a son, he will have no more claim on that title than any other South African. We believe that a throne must be earned, not given.”

A pause, and then a frown. “In keeping with that philosophy, I urge the monarchs of England, the Netherlands, Jordan, Syria,”—he named another dozen countries—“all monarchs solely by the accident of birth, to relinquish their thrones forthwith.”

I glanced at the screen showing the street again. The people were cheering so hard that I was surprised we couldn’t feel the vibrations here in the building.

“I hope that by explaining my positions I have eliminated any misunderstandings,” he concluded. “There have been many lies told about me, and many lies of a different sort told about the people who rule you. Now I have spoken, and I leave it to you, the people of the world, to determine the truth of things.”

The director indicated that the transmission was over, and Tchaka stood up and thanked all the technicians for their efforts. They filed out of the office, taking their equipment with them, and he sent for another iced tea.

“Those lights are hot,” he said, mopping the sweat from his forehead.

“You were brilliant tonight,” said an aide. “Now the rest of the world will leave us alone.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Tchaka.

“Of course.”

“You’re fired.” The aide looked stunned. “There are enough fools abroad in the land,” continued Tchaka. “I do not need any on my staff.” He turned to me. “What will the world do, my brother?”

“They will say that you are an evil twister of words, a madman with designs on the entire continent, a villain not to be trusted.” Suddenly I could not repress a smile. “But I think they will not discuss royalty again.”

He smiled back at me. “They will say all of that,” he agreed. “And they will be wrong.”

“That you are not a villain or that you are not a madman?” I asked.

“That I have designs on the African continent,” he replied.

“Don’t you?”

He smiled. It was an almost terrifying smile. “If you were hungry and you found yourself in an orchard, would you settle for only one piece of fruit off a tree?”

“The world?” asked an advisor, surprised by my brother’s audacity.

Tchaka shook his head. “You still do not understand.”

The man looked at him with a blank expression.

Tchaka walked to a window and pulled back the curtain. “The world is just one tree.” He waved his hand at the heavens. “I shall have an orchard.”