MGB
I woke up, scrolled through Facebook (because I have now deleted Twitter, mostly because I spent years at institutions run by man-children with god-complexes and have no desire to willingly submit myself to the whims of yet another one), and there it was:
“Gatsha is gone”.
I haven’t yet messaged my father. I presume he would have found out by now. Maybe he found out yesterday, if the old channels are still working for him. My reply to the post above was as follows:
“Yiqiniso. Let the Games of Succession begin”.
For anyone who doesn’t have a memory of Mangosuthu Gatsha Buthelezi, Shenge, Mntwana kaPhindangene, referred to affectionately in my childhood household simply as Mntwana or MGB, I have a few to spare.
I am reaching for my earliest, but the one that keeps pushing its way to the front is from the Shaka Day celebrations, Stanger (it wasn’t yet called KwaDukuza, so stfu at the back there, you hecklers), 1991 or 1992. My parents, my brother and I had arrived at the respectable hour of 9am, after the long hot September drive from Eshowe. Even though we were the crazy whites that were members of the IFP, we were still the products of Protestant time-keeping, so we arrived to see people still setting up the chairs.
It must have been 1992, on reflection. We were already feeling the intensity of the drought, as we are now. The invitation had said ‘Formal or Traditional’, and my father was fond of stirring up a response – so of course he and us boys were dressed in full Mackenzie tartan. We were too little to have sporrans (I was only 8, and Tom was 10), but we did both have long white stockings with red garters, white shirts tucked into our kilts. Dad was magnificent, including a skean dhu and a claymore – because ‘traditional’ in Zululand (also, not yet called KwaZulu, so hlalani phansi at the back there, ffs) in the early 90s the issue of the right to carry traditional weapons was a hot topic – under a Prince Charlie jacket with tails and a tam-o-shanter with a red flash. He was already red-faced, at 9am (that’s why he got the nickname of Ngqungqulu-edla-madoda, the Bateleur). It was a mild 28 degrees Celsius by that point. The stretched white plastic of the marquee was starting to emit the aroma familiar to anyone who has ever been to a wedding emaphandleni, a sickly sweet inhalation of dioxins and ennui that somehow carries the colour deep into your lungs.
We were shown to our seats, in the VIP section, about four rows from the inkundla (the dancing and marshalling space in front of the marquee) and about three rows in front of the raised dais on which Mntwana would later sit, at the right hand of his monarch iSilo Zwelithini kaBhekuzulu (naso sesikhotheme, all protocol observed), with no room for assassins behind him. And we waited. We waited as successive groups of izintombi, izintokazi, amabutho, izinduna, amakhosi, amakhosikazi and other dignitaries stupidly dressed in full suits and ties or tight pink with cartwheel hats arrived for the festivities. By noon, people were still arriving. Common people, you understand. Nobody from ebukhosini yet. No Zulu royals yet. And the 35 degree heat had also arrived.
So while the breeze cooled our unmentionables under our kilts, we sat and waited. No cellphones, so no distractions. We were waiting for the great men to arrive. And then, at about 1 pm, a tome of carefully printed pages was hastily distributed to each of the VIPs. The first page was an order of ceremonies, carefully bilingual. Then there was Nkosi Sikelele, in full, in isiZulu, isiXhosa, Sesotho and Setswana. It’s a lot longer than the current version, and involves some choral bits that were lovely for my little soprano voice. The next section contained a list of the dignitaries who would soon be present, along with their praises and titles. And then the successive 50 or so pages contained a fully bilingual carefully crafted speech. These were the words that would fall from Mntwana’s lips and grace our ears later. He would choose which pieces to utter only in isiZulu, and which to translate. It is why he held the record for the longest speech ever delivered (unless that too is apocryphal, as so much is, about the man).
So I, being a compulsive reader, spent the time waiting reading his speech, flicking between the isiZulu and the English, checking what the really big words meant, making sure that I was following. I sank into the text, absorbing it, dimly aware of the sussurus of people around me in the growing heat, knowing that there was no prospect of anything to eat or drink until after the speeches had been delivered. I was a good way through it before the tone of the gathering changed. Suddenly, a loud clear voice rang out “Uyamemez’ okaNdaba, inkosi yohlanga!” and the response was instantaneous – ululation, and the response of “wo-o-o-o, inkosi yohlanga” followed by “Bayethe!” and “wena wendlovu!”
Our waiting was over, and the afternoon proceeded as planned. The man himself started speaking at about 2:30 pm, and his mellifluous voice modulated beautifully over the crowd, stirring them up and controlling them like a massive harp composed of ten thousand hearts.
He finished at about 4:30, and we ate, and had something to drink, and the day wound down. My father giya’d in his kilt, and I don’t remember what Tom and my mother and I did, but I remember feeling very tired.
He had that effect, you see. MGB.
I would say Lala ngokuthula, Shenge, but I think he’s probably winding up to give the authorities in the afterlife a carefully constructed pleonastic diatribe to beat his earthly record.
(I had to do quite a bit of research to determine which word was right for what Mntwana’s habitual style: a jeremiad? a philippic? a filibuster? an harangue? This is, of course, the best way to honour him.)
Shenge. Sokwalisa.
