Shaka II

4.

When Robert took office, he gave me an imposing title—Vice Chairman and Confidential Advisor—but I was just a glorified filing clerk. I suppose I should have quit after the first week and gone back home, but my paycheck after that week was more than I made in a month as a teacher. I couldn’t figure it out—I was clearly a flunky, nothing more—but somehow when Robert put through the voucher for my salary no one argued with him. Which was probably just as well; Robert did not lose very many arguments. I sent half of my check to the school, and decided to stay.

Ulundi wasn’t Johannesburg or Pretoria, but it was still far more sophisticated than the town where I had been living. A monorail circled the city, two matching skyscrapers reached for the clouds, and the city’s power was now supplied by nuclear energy.

Each evening I stopped by a local restaurant on my way back to my rented room. From time to time Robert would choose to eat there, but never alone. Invariably he was in the company of men I did not know. Some were very well-dressed, and often had their government ID tags still affixed to their tunics. Others were poorly-dressed, and made no attempt to hide the fact that they carried weapons. It made no difference to Robert; he was equally at home with all of them.

Well, perhaps I should reword that: he was equally comfortable and self-contained with either group. I don’t know for a fact that I ever saw him actually enjoy another man’s company. I know that he enjoyed the company of women, but not in that way and not in public.

We had been in Ulundi for about four months when he finally invited me out to dinner. It was the first meal we had eaten together since we had arrived in the city. He took me to a posh restaurant, where all the staff seemed to know him (as did many of the diners), and we were escorted to a table in the farthest corner of the room.

“This is my regular table here,” he said as we sat down. “I do not believe any other diners can overhear me here as long as I keep my voice down.”

“I would think they have very little interest in governmental record-keeping anyway,” I said.

He laughed, the first laugh I had heard him utter since he returned after his ten-year absence.

“If there was any doubt that we are brothers, that eradicates it,” he said. “Our father had a sense of humor too—or so I have been told.” Neither of us remembered much of Buthelezi, who had wandered off one day and never returned. In truth, we had no idea if he was still alive.

“I am sure it will be a very fine meal,” I said, “and I will speak so softly no one can possibly overhear me, but I still don’t know why I am here.”

“To make plans, of course.”

“Just me?” I asked. I stared at him curiously. “Am I being fired?”

“No, and no,” he said. “But if we are to move to Pretoria in a few months, we must prepare.”

“Are we moving to Pretoria?”

He nodded his head. “I told you we would not be in Ulundi for long.”

“You have found a better job?” I asked.

“I have served my apprenticeship,” he answered. “It is time to become President.”

“Based on three medals, two of which aren’t yours, and four months as Clerk of Records in a backwater province?” I said.

“It is a backwater province,” he replied. “It is time to leave it.”

“I have no problem with that,” I said. “But to think you can become the President of all South Africa…”

“It is the logical next step in the progression.”

“The progression?” I said, surprised. “You mean there’s more?”

He looked at me rather sadly, the way you might look at a pet that will never understand what you are trying to teach it.

“There is more.”

“The Presidency of South Africa”—an impossibility in itself—“isn’t enough?”

“When Tchaka became king of the Zulus, Zululand was perhaps ten square miles,” he shot back. “Was that enough?”

“He controlled only ten square miles; the President controls hundreds of thousands,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

“Only in degree,” replied Robert. “His world covered the southern tip of Africa. Mine extends as far as the eye can see.”

“So did his,” I argued.

Robert gave me another sad smile reserved for pets of limited intelligence. “He never looked up.”