NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter/Spring 2012 | Page 13

“I didn’t summon you here for chitchat,
Chatambudza,” he said, stressing his
full name. Chata chuckled to himself at
Rendani’s choice of words. He used
“summon” to assert his authority; to show
him that he was no longer the Rendani
of yesterday. In a not too-distant past
he would have used “invite”.
Chata followed him as he led his
leopards to their cage.
“Ah, I see, mukomana, that you now
wear silk like our King?” said Rendani
as he tied the palisade door of the
leopard cage tightly with a leather rope.
He called him his brother. Now that
was the Rendani of old.

“You don’t think people will say you
like big things?”
Chata stretched his legs to display the
silk in its full glory.
“What is big about a kanga?”
“You know how the people of
Mapungubwe are, Chatambudza.
They like to gossip. They see you
wearing the same fabric as our sacred
leader and they start saying that
Chata likes big things. Chata this,
Chata that. They may even see it
as a sign of disrespect to our King.”
“I don’t think the people of Mapungubwe
care about what Chata is wearing today
or what he is not wearing. They have
more important things on their minds…
like if the King will make enough rain
next summer for the prosperity to
continue.”
“You are right. Sometimes I become
overly concerned about small matters of
culture ever since they made me the
Royal Sculptor. And of course I always
want to look out for you. It hurts me
when I hear people gossip about you.”

Chata could not tell Rendani that his
was not the same cloth as the King’s
because he did not know what the
King’s looked like. In fact, Chata’s silk
was a much cheaper type. It was the
more trendy Yunjin cloud brocade in
shimmering blue and white which
he bought at a market in Mogadishu
two years before. It was during the days
of his wanderlust. He had disappeared
from Mapungub we for many full
moons—perhaps for four full seasons—
and no one knew that he had sailed
the Zanj seas in the Swahili dhows.
The dhows always docked in Mogadishu
to be taxed before proceeding to Persia,
Arabia, India or China, or before
returning to the Swahili coast and to
Sofala further south. The Chinese cloud
brocade was all the rage in Mogadishu
and was swept off the stalls as soon as it
was unrolled from the bales.

The King’s silk, on the other hand, was
brought to Mapungubwe by Swahili
traders who bartered it with members
of the Royal Family for gold and ivory.
It was the most expensive kind from a
Chinese tradition that was more than a
thousand years old—the Hunan silk
embroidery with fire-breathing dragons
in shades of red, blue and yellow.
Of course Rendani did not know the
difference; to him silk was silk. A material
fit only for royalty. A material that even
he or his wealthy father Zwanga did not
own. Rendani saw Chata as an upstart
who needed to be put in his place.
“Let’s talk about what you summoned
me for,” said Chata.
“You don’t have to adopt that kind
of tone.”
“I can get you nice silk too, Rendi. Next
time I sail with the Swahili I can get
you the best material in Mogadishu, or
even in Sidonia or in Persia.”
He was just being nice. Even as he said
this, he knew that there would be no
next time; not after his experiences in
Mogadishu. If ever he was attacked
by the wanderlust again he would head
south, to the valleys, hills and deserts
of his mother’s people, where the
Zhun/twasi roamed with the animals of
the wild.

BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE

Chata was trying to humour him; it
sounded sarcastic instead.

Chata smiled when he remembered
that he was the one who used to look
out for Rendani. Now he had the
power as one of the grandees of the
kingdom, and he wanted Chata to
know it. Of course Rendani might be
right. He shouldn’t judge him harshly.
There was a lot of pettiness doing the
rounds among the idle higher classes.
But still he couldn’t see a whole storm
brewing over a fabric. Perhaps it was
Rendani himself who was being petty.

11

“Only when I come to see important
people like you, mukomana.”