The Lady King:Njinga Mbande

The Lady King: Njinga Mbande

A Novel

Dhae Walpoole

Wind

In the cotton fields,

Gentle breeze:

Beware the hour

It uproots trees!

---Langston Hughes

List of Main Characters

Azeze (Ndegwa) – First Husband, killed in battle 1611.

Jesuit Priest Castilhon – Special invited guest.

Capuchin Priest Cavazzi – Portuguese at Matamba 1658 to her death and presided at funeral; painted her portrait.

*Cheo – Royal Guard and 1st Ltd. Generalissimo Supreme Commander: army of king.

*Faida – First Maiden.

Guenguela – Mother and 2nd wife.

Kasanji (Mbelikili) – 2nd Husband and leader Jaga Warriors.

Kifunji – Youngest Sister, 6-year hostage, died in battle.

Governor Rep. Liebowitz – Special invited guest.

Mbandi – (1579-1623) half-brother, murdered father and Njinga’s son.

Mukambu – Co-queen and middle sister (granddaughters: *Tyndai & *Zuwena).

*Njamile – Royal Messenger Trainee.

Njinga Mbande – The Lady King (1581-1663).

Capuchin Priest Napoli – Wrote her 1656 biography.

Olaudah [One Who is Honored] – Njinga’s son.

* fictional characters

Oh, did we but know of the shadows so nigh,

The world would indeed be a prison of gloom;

All light would be quenched in youth’s eloquent eye,

And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb

--Eliza Cook

Chanting shouts are escaping from the circle of ten young, future warriors who are jumping about in hopes of offering a gleeful amount of merriment to be had by their lady king. Several drummers and a small host of other instrumentalists are clearly audible, some vaguely so, from various clusters around the main enclosure of the compound. Not one of her agile entertainers has advanced past the birthing ceremony of eight or possibly nine years. Yet, plaid in their customary blueberry-dyed muslin kinkuti [clothes]—loosely wrapped about the waistline—they sail through the air, in similar fashion to the style performed on many occasions of their elders’ acrobatics, landing on both feet after a double roll in the rich red soil of their Matamba kingdom.

Her Grace agreed to allow the pint-sized dancers a rare, private audience immediately after completing her bidia [meal] of mashed guava fruit, poured over a warm bowl of coarsely ground millet, simmered in goat’s mamvumina [milk] to a perfect consistency. She usually prefers engaging in a quiet and solitary meal to start out the new day. The unobtrusive tranquility helps to stabilize her inner critics to settle down so she can prepare for another hectic stage of meetings with the Council of Elders and various other members of the compound for discussions regarding rule infractions and disputes.

She learned long ago that when a mind is preoccupied with what is not working it is merely creating more of the same. Therefore, she attempts—whenever time permits—to spend her early waking moments tending to her own inside order and channeling creative energy from her source. Yet disputes about a missing mbuzi [goat] are far easier to settle than trying to decide where or how to come up with one hundred more souls to satisfy an annual required quota for the Portuguese government. The tributes for their services had already quickly escalated beyond reasoning many years before she achieved control of the throne.

It has only been over the course of the last three years or so that she has been blessed with the opportunity of actually having a rare occasion to relax for a spell after the consumption of a meal, any meal, when there were enough provisions available and time enough to dedicate some stolen moments for partaking. Therefore, The Lady decided in the middle of last night to put aside a few moments on this splendid morning to sit proudly at the doorway of her sleeping house—stationed in the center of the kingdom—perched on her royal kiandu [bench], watching the antics of her new ecstatic dance troupe. Her intricately woven straw, ceremonial luandu [mat] lies beneath her painfully deteriorating feet adorned with various beads, shells, and hues of twisted tarnished copper wire, strung over leather threads dyed in earth tones.

She can easily remember the exact day each one member of the dance troupe was birthed into this wretched, treacherous, and evil world. And proudly presides over their fathers in conducting the preparations that, in a couple more years, will ready these little ones to march into the bush for their manhood ceremony instructions. The event will be a grand affair as always. Their class is going to be the first recipients beyond the mind numbing executive order which was issued for obligatory zero population growth that, when lifted, was met with cheers, celebrations and much fornication. She made sure that the order stayed in effect—without question, even from her own Council of Elders who opposed her fervently—until she felt a sense of being a little more in control of the affairs of her own kingdom, and not the governor representatives at the helm of all the controls.

During one of her bloodiest battles, following the seizure of the capital of Masangano in 1647, she gladly sought and received help from the Dutch who had already captured Luanda from the Portuguese. The act followed the seizure of several Dutch slave ships on the high seas, Njinga had feared on more than one occasion—though she kept the thought quietly to herself—that it just might end up being the particular engagement which, without question, would be the determining factor of her last stand.

She was utterly aware—then as well as now—that the Dutch warriors could be trusted about as far as one of her mini dancers could toss a double-horned, thick-skinned, fully-grown rhinoceros. Her luck in forming an alliance with the Dutch—as opposed to the Jaga, for instance—was about equivalent to six cowry shells in one hand and a half dozen in the other hand. Therefore at the first rumor from the Portuguese forces, stationed in Brazil, involving a threat to recapture their seized lands of which they had earlier also gained control of around the time that King Manuel issued his Regimento of 1512: The Code de Congo. A blueprint for conquest of Black minds, bodies, and country through Christianity and implemented by Simao de Silver, caused the Dutch forces to scatter like ants in a whirlwind. Njinga was, along with her brave and mighty warriors, left defenseless against the more modern firepower the Europeans had begun resorting to using on a more frequent basis.

The matchlock musket replaced the flintlock in 1571. Although it took nearly fifteen minutes to clean and reload. Gunpowder imports from Lisbon were slow, yet this new weapon allowed the Portuguese to hinder the movement of her warriors from a safe distance. Howbeit, the only method of attaining access to such weapons involved the exchange of members of her dwindling nation: Two muskets in exchange for each human captive. Yet the one-year lifespan of the matchlock musket was only surpassed by the unfortunately brief lifespan of about three years (give or take a year or two) for those bondsmen who were delivered, as human cargo, to the shores of the Brazilian, Haitian, and Jamaican mukuku [sugarcane] fields.

The result of that event would go into the annals of time as one of the bloodiest battles of her entire reign. Horrors plagued her people at every bend. Due to overpowering war efforts by her opponents, thousands of bodies were left in the trenches for the crows to pluck. That irreparable devastation caused the immobilization of her kingdoms at both Ndongo and Matamba. The only out that she was able to glean as being at her disposal was enactment of the zero population decree. Yes, she suffered in silence at the consequences of such a decision. Behind her back, the title of stone queen was frequently applied to her title. Although the increasing capture by bold outsiders, both African and European mercenaries, soon quelled the verbal protests and brought the people closer together against a universal enemy. Once the villagers set aside a moment to think about it, in the midst of constant chaos, many came to a haphazard decision that maybe their lady king had a method to her madness after all.

Never one for small talk, her heart still churns with heavy memories of the nearly silent moans and groans of pain smothered away underneath the hands of mothers and fathers maneuvering heated instruments utilized to disfigure physical features. The hope was that by scarring the faces and bodies of children it would save them, through disqualification, from being scurried away from the safety of the group beyond the glistening shores of no return.

Did she lose countless hours of sleep and experience much suffering, extensively, due to that decision? Yes. But it was not the first time nor the last that her ultimatums were heatedly questioned. What could she have done differently? Her people, future kings and queens, were being annihilated, without reservation, before her eyes. True enough her hands were tied and she had not a solitary soul to turn to for assistance. Yet she was definitely not going to sit on those battle-scarred appendages and watch the devastating consequences of a lost battle without developing and instituting a single plan of retaliation. Not many agreed with her demands and went out of the way to make their objections well known. If looks could kill. Njinga held tight to her decision until she believed a treaty congenial to the needs of her people could be negotiated and would encompass the requirements of all concerned.

It was shortly after that directive had been forced upon the lives of her committed, faithful followers when she felt it necessary to appoint a food taster. Actually the initiative was merely the official introduction of a taster on the record books. In reality a taster had principally been utilized since 1617. Shortly after the poisoning death of her father, the second Ngola of the Ndongo Kingdom, Njinga decided the time had arrived to protect herself from evil doers lurking in the background. Many years stand between that tragedy and today. But she still trust her food handlers only to the farthest reaches a blind nguruwe [pig] can vision. Maybe her brother, son of first wife, poisoned his own father or maybe he did not. The deed was carried out in the fashion it was designed to be implemented. Of that she is certain.

There were many stories about the incident related to her after her return journey from afar. As fate would have it, the assassination happened during a very dark period in her own life. Her first husband, Ndegwa Azeze, the shrewd and wise one, had died gallantly in the 1611 tribal warfare against incursions of the Kongo kingdom imposing their greed in order to continue the rampant influx of materialistic trinkets from the Portuguese traders. A few years later, the future queen’s mother (wife number two) had closed her eyes for the last time to a heart racked with pain and sorrow two moons before the 1616 First Fruits Festival. In order to enlist a commemorative gesture of appreciation for her departed ken, the Princess (Njinga) demanded recognition for both her deceased husband and mother during offerings to the ancestors for the 1617 ceremonial festival. Food was left at the graveside to indicate the sharing of communalism and to ask the dearly departed for continual interests to be extended toward those family members left behind.

At almost the exact moment she was alerted to the fact that the Ngola, her father, had mysteriously died sometime during the creeping hours as his pain racked body slept, she was assisted by her two younger sisters and their husbands—both husbands dead now—to escape beyond the gates and reaches of her mad half-brother, Mbandi. He was seemingly on a ghastly mission of self-aggrandizement as supreme new ruler of the Ndongo Kingdom by any means necessary. Yes, much, very much has transpired since that dreary but windy morning of exile.

Harnessing thoughts back in the direction of the present moment, in the interest of the decree, if memory serves her right, there was much grief and despicable name-calling engaged in by the kingdom builders almost immediately after her order was enacted to put a halt to all new births until further notice. Some members of her royal security force temporarily lost her respect for them. There were too many moments of repeated whining and bickering in the mode of young girls complaining of added chores, while all they are interested in doing is playing their childhood games. Most of the warriors were completely of the opinion that she was sending them on a suicidal mission without their having first received special comfort from mates. Distracted by fears of heading out to the lonely fields of battle that could not offer any degree of promise of a speedy return, weariness was evident in every movement. And, unfortunately, for more than a few hundred there would be no return. The gods showed no mercy.

Once she put aside her own grief, morale grew by twists and turns during that confusingly hostile span of years. Her brave forces ended up surpassing their past efforts by displaying more cunning and skill and fighting more valiantly than they had during any previous wars. Very few casualties were reported, a blessing they could ill afford to be denied as could few other kingdoms. Howbeit, the Portuguese with a much larger and better-armed legion experienced a much higher casualty count. All learned a lesson from that experience that was discussed and maybe implemented on a smaller scale by some of her allies. Being desirous of making hay while the sun shines in the uppermost reaches of thought can bring about a complete clearing of mind chatter while allowing for well-thought-out decision making when going up against a very powerful enemy as the likes of what her forces had to face.

Njinga quiets her retrospections in order to listen more closely to the familiar words of her entertainers’ song. Her first memory of those words came originally from observing them inked by skilled artists into a straw mat that had once hung over the head of her first marital mfulu [bedchamber]. The verse, as she recalls, was not written in Portuguese but in her native Kimbundu tongue. It is the language of the Mbundu clan. They were a proud and righteous people. Correction. They ARE a proud and righteous people. Now, today, following forty years of wars, and removals, and more wars, she would not have a clue as to the first place to seek the whereabouts of that special keepsake from so many long years past. Yet here are those very same words, alighting upon her constantly ringing eardrums, spilling from the mouths of babes.

Those were such happier times, she reasons with her spirit guides. Well, some of them were happy, or, at least tranquil. She was not naive enough to think the matrimonial bliss would last forever but she housed the hope within her soul that, if nothing else, her offspring would live to take his rightful place in the history of his people and to oversee the burial rituals of both his father and mother. Because her own mother always admonished Njinga to find the good in every situation— however long it may take—she will acknowledge that Olaudah, her brilliant son, didn’t have to live long to witness the passing to the ancestors of his courageous father. So, maybe one out of three wishes is not altogether completely detrimental once you get past the picture that relates to the horrors of war. There were days and weeks on end when we ate, slept, and drank war. The aroma of rotting flesh of the dead and dying became almost overwhelming during those days. Attempting to make progress on moonless nights, we time and again tripped over skeletons of previous captives who had cursed those same trails but didn’t complete the trek to the waters of no return. Their spirits are content now and safe to roam throughout their own native lands. One can yet feel their presence as they watch over us who yet walk among the living, she very much chooses to believe.

There are no true winners in the act of war. Celebrating the death and destruction of enemies should not be encouraged. It should instead be a time for renewal of vows to the earth mother. Time to remember the work we were brought forth on this earth, at this time, in this place to accomplish. The earth mother cries out in pain as she spews venom and vile at the mistreatment by her grandest and painstakingly near perfect designs who she placed here to watch over and protect her many assets of the land, water, and air.

Peering into her royal goblet and studying the contents as if reading tealeaves, the lady king feels blessed that she did not have to experience the sorrow of witnessing her son, the prince, felled by the enemy’s sword. Or worse, the experience of watching as he is marched away from her protection to the water’s edge in order to receive Holy Communion from the Jesuit before boarding the big bird of the sea. Yet at other times, she simply wishes she had had the opportunity to gaze upon his magnificent face one last time.

Our shields of treated nyati [buffalo] hide can no longer protect us from the firepower of the Portuguese muskets. Her prince would have figured a way to deter the enemy’s bold and fearless encroachments if he had lived. He was a thinker and spent countless hours developing methods for improving our quality of life. The increases in crop yields through better irrigation by the use of bamboo poles and various other implements as potholing (planting in manure-filled holes), is a reason for such a bountiful harvest on this annual. Of course the missionaries are to be thanked as well. Howbeit their cooperation usually comes with a hefty price attached.

Before the cock crows to greet the first sun of the New Year, Njinga will make it her mission to possess another copy of the original mat displaying those exact same words, even more elaborate than her memory of the original one. And once again, as before, the mat will be displayed hanging on a kibaka [wall] in her sleep chamber. All light would be quenched in youth’s eloquent eye. She consoles herself, pleasingly, upon that passage once again, before catching a comforting glimpse of the first lieutenant of her royal army casting a shadow, from his six-foot, six-inch frame, over her royal kielo [doorway].

~ ~ ~

After welcoming Cheo to come and sit a while with her, she repeats her earlier verse of the song, Light should not ever be quenched from youth’s eye. The light of wisdom should always be allowed to grow in the presence of increasing knowledge. Do you not agree, brave one?

Cheo’s chiseled frame snaps to attention, I believe I understand your logic perfectly well, My Ginga (a title that only he has been allowed a privilege to use when addressing his lady king since he escaped from captives, as a child, and returned to her fold). Our offspring are a clean slate to be modeled into perfection.

Yes, Cheo, I want you to teach them the words of the talking drums as they were taught to you. You were much younger than they are now but you have always been a fast learner. They are moving about to the rhythm at this very moment but do not understand the meaning in the patterns of those beats. That is like a goose dancing to the sounds coming from a rattlesnake. They need to understand what the drums are saying to them. Not all of your generals were understanding of my commands in the last enterprise of four years prior. There were blunders made that forced us to have to retreat. But this is only a temporary respite.

"My Ginga, you have struggled far beyond the call of duty as the trusted and fearless leader of our people. No one can argue that fact. But it is time that you accept the inevitable. All the other leaders across the countryside have either been massacred or forced into submission. We have been given do or die orders to conform to the Portuguese demands. All the surrounding clans have given up the rituals of their ancestral religions. Many no longer want to adorn their bodies with their ancestral kitenda [cloths] because the missionaries say those pieces are inferior to the traders’ wares."

The spirit God did not birth me into this place so that I could just sit by and witness the deliberate snatching up of my land and, more importantly, my people by these greedy foreigners.

We have run out of options, my Ginga. It is painful but true that, although it grieves us beyond words, we must face the facts.

Please do not assume I am attempting to hide my head in my tail feathers. I have eyes that see. The better part of the Ndongo is gone, Cheo. Too large of a portion of those lands, according to the treaty, are beyond our reach.

She stands and stretches her arms out slowly to her sides while rotating her neck around in circular motions. Here in Matampa, we will not follow them. We will not swerve from our own beliefs and from our own lifestyles. If I silently accept that our people have been marched off as booty and our land laid waste to be swept up by these evil beings, then what have I left to live for?

Is there a nation that has not been crushed, dissolved, sacrificed of its children, or taken over by the foreigners? They have us hemmed in, My Ginga, on every side.

I see you have also bought into the rumor that this eighty-two year old body has seen its day, she straightens with authority to her full height.

I did not say that. Those are not my thoughts at all. I am merely stating we must always stay prepared for the inevitable.

She reclaims her seat and watches a while in silence at the children playing more quietly now. The sun and the clouds appear to be fighting each other for dominion. And the air can no longer make up its mind as to whether a breeze will do