The air is thick, dry with heat, making it
the parched companion to this arid environment. Thousands of aloes stand like
stony sentries dotted along ridges, hills and plateaus, their headdresses a
fiery red against the earth coloured surrounds. There is a deafening silence
broken only by a gentle breeze that whistles in the ears.
Inside a nearby boma (traditional
hut) sits the inkosi (chief). Traditional beadwork adorns his head, arms
and ankles with a more elaborate piece covering his neck and torso, the lion
skin that some moments ago hung from a shoulder now rest under him. To his left
and right sit his headmen and advisors, they are locked in deliberation, he is
only here for a few hours and so must deal with all matters requiring his
attention. He sits silently, listening, before saying anything.
He is the embodiment of mediation, justice
and leadership as is his duty through birth and custom, a heritage traced
through a line of kings that go back twenty generations. History is alive in
him today as he carries on his broad shoulders a responsibility to his people,
both living and the dead. He is Inkosi Zwelivelile Mandlasizwe Dalibhunga
Mandela.
