For thus, my father, does destiny make fools of us men. We think
that we can shape our fate, but it is fate that shapes us, and nothing
befalls except fate will it. All things are a great pattern, my
father, drawn by the hand of the Umkulunkulu upon the cup whence he
drinks the water of his wisdom; and our lives, and what we do, and
what we do not do, are but a little bit of the pattern, which is so
big that only the eyes of Him who is above, the Umkulunkulu, can see
it all. Even Chaka, the slayer of men, and all those he slew, are but
as a tiny grain of dust in the greatness of that pattern. How, then,
can we be wise, my father, who are but the tools of wisdom? how can be
build who are but pebbles in a wall? how can we give life who are
babes in the womb of fate? or how can we slay who are but spears in
the hands of the slayer?
This came about, my father. Matters were made straight in the land
after the death of Chaka. At first people said that Masilo, the
stranger, had stabbed the king; then it was known that Mopo, the wise
man, the doctor and the body-servant of the king, had slain the king,
and that the two great bulls, his brothers Umhlangana and Dingaan,
children of Senzangacona, had also lifted spears against him. But he
was dead, and earth and heaven had not come together, so what did it
matter? Moreover, the two new kings promised to deal gently with the
people, and to lighten the heavy yoke of Chaka, and men in a bad case
are always ready to home for a better.
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