Strandpiel 32: Omakhelwane abaseduze (die Mense Langsaan) – next-door neighbours

Finally! time to get a new chapter fit to publish! It's all plotted. I just need the time. Setting the background for events when Bekki moves to Howondaland. What do you call emigration when you're going to the nation one of your parents was born in? Also catching up on Ruth N'Kweze, who has been busy.

Late March. The Chalk:

Bekki stretched out on her back in the grass and heather, appreciating the clouds above her in the blue Spring sky. The rush of lambs, and ewes needing attention, had slowed now, which gave her time for little luxuries like this – even if most of the clouds up there looked like sheep, however hard she tried to make them look like other things. In the previous five weeks, she had learnt many things about sheep, from a knowledge-base of pretty near zero. The principal thing she'd learnt was that compared to pigs, they were pretty stupid animals.

At least the usual pregnant ewe could be relied upon to get on with it without too much human intervention. But when they needed help – they really needed help. She'd been doing a lot of that lately. At all hours of the day and night. This had been on top of the usual run of witch things, to do with navigating and mediating all aspects of the human world. She contemplated her hands and arms. Any woman looking for a skin cream could do worse than deal with sheep. Tiffany Aching had said it was down to the lanolin in the wool. If it bothers you, wear gloves. Bekki thought she needed to. Her skin was marvellously soft, but on the other hand, it felt even the slightest scratch. And up here there were a lot of things like thistles. It also made the continual washing, absolutely necessary in between ovine patients, into something of an ordeal.

Tiffany Aching had arranged a room for her down in the Aching family farmhouse. It had apparently been Tiffany's childhood bedroom. Bekki just appreciated a bed being there that she could collapse into, now and then, as time permitted. The Aching parents were used to putting up a succession of young trainee witches seeing practice, and had happily accomodated her. Even if the weapons had raised a few eyebrows. Bekki had realised people down here didn't routinely go armed. She'd got so used to the machete hanging on her hip that she'd forgotten about it. That, and the Howondalandian veldt clothes that she wore as everyday working gear, had caused a stir. Tiffany had said that at least Bekki wore the pointy hat, so everybody would know. Therefore she was properly dressed.

Up here, outside Tiffany's shepherding hut, the air was clean – definitely thicker and more substantial than up in the high mountains - and you could see a long way. The spines of the Ramtops in the distance, out to Hubwards. Lancre was up there, she reflected. A long flight, and generally an upwards one, which included the roller-coaster ride of the Lancre Falls as they plummeted to the lower hills.

The thing with the sword had been accepted, when Bekki had demonstrated one of the essential and strictly agricultural uses of the machete. There was a patch of stubborn growth that Mr Aching had been putting off clearing for some time; with energy to spare, she'd pitched in and had chopped a good quantity of it down one afternoon. It helped that she was mad at one of the Swindells family, who was stubbornly refusing to take her advice concerning a little problem. Now all Mr Aching needed to do was to get in there with a spade and a fork and grub up the roots. Mrs Aching was currently prompting him on the need for this, regularly.

"That girl's good with that sword-thing" was a piece of information that had spread far and wide. And "Don't get her annoyed. You should have heard the way she blasted Tom Swindells for not taking her advice."

There'd also been an informal reception at the Castle. Tiffany had made the introductions. Bekki had found the Baron to be awkward underneath a forced fifteen-a-side-player bonhomie, as if he were trying to superimpose several roles on top of each other, none of which quite fitted. She had bowed courteously whilst trying hard to refrain from shouting "Look, just be yourself! It's easier!" at him.

Eventually the Baron had grinned and nodded down to her sword.

"I'm not going to be so impolite as to ask if you can use that." he had said. "I'm almost tempted to ask if you'd spar a couple of rounds with me."

The Baroness, who was also a Witch, had then leant over and whispered something urgent into his ear. The Baron turned and looked at Bekki. Thoughtfully.

"I've just been reminded that your mother taught you how to use weapons." he said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps another time, miss Smith-Rhodes?"

Tiffany had smiled slightly.

And the news of whose daughter Bekki was had also travelled. Bekki didn't mind this too much; it made some things a lot easier. But she'd have quite preferred to be getting respect on her own merits and not just because her mother was a big-name Assassin.

Then another ailing ewe was brought to the shepherding hut and the break was over...

The Kraal of the Ingonyamakazi, The Zulu Empire.

"So that's Crowbar Dreyer." Ruth N'Kweze said, thoughtfully. The iconograph projector flickered in the heavily blanketed room. "I've heard a lot about him. Just never got to look at his face before."

She studied the face on the screen. Good-looking, affable, friendly, the sort of face women would warm to and men would feel flattered by, if that face addressed you by name and offered to stand you a drink. But, she realised, the most dangerous men were often the ones who didn't need to advertise that they were dangerous. And Hans Dreyer was very dangerous indeed. Monsieur le Balouard had spoken very highly of his professional competence and described him as the sort of lethal bruiser you would want on your side both in the fight, and in the bar afterwards.

If you looked really closely, there was something in his eyes. Ruth N'Kweze had been a Special in the City Watch for a while. She'd learnt to recognise bottle-covey. Hans Dreyer had a definite streak of bottle-covey about him, the high-functioning kind who had become a senior military officer.

"Beware of any unexpected parcels in the mail." Sissi N'Kime said, drily. "Care packages, they are called. As apparently, they truly take care of people."

"Ah, the subtle White Howondalandian sense of humour." Ruth remarked. "I do not think we are in that sort of danger. Dreyer is efficient. He knows my mail – most of my mail – is opened by others. He would not go to the significant trouble of getting a parcel bomb here, just to blow up my office clerk."

Sissi looked doubtful.

"He has other means. He is clever and resourceful."

Outside, the sound of units of the Lioness Impi being drilled came back to them, muffled, through the thick black drapes covering the windows.

It was starting to get hot inside the room. Ruth sat through the rest of the briefing. It concerned dangerous people on the Rimwards Howondalandian side who might well have a direct interest in spoling her day. Ruth sighed. She knew most of them. Personally. She'd helped educate a few, in long-gone days at the school.

"Finished?" she asked Sissi. "Let's get these drapes off the windows, shall we, and open a few up?"

"As you command, highness."

There was a pause as Sissi shouted for maids and relayed instructions.

Zulu architecture didn't usually go in for windows. Ruth had realised, on arriving Home, that some things had better bloody well change, and fast. She'd once spoken to Teppic, a Guild graduate and former Pharoah of Djelibeybi, and heard about his culture shock on returning home after years at the Guild School to a nation slow to change and reluctant to adapt. She knew where he was coming from now. Her desire to modernise, in a small way, and introduce a few Central Continent refinements to enhance her quality of life here, had met with incomprehension and a little guarded reluctance, even hostility. Undaunted, she'd asked around the various foreign Embassies around the Royal Kraal. The Ankh-Morporkians had been delighted to assist and had introduced her to the architect who had built their Embassy. It had cost her a lot of money, but what had emerged had been a building that combined Central Continent ease with the ability to withstand whatever Howondaland could throw at it. The fact it looked a little like a White Howondalandian huis was, she considered, probably coincidental. And it meant she could sleep in an actual bed at night.

Her father, the Paramount King, had grunted semi-disapprovingly and said "at least build a kraal around it."

The kraal had emerged, a new settlement. It was now the heart of the Lioness Impi's base depot, with a triple wall and multiple gates. Anyone seeking to attack needed to get through those three walls and the best part of three thousand soldiers who had all pledged loyalty to their iNduna. The new kraal was called the Lioness's Den.

Ruth waited for the maids to fold the blankets and leave. Then she turned to Sissi.

"Okay. Dreyer is going to have a hard job getting people here. We're a few hundred miles from the border. I don't care how good they are. White Howondalandian soldiers in our country will not escape detection for very long. If he uses the direct route, they'd have to cross a few hundred miles of populated country and pass near enough to quite a few military kraals."

Sissi looked doubtful.

"Johanna Smith-Rhodes managed it." she pointed out. "And she wasn't even an Assassin then."

"Yes. But the man Johanna was after was only about forty miles from the border. She performed a forced ride by night. In the middle of a tropical storm. With only a handful of soldiers. While people were indoors keeping dry and not looking to see what else was coming down apart from thunder and lightning, she got her man. Then rode back."

Ruth looked reflective for a moment.

"Storm season's coming up, isn't it?"

Sissi nodded.

"Right. Good point, Sissi. Thank you. We make absolutely bloody sure all guards and patrols during storms will go out. They pay attention. They patrol diligently. They do not retreat to the warm and dry as soon as they can. Ensure all soldiers are trained for this. And I know it's not angry night-gods that kill you. It's lightning. Best we issue night patrols during storms with those clever new ceramic weapons. They might not be assegais – I'm still working on that – but at least they're stabbing spears. And how advanced are we on obsidian weapons? I was impressed with those Tezuma we met in Muntab."

They discussed weaponry for a while. Ruth wanted lots of options other than the traditional assegai-and-knobkerry. There was, for instance, a fletching shed in the kraal, staffed by members of the Armourers' Guild from Ankh-Morpork. Ruth's share of the booty from the Muntab War was funding a lot of R&D. It had established a small manufacturing plant for arrows of all kinds, for instance, with workshop facilities for maintaining projectile weapons.

"Okay, so we've worked out that in the next month or two, we need to watch out for riders on the storm." Ruth said, decisively.

"Killers on the road." Sissi said. Then she frowned, wondering where that had come from. (1)

"And I'd quite like them to be our killers." Ruth remarked. "Better ones."

"We've got some good ones." Sissi said. "You know, Highness, since the Empire started sending students to the Guild School, eighty-nine Zulus have graduated as Assassins. Fifty-three of them have pledged their allegience to you. We can be absolutely certain of only forty-three of them. But we've got practically all the women. And a lot of the rest are reluctant to get involved or to move against you."

There was a how the Hells did you manage that? undertone to Sissis's voice. Ruth smiled, proudly.

"Oh, my brother Clement is pastoral guide to Zulu students at the School. Clement is a very persuasive chap. He has quiet words with people. I taught a few of them myself. That helps. It also helps that I've got my agreement with my half-sister Precious Jewel. She sees the value of an orderly succession when Father goes, may the moment not be soon."

Precious Jewel had been one of the first Zulu girls to graduate from the School. She was now Chief Assassin in the Empire. She had influence several times over. With the Paramount King now over seventy, there wre already signs of his ambitious sons – and some daughters – jockeying for position and creating power bases. Trained by Lady T'Malia in political skills, the two half-sisters had decided that the last thing the Empire needed was a civil war over the succession, and both had agreed that their father had had too damn many kids. They'd agreed to do something about it, as best they could. Thinning out their more objectionable half-brothers and culling the herd a bit had been mooted as a possible strategy. And both knew their father encouraged sibling rivalry. Paramount Empresses only ever happened in the rarest of circumstances. Ruth and Precious Jewel had agreed neither of them wanted the hassle, thank you very much. But being the trusted advisor and the influence behind the throne had its advantages. They were still working on selecting the right half-brother. This would take time. At least they had an agreed shortlist.

Ruth and Sissi discussed Zulu Assassins who might take out a contract on her. They decided six people needed to be watched. No further action for now. Just watched.

"Of course, any male Assassin who came into this kraal to inhume me. There are several thousand people out there who'd rip him to tiny pieces for even thinking it. That's a disincentive. It would need a big contract fee." Ruth said.

They discusssed other possibilities, such as people being insinuated into the ranks of the Lioness Impi by her half-siblings. Sleeper agents.

"I'm watching for that." Sissi said. We do background checks on new recruits. If we debarred anyone who came from a clan with alliegance to one of your half-siblings, we wouldn't have an impi. And everyone's loyal. But it's a potential weak spot."

"Keep an eye on things." Ruth requested her. "Precious Jewel tells me the Guild's been approached to sound out how much a contract on me would cost. The White Howondalandians, as you might expect. But it's likely to be declined. Definitely deferred."

Ruth patted her stomach.

"The Guild does not accept contracts on pregnant women. You only contract for the mother. Taking out the child as well is held to be unseemly, unstylish and common murder. By my reckoning, I'm safe for seven months."

They shared a delighted grin. From Ruth's point of view, marriage to Denizulu was by no means all bad. Even though he wasn't and never would be Julian. As he was away for most of the time with the army he commanded, it wasn't a bad marriage at all. And her child – if a son – would be born in a very fortunate place indeed, two steps away from the Paramount Throne. A son would be worth investing in. And at age eleven, a son, or a daughter, could be educated in Ankh-Morpork, well out of harm's way, and learn lots of useful skills. Her old school was very good at teaching these, and a pupil who was both grandchild to the absolute ruler and child of a very well respected graduate – well, that child would always get a School place.

The two carried on talking informally.

"Can you send my chef in? I need to know what's planned for dinner. Thanks." She waited while Sissi went to relay an order to fetch the servant. There were commands relayed in the corridor and running feet, feet wearing indoor sandals, the sound muffled on carpet, a rare thing in the Zulu Empire. Ruth had insisted, and had needed to explain the concept in depth and patient detail. Up to and including the idea that bare feet were acceptable outside. But not on her carpets. Let that be clearly understood. Again she reflected that Pteppic had had similar problems trying to communicate Ankh-Morporkian ideas to a nation not mentally geared up to understanding them. She waited for her closest guard and most trusted advisor to return.

"How many assassination attempts now? I'm losing count." Ruth said, casually.

Sissi thought for a moment.

"Seventeen, Highness. Including the latest."

Ruth shook her head.

"They do keep trying, don't they?"

She knew the sort of strategies other Zulus would use. A sort of code of conduct, hedged around with strong taboos, governed them. They were so easy to evade, for somebody trained in the Assassin's Guild.

There was a knock on the door. Sissi stood to watch it as it opened, choosing a place where whoever entered would not immediately see her, her hand close to her sword-hilt.

"You called for me, Maharani?" he asked, bowing in deep respect.

Ruth smiled.

"Gupta, we've been through this. I know Maharani means "Great Princess" and it's a term of respect, and I thank you. In a situation like this you can be more informal. Use that other word, what is it, mem-sahib."

Gupta Patel had been a prisoner of war from Muntab. Ruth had seen the possibilities after he had volunteered to make her a curry – something she had quietly craved after leaving Ankh-Morpork, and simply could not get at home. (2) Not happy with his Muntabian superiors who had seemingly abandoned their Ghatian conscripts to defeat, he had instantly agreed to work for her, but had one request to make, Great Princess. Ruth had then pulled a few strings and called in a few favours, and had extricated Gupta's extended family from Ghat. They had settled in to a new country with the cheerful optimism of Ghatian emigrants everywhere, and one of his daughters had even volunteered for the Impi. (3)

She had an absolutely loyal cook as a result. His wife and sister worked as housekeepers with brisk Ghatian efficiency. His sons helped out in the kitchen and around the house. She knew Gupta was loyal: he had spotted a kitchenmaid attempting, with not enough discretion, to add an unspecified something extra to the garam masala. Gupta had taken a very large wooden spoon to her back, and the resultant noise, outraged chef and screaming maid, had summoned guards.

Brought before the Princess to explain the noise, Ruth had heard the sobbing maid's confession.

"Princess Afeeka. My half-sister." Ruth had said. "You were originally from her household. Well, she is going to deny this publicly, and will say she never gave the order for you to add poison to my food."

Ruth shook her head.

"So you are now completely on your own. And your life is forfeit. You face the fate of a commoner who seeks to slay a Princess. May I remind you of the accepted ways for one such to die? And, to warn you. These carpets are expensive. Urinating on them in terror will make me even more angry."

She had asked Gupta if the girl had poisoned any more spices, or just one. Her cook had said he really did not know, Maharani. How may we check?

Ruth had considered.

"Take her back to the kitchen. Make her taste them all. Allow her ten minutes between each tasting. With adequate water to drink, if she wishes. Have her watched for signs of reluctance and ensure she tastes enough and swallows properly. If she dies or refuses, we know which ones are poisoned. If she lives, bring her back to me."

As her inept would-be asassin was dragged away by two big Lionesses(4) , she had conferred with Sissi.

"Afeeka." Ruth had said.

"A Paramount Princess who must be spoken of with respect and not, for instance, be described as an arrogant idiot with the brains of a dung-beetle." Sissi had replied.

"Arrange her an embarrassing surprise, Sissi." Ruth had requested. She remembered a long-ago time when she'd humiliated some ignorant Vondalaanders. One of whom was now Julian's brother-in-law. "Something along the lines of Klatchian Cascara in her morning amasi. I know she likes it heavily spiced. She will never notice. Ideally, a morning when she has to attend some public event. Who do we have in her kraal? Then after she's been humiliated in public, she receives a message as to exactly how she ended up with bad tummy trouble, and who ordered it. That if she tries it again with me, there will not be a second chance."

Today, Ruth requested the chicken chat, with chappatis, lots of onion bhajis, lamb somosas and shishkebab. "Perhaps with a sidesalad, Gupta? Thank you. And as from now, I believe I can reveal I'm eating for two, and by a happy coincidence, my pregnancy craving is curry. Thank you. Namaste."

She accepted fulsome congratulation graciously, then added a further request.

"Gupta? Our Witch-Finder will be dining with us tonight. Yes, I know. But at least he has grasped how to eat with a knife and fork. This one has some social skills. And I understand I have to have one. Every kraal needs its resident Witch-Finder." Ruth sighed. Some crossbow bolts could not be dodged. "While our curries should be spiced to, say, a madras level, ensure his is a vindaloo? People in Ankh-Morpork eat these all the time with no ill-effects. Or they claim no ill-effects. Thank you."

Her chef bowed himself out. She and Sissi shared grins.

"You have to be a gracious host." Ruth sighed. "Even to them. And I have to ask the oaf a few questions. Maybe even a favour."

She became serious again, and looked directly at Sissi, scrutininising her for a long silent time. Sissi held her gaze.

"Sissi." Ruth said, with soft intensity. "Let us discuss a situation. I hope this is only hypothetical. I really hope this is only hypothetical. But if it came about that you ever had to go up against Mariella Smith-Rhodes. Assassin to assassin. How confident are you?"

There was a long silence. Ruth saw her old pupil shudder slightly.

"And I'm really, really, sorry to confront you with this. I truly am. I like her too. But in this continent there are different rules. We all know that. If it were Johanna Smith-Rhodes, I'd be taking a deep breath too, and looking for a decent way out."

"If I were ordered." Sissi said. "By you or the Paramount. Or if she crossed into this country in arms, and there were no alternative. I believe we would fight. But I'm not at all sure of who would win such a fight. On the running track she won one race out of every two against me."

Ruth pattted Sissi's forearm.

"It may not come to that. I'm looking for alternative ways out. But if it did. We would have to fight. And as you say – the outcome is not certain. Not at all."

Ruth wondered again about mutual assured destruction. She'd put this theory in a communication to the Guild. If they despatch their best Assassins against us, we counter them with people we know are equally good Assassins. Good people will inevitably be killed and the stalemate between our nations will persist with no advantage gained. And the only institution to be weakened is the Guild of Assassins, as whoever dies – Sissi N'Kime, Mariella Smith-Rhodes, Horst Lensen, Emma Roydes, Precious Jewel N'Khazi – the Guild needlessly loses an irreplaceable talent who was many years in the making. Who, by the way, will also be mourned and missed. There has to be another way around this? How can we maintain the atmosphere of threat-in-potentia without tipping it over the edge and not only upsetting the balance, but breaking the scales?

Vetinari would also see it, she reflected. Good.

After a while, Sissi went to go about her duties as a commander in the impi. Ruth thakned her and reassured her they had been discussing worst-case scenarios. But at the very least, they should pay thought to neutralising Hans Dreyer, a man who in an assembly of raptors would make all the other hawks look like peaceful doves.

"I'd still like to have people like Pieter van der Graaf to talk to, though. The clever open-minded ones." she added.

"And if Dreyer goes against you..." Sissi said.

"I then have reason and cause to hit back." Ruth confirmed. "Nothing personal. I suspect in different circumstances I'd quite like him. Johanna says she was tempted. Now there's a horrible prospect. Imagine if she'd married him and not Ponder? What would the kids be like?"

"Don't go there! There is a letter from Bekki among the mailing I collected from the Guild. Be thankful for the daughters she had with Ponder."

Alone now, Ruth contemplated the letters that had arrived via secure Guild mail. She smiled. Old friends kept in touch. It was one of the things that kept her sane, now she had to live among her great big happy family again. She then spent precious time reading them. After a while she began to compose replies.

to be continued.

(1) In distant Ankh-Morpork, the other twinned half of the inspiration particle had just, as if by some law of quantum, poinged into the head of Ruth's namesake, who had been sitting at her harpsichord playing scales. A driving, slightly sinister, melody in a minor key had emerged, that purposefully splashed from the keyboard. Ruth's father had winced, sensing some sort of sympathetic magic was going on, and had wondered what the Hell it was this time.

(2) historical explanation. A food history site, to my delight, says that while spiced foods were not unknown on east and south Africa, curries really started to take off after Zulus and other tribes began to make contact with India. The accepted route is that Zulus living and working outside the Empire in the early-middle 1800's met Indians brought in by the British as "Cape Coloureds" and got a taste for curries that way. The secret of curry was brought home and became a "fusion cuisine" with native African food. Some speculate that more adventurous Zulus made it to India, possibly as volunteer or press-ganged sailors, and found out about curry at source. Either way, curry made it to southern Africa. Which fits the vibe here, of an expat who discovered curry in Ankh-Morpork and discovered she had to go to pretty extreme measures to get one at home – another innovation Ruth brings to the Empire…

(3) There was a separate sub-impi called The Tigresses. Ruth's reasoning was that the tiger was a large predatory cat not native to Howondaland and as deadly as a lion. Her policy of accepting anyone prepared to swear the oaths of loyalty to the Paramount Crown Princess,to the Paramount King, and to the Zulu Empire, was causing controversy. Ruth pointed out that the Empire had no apartheid, all were considered equal, and the Empire these days accepted immigrants, as it should. Why shouldn't some of those immigrants prove loyalty to their new land by serving in its armies? Klatch accepted this idea with its Foreign Legion, and she was applying the same concept here. If a woman with service in a foreign army – but not the White Howondalandian one – came to her and proved herself of good enough character and swore the oaths and could learn to speak Zulu and fight like a Zulu – she was in. Ruth didn't add that this way she was also getting the military expertise of twenty different nations – including Ankh-Morpork and useful places like Borogravia and Zlobenia. She did accept the scattering of white bodies in her impi looked incongruous. But isn't this a great way of saying to the world – unlike our neighbours we do not have apartheid, all are equal?

(4) One of the accepted fates for a commoner who seeks to slay a Princess. Although the lionesses involved are usually the feline kind.

Notes Dump:

Somewhere in a sea roughly halfway between two continents, the one of the tale being currently written and the semi-glimpsed one of future tales yet to be committed to paper, where isolated ideas are given lifebelts and a signal rocket against being spotted and rescued.

Extract from PM to reader CarrieVS;

Thank you! The next instalment may be sooner than you think - I returned to work earlier today after a lay-off to do my civic duty and sit on High Court juries. (I may, in general terms, work this unique experience into coming tales...). Most of that consisted in sitting in the jury panel room waiting to be Called, and often being sent home early having been paid for the full day. Better than working... This gave me time at home to deal with the constant buzz of inspiration particles that were driving me nuts as to how to continue this tale. And today, my managers discovered the place was overstocked with people, and each section manager was asked to select somebody to take the rest of the day off on full pay. Yes please, I said. So I'm here... (I scored 100% on quality assessment of my work; I see it as a reward).

Anyway. I'm trying to draw a lot of loose ends together in the concluding few chapters: crisis on the Howondaland borders, sabres rattling, Mariella and Horst run into bother on a "business trip": this coincides with Bekki arriving in Howondaland and blithely walking right into the middle of it. Oh, she will not end up single-handedly resolving the international crisis and preventing a war - that's Mary Sue stuff - rather, she ends up as a middling-to-low piece on the chessboard. Definitely not a queen but more than a pawn; I'm thinking, as she will have a unique horse available to her by then, more of a Knight, who can jump any one of eight oddly-shaped ways at any time.

Spoiler alert: Ruth N'Kweze lives. I have plans for her eventual destiny. It will be a nice one.

Famke develops as a young Assassin and might even get a Vimes Run if she annoys Alice Band too much. Her sister Ruth gets lots more inspiration particles despite her father trying to divert them to safe containment elsewhere. A Strange Kind of (Young) Woman, perhaps, with an, err, Rainbow of possibilities. Lots of musical puns to write in, although I'm still wondering which Blue Öyster Cult songs might fit. Bekki did get to wield a Black Blade with latent magical powers once, after all. And with a harpsichord... there may be a Golden Brown moment.

Perhaps also more on the {{Death Who Is The Colour Of A Morning Sunrise}} - it sounds better than The PInk Death - and her best friend... and Rivka will be at least referenced, if not present to do another cameo. Alison the female jester is booked for a gig, too.

Ukufa okubomvu – the Pink Death