Strandpiel 41
Nasleep (een) Aftermath (part one)
And we're back after the last cliff-hanger resolved itself. As before – version one, still trying hard to resolve the story and move it along but there is so much ground to cover and so many sub-plots to tie... I realise this would make a James Clavell brick look slender.. same sort of epic, same sort of issues but (not yet) without any McSweeneys appearing... (Hmm. A long-established Boer family called "van der Sweeney"...).as I say - version one awaiting fine-tuning.
Now read on.
Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland.
General Hans "Crowbar" Dreyer might have been a devil-may-care military maverick. But he had not got to become a general without realising that when in the presence of superiors it was sometimes best to be very attentively respectful and to perform the essential military skill known elsewhere as the Vimes Defence, or Reporting-to-Vetinari.
Keenly aware he had not been invited to sit, he stood respectfully at attention with his general's cap tucked under one arm. The Members of the Cabinet, the nucleus of senior politicians who were responsible for running an entire country, and who could, for instance, decide the time was right to offer him a friendly handshake and a retirement pension in return for years of selfless dedicated service (or, worst, a sideways promotion to somewhere out of the way), looked back at him. Some, Dreyer reflected, were sympathetic. He put thoughts of his own escape strategy out of his mind; Charles Smith-Rhodes had offered to set him up with a useful consultancy, if he ever had to resign his commission.
At the head of the table, the Prime Minister looked keenly at him. The fairly new Prime Minister. Dreyer suspected he was a bit liberal, one who was considering some sort of detente with the Zulus.
In his mind he listed a few recent operations and little border incidents that had involved the Slew. Nothing I can't justify, he thought. He ran through times, dates, locations, outcomes and personnel involved in his mind. Just to be sure. He had an idea what he was going to be asked about.
"General Dreyer." The Prime Minister said. Dreyer noted he was speaking Morporkian, damn him. That was a political choice. "We're concerned about reports reaching us of an incident in the Zulu Empire."
Dreyer fought back an impulse to innocently ask "Which one, sir?" and said nothing.
"Yesterday." The Prime Minister went on. "There was an assassination attempt on Princess Ruth N'Kweze. The Paramount Crown Princess. A determined one. That very nearly suceeded."
"Yes, sir. I heard ebout thet. I was ellowed to read the reports."
"Most of the reports." the PM went on. He allowed this to sink in.
"General Dreyer, can you assure us, absolutely assure us, that our forces were not involved in any way? Specifically, that your forces were not invoved?"
Dreyer relaxed. Somebody had very nearly got to the dangerous bitch, he knew. Shame they hadn't suceeded. Remove a problem. He shrugged off a feeling of wry regret. In different circumstances he'd quite like to meet this woman. Schooled in the same place as some of his best people. Clever. Able. Talented. Shame she hadn't been born in this country. Talents like hers didn't grow on trees. What he could do with a mind like Ruth's on his team...but this time it wasn't ours.
"No, sir." Dreyer said. "Ebsolutely, definitely, not one of mine. Wish it hed been. Shame."
There was a palpable sense of relaxation around the table.
"Thank you." The PM said, breathing out. "You might have guessed there is one enormous international incident building up here? The Ankh-Morporkians got to hear about it five minutes after it happened, practically. As they do."
"Those winged horse messengers of theirs." The Minister of Education said. "Nobody else has got anything to match them. Gives Vetinari another huge advantage."
"As if he needs it." the PM agreed. "Anyway. Vetinari got the report from one of his clever women. Straight away he sent people in to liaise with the Zulus. In the spirit of international co-operation. Igors to patch up the wounded. And a pointy-head from the University with the right skills."
Dreyer looked impassive. He'd gathered this much.
"The assassin was identified as a Naga. Ghatian. Which rules out the Assassins' Guild as they don't train weres or Undead. Bloody snake-woman. Ankh-Morpork doesn't know much about them either except that they're werecreatures and they come from Ghat. So they sent a pointy-head out who might know about these things. First one he'd seen in the rather dead and stinking flesh, too."
The Prime Minister took a long cool look at his Special Operations General.
"Dreyer. Please tell me you are not recruiting weres."
The Crowbar looked reflective for a moment. As if he were seriously considering a really good idea.
"No, sir. They'd be hard to keep on a leash, for one thing. I prefer human people. Weres could turn eround and bite us. You know where you are with people. Elthough a couple of those Igors for my medical staff would be useful, if you would ellow me to recruit some."
"No, General. Too many issues."
It was the BOSS commander who had spoken. Dreyer sighed. BOSS was generally sympathetic and onside, although he preferred them at arm's length. They had ideological issues about Igors, Dreyer reflected.1 (1)
Dreyer shrugged. Ideology and all the strident talk about White Howondaland, maintaining the right social values, and racial purity, didn't interest him. He just enjoyed a good fight and making winning plans. Taking on a defined enemy and kicking his guava. A Ridgeback defending his plaas, pack leader of a selected pack of Ridgebacks, Boerboels, Lipswigers and whatever other attack dog species you could name. But never werewolves. And the huis and plaas his pack defended was an entire country. Dreyer felt proud of that.
"Generaal Dreyer."
The Crowbar turned, appreciating that this speaker preferred to use good honest Vondalaans. It was Pieter van der Graaf, the Foreign Minister.
"At least we can now advise Vetinari that this was none of our doing. Although he already knows that, I suspect. You know there are excitable voices in the Zulu Empire who are pointing the finger of blame at us? That's dangerous. There are a dozen or so Princes and Princesses who are all building power bases, recruiting armies and getting ready to fight for the throne when it falls vacant. Which I do not need to say is useful for us. Those Crown Princes tend to hate and distrust each other. Sibling rivalry, with armies at their disposal. But if one thing can unite them all, it's an attack on one of them – from outside.2 (2) One thing for Princess Ruth to dispose of her half-sister Princess Akima. That's understood. That's accepted. But another country launching an attack on Princess Ruth. They'll all close ranks and realisethat together, they command sixty thousand spears. Which could very easily end up pointing at the place they consider the attack came from. That rather concerns me."
"I'll put the Slew on alert, sir." Dreyer said, grasping what he thought was the point. "All leave cancelled. Step up recce patrols. Permission to recall selected reservists?"
Various cabinet ministers winced. They had an idea what Dreyer meant by selected reservists.
Van der Graaf shook his head.
"Last resort, Crowbar." he said. "Warn the people you have in mind, but do bear in mind the grape harvest is due soon. Two of the people you're thinking about have got a crop to bring in. And... recce patrols. Do not allow them to cross any borders, for now? Especially since Patrician Vetinari has respectfully advised us he is going to be monitoring the situation. And has offered his services as a third-party arbitrer. He has also asked, with polite interest, about progress in building the new Rail Way lines."
The room fell silent. If Ankh-Morpork pulled its finance out of the Rail Ways it would be a blow to national prestige. Rimwards Howondaland wanted the technology. If only as a speedy means of moving large numbers of soldiers around from one threatened border to another. And as van der Graaf had reminded them, lots of crops were due to be harvested. It wouldn't just be two farmers in Bittersfontein who would be inconvenienced in the event of a call-up of Army reservists.
"It's got to be the Muntabians." said the Interior Minister. "They're sore at being beaten last time, and they threatened to put this woman's head on a pike, as she did most of the beating. What's the betting they sent the killer?"
"That's what Vetinari seems to suspect." Van der Graaf said. "Fortunately to get at each other they'd have to fight the Tezuman first. Which is why Vetinari put them there. But a sixty thousand strong Zulu army, united, and itching to fight somebody..."
The room considered this awful frightening prospect.
Pieter van der Graaf silently considered the other channels at his disposal. He was having lunch with Julian and Pieter Retief later and could privately discuss a few things. Urgent things.
Crowbar Dreyer let out a relieved breath. Could have been worse.
In the Zulu Empire, at the Lioness's Den:
"One of us does what's needed in this hospital." Irena Politek said. "Helps out with the Igors. The other attends on Ruth. So one of us is there for the birthing."
She rummaged for a coin, then flipped it.
"Heads or tails?"
"Tails." said Sophie Rawlinson.
Irena uncovered the coin. It was tails.
"Off you go, then." Irena said. "If nothing's happened after six hours, we swap over and I take watch on Ruth. You know. Princess. Wife of a powerful general. Daughter of an absolute monarch. We know it's going to be a son. If Ruth's half the woman I think she is, that son's going to end up as Paramount King one day. Depend on it. That's one politically important child."
"So. No pressure, then." Sophie said.
Irena grinned.
"Do the job that's in front of you." she said. "The political stuff is so much stinking govno. You've got a first-time mother. Who is in a remote hut outside the kraal, because that's Tradition. Probably some shambolic thing thrown up in a hurry. Birth that mother, devyuschka. Get a healthy child into the world. The rest can wait. Nothing to it."
Sophie swallowed nervously and went with a Zulu escort to the Place of Birthing.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork:
The mews had never been used for a coach and horses. It had become a repository for quite a few years worth of miscellaneous household junk, including battered furniture damaged during a battle in the house that had been moved there, and which nobody had ever got round to moving on. Johanna helped throw an old chair into the skip in the drive, and supervised household staff and goblins in the clear-up.
Her appointed Dwarf builder, a tradesdwarf who had done a lot of interesting bespoke work at the Zoo and who was used to out-of-the-ordinary jobs, was now measuring up.
"More used to doing your cages and enclosures, ma'am." he had remarked. Johanna let the thought cross her mind that this was a specially designed habitat for musically inclined daughters, and definitely not a cage for Famke, then smiled slightly. Mr Thorskjovelsson had shown her samples of the special interior cladding and plasters and had explained something about the acoustic properties of the installation, and that it wasn't going to be cheap, ma'am, but me and the lads can have it done inside a month.
They'd agreed a price, and the musical studio was beginning to emerge. Johanna had stipulated it absolutely had to be properly soundproofed. There would be drums in there.
The dwarf had understood completely.
"Got a musically inclined daughter myself, ma'am." he had said. "She plays the krumpelhorn. Hell of a noise."
He shook his head. From above, there came the sound of Bekki trying to get better at a bowed bass. She was getting better at it. Slowly.
"And you've got three musical girls. Looks like this is going to be a bit of a garage band."
Pegasii had been flying back and forth between Ankh-Morpork, Howondaland and other destinations far more frequently than usual. Vetinari thought it important that Heads of Government in various nations were kept immediately informed and that their Ambassadors in the city had every opportunity to communicate swiftly and effectively. Specifically, to communicate Vetinari's reflective and considered observations on how a certain situation was unfolding.
Vetinari had heard of world leaders in other places who let their every, immediate, instant, thought on situations be made publicly known in the form of short pithy sound-bites of less than a hundred and forty characters. He shook his head and wondered how people like that got into positions of power. Even though keeping it short and relevant was a useful discipline, he had to concede. But just because he had a practically instantaneous means of communication available to him, it certainly didn't mean it had to be public nor did it have to be immediate.
Otherwise it was just twittering. Not just meaningless sound, but conveying to the world how intellectually confused you could get.
He sighed at the follies of the world, then returned to reading a treatise on the Nagas and other were-creatures of Ghat and Muntab. He made a note to call in Captain Angua of the Watch for a chat. One of her jobs was monitoring were activity in the city, after all. He also reflected that a word with the priests at the Ghatian temple off Gods Street might also be useful.
"An ashram, sir." Rufus Drumknott said, helpfully. ""The Ghatian word for a temple."
Vetinari turned to regard his secretary.
"You know, Drumknott, I never vocalised that thought." he remarked. "You are getting very adept at anticipating my thoughts."
Drumknott preened, slightly.
"Perhaps it comes of working for you for so long." he suggested. "I have also sent a request to the Watch to make Captain von Überwald available for an interview. I hope that wasn't presumptuous, sir."
Bitterfontein, Rimwards Howondaland.
"So I thought you should know." Olga Romanoff said. "I'm just betting the next move is Crowbar Dreyer shouting for you and Horst to saddle up by five minutes ago."
"You'd think he doesn't have other people to shout for." Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen said, crossly. She hugged the two lively toddlers to herself. Mariella had no immediate plans for children of her own, despite a lot of pointed reminders from her mother, but she didn't mind other people's.
"Well, he can bloody wait. We've got a harvest to bring in. Busy time."
Olga shrugged.
"You know how it is. Your Uncle Pieter took a couple of very sharp knives out of the Crowbar's armoury when he fixed it with your Uncle Charles for those two lethal cousins of yours to be sent on indefinite leaves. Job interviews as miliatary attachés, that mean they're no longer active soldiers. The Crowbar can't deny that Piles and the Pink Death should be offered a chance to do something else away from the front line. Round them out as career officers and capitalise on their Assassin skills. You know, the neglected ones like diplomacy and negotiation, the ones that don't involve actually killing people."
"Inhuming people." Mariella corrected, automatically. She hugged Vassily and Valentina and tried to supress an inconvenient maternal urge that was rising. Is this another dodge of Uncle Pieter's to deprive the Crowbar of another Assassin, she wondered. Expose me to adorable children, to remind me I'm twenty-eight and most Boer women my age have had three or four by now, and for me to get the urge to have one myself?
Olga shrugged.
"Whatever. Anyway, that's what's happened to Ruth. And it's fired up an almighty crisis. The Zulus want to make a gesture to avenge the insult caused by an attempt on the life of the Paramount's most favoured daughter. Wash the spears, as they put it. They think your lot are responsible."
"Our lot." Mariella reminded her. "You became one of us when you married Eddie."
"Only conditionally. That strandpiel thing again. By marriage. And I've got a home in Pratoria. Which I really don't want sixty thousand Zulus and a battle rolling over. That new suburb they want to name after your big sister, as they think a notable Smith-Rhodes should have a place named after her. Family tradition."
Mariella grinned. She snuggled two of her favourite children – nice of Olga to bring them with her to see their almost-an-auntie – and contemplated the new town which could end up being called JohannaSmith-Rhodesburg.(3)
"Does she know, yet?" she asked, interested. Olga grinned a quiet grin.
"She will. When I tell her. I've got a couple more calls to do yet. Thanks for taking the kids, by the way. Appreciated. Anyway. I have to fly to the Zulu Empire. They don't let me do that much these days because of Diplomacy, and those delightful people at BOSS shout a lot about a citizen crossing the closed border at will. The Zulus don't like it much because of one of the passports I carry. But my employer is still Lord Vetinari and he's pointed out, in his usual firm way, that Captain Romanoff works for him and she goes where he directs. So the other reason I'm here, Mariella. You might want to put a personal message in? Strictly unofficially?"
Mariella grinned. "Got it being set up in the kitchen." She turned to the children, who were looking expectant. "Yes, you can have some grapes, but not many. You don't want bad tummies."
She dislodged Valentina and Vassily and stood up. "Give me ten minutes to write a note and a couple of cards." she said. "Oh, and when you fly back from Ankh-Morpork. Tell me how my sister takes the news they're naming a town after her? Especially the look on her face when she realises?"
Olga grinned. It was something she was looking forward to. Flying or the Service was hard work on top of all the other things that made her life busy, but being first with the news had its little perks.
In the Zulu Empire, at the Lioness's Den:
Sissi N'Kima tried not to groan. Waking up had been something she wished she hadn't done, as she surfaced through a sea of pain. But Matron Igorina had been there, to quietly explain she had quite a lot of broken bones in various inconvenient places including a neck fracture that could have been seriously inconvenient. As well as other damage. She, Igorina, had restored everything but it would still be a few weeks before she was right again, there'd be an Igor here to supervise her recovery, just do as you're told while it's all knitting together again.
Sissi had accepted she was in a neck collar and some sort of head brace, and had tentatively twitched fingers and toes to see if everything still worked. She was aware of the broad-shouldered Witch who was apparently running things here and bullying people into keeping things clean and orderly. And of Irena, who was doing what she could and letting Sophie get on with everyday management, stepping into the hospital matron role as if she'd been born to it. The two witches seemed to have taken the place over, Sophie thought, distantly. Well. Witches. You expected that.
Irena and Igorina had briefed her on current events. Ruth was in the birthing place – don't fret, it's well guarded – and that other bright young woman's covering your jobs till you're better. Just accept you're out of it at the moment. Igorina had administered an injection of some kind, and Sissi gratefully floated off into Happyland.
Sophie was escorted to the birthing place by quite a lot of women warriors. Some of the male soldiers had started out with them, but had only gone so far, halting at a nod and a lot of meaningful glares from the women. The men had stopped some way short and appeared very respectful of a certain protocol.
Sophie was escorted through a ring of lots of the women soldiers who were surrounding a small, unremarkable, and very new hut surrounded by its own wall of wicker and bushwood in the Zulu style. Chakkie N'Golante, the woman who had taken over Sissi's duties as Personal Assistant To the Princess, met her at the gate.
"She's expecting you." Chakkie said. "You'd better come in."
Sophie ducked her head low enough to allow the pointy hat to pass, and went in.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork:
Bekki had heard the first news of events in Howondaland. It sounded dreadful. Mum had shrugged and said "Ag, you fight ten times harder when there's a baby on the way. Lots more to fight for. It isn't just you any more. So there's something Ruth's got in common with me. Somebody trying to kill her when the child's due."
Johanna looked speculatively at Bekki.
"That last fight brought the baby on a week or two early." She remarked. "I would not be surprised if the same happens to Ruth, like it did to me. Ag, Irena's going to keep us informed. We'll know soon."
They discussed the previous night's business with Ruth, their Ruth, for a while. Johanna made a remark about it being odd these things hasppened to two people called Ruth at practically the same time. The one being named after the other.
"Not so odd, mum." Bekki said. "That Daquirmia thing, for instance. Dad could have bitten his own tongue off when he realised."
"Saves me ripping it out." her mother replied. She grinned. "Ag. We can all get it wrong. If I've got it correct, those creatures wanted an artist they could use. A mind they could work with. To get their images made real in this world and give them a permanent doorway into people's heads. So they found Ruth. And the conditions were right. Clever. Your father thinks they're not capable of original thinking and they'll keep doing the same stupid thing over and over again and be beaten every time."
She shook her head.
"Vorbei. One of them's obviously learnt. Your father should note that well."
"We got them all, though." Bekki said. "Between Ruth and Johanna and me."
Her mother looked doubtful.
"Might not matter. Ponder and your grandfather think they've got a hive-mind. You might kill a few individuals, but their experience goes into a collective for the rest. Anyway. That's for next time they select a young witch or wizard to menace. You might want to tell Mistress Aching and Mrs Ogg when you see them next?"
Her mother smiled.
"I've told your cousin to write an account for the Guild." she said. "We take these things seriously too, and any battle involving an Assassin is something the Guild likes to hear about. Anywhere, against whoever. I want to get it to the Dark Council, with witness confirmation from Ponder that it happened as she described it. I really think your cousin could land the Teatime Prize for this. No money, just prestige, and it goes to Raven House."
"And if Ruth goes to the Guild School..." Bekki said, slowly.
Her mother smiled.
"It won't hurt her application. I'm wondering if she does have what it takes. After last night. Shame she's not eligible for the Teatime Prize herself, after the inhumation strategy she devised."
Ruth had gone to school as usual with no apparent ill-effects. There would be a family discussion later; her parents had decided it was most important Ruth went straight to bed and true sleep. Bekki had slept over in her room for reassurance and just to be sure. She knew Dad wanted a long talk with her, which would happen once he was back form work. Young Johanna was over at the Embassy for her interview with the Ambassador. Bekki suspected that unless she really screwed up the interview, she would now be living in Ankh-Morpork again for at least a year. It sounded like the sort of thing Uncle Charles would have a hand in, for one thing. And apparently Emma was coming over too, later.
The Assassins' Guild School.
Wednesday afternoon was Sports Day. It was traditional. After lunch, the day was given over to sporting and phyical pursuits of all sorts. Many teachers who were excused sporting duties or who could wangle something else to do tended to see it as a welcome afternoon off. The pupils had no such get-out clause and went where they were directed. If they had particular prowess or represented a Guild team, they got team practice. Other things which were considered to be acceptable forms of physical exercise were permitted, too.
Famke Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons found herself at the donjon of the Agatean Studies Centre, wearing a white gi, being schooled in Martial Arts by Miss Pretty Butterfly. So long as you obeyed the sensei absolutely and could take the discipline, it was really good fun. And learning new ways to fight was a big incentive too. Famke itched to be allowed access to some of those cool-looking weapons. But she'd been sent here to something that specifically and explicitly was not to do with weapon-like objects, for now. Her sports teachers had realised that hockey and lacrosse, field sports involving giving somebody like Famke a long heavy stick to wield, might not be all that prudent an idea. Representations had been made, especially as the Other Thing had been vetoed, and she had been sent to Koukouchou-sama for her Wednesdays. Which was in the warm and dry and good exercise.
Famke sighed as she flowed through the moves. She'd been really upset that Uncle Danie's bright idea for her had been vetoed by everybody. Mum had been emphatic. As had the Rules Committee of fifteen a side, that had pointed to the rule that said "no mixed-sex teams." Lord Downey himself had said "This is not seemly. Absolutely not." Auntie Heidi had said "Of all the stupid ideas, Danie!"
Famke sighed. Uncle Danie had suggested that if she styled her hair short and stuffed rolled-up socks in the right place, she'd pass for a boy, and he could get her into one of the youth sides the Bokkies ran as a scrum-half, as she had potential. She'd been all for it. Then people had started objecting...
Famke wondered how soon there'd be womens' teams. It wasn't fair. There were womens' teams in eleven-a-side foot-the-ball, after all, so why not fifteen-a-side?
Still, something for the future... right now there were interestingly potentially violent things like karate and aikido, and the one with the wooden swords...
In the Zulu Empire, at the Lioness's Den:
Sophie knelt next to Ruth, who was lying on blankets on the earthen floor of the hut. A wizened old Zulu woman was tending to pots over a fire that were throwing nameless smells into the air. Sophie sniffed. Not bad smells, and she could almost identify some of the ingredients. Just... overpowering...
The old woman had grinned at Sophie as she came in, and was blinknig as her eyes adjusted to reduced light. Then Witch senses had kicked in and she'd realised. She automatically made the witch bow – not to Ruth, but to the old woman, who had appraised Sophie with knowing eyes, and then nodded, in acceptance.
"She's an isangoma." Ruth had explained. "The Witch-Finders don't approve. She's the sort of person they're tasked with actually finding, after all."
Sophie realised. The thing where men with magic want it all for themselves and aren't prepared to share it with women.
"I still want you here, though. For one thing she's over ninety and her attention wanders a bit."
Sophie watched Ruth breathing deeply and regularly and riding the discomfort of the contractions.
"how many birthings have you done?" she asked.
Sophie frowned as she tallied.
"High forties, not nearly fifty." she replied.
"Impressive." She said. "you're not even sixteen yet?"
"Including a tricky caesarean. Although that was more observing while somebody else did it."
Ruth looked up at her.
"It can get a bit sticky if the foal's presenting wrongly. You know, where you have to reach inside the mare and grab a hoof and pull..."
There was a silence. The old woman seemed to snigger.
Ruth looked up at the young witch.
"Shall we start again, Sophie?" she asked, patiently. "How many human birthings have you done?"
"One." Sophie said, reluctantly. Ruth nodded.
"And did the mother and the baby come out okay?"
"Oh yes. Both are thriving."
Ruth smiled.
"Have you lost any foals?"
"No."
Ruth N'Kweze smiled again.
"One hundred percent success, then. I like those odds. Shall we get on with it?"
Several hours later, a son was born.
To be continued...
(1) Igors challenged apartheid in a novel and unforeseen way. As long as a body part worked, they didn't ask about where it came from. Some examples of mixed-race people were walking around Rimwards Howondaland who had not actually begun as mixed-race. BOSS had then stepped in and demanded safeguards, Such Igors as remained in Rimwards Howondaland after the first deportations now worked under strict supervision. The Igors put up with this as, well, everywhere needed Igors. It was just the people in this country had some damn silly ideas. They tended to compromise: any external or cosmetic work was matched according to skin colour. They just weren't so careful about the bits that went inside, as, well, it'th a liver, ithn't it? They're all a thort of brown colour.
(2) The Zulu Royal House had a lot in common with the Ogg family, only with more sharp pointy things.
(3) you're ahead of me here. It would get shortened, inevitably, to Johannasburg, and then laconic Vondalaanders would cut it even further to simply Joburg.
The Notes Dump:
The place where background notes, proof I've done the research and Showing My Working, and odd little things not strictly relevant to this tale, go to sit until they're needed. A waiting room for ideas.
Zulu traditional birthing customs: had to dig for this.
Umtula: plant root smeared on the umbilical cord to encourage separation; the cord cannot be cut with a metal knife; the idea of the child's body being anointed with natural pigments shortly after birth; collection and ritual burial of the placenta and umbilicus in a sacred place. No men allowed in the birthing place – is this a fact or a myth?
NHLAKANIPHO f Zulu
Feminine Zulu given name derived from inhlakanipho meaning "wisdom".