Swaziland – Incwala, the Kingship
Ceremony Written and photographed by Edward Morgan
What is, quite literally, a horde of bare-chested warriors armed
with staff and shield, shift rhythmically back and forth within
the Royal Kraal. Mswati III, King of the Swazis, is amongst them
somewhere, along with his 14 wives, 23 children and a poodle for
all I'm able to see.
Nestled in the Ezulwini valley, the valley of heaven, Swaziland,
the Incwala ceremony is in its fourth day of six. Attendance is
better than your standard Sunday morning service. The kraal (cattle
byre) is packed. In fact, it's such a tight squeeze that I inevitably
end up stepping, barefoot, in several of the royal cow pats I
tried so hard to dodge earlier.
A monotonous but nonetheless emotive chant of hundreds resonates
around the compound. They are the voices of a nation - warriors,
politicians, teachers, chiefs and gardeners; all chanting and
swaying together within the fenced arena. No entrance requirement
exists as such, only that you leave your weapons and shoes outside.
The King's role as absolute monarch is the subject of much debate
within the country, mostly privately - open criticism of the royal
family is 'discouraged'. But despite its failings, the Swazi identity
and pride that ceremonies like the Incwala demonstrate is one
very important reason that Swaziland has avoided the internal
strife of most other African countries.
"When there is no king, there is no Incwala," and being
a 'Kingship' ceremony, this stands to reason. To mount ones own
private Incwala is regarded as high treason, regardless of whether
you've notified the neighbours in advance or not. This all seems
pretty self-explanatory, but nowhere in the literature does it
really specify what constitutes an Incwala. I suppose the King
plays a fairly important role, so you've either got the real deal
or some chap who fancies himself on the throne, and then you're
just asking for it really.
The ceremony itself is a relatively extensive, and labour intensive
one. Preparations start a month before the ceremony, when the
bemanti, the water people, set off from the Queen Mother’s
place to collect river water from the north and seawater from
the Mozambican coast. Tradition prevents anyone from nipping over
to the garden tap to save themselves what is rather a substantial
two-week trek. Precisely what purpose this serves remains a mystery
to me. It's believed that the Swazi's originally came from the
coastal area of southern Mozambique, so perhaps it’s a reference
to their saline roots. The freshwater from the north could simply
be a reference to those years when the sea seemed just a little
too far.
Everyone plays their part.. After the bemanti, the young men
are dispatched to cut the lusekwane poles that will eventually
make up the fence of the Royal kraal I find myself in. They march
a relatively mere 50 kilometres to where they harvest the wood
under the light of the full moon, and then return the material
to the elders who set about weaving it into place. The lusekwane
boys play a prominent role in the third day of the festival as
well, when they are charged with overpowering a black bull and
returning it to the sacrificial sanctuary to be slaughtered. Granted,
the bull is outnumbered, but the boys are unarmed and I'm certainly
not signing up for it.
Neither salt water nor fresh is really the tipple of choice.
Despite being a sacred ceremony there's plenty of 'the stronger
stuff' to be found, and you don't need to look too hard. Standard
beer is sold on site but if you're lucky enough you could find
yourself plied with the dangerously tasty, yet infinitely more
potent umcombotsi, traditionally brewed beer. The sweet taste
of fermented maize and sugar lulls you into a false sense of bliss
until the alcohol hits you like a bored lusekwane boy. I can only
pity the poor bull even more.
A chance encounter earlier in the day has led to me finding myself
in the company of a prince. A nameless prince for the sake of
publication but the King's brother nonetheless. He encourages
me to take some photos of him and his entourage as they prepare
to join the rest of the Royal Family in the main kraal. Things
get a little awkward when his three daughters are presented for
their photographs in traditional attire. That is to say, topless.
Models, when referring to nude or semi-nude photo shoots often
talk about how the photographer 'made them feel comfortable and
confident' about taking their clothes off. I'm not really sure
how I can go about doing that, given that I'm surrounded by royalty,
and quite probably an inappropriate remark away from public hanging.
As it happens, the women are far more at ease than I am, and more
concerned with how long the whole thing is going to last.
As I dry my sweating palms, the horn sounds for the warriors
to begin entering the kraal and start swinging and shifting. The
'horn' turns out to be an old euphonium, well used and rough round
the edges.
As the young warrior blasts out the call across the encampment,
one can't help wondering why more people don't celebrate this
kind of thing anymore.
Edward Morgan
currently lives in Vigo, Spain but grew up and lived in Southern
Africa for most of his life. He travelled through Southern
and Central Africa, South America, Europe and India before
even starting to take notes. What a waste! He is now in the
process of making amends by trying to kick start a career
in writing and photography, slowly.
