Part I: Heralding the Birth
Leaden gray the sky over Natal,
as gray as Nandi's skin, an ashen death-mask of parturition.
Pregnant clouds roll back fiercely
as do Nandi's ebon eyes. Slam together,
as do Nandi's strong, bared teeth.
Nandi, the temptress, thief of a prince's life-force. Nandi, the unclaimed
who would be Queen Mother of Zululand.
In pain shall she give birth…
let the punishment fit the crime.
Hard rains begin to fall, bending immature limbs,
and the sweat from Nandi's strained brow rolls off her cheek,
into the blind eye of the newborn son she cradles at last.
He screams in fury, a cry that carries over the plains, horrific in its intensity.
A lioness, drawn to the kraal by Nandi's whelping wails,
leaps from her perch in a nearby tree,
finds her maned mate
and rips his throat open, murderously frenzied, maddened
by the infant's echoing howl. In shame, she flees into the night.
"Bayete, King of Kings. Who is there to name you, but me?
Laugh, will they? We shall teach them, you and I.
Men will bow before us. You, a king, and I,
your proud mother. We will make them pay, my Ishaka.
Behold," Nadia called to the heavens that bled forth
as desperately as she. "My son, Shaka — King of all Zulu!"
The stones under her feet shake as the very continent shifts in deference
to a king.
Satyr – spoken by a Nameless One (inswelaboya)
"And I knew then, the hateful words she spat were truth."
U-Shaka, little Beetle
called forth from the headiness
of a lusty afternoon, a prince's muscular swagger and the over-bold smile
of an ambitious, young seductress. A blink of pleasure,
a promise of release from the unrelenting heat.
U-Shaka, little Beetle
called in disregard,
mordantly and unsuspectingly named by his royal grandfather.
What have they wrought?
What will become of Africa, my Africa?
Part II: Constructing a Tyrant
Exiled, punishment for his negligence,
Shaka travels twenty miles barefoot, naked
under the shimmering African sun. He carries his sister Nomcoba, still a babe,
when his mother cannot.
Fatherless, he will herd the goats of E-Langeni-Land,
and remember forever the defeat in Nandi's eyes.
Goat-herder. This is my fate, but not my destiny! He is but six.
The stain of illegitimacy is visible and Shaka is at once an outcast,
bullied, tormented, beaten. Add six more and Little Beetle
becomes Little Worm for all to see and point and laugh.
'Ake ni-bone umtondo wake; unfa nom sundu nje'
(Look at his penis; it is like a little earthworm!)
But Shaka will not lower his eyes, will not bow his head.
He will fight. And eventually, his manhood grows;
it grows right beside hatred and the mad desire for revenge.
Now comes the time to wear the umutsha,
but this is a thing that is too much to ask of an almost-man
who bears the weight of humiliation still. Naked
as the day he arrived and watched his mother beg the Chief for shelter and acceptance,
Shaka stands tall, Shaka stands proud, and Shaka defies
E-Langeni custom.
Add more years, more rains, more unforgiving heat,
and Shaka is nineteen. A skilled marksman,
an unrivaled, relentless fighter reaching manhood in physical magnificence.
He stands a full head taller than the rest; brown muscles stay taut, ever at the ready.
And soon,
his time comes.
The leopard stalks the goats. Shaka stalks the leopard,
two throwing spears and a heavy club. No more than this. He'll not cry out to summon help.
He removes his sandals, never to put them on again.
The Spirits note this moment.
The first spear finds the leopard's ribs. THWACK! Angered, it charges.
Shaka calmly holds the last spear in his left hand,
the club in his right. The leopard runs a straight course (rage in its green eyes)
into the second spear.
Its blood flows hotly over the hunter's now trembling hand.
Still calm, Shaka brings the club crashing down on the beast's skull.
So it is done — so it is written.
None save royalty can wear the hide of a leopard.
This will be Shaka's gift to the King. On this day, a new warrior's name is sung: Shaka Zulu!
And retribution will come at last.
Satyr – spoken by a Nameless One (inswelaboya)
"And I knew then, his hatred meant death for the mighty."
U-Shaka, little Beetle
called forth from the headiness
of a lusty afternoon, a prince's muscular swagger and the over-bold smile
of an ambitious, young seductress. A blink of pleasure,
a promise of release from the unrelenting heat.
U-Shaka, little Beetle
called in disregard,
mordantly and unsuspectingly named by his royal grandfather.
What have they wrought?
What will become of Africa, my Africa?
Part III: The Blade that Changed a Country
The blacksmith, the smelter lives away from humankind.
The blacksmith, the smelter is shunned.
To forge the finest of weapons, one must use human fat.
It is a fact;
the Spirits require this.
And when a child (sometimes an adult, but more often a child) disappears,
the smiths are said to be at work.
Shaka knows first-hand the throwing spear is folly. One must fight inside.
An in-fighter is feared, for only an in-fighter will kill,
ignoring the pleas of his defeated rival.
To kill is to win. To win
and win again, is to rule. And Shaka must rule.
A stabbing blade! One made for his hand alone — yes, that will add stature!
And so Shaka seeks the smith. Only Ngonyama, the Lion will do.
They talk, these two, long into the night when only the big cats are left to walk,
and the Hairless Ones roam the plains.
Ngonyama is impressed with this proud, young giant who speaks of war as an art.
He will forge the assegi for Shaka,
thereby linking their names for the storytellers to come.
Demanding, this Zulu, settles for no less than virgin iron.
A tempered blade with all the magic in the kingdom incorporated.
Ngonyama agrees…for the price of a single heifer.
A new furnace, a new bellows. Five goats (skinned alive) create the bellows.
The bleeding goats are then penned…until one remains standing. Only this last survivor's skin
will do. In three days, the furnace will be ready.
The furnace is made with special clay, clay molded with herbs and magic
and oyster shells brought up from the shore. Powerful medicine.
Two days more to smelt
and beat the iron. Hammering, hammering.
As the work nears completion, the air ceases to move, the animals hushed.
Someone comes.
It is as Shaka fears: Inswelaboya, a Nameless One.
They who bring the fat. They who carry the secrets.
U-Shaka bows before the 'seer without hair'. And with grunts of mutual respect,
Shaka is dismissed.
Ngonyama, the Lion and the Nameless One haggle
over purchases and prices, finally sealing the bargain, cursed or blessed, both uncertain.
As he leaves, the Nameless One faces Shaka,
and studies him from head to foot.
"You are a man. Already I see chief of chiefs." He takes no pleasure from this vision.
The forging continues.
Again and again, Shaka demands the blade be reshaped, reweighed, rebalanced.
And then it is done,
save for the addition of the 'strongest medicine'.
Placed upon the granite anvil are the heated heart, liver and fats
of a man.
The red-hot blade is rubbed upon the sizzling remains
over and again. And when the sizzling stops,
Ngonyama is assured of the Spirits approval.
The blade is born.
The handle is of lesser importance; Shaka will work his way through many handles,
but the blade,
the blade will last a lifetime and ensure his rise to fame.
And Shaka names the blade Ixwa,
but not until
he has made his first kill in battle.
It is said that after each successful campaign, he would clean and polish and sing
sweetly
to the blade.
Satyr – spoken by a Nameless One (inswelaboya)
"And I knew then, he would not rest until all of his enemies were dead."
U-Shaka, little Beetle
called forth from the headiness
of a lusty afternoon, a prince's muscular swagger and the over-bold smile
of an ambitious, young seductress. A blink of pleasure,
a promise of release from the unrelenting heat.
U-Shaka, little Beetle
called in disregard,
mordantly and unsuspectingly named by his royal grandfather.
What have they wrought?
What will become of Africa, my Africa?
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