9 days since birth
In the early mornings of the royal kraal, life was typically a tapestry of life. Women gathered water along with other essentials for their families, while young boys herded cattle or fetched firewood. The vibrant hum of daily chores reflected the liveliness of Prince Jama's domain. Yet, this day felt different. There was a weight in the air, an unnatural silence that cast a shadow over the kraal.
The usual chatter was subdued, but the whispering of gossip thrived. Among the most notorious gossips was Sne, a woman who worked directly for the princess consort, lending her stories an air of credibility and intrigue. With a clay pot balanced effortlessly on her head, she glided towards a group of women returning from the river.
"Did you hear?" she began, her voice cutting through the still air.
"What happened?" one of the women replied, though all knew Sney would reveal the tale regardless.
Sne lended closer, lowering her voice for effect. "I heard that the prince..." She paused dramatically, watching their eyes widen.
"Which prince?" someone whispered fearfully.
"Prince Senzangakhona," Sne repeated, savoring their suspense. " Four days after his birth, he fell ill. And it's only gotten worse since then."
"How could this happen?" one woman asked, her voice trembling with both curiosity and fear.
Sne shrugged but couldn't resist embellishing. "They say Princess Mkabayi was involved," she said, dropping the name of a high profile figure as she would always do.
Gasps echoed among the women. "Mkabayi? One of the twin curses?"
The mention of Mkabayi, one of the infamous royal twins, sent a shudder through the group.
"Yes, she's that twin," Sne continued, her voice hushed but insistent. "You know what they say about twins. One brings life, the other brings death. Maybe the ancestors are punishing her."
"Yes, it has to be," One of the other ladies confirmed. "I'm telling you, trouble always follows those two. I don't know why the chief doesn't—"
"Good morning, ladies."
The women froze. The voice came from behind them, and every nerve in their bodies tensed. Speaking ill of the royal family was treason, punishable by death—even for women. They turned slowly, relieved to see it wasn't one of the royal guards but a young man with a disarming smile.
"Can you point me to the royal kraal?" he asked casually.
Seeing he was not a royal guard, Sne eagerly waved the man over, her excitement barely concealed. While her companions whispered nervously, casting worried glances toward the man.
Hoping he did not overhear their fears about the royal family's predicament — losing their heads today was not an option.
Despite their caution, Sne, curious as ever, could not resist addressing the stranger. "You don't seem to be from around here," she said, her sharp gaze fixed on him. "Who are you?"
The man hesitated, visibly uneasy. He scratched the back of his head, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah, I was actually called here to... help."
"Help? With what?" Sne pressed, her tone sharper now.
"Ah, well, uh... just a family problem. They wanted me to come because I know a thing or two about herbs," he stammered, his words fumbling over each other.
Sne lips curled into a sly smile as she stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. Her face was so near his now that he could feel her breath. "Herbs, hmm? What are you, a healer? Or perhaps..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "A single, wandering soul in need of a purpose?"
The young man flinched, stepping back nervously. "No, no! I mean, no, I'm not single! I just—uh, I just know herbs! Do you know where Prince Jama's royal kraal is from here?" he blurted out, desperate to change the subject.
Sne gestured in the direction he sought, her smile lingering as he hastily thanked her and hurried away. Behind him, the other women whispered frantically, their unease growing. Sne's boldness had drawn too much attention, risking not just her but possibly their lives as well.
As the stranger disappeared down the road, Sne's gaze lingered. A faint smirk played on her lips, and she murmured to herself, "Looks like I've found a potential target." In her mind, she already pictured how pleased her master would be with this discovery.
While the other ladies sighed in unison.
"We will never speak of this again," one of the women said firmly. The others nodded in agreement, adjusting their pots and continuing on their way.
The man, Bantu, was no stranger to rumors, but the tales swirling about the prince troubled him deeply. He had heard whispers of a large gathering of sangomas (traditional healers) converging on the royal kraal, a sight unheard of unless the situation was dire.
Even he, a sangoma form Zifa - a place so far removed- was summoned. It had to be dire.
As Bantu approached, the unease became palpable. Warriors stood ready for battle, their shields polished and assegai spears gleaming in the sun. The kraal was somber. Children who once played freely now stayed close to their mothers. Men worked in silence, their usual camaraderie absent.
Bantu's heart sank as he took in the scene. It felt as if the entire kraal was mourning, though no death had been announced. The prince's illness was more than a family tragedy—it was a threat to the chiefdom's stability.
Bantu's footsteps slowed as he approached the council's hut, where the sangomas were gathering. He recognized a few faces—renowned healers and diviners whose names carried weight across the land. The air was thick with tension, their conversations low and urgent.
Inside the hut, the prince lay swaddled in fine animal skins, his tiny chest rising and falling unevenly as his father carried him ensuring no got too close to him. The sight tore at Bantu's heart. The illness had drained the child of his vitality, and the whispers of death seemed to loom closer with every passing moment.
Despite his doubts about the necessity of so many sangomas, Bantu knew he had to act. His father had served the tribe faithfully, and Bantu couldn't let that legacy crumble. Whatever the cost, he vowed to find a way to help the prince—and the Zulu people—weather this storm.
And as the day unfolded as usual in the Zulu lands, though the atmosphere was heavy with tension and sorrow. Gossip spread rapidly, not only within the Zulu tribe but also among their neighboring tribes. The Imbele, a group that considered themselves rivals of the Zulus, were particularly eager to exploit the situation.
Although both the Zulus and Imbele belonged to the same overarching Paramountcy, tensions were high due to the Zulu tribe's closeness of their lands as migrating clans would chose to settle in the Zulu tribe thanks to the lineage and history of the Zulu.
While the Imbele did get alot of settlers, that did not mean they did not want more. As more hands meant more grain and more kraals to safeguard cattle that would have to otherwise had to be slaughtered to curb overpopulation in the herd.
So, when word reached the Imbele that the Zulu heir—arguably their only heir—was unlikely to survive to his first birthday, their inner circle celebrated what they saw as a monumental blow to their rivals.
"Let them mourn," the chieftain declared, raising a gourd of beer. "Today, we drink to their misfortune!"
The Imbele chieftain, overjoyed by the news, personally ordered a cow to be slaughtered in celebration. He declared a week-long festival, instructing the women of the clan to brew beer and prepare feasts for the entire community. For the Imbele, this was a rare opportunity to rejoice in the Zulu tribe's misfortune, even if they had not caused it themselves.
While the Zulu people mourned and their lands grew somber, the Imbele rejoiced, careful to hide their celebrations from the Qwabe tribe. They knew that openly celebrating the suffering of their close relatives would provoke the Qwabe's wrath, something even the boldest Imbele leaders wished to avoid.
Other tribes also saw this event as an opportunity. Whether celebrating discreetly like the Imbele or planning strategies to exploit the weakened Zulu tribe, rival clans were watching closely. All they had to do now was wait.
....
Night time
As Advisor Kaya approached his hut near the royal huts, he couldn't help but admire the sight of one of the heavily armored Zulu warriors standing guard at the gates. The warrior stood tall and proud, his posture straight as an arrow, scanning the horizon for any sign of assassins. Kaya greeted him with respect, and the warrior responded with a deep bow before resuming his vigilant stance.
Kaya felt a flicker of pride for his tribe. The Zulu warriors' professionalism and discipline were unmatched, at least in his opinion. Yet, pride was the last thing on his mind that day.
Just yesterday, something unthinkable had happened—he had been publicly expelled from Prince Jama's council hut. No advisor had ever been banished from the heart of decision-making in the tribe's history. The shame weighed heavily on him, and the political fallout would be catastrophic. Kaya had always been known as a steady and respected figure, but now, his reputation was in tatters.
As he neared his hut, his thoughts turned to his family. He longed to see his children, to share a moment of comfort with one of his wives, and to forget the disastrous events of the day. But as he approached the hut, something unusual caught his eye—red marks on the ground, smeared as if someone had dragged something heavy.
Curiosity turned to dread as he followed the trail, his steps hesitant. The closer he got, the more his heart pounded. By the time he reached his hut, the smell of blood hit him like a wall.
"Kuhle…" he called, his voice shaking. He pushed the door open, and the scene inside made his blood run cold.
His family lay lifeless on the floor, their bodies twisted and scattered amidst the wreckage of his possessions. The walls were stained with blood, and sitting atop the bodies was a man Kaya recognized all too well.
Bhekisisa. Prince Jama kaNdaba's enforcer.
The man's presence alone made Kaya's legs weak, but the blood-soaked grin on his face filled him with a primal fear he had never known. Bhekisisa sat there casually, as if he were visiting an old friend, his hands resting on his knees.
"I came to pay you a visit, old friend," Bhekisisa said, his tone calm, almost conversational. "You weren't here, but your family kept me company."
Kaya's throat tightened. He couldn't speak, couldn't move. Fear rooted him to the spot as Bhekisisa chuckled darkly.
"From what I remembered yesterday," Bhekisisa continued, his voice dripping with malice. "You disrespected my prince. That took bravery—real bravery." He leaned forward, his grin widening into something sick and depraved. "And bravery should be rewarded, don't you think?"
Kaya's eyes darted to his family's bodies as Bhekisisa gestured toward them. "Since you weren't here, I decided to reward your family instead. I hope they appreciated it."
The enforcer's words felt like daggers in Kaya's chest. He wanted to scream, to fight, but his body refused to respond. His fear was paralyzing, like a cold weight pressing down on his soul.
"You know," Bhekisisa mused, his tone almost playful, "they didn't make a sound. Not a single noise. Impressive, don't you think?"
Before Kaya could process the words, something hard struck the back of his head. Pain exploded in his skull, and his vision blurred. As he crumpled to the ground, the last thing he heard was Bhekisisa's chilling voice.
"The prince sends his regards."
...
A/N: That went zero to a hundred 😅
Will Bantu be able to help Senzangakhona or will his self-doubts get in his way?
What is Sne's intentions with Bantu?
And will Prince Jama be able to handle the fall out of what Bhekisisa did?
Find out next time on Last Spear of the Zulu Empire: Bring the 21st century to Africa 🐆