THE BIRTH OF SHAKA by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

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His baby cry

was of a cub

tearing the neck 

of the lioness 

because he was fatherless.

The gods

boiled his blood 

in a clay pot of passion

to course in his veins.

His heart was shaped into an ox shield

to foil every foe.

Ancestors forged 

his muscles into

thongs as tough 

as wattle bark

and nerves

as sharp as

syringa thorns.

His eyes were lanterns 

that shone from the dark valleys of Zululand

to see white swallows 

coming across the sea.

His cry to two assassin brothers:

'Lo! you can kill me 

but you'll never rule this land!'