The Beetle in the Belly

The Beetle in the Belly

         South Africa, in the province of Kwa-Zulu Natal, on a ridge of the place we call the Valley of a Thousand Hills, two boys fought with the long thin sticks they used for herding cattle. The sun was setting, washing the whole hillside in crimson shades of blood, and the boys' dark skin glistened with sweat. The fight was vicious, far more so than the usual play-fighting that all the herd-boys engaged in, and it was getting more bloody by the second. With a loud crack, the much older boy brought his stick down onto the side of the younger boy's face. The little one stumbled, gritting his teeth but refusing to cry out. Thick blood slid down his cheeks, taking the place of the tears that he would not let flow. His body was covered in bruises and bleeding welts that he felt them with every gasping breath he took.

         Another crack resounded, the sound spilling down into the green valleys in rippling echoes. The younger boy's knees buckled and he collapsed into the long grass, pressing his forehead into the dirt as he fought to stay conscious. A final kick to the stomach caused him to vomit up spittle and blood, but the older boy's mocking laughter stung even more than the wounds.

         " Fatherless One, go back to your whore mother and tell her to marry. You need a man to make you strong," said the bully. He spat, grinding the moisture into the ground with his sandaled foot before he turned to herd his family's cattle homeward towards the kraal.

         The younger boy slowly rolled over onto his back, waiting for the other boy to leave before he got up. He gazed up at the sky, blinking at the drifting clouds while he caught his breath. Leaning on his stick, he limped his way down to the side of the river that ran between the hills. He was careful to stay upstream from the kraal so he would not have to face the women who always populated the river's edge, washing clothes and gossiping incessantly. With wobbling legs, he picked his way through the rocky bed, coming to a halt at a small still pool caught between the stones. His lower lip trembled in pain, in fury, in sadness; but before the tears could rise, he dipped both hands into the cool water and splashed it across his face. As the ripples subsided, he saw his reflection forming in the water. It was a strong face, with high cheekbones and full lips that never once cried out in pain. The muscles of his shoulders were lean and tough, promising a strength that he would grow into when he became a man. With one hand the boy thumped his chest and lifted his chin in a haughty gesture.

         "I am Shaka! I am the beetle in the belly of my mother, Nandi. I am the beetle put there by Senzangakona, chief of the Zulus. It is not my shame that he would not take her as his wife. It is not my shame that he cast us out to live with the Mtetwa tribe. Hear me, great ancestors, I will not carry the shame of my father. See, I do not cry out when they beat me. I do not weep tears like a girl when they spit on my name. I will become the greatest warrior that these lands have ever seen. No more will they call me the Fatherless One. They will call me Shaka, the beetle in the belly of Nandi, and I will make them bow at my feet. I will make them respect me and the royal blood I carry in my veins. These hills will ring with the sound of my warriors screaming my name. I will never be forgotten." He spoke the oath into the air, letting the wind carry it up towards the sky, to the home of the ancestors of his people.

         With his words drifting ever upwards, Shaka looked again into the pool. He watched as the blood dripped from his chin. It struck the water and swirled, forming the patterns of greatness.

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         In the pool, the chief washed his face, wiping away the blood of his enemies. Beside him lay a spear, the one he had made to better suit the close-quarter fighting style of his people. He had named it iklwa for the sound it made when driven in and wrenched out of the guts of a man.

         "Bayete, Nkosi! Bayete Nkosi!" The royal salute resounded off the hillsides, roared from the throats of fifty thousand warriors; his warriors. All of them carried his spear, short-handled and with a broad blade for stabbing. None of them wore sandals. Their chief had made them discard their footwear and run over fields of thorns to toughen their feet. If any man cried out, he was swiftly put to death. Some said he was cruel, others said he was mad. However, none argued that their chief was weak. Had he not forged the Zulu people into something far greater than they ever were before?

         The warriors stood in formation, four separate groups in the shape of the horns of a proud, royal bull. The young men made up its horns, geared for speed and used to trap an enemy before he could escape. At the rear of the horns, in a solid block, stood the elite fighters who made up the chest of the bull. Once the horns had trapped their foes, the chest would surge forward to crush them. Standing behind the chest of fighters were the loins of the bull. These were the reserves of veterans, used for mopping up any of the enemy who managed to escape the crush. Finally, stretched out in a line at the very back of the formation, were the udibi, the greenest of the warriors, boys as young as six. They ran errands and carried the equipment. Sometimes they were used in raiding cattle from the other tribes, other times as messengers. Even their young, unbroken voices lifted up into the cliffs in salutation for their chief.

         Washing his rival's blood from the spear, Shaka gazed down at the pool, watching it swirl and remembering. The ancestors had heard him that day. They had taken his oath and all the blood he had given to the water over the years. Slowly he rose, lifting his chin, and turned to gaze down at the hoard below him. He waited, letting a hush settle over his warriors. The sun was setting and washed the hills in crimson shades of blood, making his dark skin shine. Finally he lifted his spear high above his head, and in a wave from the tip of the horns to the small boys at the very back, everyone dropped to their knees and bowed.

         From cowherd to king, Shaka, the beetle in the belly of Nandi, had made his mark. He conquered not only the Zulu people but most of the tribes of Southern Africa, and built himself the greatest empire Africa has ever seen.

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