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The Birth of Shaka 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!’ — Oswald Mtshali
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