Chapter 10: The wedding

 

The morning sun painted the mountains gold as the Swati royal procession crossed into Zululand. Princess Zakhona sat stiffly in her ornately carved carriage, her bridal attire heavy with beads of ivory and gold. Beside her, her handmaidens sang traditional wedding songs, their voices bright with forced cheer. At the border, Zulu warriors greeted them with thunderous chants, their spears raised in salute. King Zwelibanzi waited at the Great Kraal, clad in the lion-skin mantle of his ancestors. His face was unreadable. Zakhona’s fingers trembled. Somewhere in the crowd, she knew Sipho watched.The celebration roared through the night—drums shaking the earth, dancers spinning in hypnotic circles, and endless platters of cooked meat and bubbling umqombothi beer. Fires burned high, their flames licking at the dark sky, casting flickering shadows across the jubilant faces of warriors and elders alike. Women in beaded skirts and ochre-painted skin moved rhythmically, their voices rising in ululation, weaving melodies into the night air. Young men performed the indlamu war dance, their feet stomping in perfect unison, their shields clashing as they leaped high into the air. Laughter echoed through the kraal as elders recounted stories of past kings, their deep voices commanding respect even amid the revelry. Children, giddy with excitement, ran between the legs of warriors, their faces smeared with the remnants of honeyed cakes. Servants moved gracefully, refilling wooden bowls with fresh cuts of roasted game, the aroma rich and intoxicating. The royal feast was a display of abundance—succulent cow meat dripping with spices, bowls of umfino, and thick slices of sweet potato, their caramelized edges glistening in the firelight. Jug after jug of fermented beer passed between eager hands, the warm liquid fueling laughter and song. Zakhona sat among the women, watching as gifts were presented—woven blankets, carved spears, and baskets brimming with rare herbs. She smiled politely, though her mind was elsewhere. Nkosana moved through the crowd like a shadow, his smile never reaching his eyes. When he reached Zakhona, he bowed deeply, pressing a small carved clay pot into her hands."A gift, new sister," he murmured. "A drink to bless your union. It is tradition.”The liquid inside smelled sweet, like marula fruit. Zakhona hesitated—but the eyes of the elders were upon her. She lifted it to her lips. The crowd murmured approval at this show of respect. As custom demanded. Nkosana smiled with a snake smile. That night, in the royal bedchamber, Zwelibanzi turned to his new wife—not with desire, but with urgency. "Do not eat or drink anything my brother gives you," he warned. Zakhona’s eyes widened. "How did you—?” "I dreamed it," he said grimly. "The ancestors showed me poison in your clay pot. They told me to seek crocodile oil—the only antidote.”From his belt, he produced a small vial of thick, pungent oil. "Drink this. It will protect you.” She recoiled at the smell but obeyed. The taste was foul, like rotting riverweed, but almost instantly, the lingering dizziness from the wedding feast cleared. Zwelibanzi studied her face. "We may not have chosen this marriage, but I will not let you die for it.” For the first time, Zakhona saw something like kinship in his eyes. Outside, hidden by darkness, Nkosana paced like a caged leopard. His plan had failed—again. "The crocodile oil..." he seethed. "How did he know?” Somewhere in the night, an owl cried—a bad omen.