A tale is told among those of the old days. It is told with such grief that whoever comes upon the words from the lips of the narrator would never be the same.
This is the story of the princess who never was.
Her people called her Swazuri. Her name derived from ‘Swala’ and ‘Zuri’ to mean something good, but her mother intended it to mean something noble. She never lived to see her daughter take her first steps.
Swazuri was born among men.
She was the kind to stare down those whose eyes had seen beyond the lake. This vast body of water on the western side of a country so profound that no one dared ask how it came to be.
It is said that a stranger visited their home on the night she was born. He was from the Coast, his accent impeccable, his manners too polite, but with him came the downpour. It is believed that the people by the lakeside had never seen such heavy downpour.
So, when the stranger asked for the child, they could only hand her over. He looked at the child and just like he came, he disappeared into the night with Swazuri in his arms.
Swazuri was indeed born among men, but what astounds those who lived to tell the tale, is what happened years later, when she returned to her mother’s ancestral home.
nilichoandika 
8 responses to “Swazuri”
[…] Swazuri was thunder, Juhudi was the lightning that struck without a […]
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[…] Swazuri. […]
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[…] veil she had worn all this time turned into ashes right outside her hut. If they were to protect the girl, she had to summon her strength, she had to wear the crown of her […]
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[…] Swazuri stepped into the hut. The walls were lined with paintings of the sea, one showed fishermen on a boat casting out a net, the other showed a group of women with their arms raised as the waves rose. She stretched out her hand, hoping to touch the painting of the woman at the center of it all, “don’t touch things that do not belong to you, little one. What brings you here?” […]
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[…] walked to the back of the hut but the old woman was not there. He walked back into the hut, picked Swazuri and cradled her in his arms as he waited for destiny to do as it pleased. How could he have not […]
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[…] The short story series: Swazuri continues tomorrow […]
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[…] drowned in her sorrow when Swazuri never returned and every year after that one man would grace the mainland to play the flute. The […]
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[…] When it comes to writing, I could say that this month’s been gracious and I have written one short story series, This Love and managed to wrap up September’s short story series Swazuri. […]
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