My father, born to be the king of all Zulus
Princess Ntandoyenkosi KaZwelithini recalls the life and times of her father, the late King Zwelithini
Tucked away on a hilltop among tall trees that cascade down the mountain slope lies the homestead of Zulu kings. A long and straight road leads you to the gates of the palace, known to all as KwaKhethomthandayo — “choose the one you love”.
This is the place I call home, KwaKhetha. My grandfather, King Bhekuzulu, first settled here because he liked the thick forest and the elevated plain. The hill is identifiable from afar by the trees that envelope the slopes. It can be seen in the distance from where King Bhekuzulu grew up, the home of his father — my great-grandfather.
My dad, King Zwelithini, was the eldest son of King Bhekuzulu and his second wife, Queen okaThayiza Jezangani Thomozile Ndwandwe.
My father, like any young boy growing up in Zulu society, performed the usual chores such as collecting firewood and tending cattle. He attended King Bhekuzulu High School in Nongoma. This elite school catered mainly for the children of chiefs and high-ranking members of society. It continues to operate to this day. While studying there, in 1968, his father died.
Being the eldest son — he was 20 at the time — speculation was rife that my father would be the heir to the Zulu throne. But this presented its own challenges. My aunt, Princess Nonhlanhla, took it upon herself to protect her brother from potential danger. So she surreptitiously removed him from the school in Nongoma and spirited him to her marital home in KwaNdebele, in the then Transvaal.
With the throne vacant, King Bhekuzulu’s brother, Prince Mcwayizeni from Queen Ntombiyomlungu Sibiya, was appointed regent, a function he performed from 1968 to 1971.
In line with tradition, my father was required to get married before taking his seat on the throne. This would raise his societal rank from boy to man. It didn’t take long for a bride, Sibongile Dlamini, to catch my father’s eye.
Due to the urgency of the marriage, my dad practised the custom of ukuthwala on my mother, who was 20. This required much cunning on his part. He took her from school without the knowledge of her parents to KwaKhethomthandayo Royal Palace.
During this episode, she was unaware of what was happening and where she was being taken. And she could not escape. The Zulu royal family then informed the Dlamini family that Sibongile was safe at the palace.
The wedding was set for December 27 1969 and took place at St Margaret’s Anglican Church in Nongoma.
In September 1970, my parents welcomed their first child, Prince Lethukuthula Makhosathini Zulu, my brother.
With the coming coronation, the royal house was humming with banter. Endless debates and discussions were held among the royal elders at KwaKhethomthandayo.
The coronation was set for December 3 1970. Members of Zulu regiments built a makeshift stadium on the slope of KwaKhethomthandayo mountain, digging terraces by hand to create an amphitheatre for the coronation.
On the day, torrential rain turned the earth to mud. The coronation was a profound life-changing experience for my parents. And, with great pride, my father took the highest seat afforded to any Zulu prince with my mother by his side.
The coronation was attended by thousands of Zulu people. The royal couple resided at KwaKhethomthandayo Royal Palace. They went on to have five more children, all girls: myself and the princesses Nombuso Zulu, Khombisile Zulu, Ntombizosuthu Zulu-Duma and Sinethemba Zulu. And they were blessed later in life with six grandchildren.
I fondly remember growing up at KwaKhethomthandayo, the great house of King Zwelithini. The palace was often abuzz with people arriving to pay respects to their king. It was an idyllic childhood in so many ways.
On Friday March 12, my father, my King, iSilo samaZulu died. Five days later, he made his final journey up the hill on the straight road to KwaKhethomthandayo Royal Palace.
I heard no sirens; I just saw flashing blue and red lights; I heard no speeding cars, just the sound of idling engines.
At the entrance of the palace, warriors swirled around the vehicle, and traditional amahubo songs were being chanted in a mellow, monotonous tone.
The moment was heavy, my ancestors showed their presence with the unusual, intermittent rain. The rain and rumbling thunder were in harmony with the chanting ibutho warriors.
As the doors of the vehicle that carried my dad opened, the rain and claps of thunder continued. On hearing the thunder, the ibutho pall-bearers retreated respectfully.
Then, on the second attempt, the rain and thunder again made itself known. In my culture, rain holds a powerful meaning; it signifies the ancestors’ presence.
As he entered the gates of KwaKhethomthandayo, with the rain teeming down in torrents, the heavens rumbling, and the chanting of ibutho, I was suddenly aware of what the coronation way back in 1971 had been like. Ibutho were there beside his vehicle in the pelting rain just as they had been 49 years earlier.
We watched as our father made his final journey through the palace: passing his own father’s house; passing his first humble hut; passing the hut named after his mother, okaThayiza; and passing the house named after his grandmother, okaMathathela, before finally entering his home for the very last time.
His casket was brought into the house and was laid on a leopard-skin rug. A service and prayer was held by the bishop of the Anglican Church. This was our final prayer as a family before my dad was taken to his resting place, Emakhosini, where his forefathers rest.
The roar of the Great Lion that began in 1971 will be heard for many years to come. Until we meet again, Dad,