Warrior Queen: a novel

By Praise Matemavi

1829,  in Southern Africa, Maidei, a sheltered princess, experiences a devastating loss when her uncle leads a brutal attack on her family and takes over the throne of Mwetapa. She is taken captive to be sold into the Atlantic Slave Trade. Maidei and a fellow captive, Pula, escape with the help of an unlikely ally. The three journey to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marira Press
• Release date: Feb 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989837830

Book preview

Warrior Queen

Warrior Queen

Warrior Queen

a novel

Praise Matemavi

Marira Press

Contents

1 Warrior Queen

2 Copyright Page

3 DEDICATION

4 Join the family

5 One

6 Two

7 Three

8 Four

9 Five

10 Six

11 Seven

12 Eight

13 Nine

14 Ten

15 Eleven

16 Twelve

17 Thirteen

18 Fourteen

19 Fifteen

20 Sixteen

21 Seventeen

22 Eighteen

23 Nineteen

24 Twenty

25 Twenty-One

26 Twenty-Two

27 Twenty-Three

28 Twenty-Four

29 Twenty-Five

30 Twenty-Six

31 Twenty-Seven

32 Twenty-Eight

33 Twenty-Nine

34 Thirty

35 Thirty-One

36 Thirty-Two

37 Thirty-Three

38 Thirty-Four

39 Thirty-Five

40 Thirty-Six

41 Thirty-Seven

42 Thirty-Eight

43 Thirty-Nine

44 Forty

45 Epilogue

46 Acknowledgments

47 Glossary

48 Author’s Note

49 About The Author

50 Book Club Discussion Questions

51 Coming Up Next

1

Warrior Queen

Book One in the Daughters of the Soil Series

Praise Matemavi

2

Copyright Page

Warrior Queen by Praise Matemavi

Copyright © 2024 by Praise Matemavi

First Printing, 2024

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphics, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 979-8-9898378-0-9 (Paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-9898378-1-6 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 979-8-9898378-2-3 (Kindle)

ISBN: 979-8-9898378-3-0 (Nook)

ISBN: 979-8-9898378-4-7 (Ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024900680

Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places is fictitious.

Book cover by: Zaida Montes

Book design by: Praise Matemavi

Email: [e-mail]

Instagram: @dr.praisematemavi

Marira Press

Printed and bound in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

3

DEDICATION

For my daughters Shantelle, Tiwirai, and Angilice. My warrior queens

For all my girl cousins - all the granddaughters and great-granddaughters of Ambuya and Sekuru Gore and Ambuya and Sekuru Matemavi.

4

Join the family

Instagram @dr.praisematemavi

Tiktok @drmatemavi

Email [e-mail]

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5

One

The truth is, I killed my mother. It was a realization that has haunted me since that fateful day. She was known as the beautiful Mambokadzi, daughter of the Buhera king, and was an exceptionally brilliant linguist. I grew up listening to stories of my father paying one hundred cows for her hand in marriage. She brought sunshine and joy everywhere she went, and all the people of Mwetapa loved her.

I stood at attention, my spear held proudly in front of me. I watched the warrior before me, waiting patiently for my turn. The leopard skin armor clung tightly to my body, and the skirt hung just above my knees. Laced just below my knees, my Roman sandals provided protection and support.

Remember, Princess, strength alone is not enough. You must be agile, resourceful, and above all, disciplined. Captain Mhondoro, a seasoned warrior with a reputation for toughness, appraised me with a critical eye.

I bit down on my lip as I tightened my grip on my spear, the wooden shaft feeling cold and heavy in my hands. An invisible force seemed to drive me forward, urging me to fight. I dropped the spear when I heard the signal, calling each of us to pick up our swords for the opening task. The sound of wood clashing against wood filled the air as I moved through a series of strikes and blocks, each motion perfectly executed with precision.

Sweat trickled down my face as I kept my eyes on the other combatants. All around me was an unspoken intensity shared between everyone in that space determined to make it through this rigorous test of strength and skill. Aside from swordplay, there was also archery and a seemingly endless obstacle course that we had to complete.

I steadied my bow, adjusted my stance, and precisely released the arrow. It flew across the field, slicing through the air like a crack of thunder before meeting its target dead center—the bullseye. I turned to horseback riding next and felt in harmony with nature.

My horse, Kiko, seemed to sense my quiet confidence as I guided him around the obstacle course. Father had said that British traders carried horses to the Zulu king, who was so devastated by his mother’s death that he slaughtered over seven thousand people for her funeral procession. We were not surprised when his half-brother would later assassinate him and claim the throne.

Your form is impressive, Princess, Captain Mhondoro said as I completed the last obstacle. But remember, there are no guarantees in battle. A single misstep could be your end.

Then I will always do my best to make no missteps, Captain, I said, dismounting. My voice was firm and unwavering. I was a princess and had to prove myself. I did not expect anything to be handed to me just because I was a princess. As the day progressed, I pushed myself to the limit, determined to prove I was a warrior as good as any man.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I leaped over the final obstacle, a wall made of granite stones. The base of the fence was glowing from the hot coals that lined it. My breath came in ragged gasps as I stood tall, ignoring the pain that seared through the soles of my feet. I stood in the center of the arena with twenty-nine other warriors who passed the challenge. Despite my exhaustion, I was proud of myself. I had completed every task swiftly and efficiently while under the watchful eye of my father, the King.

Drums filled the air, vibrating in my chest with my beating heart. I watched the dancers begin their celebratory dance, spinning and sitting in time to the rhythm. I lined up with the warriors in six lines of five, standing at attention before Captain Mhondoro and Vice Captain Chimombe. The Dangorama Elites flanked them, two women whose bodies were more chiseled than the men in the army.

Ambuya Zhou, the medicine woman, our n’anga, went from one newly minted warrior to another, slicing two perfectly lined cuts on the shoulder and rubbing blue salt while chanting a prayer to the ancestors for protection. I winced as the salt burned my shoulder, tears involuntarily flooding my eyes. Once all the warriors bore the same marking upon our flesh, we stepped back into formation, glistening in the sun like statues of bronze brought to life.

The captain stood tall, bald head in the front, and his waist-length dreadlocks in the back braided into a rope and twisted at the end. His face bore scars from many battles, and he wore a tunic of lion skin and headgear made of kudu skin and feathers from an African blue quail.

His voice carried over the high veld. Warriors, today is the day you become warriors of the Mwetapa Kingdom. Today, you pledge to serve and protect our kingdom and fight for our land, people, and honor. When we face a formidable enemy, we will not be afraid. We are warriors of the strongest, bravest, and most skilled army in all the land. We will fight with every fiber of our being, with every ounce of strength, until the last breath leaves our bodies. And we will emerge victorious, with our heads held high and our enemies crushed beneath our feet.

The roar that escaped my lips was fierce, echoing with the hundreds of other warriors as we thrust our spears up to meet the sky. I had forgotten that the veteran warriors had come to support us for this ceremony. I felt a surge of pride run through me when I saw my father standing amongst us, his proud eyes scanning the ranks before settling on mine. I had become part of a formidable force feared across Southern Africa - the Dangorama Elites - a group of highly skilled female warriors charged with protecting the king, our people, and our kingdom.

As the sun set on Mwetapa, we formed a procession of warriors and began our march towards the palace. The air smelled of an enticing blend of exotic spices from the roasting meats and grains, and the distant sound of drums and mbira reached my ears. Peering through the thick foliage at the entrance of the palace grounds, I could see the colorful lanterns that lit up the night like fireflies.

My stomach growled as we approached the banquet hall. I remembered then that we had not eaten all day. In the banquet hall, people were already seated at long wooden tables, talking and laughing over millet beer. Servants carried trays of sadza, beef stew, chicken stew, and vegetables around the room.

My father sat beside me proudly, and I knew how important this day was to him. No sooner had I settled into my seat than my father leaned over, his arm around my shoulders. My dear daughter, you have proven yourself not only a warrior princess of Mwetapa but the future of the monarchy, he declared, his voice filled with emotion. May your strength and courage always protect our people. Times are changing, and I am getting older. Remember, you are a woman king and will lead our people to be the most prosperous we have ever been.

Thank you, Father, I murmured, looking up at him, tears shimmering in my eyes before briefly resting my head on his shoulder. There was no mistaking that I was my father’s favorite child. As the oldest, my siblings accepted it. My mother was the first wife and lover of his heart. When she died, since I was my mother’s only living child, he bestowed all his love and affection on me. After he married his four wives, the other children could never compete. I was heir to the throne, and I was his precious daughter. My mother was mambokadzi of the Mwetapa kingdom, and the next person to have that title would be me when my father died.

A month after my mother’s death, my father had married Kuwana, daughter of the King of Guda. She strode into our village with a regal air that spoke to her upbringing; she was tall and dark-skinned with polished charcoal eyes framed by long lashes and thick eyebrows. At twenty-two, she was considered late in getting married. Still, her royal father would not accept any offer from someone not of noble lineage. King Shunya, my father, had a reputation for being both a brutal tyrant and a loving husband who treated his women with respect. Kuwana carried herself proudly. She was educated and fluent in English, Shona, and Gudanese.

Mama Kuwana, known fondly by her many children as ‘MamaKu,’ had borne five sons and a daughter. Since my mother had joined the ancestors, she was the vahosi or first wife. She made it her purpose to care for her large family with love and ferocity. Working hard to ensure that all the wives felt like they belonged and dealing with disagreements privately. Above all else, she instilled in the children the virtue of honoring family.

That night, overcome with exhaustion, I nestled into the warm embrace of my bed, handcrafted from a gum tree. The frame was steady, with four poster legs connected to a supportive slate bed base. A hay mattress had been stuffed with feathers, making it soft and comfortable. As I settled in for sleep, I thought about the ceremony that was to come on my nineteenth birthday—the most revered year in my culture—and how I’d waited so long for this moment. I silently prayed to my ancestors, Vadzimu before finally sleeping.

6

Two

The sun slowly crept over the horizon, spreading its brilliant orange light across Mwetapa’s mountain ranges. Dew clung to blades of grass and glistened on the treetops, enhancing the vibrant green of Nyanga. The earthy smell of freshly fallen rain surrounded me as I exited my hut. In the distance, a herd of impalas bounced gracefully through the grass, their movement punctuated by tufts of dirt that flew into the air as they galloped. Closer to the mouth of the river, Wildebeest mingled among Zebras, patches of brown weaving between charcoal stripes. And in the trees above, a bird sang, and leaves rustled as it left its nest to find some sustenance for the day.

Good morning, Princess, Tembo called out from inside the hut he shared with his wife Marudana. They were assigned to me at birth to protect and serve me – an honor for all involved. A smile always accompanied my morning greetings. I had plenty to be grateful for.

Marudana stepped out of the hut, clad in her traditional dress, a vibrant yellow fabric glittered with intricate beads and ornate designs. Her hair was in corn rows adorned with a headband of blue and yellow feathers as if the mightiest bird in all the land perched atop her brow. The rising sun glinted off her dark skin, giving it a magnificent glow. Every step she took seemed to exude a grace more suitable for a panther than a human. Her eyes were a piercing brown, unafraid to meet anyone’s gaze who dared cross them. My mouth watered as I spotted the tray of black tea with milk and sugar and boiled sweet potatoes.

Maita, I thanked her warmly as she carefully placed the tray on the straw mat. I relished my morning ritual, sitting outside in my small garden in front of my hut, enjoying the panorama of the glassy river that snaked through lush green fields past the mountains and into the valley a short distance away. The palace grounds perched atop a hill announced its presence, an imposing reminder of the village’s smallness beneath it. Marudana beamed at me, revealing a gap between her two front teeth.

As Marudana and I strode toward the village market, we spotted Tembo walking along the winding path to the river. A large wicker laundry basket was balanced on his head, with several small baskets full of soaps and washcloths draped over his shoulder. He walked closely behind a group of palace maids, likely taking advantage of the opportunity to listen in on their gossip about the palace and village.

His rich, dark brown, almost black complexion reminded me of a beetle. He always wore shorts accessorized with a cow-hide belt tied low around his waist, where a buckle held a small machete. He wore a pair of worn leather sandals, which made little sound on the dirt path beneath him. On his bald head was a vibrant headdress of blue and yellow feathers, colors of the kingdom he served so proudly.

He gracefully moved with purposeful speed, never wasting time as he journeyed from one place to the next. He was a man of few words, but his laugh was loud and contagious when he did laugh. Tembo was in charge of much of their mundane cleaning and cooking while Marudana followed me faithfully wherever I went. It is very progressive for a man to be the main home keeper in our times.

At the heart of Mwetapa, the market buzzed with activity as vendors called out to their customers, displaying fresh produce, beautiful fabrics, and vibrant spices. We went through the village streets, stopping to talk to our regular vendors. From age three, when my father would take me to the market, I developed a love for my people. I was one of them, and they called me ‘daughter of the soil.’ I paused, pointing toward the noise where a man was shouting obscenities and pulling Nomsa’s hair. I recognized Nomsa, a hardworking single mother of three who worked hard to provide for her family, but I didn’t know the man. I walked towards the commotion as people in the market were gathering around.

What gives you the right to assault this woman and demand she lowers her prices? I demanded. Nomsa works hard to provide for her family, and she has every right to set her prices as she sees fit. If you don’t like them, feel free to shop elsewhere. I couldn’t contain my anger.

The man, taken aback by my boldness, hesitated momentarily before he stepped forward, puffing out his chest. Who are you to speak to me like that? You illegitimate princess-wanna-be. I know who you are. You are nothing but a bastard child, he sneered as he spoke.

Marudana sprang forward with lightning speed, and before I could react, the spear lodged in his left chest. He stumbled back and collapsed to the earth, the ground beneath him quickly becoming a vivid lake of red blood that reminded me of the Mwenezi River. I forced down my shock as reality sunk in. Marudana had done her job; she had protected me.

No one has the right to disrespect the future queen of Mwetapa. This village thrives on the love and respect we show one another, and I will not let anyone tarnish that, she said, cleaning her spear on the hem of her skirt.

The man’s companion grumbled, Women nowadays don’t know their place. You should be at home pleasing your husband and birthing babies, not trying to fight the cause of women in the village, he said with a slur. I could tell he was drunk.

Marudana stalked towards him until she stood mere inches away from his face. He reeked of alcohol and vomit. In a low voice loud enough for those around to hear that promised retribution if disobeyed, she said, Do not make me do to you what I did to your friend. With that, she walked back to my side, still cleaning the blood off her spear, her face stern.

A woman warrior, he said mockingly. His eyes flickered with fear as he stumbled backward, trying to put distance between us. He finally stopped and then scrambled away.

Marudana turned to Nomsa with a reassuring smile.

Thank you, Nomsa said, blinking back tears.

We are a peaceful nation, and these vagabonds who occasionally want to make a ruckus have no home here. Now, what new fabric do you have today? I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Nomsa and the other vendors went to the trading post on Saturdays, and I looked forward to seeing the new products they acquired.

Excitement lit up Nomsa’s face as she carefully drew out a length of fabric tucked away in the corner of the stall, the colors shimmering and vibrant in the dappled sunlight. She revealed a deep teal material with thin stripes of pink and bright green foliage designs scattered across it. My eyes widened at the sight, and I knew it would be perfect for my ceremonial dress.

Seeing how excited I was, she folded the fabric and tied a light pink ribbon around it before handing it to Marudana.

The heavy coins clinked as I handed them to her. As Nomsa took the payment, she had a faint smile on her lips, her eyes lit with joy. Her starry-eyed gaze drifted into the distance and lingered there a moment. I wondered what she was thinking as we bid her ’goodbye’ and made our way through the market.

One of my fondest memories was of my father and I striding through the bustling market hand in hand, chatting animatedly with the villagers. They’d watch us curiously as we passed by. My father and I stopped to haggle with stall-keepers for trinkets and delicacies of all shapes and sizes. He would chat freely, openly, and honestly with everyone we encountered—from young children to seasoned merchants.

Good morning, Princess Maidei, chimed Sekuru Kufahakurambwi, the elder fishmonger, as he reached for the largest trout on display. This one is especially for you, Princess.

Thank you, Sekuru, I replied, scanning the selection with appreciation and discernment. Your skill in spotting the best fish is unrivaled here and in all the region. I watched as his cheeks puffed up in pleasure, and he chuckled in response.

Sekuru carefully arranged the three fish into neat packets with banana leaves, passing the bundle to Marudana, who added them to our basket. He then handed her a handful of yellow mangoes, each round fruit perfectly ripened. She followed them with red tomatoes freshly picked from the vine and a bundle of vibrant collard greens tied with thin twine.

I bowed my head respectfully, Thank you, Sekuru. We wove our way through the dense crowds of shoppers and vendors as we waved to familiar faces and called out greetings. When we reached the end of the market, I saw Marudana’s gaze shift to a tall man wearing our army’s uniform - Ziko. He was the main guard for the market, responsible for enforcing its safety standards.

Marudana and I were part of the Dangorama Elites, the most specialized forces in the region, and we were held in high esteem. As female warriors, there was no place for us in the male-only army. It was unfortunate because we were as good, actually better than the men.

My four mothers sat together on the verandah. Mama Kuwana and Mama Rudo bent over intricate embroidery projects while Mama Zvireveki and Mama Runia chatted amicably as they sorted through a pile of fabric swatches. The afternoon sunlight glinted off their colorful head wraps and beaded jewelry, and there was a peaceful harmony between them. My father’s wives were kind and loving, and each treated us children equally.

I excitedly called out, Moms! as I bounded up the steps of the veranda. As I neared them, each woman looked up from her task with a warm smile. Of the four wives, Mama Rudo stood out. Her skin had a caramel-yellowish hue. Her short, curly afro framed her face, and her hourglass figure made her appear strong and feminine. In town, she was known as ‘The Mukaradhi Queen’. She was the only one not raised in a royal family, while the other three wives hailed from adjacent kingdoms as princesses.

The dark legend that was whispered through the court was that her mother had been my grandfather, King Marwizi’s unacknowledged mistress. Disowned by her family after being raped by one of the Portuguese priests at age fourteen, the young woman bore a daughter whom she named Rudo. My grandfather took her in, and she and her daughter lived on palace grounds.

Rudo and my father grew up together. Though our current local priest is father’s good friend, father is not fond of the Portuguese because he believes that Christianity has been a plot to gain control of the kingdom; a twisted way of getting access to people in the interior lands to be sold into slavery.

The Mwetapa empire lay in the center of Southern Africa, far from the cooling coastal air. The rolling hills that flanked the west and north melted into the horizon while further south, deep river gorges - the Pungwe and Nyazengu, snaked through the plains like silver ribbons. Further still, the Kairezi River sparkled in the sun, its crystal clear waters tumbling over rocks as nature’s masterpiece.

Princess Maidei, MaRudo took my hand and led me to the end of the veranda facing the Nyangani mountains. She had a troubled expression. I must speak with you about the preparations for the upcoming harvest festival and your ceremony.

Of course. My brow was creased with concern. What’s on your mind, Mama?

It appears there is some disagreement among the women regarding the allocation of tasks, MaRudo explained, wringing her hands anxiously. They bicker endlessly, and I fear the festival will suffer. She paused for a moment, also, we, the mothers, wanted to know if you would let each of us dedicate you to the ancestors for your ceremony? She bit her lower lip nervously.

Yes, I would love that. My voice was thick with emotion; I had not expected this from the mothers. Tears threatened to fill my eyes as the thought of my mother’s absence filled my mind. In our culture, mothers must lead the dedication to the ancestors, and since mine was gone, I had decided to skip this part of the ceremony. I quickly composed myself, Leave it to me with the women. I will speak with them and find a resolution that suits everyone. I gave her a reassuring smile, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

MamaRudo smiled broadly, her white teeth a stark contrast to the caramel hue of her skin. She clasped both hands together and brought them to her chest in appreciation. Thank you, mwanangu, she said gratefully. Relief washed over her features as I turned to leave. With a smile, I entered the palace, leaving the wives to their tasks.

The palace was a grand sight to behold, rising tall above the land on the last sloping foothill of the mountain. The palace roof, layered in grass thatch like every other hut in the compound, blew gently in the wind. It was nestled into the curve of the hill and was girded with lush garden terraces at its feet, sloping down under low-hanging jacaranda trees and arching over a wide veranda that overlooked the gardens beyond. Tall mango trees grew thick around the garden, their branches budding heavy with golden fruit that ripened deep orangish-red and glistened among fresh green leaves. The sweet fragrance of ripe mangoes permeated everything, even as far as the top of the palace steps.

The palace grounds, with perfectly manicured lawns and flower beds intricately arranged in various colors, brought a sense of serenity. In the center of the estate stood an elaborate stone fountain, its carvings depicting vividly colored figures representing our ancestors. Higher up, the lawns opened into a sweeping expanse of dark forest; ancient trees stood tall, their silhouettes standing against the sky like an oil painting.

The sun dipped low, casting a purple and pink glow over our village as the people prepared for the approaching night. Father sat in his throne room, surrounded by advisors discussing matters of state. I could see that his eyes lingered on the entrance, waiting for my arrival.

Father, I called out; my voice, a shimmering melody, captured everyone’s attention as it floated through the throne room. I walked into the room, curtsied, and bowed respectfully before my father.

Ah, my daughter, Father said, rising from his throne to embrace me. Come, tell me of your day.

My father and I strolled through the palace gardens as I told him stories of my escapades in the village. His face was bright and gentle as he leaned closer to catch every word. We laughed heartily at some humorous anecdotes that echoed against the encircling walls. The warm light of the setting sun illuminated my father’s face. His eyes twinkled in pleasure. Our evening walks were what I looked forward to most, my favorite part of the day.

My daughter, I would like you to start joining me in the meetings with the advisors. Elder Ndoro pointed out that it would be good for you to start participating in political aspects of the kingdom and see how we negotiate with other kingdoms and foreigners.

That is something I can do now that I have completed my apprenticeship with Ambuya Zhou, I said, raising my chin to meet