The Ring of the King

Acknowledgements

I first read “The Ring of the King” in Nelson Mandela’s Favorite African Folktales. Growing up, I loved folktales and mythology – Greek, Roman, and African – yet I had never heard this story. At the time, I was collecting books to bring to South Africa to create a library in Mpumalanga. So, I decided to create a book to share this amazing and exciting story, and using technology, I was able to generate images and translate the story into African languages. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

James Bloom

Once there was a king with a ring Inscribed with secrets of powerful things. The ring was forged with gold from Nile, And silvery gleam from the Congo's aisle. With diamonds from the Zambezi's flow, This ring of royalty continued to glow.

The ring was powerful, a potent charm, Protecting its wearer from all mortal harm. Provided that it was always on his hand, The king was safe in his regal land. He never took it off, night or day,

Wearing it with pride at each royal display. At feasts or judgment, he'd always wear, This ring of power, protected with care.

The king would take his ring off once a day, To bathe in the royal pool by the waterfall's spray. His servants gone, he'd lay down his crown of gold, His cloak of riches and gems, he would unfold The ring he'd hide, in secret place, So that its power he could embrace.

The first thing he'd do, after his royal bath, Was to put on the ring, with a smile and a laugh.

But one fateful day, to his surprise, The ring was missing! He searched around in his special place,

But the ring was gone, without a trace!

“

Who dared to steal my precious ring?"

The king was angry, fear did cling. For if he offered riches to find, His foes would know, he'd lost his prized bind. No longer protected, they'd sense the shift, His power weakened, his rule could be outwitted.

So he kept his fear, and hid his plight, Pretending still, he had the ring of might.

The King paced night and day, Unable to sleep, his mind in a fray. But his favorite wife, with gentle persuasion, Got him to open up with revelation. She went to the wisest man in the land, Zafusa, his name, known for his wisdom and command.

Zafusa came rushing, with wild eyes and jingling bracelets, Into the courtyard, where the king sat, impatient.

"Your ring will be found, your majesty," he said

"The thief is close, no need to feel dread.

Who is it?" The King demanded, his voice stern and loud

"You shall see," Zafusa replied, "the truth will soon be found.”

Just send for your woodcutters, they'll bring what you need, To find the thief who stole your ring with great speed.

The next day, the town gathered in the square, With eyes fixed on the king, and hearts full of care.

Zafusa appeared, with the king at his side, And the woodcutters followed, with sticks in stride. They heaped the sticks in the center of the square,

And Zafusa began to dance, He chanted in a language, so strange and so rare, As everyone watched, spellbound by his air.

At the king's command, every hand did take, A stick from the pile, for the spell to make.

“Take heed!” cried Zafusa, “these sticks hold power divine, Lose not a single one, keep them close, all the time.”

At dawn tomorrow, bring them back, without fail or delay, For the sun shall rise, and the thief shall be revealed that day. The townspeople gathered, sticks in hand, with care, Comparing each one, searching for what they did not share.

But they all seemed ordinary, with no differences to see, Identical in appearance, like they'd just been cut from a tree.

After everyone had gone, the king called for his fair wife

She knelt before him, attentive to his every word in life

"The thief is caught," he whispered in her ear so low

"This night, the stick of the thief will grow three fingers, you know."

Folks crowded round the fair queen

Eager to know what the king had whispered, so serene

But she was wise, and kept the secret to herself alone. Only sharing it with her mother, who in turn, shared with three friends from her home.

When the sun arose and lit the sky so fair

The townspeople gathered with the king and Zafusa there With sticks in hand, each one was measured, but not one had grown

A fingernail in length, but one stick was shown

To be three fingernails shorter, carried by a servant so meek

His eyes were nervous, his sweat so damp, he could not speak

All eyes were on him, and the truth was finally found

The thief was caught, his guilt clear and so renowned.

The king proclaimed, with a grand display, "This ring is mine, now let it stay!"

The thief was quick, and fell to his knees, Pleading

for mercy, "Your forgiveness, please!"

The king so grand, his rule now back in hand

With ring in place, he ruled Africa with command.

So he showed mercy, a kind and noble act

The thief released, no punishment, in fact

The king was so happy with his ring back, he wanted to know

How Zafusa managed to catch the thief, to the king’s utter disbelief.

Zafusa said: “The thief was guilty, that much was quite clear

He thought his stick grew three fingers overnight, with great fear

So he cut off that amount and thought no one would notice.”

“Remember there is more than one kind of magic!”

Zafusa said to a king who was still quite ecstatic