The Princess and the Warrior: The Journey Up the Nile

By Eben van Tonder, 1 March ’25

A Dialogue of Two Lands, Two Traditions, and One Truth

Table of Contents

Scene 1: The Meeting at Nam Lolwe

The mist curled over the endless waters of Nam Lolwe, known to the wider world as Lake Victoria. The morning air carried the damp scent of reeds and ancient earth, a fragrance interwoven with history. A Celtic princess stood at the shoreline, her Tanzanite-blue eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where the sun dipped its fingers into the water’s shimmering skin.

Beside her, the White Warrior adjusted the strap of his satchel, his movements deliberate, his skin weathered by the sun and the relentless march of distant lands. He carried the air of one who had walked many roads and spoken with many tongues.

He broke the silence, his voice measured and deep.

“Wot maber, min nyar keni?”

The princess turned, curious. “What did you say?”

He smiled, his expression a mixture of familiarity and reverence. “I greeted you in the tongue of this land—‘Good morning, daughter of the highlands.’”

She studied him. “You know their language?”

He nodded. “A warrior must know the land he walks on. A traveller must greet the river before he sails it.”

He gestured toward the vast expanse of Nam Lolwe.

“This is not merely a lake. It is the beating heart of a continent. Its name is not Victoria—that is a name of conquest, not of belonging.”

She tilted her head. “Then where does this river truly begin?”

He tapped his chest. “Not here.” He turned southward. “There, in the highlands of Rwanda. The water does not flow into Nam Lolwe—it flows from it.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then this is not the source?”

He shook his head. “No. The true source is the Kagera River, veiled in the mountains. It feeds Nam Lolwe, and from here, the Nile is born.”

She exhaled, watching the reeds sway in the whispering current. “It is not as I thought.”

He smiled. “Truth is like a river—it bends, it shapes the land, but it does not end. You do not find it—you follow it.”

Scene 2: The March Trap – The Hesitation of Pigs

They pushed the canoe into the water. As they paddled, the princess spoke.

“In my homeland, this is the season of awakening.”

The warrior nodded. “March?”

She smiled. “Yes. But it is not a simple thing. It is a test.”

He raised a brow. “A test?”

She met his gaze. “There are those who resist change. They linger in comfort. They hesitate at the threshold of the new season.”

She turned her paddle. “We call it The March Trap—Märzenfadl.”

The warrior grinned. “And who are they?”

She smirked. “The last to rise from their winter beds. The hesitant. The sluggish. Those caught between the cold and the warmth.”

The warrior chuckled. “Even in your land, people fear change.”

She laughed. “Even pigs fear change.”

The warrior frowned. “Pigs?”

She nodded. “Yes. Fadel means piglet in our old tongue. It is an ancient word.”

She let the paddle rest across her knees.

“We find it in many places. In Old High German, it was farah, meaning piglet. In Middle High German, it became verhelīn, verlīn, verl, and Ferkel.”

The warrior tilted his head. “And in the old tongue of the islanders?”

She smiled. “In Old English, they called it fearh.”

The warrior considered this. “So the March Trap is the piglet who lingers too long?”

She nodded. “Yes. And when the season turns, it is left behind.”

He studied her. “And what happens to it?”

She exhaled. “It is slaughtered.”

A silence fell.

The warrior tapped the side of the canoe. “In my land, we say the same.”

The princess looked at him. “You do?”

He nodded. “The pig that lingers is the first to be eaten.”

She thought for a moment. “It is said that the person in the house who gets up last is the March piglet.”

The warrior considered this. “Then the hesitation is not the trap itself?”

She nodded. “No, there is a misunderstanding about the little pigs. It is not a trap in the true sense.”

She dipped her paddle into the water, moving them forward. “The Märzenfadl opens a number of customs tied to spring’s awakening, extending even to Pentecost.”

The warrior listened intently as she continued. “In Styrian tradition, fadel is a dialect word for piglet. It was noted in early Austrian linguistic records—Joseph Sonnleitner’s Mundart der Austrian of 1811. There, it is recorded as: Fadel: piglet, a young pig; also a stain on paper and a smooth person is called Fadl.”

He nodded. “And the root?”

She smiled. “Etymologically, it traces to the Old High German far(a)h—meaning piglet or Frischling, found as early as the 9th century. It evolved through farhilīn, verhelīn, verlīn, verl, and eventually Ferkel in modern German. The Old English equivalent was fearh.”

The warrior grinned. “And in the Bavarian tongue?”

She laughed. “They say fack or fock—but you may not wish to use those words lightly in conversation.”

The warrior laughed, shaking his head. “Then this piglet of March—it lingers in warmth too long?”

She nodded. “Yes. And as spring rises, the time of hesitation ends. The slowest to rise is marked.”

The warrior let the thought settle. “And thus, change is not merely a choice—it is survival.”

Scene 3: The Fireproof Wood and the Waning Moon

The princess guided the canoe along the river’s edge, her gaze settling on a grove of trees bathed in the soft light of the waning moon. The hush of the water against the hull seemed to echo the stillness of the forest.

“Do you see those trees?” she asked, her voice thoughtful.

The warrior nodded. “Yes, I see them.”

She leaned forward slightly. “In my homeland, we believe that if you fell a tree during the waning moon, the wood becomes more durable. The sap retreats to the roots, leaving the timber less prone to decay and pests. We call it ‘moonwood.’”

The warrior’s eyes lit up with recognition. “That is fascinating. Among my people, we hold a similar belief.”

“Truly?” she inquired, intrigued.

He nodded. “Yes. In the lands of my ancestors, the Bantu say that trees cut under the waning moon yield wood that resists rot and insects. The Kikuyu elders tell of the great Mũgumo tree, sacred to our people, which must only be touched at certain times, when the moon’s power is low, ensuring its spirit is not disturbed. In the forests of the Ashanti, wood for drums is selected with care, always under the right moon, so that the spirits within the tree may rest and not crack the instrument.”

She listened, captivated by the shared wisdom across their worlds.

The warrior’s expression grew contemplative. “The moon speaks not only to the trees but to the animals and the meat they give us.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“In the lands of the Zulu and the Lozi, it is said that meat slaughtered under the waxing moon holds more vitality, its fibres firm and full of life, resisting decay. The elders of Mali, those who follow the ways of the great cattle keepers, know that slaughtering at the wrong time brings softness to the meat, a weakness in its spirit. The Dogon people tell of the moon’s pull on all living things, whispering to the blood within, commanding it to rise and fall as surely as it commands the tides.”

He ran a hand along the canoe’s edge. “Even here, the river knows the moon’s pull. The trees and the animals feel it. Our ancestors did not need to see the stars to know the truth—only to listen.”

The princess smiled, the shared wisdom bridging their cultures. “It seems the moon guides us both in caring for our forests, our animals, and the gifts they give us.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “The celestial rhythms influence our earthly practices more than we often realize.”

They paddled in contemplative silence, the moon’s reflection rippling alongside them, a testament to the universal truths that connect disparate lands and peoples.

Scene 4: Towards Egypt and Fate’s Choice

The canoe drifted in silence, swallowed by the great, winding embrace of the river. The air hung heavy with the scent of water and earth, the hush of unseen life watching from the reeds. The moon, a silver eye above them, bled its light into the current, turning the surface into a path of fractured glass.

The princess sat still, her paddle resting across her lap. The night whispered, the river hummed. She exhaled. “What is this river, truly?”

The warrior did not answer at once. He trailed his fingers through the water, feeling its weight, the pull of its unseen depths. “It is Iteru,” he murmured. “It is Neilos. It is the River of Life.”

She gazed ahead. “And where does it lead?”

He smiled, but his eyes were distant. “To fate.”

The canoe rocked gently, surrendering to the river’s call. The princess gripped the edge, her breath caught in her throat. The darkness of the water was alive, carrying the ghosts of those who had journeyed before them—kings, slaves, warriors, lovers. Their voices stirred in the current, echoes of laughter, of cries, of whispered prayers lost to time.

“Will we make it?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

The warrior looked at her, the fire of a hundred battles flickering behind his gaze. “No one who enters the river leaves unchanged.”

A cold wind coiled around them. A shadow rippled in the water, too large to be a fish. The princess tightened her grip. The reeds swayed violently along the banks, as if something unseen moved among them. The river had awakened. It had heard them.

The warrior’s hand brushed against the hilt of his blade. “Hold steady,” he whispered.

A shape surged beneath them—black, ancient, endless. The canoe trembled. The princess clutched the side, her heartbeat a drum against her ribs. The warrior reached for her hand, his grip strong, unyielding. “Whatever happens, do not let go.”

The river roared.

The world tilted.

The canoe spun wildly, caught in a force unseen, the air thick with the scent of salt and something older than time. The princess gasped as the water rose around them, grasping, pulling. The warrior roared against the night, drawing his blade, though there was nothing to fight but the fury of the river itself.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the current released them. The canoe rocked violently before settling, the silence as sharp as a knife. The princess clung to the warrior, her breath ragged, her limbs trembling.

They had passed the threshold.

The warrior exhaled, his fingers brushing against hers. “The river does not take those it still has use for.”

The princess looked at him, at the firelight in his eyes, at the darkness stretching ahead, vast and unknowable. And then she laughed—a wild, breathless laugh, full of relief and something else, something deeper. The warrior grinned, shaking his head. They had faced the river’s test. They had lived.

The canoe drifted forward once more, the stars above watching, the river below whispering secrets only it could understand. And far ahead, where the night kissed the horizon, Egypt waited.