Mthwakazi: A Fabricated History and Why Chasing Ghosts Will Get You Killed
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| The supposed borders of Mthwakazi |
If you are Ndebele, ex-Rhodesian, Shona or just someone trying to make sense of Zimbabwe’s tribal fractures, you have probably heard the siren song of “Mthwakazi.” It is sold as an ancient kingdom, a proud pre-colonial nation that the Shona and ZANU-PF supposedly stole. Modern Mthwakazi activists even have their own national anthem, a flag, and carefully drawn maps showing the supposed borders of their dream state. Books, websites, exile groups and fiery speeches all promise that one day the western provinces will break away and restore this glorious Mthwakazi state. The only problem? It is complete fiction. There is no credible pre-colonial documentation of any such place. It is a modern invention, a romantic myth cooked up long after the Ndebele arrived in the 1830s.
The name Mthwakazi was first documented and popularised in 1957 by Peter Sivalo Mahlangu in his book UMthwakazi. Robert Moffat, Frederick Selous and other 19th-century travellers and missionaries knew every major Ndebele town and kraal by name — Bulawayo, Inyati, Gibixhegu, Mhlahlandlela and dozens of others — yet none of them ever mentioned “Mthwakazi.” They described the Ndebele kingdom, its regiments, its raids and its capital in detail, but this supposed ancient name is absent from their journals, maps and reports. The term only gained traction decades after the fall of the Ndebele state.
According to one popular story, the name derives from Queen MuThwa (or Muthwa), supposedly the first ruler of the territory and matriarch of the abaThwa (San people) thousands of years ago. Other versions link it to “Umbuthwakazi,” meaning something like “the great assembly of nations,” or simply to the San people (abaThwa) whom the Nguni encountered. These tales are modern retrofitting with no supporting evidence from pre-20th-century sources. They serve to give the Ndebele kingdom an aura of deep antiquity it never possessed.
Long before the Ndebele arrived, Matabeleland was already home to layered, sophisticated societies. The region formed the core of the Butua (or Butwa/Torwa) kingdom, ruled by the Torwa dynasty of the Kalanga (western Shona) people. Its capital at Khami — with massive dry-stone terraces, elaborate architecture and trade goods reaching as far as China and Portugal — flourished from around 1450 until the late 17th century. After the Torwa state weakened, the Rozvi (Lozwi) — a militaristic offshoot from the Mutapa empire in the east led by Changamire Dombo — swept in around 1683, conquered Butua, and built their own empire across the plateau. Rozvi rule incorporated the Tonga in the northwest (along the Zambezi), Venda-related groups in the south, scattered Kalanga chiefdoms, and Nambya polities. Their capitals included the great stone ruins at Danangombe (known to locals as Dhlodhlo or DhloDhlo), while the Matobo Hills served as sacred sites for rain-making rituals, royal burials and spiritual ceremonies for centuries before any Ndebele set foot there.
Another striking example of pre-Ndebele sophistication and later renaming is the Naletale ruins (also spelled Nalatale), located in Matabeleland South. This impressive dry-stone walled site was originally known to the Tonga as Nantale, meaning “Mother of Crocodiles” (Na- for mother, ntale for crocodile). Shona speakers knew it as Nhandare. The name reflects the area’s association with powerful wildlife and spiritual significance among the Tonga and Shona peoples long before Nguni arrivals. The Ndebele conquest overlaid new names and control, as they did across the plateau.
The Matobo Hills themselves provide a clear example of renaming and conquest. Known anciently to Shona and Rozvi peoples as a spiritual heartland, one of its most revered rain-making shrines is Njelele — called Mabweadziva (“the place of spring waters”) in Shona — also referred to as Matonjeni or Ematonjeni by locals. This “talking cave” was a centre for Mwari worship and national rituals long before the Ndebele era. Mzilikazi renamed the broader hills Matobo (or Matopos), meaning “bald heads,” after the granite domes. The Ndebele incorporated these sacred sites into their own spiritual and political landscape, but they were not the original custodians.
Rozvi resistance to Ndebele conquest was fierce and prolonged. Under their last major ruler, Changamire Tohwechipi (also known as Chibhamubhamu for his gun-armed raiders), the Rozvi fought back-and-forth battles and raids against Mzilikazi and later Lobengula for decades after the initial invasions of the 1830s–1840s. Tohwechipi refused to submit fully or anoint Mzilikazi as overlord, retreating eastward at times while launching counter-raids. This prolonged conflict weakened both sides but highlighted that the Ndebele did not walk into an empty land — they faced organised, battle-hardened opposition from established Rozvi forces.The Ndebele conquest also involved brutal episodes that left a lasting mark on local memory. One notorious example is the killing of the Nambya chief Rusumbami in the northwest (Hwange area). Oral tradition records that Rusumbami was reputed to possess two hearts — a sign of extraordinary bravery or supernatural power. Mzilikazi, driven by curiosity or a desire to terrorise, had the chief cut open alive to see if the rumour was true. Such calculated acts of cruelty helped break the spirit of the Nambya, Rozvi, Kalanga and other groups and cemented Ndebele dominance.
When Mzilikazi’s Ndebele impis swept in from the south in the 1830s and 1840s, fleeing the Zulu mfecane, they conquered these established societies. They did not simply “inherit” the land; they renamed it. Many older Rozvi, Kalanga, Tonga and Nambya place names, hills, rivers and settlements were overlaid or replaced with Ndebele ones that reflected military events, animals or regimental glory. The Ndebele gave their new kraals and strongholds distinctly Zulu-derived names: Bulawayo itself (kuBulawayo, “the place of killing,” chosen by Lobengula after he executed rival regiments that opposed his accession), Inyati (“buffalo place”), and numerous regimental outposts such as eMhlangeni, eMatobo (adapting the ancient sacred hills), Lupane (adapted from the earlier Tonga name Lupale), Mhlahlandlela, Enqammeni, Gibixhegu, and entire towns named directly after the regiments stationed there — Isizinda, Godlwayo, Ntabaenda — scattered across the conquered territories. What had been Butua and Rozvi heartlands became Ndebele military domains, with local populations subjugated, assimilated or raided for tribute.
The Ndebele themselves were every bit as much settlers and colonialists as the Rhodesian pioneers who arrived fifty years later. Mzilikazi, a breakaway Zulu commander, led his warriors north in the 1830s after a trail of conquest and migration through what is now South Africa and Botswana. They overwhelmed the local Rozvi, Kalanga, Tonga and other groups already living on the Zimbabwean plateau. They seized cattle, incorporated (often by force) women and children, and established a militarised kingdom centred on Bulawayo. This was classic conquest and colonisation—stronger Nguni outsiders imposing rule on weaker indigenous peoples through the spear, exactly the same dynamic the white pioneers later interrupted when they stopped the annual Ndebele raids into Mashonaland.
Lobengula, Mzilikazi’s son and successor, made the same mistake on a grander scale. He never recognised any real border between Mashonaland and Matabeleland. He ignored the so-called Jameson Line that the British South Africa Company tried to establish as a practical divide. In Lobengula’s eyes, the Shona people and their livestock were simply his property—vassals to be raided at will for tribute, cattle and slaves. That attitude led directly to his downfall. In 1893 he authorised a large raid on Shona communities near Fort Victoria. His impis crossed into the settler area, burning villages, killing hundreds of Mashona, and looting cattle right under the noses of the white settlers. The rampage paralysed the new colony and left Jameson no choice but to respond with force. If Lobengula had shown restraint, respected the emerging reality on the ground, and left the Shona in the east to themselves, Matabeleland might have survived as an independent entity for longer. Instead, he wanted it all. His greed and refusal to accept limits triggered the Matabele War, the defeat of his regiments by Maxim guns, the fall of Bulawayo, and his own miserable death in exile. Lobengula lost everything his father Mzilikazi left him. The great father’s legacy was squandered in one mad overreach.
In a perfect world Rhodesia might have been carved into a federal state: Mthwakazi for the Ndebele, a white-governed Rhodesia in the central and eastern highlands, and a Shona Zimbabwe in the east. Three peoples, three territories, three capitals sharing defence and currency while running their own affairs. It would have been clean, logical and probably stable. Even some Ndebele traditional leaders recognised this logic. Chief Khayisa Ndiweni, a respected figure from Ntabazinduna, advocated for a federal system at the 1980 Lancaster House talks and later founded the United National Federal Party to push for dividing Zimbabwe into sub-regions with greater autonomy. His son, Chief Felix Ndiweni, has also been a vocal critic of centralised ZANU-PF rule. But that moment passed in 1980. Ian Smith’s government never offered it. Mugabe and Nkomo never considered it. The Lancaster House Agreement delivered a unitary state under majority rule and that was that. The window slammed shut.
Today the dream of an independent Mthwakazi is not just dead; trying to resurrect it is flirting with suicide. ZANU-PF enjoys killing. They proved it in the 1980s during Gukurahundi when they slaughtered tens of thousands of Ndebele civilians to crush any hint of opposition. The North Korea-trained Fifth Brigade carried out systematic massacres, torture, rape and forced displacement in Matabeleland and the Midlands. They have never apologised and they have never disarmed. A fresh Ndebele uprising would be met with the same ruthless efficiency: more mass graves and international silence because the world has already decided Zimbabwe’s problems are “complicated African politics.” The days of Ndebele self-rule are a thing of the past. Accept it or die trying.
The same harsh truth applies to other separatist fantasies. White South Africans spent three hundred years in the Cape and never seized the moment to carve out an independent Western Cape state. They were too greedy, too short-sighted, too busy chasing profits and political power in Pretoria to draw the line and say “this land is ours alone.” That opportunity is gone forever.
The Greeks still dream of taking back Constantinople and turning Hagia Sophia into a cathedral again. They tried it before; it ended in blood and humiliation. The lesson is simple: build a new city, call it Constantinople if you must, but stop pretending you can rewind the clock and reclaim what history has taken.
Hope is a double-edged sword. Pandora’s box reminds us that some hopes are gifts, others are evils released into the world. Clinging to the myth of Mthwakazi is the latter kind. It distracts young Ndebele men from building businesses, learning skills, or emigrating to places that actually reward competence. It keeps old grudges alive while the real enemy—ZANU-PF’s looting machine—continues to grind the entire country into dust. The Ndebele once ruled Matabeleland by conquest and strength. That era ended. Pretending otherwise is not pride; it is suicide.
Ndebeles can still appeal for their king to be officially recognised and for Mzilikazi Day to be a regional holiday in Matabeleland. Cultural recognition and local pride are harmless and achievable. But dreams of a separate state should remain just that—dreams. The modern-day Ndebeles are not their valiant ancestors who faced Maxim guns with blind courage. Joshua Nkomo’s myopia and gullibility helped set the stage for Gukurahundi; he trusted Mugabe and ZANU-PF far too much, believing unity talks and power-sharing promises that were never sincere. Lobengula and Nkomo were both bad leaders who brought ruin upon their people through overreach and poor judgement. Mqondisi Moyo and others like him risk becoming another false prophet, leading followers toward destruction instead of realistic progress.
Let sleeping dogs lie. The land called Rhodesia was built by white pioneers who turned wilderness into farms, mines and cities. The Ndebele ruled their portion by the spear until a stronger force arrived. Both histories are real. Neither requires inventing ancient kingdoms that never existed. Face the present, not fairy tales. The alternative is more graves in the Matabeleland bush, and ZANU-PF has already shown it is happy to dig them.
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| The flag of Mthwakazi |
The name Mthwakazi was first documented and popularised in 1957 by Peter Sivalo Mahlangu in his book UMthwakazi. Robert Moffat, Frederick Selous and other 19th-century travellers and missionaries knew every major Ndebele town and kraal by name — Bulawayo, Inyati, Gibixhegu, Mhlahlandlela and dozens of others — yet none of them ever mentioned “Mthwakazi.” They described the Ndebele kingdom, its regiments, its raids and its capital in detail, but this supposed ancient name is absent from their journals, maps and reports. The term only gained traction decades after the fall of the Ndebele state.
According to one popular story, the name derives from Queen MuThwa (or Muthwa), supposedly the first ruler of the territory and matriarch of the abaThwa (San people) thousands of years ago. Other versions link it to “Umbuthwakazi,” meaning something like “the great assembly of nations,” or simply to the San people (abaThwa) whom the Nguni encountered. These tales are modern retrofitting with no supporting evidence from pre-20th-century sources. They serve to give the Ndebele kingdom an aura of deep antiquity it never possessed.
Long before the Ndebele arrived, Matabeleland was already home to layered, sophisticated societies. The region formed the core of the Butua (or Butwa/Torwa) kingdom, ruled by the Torwa dynasty of the Kalanga (western Shona) people. Its capital at Khami — with massive dry-stone terraces, elaborate architecture and trade goods reaching as far as China and Portugal — flourished from around 1450 until the late 17th century. After the Torwa state weakened, the Rozvi (Lozwi) — a militaristic offshoot from the Mutapa empire in the east led by Changamire Dombo — swept in around 1683, conquered Butua, and built their own empire across the plateau. Rozvi rule incorporated the Tonga in the northwest (along the Zambezi), Venda-related groups in the south, scattered Kalanga chiefdoms, and Nambya polities. Their capitals included the great stone ruins at Danangombe (known to locals as Dhlodhlo or DhloDhlo), while the Matobo Hills served as sacred sites for rain-making rituals, royal burials and spiritual ceremonies for centuries before any Ndebele set foot there.
Another striking example of pre-Ndebele sophistication and later renaming is the Naletale ruins (also spelled Nalatale), located in Matabeleland South. This impressive dry-stone walled site was originally known to the Tonga as Nantale, meaning “Mother of Crocodiles” (Na- for mother, ntale for crocodile). Shona speakers knew it as Nhandare. The name reflects the area’s association with powerful wildlife and spiritual significance among the Tonga and Shona peoples long before Nguni arrivals. The Ndebele conquest overlaid new names and control, as they did across the plateau.
The Matobo Hills themselves provide a clear example of renaming and conquest. Known anciently to Shona and Rozvi peoples as a spiritual heartland, one of its most revered rain-making shrines is Njelele — called Mabweadziva (“the place of spring waters”) in Shona — also referred to as Matonjeni or Ematonjeni by locals. This “talking cave” was a centre for Mwari worship and national rituals long before the Ndebele era. Mzilikazi renamed the broader hills Matobo (or Matopos), meaning “bald heads,” after the granite domes. The Ndebele incorporated these sacred sites into their own spiritual and political landscape, but they were not the original custodians.
Rozvi resistance to Ndebele conquest was fierce and prolonged. Under their last major ruler, Changamire Tohwechipi (also known as Chibhamubhamu for his gun-armed raiders), the Rozvi fought back-and-forth battles and raids against Mzilikazi and later Lobengula for decades after the initial invasions of the 1830s–1840s. Tohwechipi refused to submit fully or anoint Mzilikazi as overlord, retreating eastward at times while launching counter-raids. This prolonged conflict weakened both sides but highlighted that the Ndebele did not walk into an empty land — they faced organised, battle-hardened opposition from established Rozvi forces.The Ndebele conquest also involved brutal episodes that left a lasting mark on local memory. One notorious example is the killing of the Nambya chief Rusumbami in the northwest (Hwange area). Oral tradition records that Rusumbami was reputed to possess two hearts — a sign of extraordinary bravery or supernatural power. Mzilikazi, driven by curiosity or a desire to terrorise, had the chief cut open alive to see if the rumour was true. Such calculated acts of cruelty helped break the spirit of the Nambya, Rozvi, Kalanga and other groups and cemented Ndebele dominance.
When Mzilikazi’s Ndebele impis swept in from the south in the 1830s and 1840s, fleeing the Zulu mfecane, they conquered these established societies. They did not simply “inherit” the land; they renamed it. Many older Rozvi, Kalanga, Tonga and Nambya place names, hills, rivers and settlements were overlaid or replaced with Ndebele ones that reflected military events, animals or regimental glory. The Ndebele gave their new kraals and strongholds distinctly Zulu-derived names: Bulawayo itself (kuBulawayo, “the place of killing,” chosen by Lobengula after he executed rival regiments that opposed his accession), Inyati (“buffalo place”), and numerous regimental outposts such as eMhlangeni, eMatobo (adapting the ancient sacred hills), Lupane (adapted from the earlier Tonga name Lupale), Mhlahlandlela, Enqammeni, Gibixhegu, and entire towns named directly after the regiments stationed there — Isizinda, Godlwayo, Ntabaenda — scattered across the conquered territories. What had been Butua and Rozvi heartlands became Ndebele military domains, with local populations subjugated, assimilated or raided for tribute.
The Ndebele themselves were every bit as much settlers and colonialists as the Rhodesian pioneers who arrived fifty years later. Mzilikazi, a breakaway Zulu commander, led his warriors north in the 1830s after a trail of conquest and migration through what is now South Africa and Botswana. They overwhelmed the local Rozvi, Kalanga, Tonga and other groups already living on the Zimbabwean plateau. They seized cattle, incorporated (often by force) women and children, and established a militarised kingdom centred on Bulawayo. This was classic conquest and colonisation—stronger Nguni outsiders imposing rule on weaker indigenous peoples through the spear, exactly the same dynamic the white pioneers later interrupted when they stopped the annual Ndebele raids into Mashonaland.
Lobengula, Mzilikazi’s son and successor, made the same mistake on a grander scale. He never recognised any real border between Mashonaland and Matabeleland. He ignored the so-called Jameson Line that the British South Africa Company tried to establish as a practical divide. In Lobengula’s eyes, the Shona people and their livestock were simply his property—vassals to be raided at will for tribute, cattle and slaves. That attitude led directly to his downfall. In 1893 he authorised a large raid on Shona communities near Fort Victoria. His impis crossed into the settler area, burning villages, killing hundreds of Mashona, and looting cattle right under the noses of the white settlers. The rampage paralysed the new colony and left Jameson no choice but to respond with force. If Lobengula had shown restraint, respected the emerging reality on the ground, and left the Shona in the east to themselves, Matabeleland might have survived as an independent entity for longer. Instead, he wanted it all. His greed and refusal to accept limits triggered the Matabele War, the defeat of his regiments by Maxim guns, the fall of Bulawayo, and his own miserable death in exile. Lobengula lost everything his father Mzilikazi left him. The great father’s legacy was squandered in one mad overreach.
History offers clear examples of African leaders who played the long game far more successfully than Lobengula. Khama III of the Bamangwato (Tswana) converted to Christianity, embraced education and commerce, and shrewdly aligned with the British to protect his people from Boer expansion and repeated Matabele raids. He fought the Ndebele when necessary but avoided reckless confrontation, ultimately securing a stable protectorate that became the independent and prosperous Botswana his descendants still rule today. Similarly, Moshoeshoe I of the Basotho in Lesotho skilfully negotiated with British missionaries and officials, used diplomacy and selective warfare to survive Zulu and Boer pressures, and preserved a compact highland kingdom that endures as an independent state. Lobengula could have followed their path—showing restraint, recognising new realities, and forging alliances that preserved a smaller but viable Matabeleland—but he chose overreach instead. Khama and Moshoeshoe played chess while Lobengula played checkers. Hindsight is 20/20, yet the contrast remains instructive: wise adaptation built enduring legacies, while defiance against overwhelming odds brought ruin.
In a perfect world Rhodesia might have been carved into a federal state: Mthwakazi for the Ndebele, a white-governed Rhodesia in the central and eastern highlands, and a Shona Zimbabwe in the east. Three peoples, three territories, three capitals sharing defence and currency while running their own affairs. It would have been clean, logical and probably stable. Even some Ndebele traditional leaders recognised this logic. Chief Khayisa Ndiweni, a respected figure from Ntabazinduna, advocated for a federal system at the 1980 Lancaster House talks and later founded the United National Federal Party to push for dividing Zimbabwe into sub-regions with greater autonomy. His son, Chief Felix Ndiweni, has also been a vocal critic of centralised ZANU-PF rule. But that moment passed in 1980. Ian Smith’s government never offered it. Mugabe and Nkomo never considered it. The Lancaster House Agreement delivered a unitary state under majority rule and that was that. The window slammed shut.
Today the dream of an independent Mthwakazi is not just dead; trying to resurrect it is flirting with suicide. ZANU-PF enjoys killing. They proved it in the 1980s during Gukurahundi when they slaughtered tens of thousands of Ndebele civilians to crush any hint of opposition. The North Korea-trained Fifth Brigade carried out systematic massacres, torture, rape and forced displacement in Matabeleland and the Midlands. They have never apologised and they have never disarmed. A fresh Ndebele uprising would be met with the same ruthless efficiency: more mass graves and international silence because the world has already decided Zimbabwe’s problems are “complicated African politics.” The days of Ndebele self-rule are a thing of the past. Accept it or die trying.
The same harsh truth applies to other separatist fantasies. White South Africans spent three hundred years in the Cape and never seized the moment to carve out an independent Western Cape state. They were too greedy, too short-sighted, too busy chasing profits and political power in Pretoria to draw the line and say “this land is ours alone.” That opportunity is gone forever.
The Greeks still dream of taking back Constantinople and turning Hagia Sophia into a cathedral again. They tried it before; it ended in blood and humiliation. The lesson is simple: build a new city, call it Constantinople if you must, but stop pretending you can rewind the clock and reclaim what history has taken.
Hope is a double-edged sword. Pandora’s box reminds us that some hopes are gifts, others are evils released into the world. Clinging to the myth of Mthwakazi is the latter kind. It distracts young Ndebele men from building businesses, learning skills, or emigrating to places that actually reward competence. It keeps old grudges alive while the real enemy—ZANU-PF’s looting machine—continues to grind the entire country into dust. The Ndebele once ruled Matabeleland by conquest and strength. That era ended. Pretending otherwise is not pride; it is suicide.
None of this diminishes the genuine greatness of Ndebele history. The warriors of Mzilikazi and Lobengula were renowned for their iron discipline, meticulous military organisation, regimental structure that turned boys into unbreakable fighting units, and a unity forged in the fires of the mfecane. Their kingdom was a diverse melting pot of Nguni core, assimilated Shona, Kalanga, Tonga and others — a testament to their ability to conquer, absorb and rule. Like ex-Rhodesians who built farms and cities from wilderness, it is entirely understandable that modern Ndebeles feel a deep nostalgia for that bygone era of martial glory and wish to carry forward its legacy. But demographics are destiny. Both the white pioneers and the Ndebele impis conquered weaker peoples and imposed their will, only to become minorities in the vast land they claimed. There is no time machine, no rewind button. What remains are memories, ceremonies, old songs and dances — proud emblems of a proud past that deserve to be honoured, not revived as political weapons.
Ndebeles can still appeal for their king to be officially recognised and for Mzilikazi Day to be a regional holiday in Matabeleland. Cultural recognition and local pride are harmless and achievable. But dreams of a separate state should remain just that—dreams. The modern-day Ndebeles are not their valiant ancestors who faced Maxim guns with blind courage. Joshua Nkomo’s myopia and gullibility helped set the stage for Gukurahundi; he trusted Mugabe and ZANU-PF far too much, believing unity talks and power-sharing promises that were never sincere. Lobengula and Nkomo were both bad leaders who brought ruin upon their people through overreach and poor judgement. Mqondisi Moyo and others like him risk becoming another false prophet, leading followers toward destruction instead of realistic progress.
Let sleeping dogs lie. The land called Rhodesia was built by white pioneers who turned wilderness into farms, mines and cities. The Ndebele ruled their portion by the spear until a stronger force arrived. Both histories are real. Neither requires inventing ancient kingdoms that never existed. Face the present, not fairy tales. The alternative is more graves in the Matabeleland bush, and ZANU-PF has already shown it is happy to dig them.
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