Zecora's Life Story
by Homage
For those of you who know me well
My life story I must tell.
I was born in the country of Hoofrica
A land quite far from Equestria.
There are no ponies in this land
Just zebras and giraffes and sand.
Wild beasts there are aplenty
And lions, there are oh so many.
With the body of a griffon, head of a manticore
It's much less dangerous than war.
We do not have your harmony
Much war is fought; it's not pretty.
We have no government, only tribes
A group you're born in, live, and die.
My tribe was called the Zekanik
Our ways, tradition, and laws were strict.
I was born to a wealthy family
My mother, my father, my sisters, and me.
My sisters numbered one through eleven
Right after the middle, I was number seven.
Our village greatly held tradition
And my family idolized religion.
My sisters all became priestesses
Out of woven grass they made their dresses.
My mother was a seer, my father a shaman
My family and I had little in common.
Religion never mattered much to me
The gods rarely help zebra, you see.
Though my father did chant, and my sisters did try
One after another, I watched sick zebra die.
If the goddesses wouldn't help I will
I made it my mission to heal the ill.
I sought out anyzebra I could find
One who was compassionate, wise, and kind.
The stallion who I found
Was an elder, and his knowledge was sound.
I talked with him about my plight
He said, “Try medicine, it will feel right.”
I looked at him, I was confused
“I am not sick.” He laughed, amused.
“Of course you're not. I merely meant
To make, not take. Come to my tent.”
“You may call me Zekrakadii
Welcome, little filly, to my apothecary.”
I followed him, he gave me a tour
Of the place where he brews a cure.
He showed me herbs, and potions, and more.
He had quite a lot in his little store.
And while we were talking, a mare came in
Complaining about a rash on her skin.
I took a look, it was quite bad
Boils covered her flank, and so I gagged.
But the old stallion took one peek
“A leper's potion is what you seek.
Cures all skin problems, a special paste
Applied thrice daily, it cures with haste.”
I watched the stallion work with such skill
He boiled some water, added wormwood and dill.
“I stir with feathers from an emu
I must use three, not one, not two.”
It turned brown, and thick as tar
He poured the mixture into a jar.
He brought the cure to the sick mare
She put it on slowly with care.
No sooner had the potion touched
Her flank that all her boils shrank much.
“To make sure your skin really heals
Apply this after every meal.”
The mare was really quite surprised
Her skin was healed before her eyes.
The grateful zebra asked the alchemist
Just how much she owed for this.
His answer surprised both of us
“To cure disease, there is no cost.”
The two shook hooves, and then she trotted out
Which left me sitting here, full of doubt.
I told Zekrakadii, “I find it funny
That for doing your job, you receive no money.”
His answer came slowly, but sure
“I never charge much for a cure.
That mare was much too poor to pay
So I healed her and sent her on her way.”
Regardless of class, health is health
I charge my customers based on wealth.
Other potions, that bring the good
The prices are high, but benefits are understood.
This zebra gave much charity
In our village, this was a rarity.
I was impressed by his potions; I asked
If he could teach me to perform this task.
He smiled, and that was his cue
The next three years I learned everything he knew.
The work was tough, the learning stiff
But it earned me my personal glyph.
For the next five years, at his insistence
I became his personal assistant.
One day, Zekrakadii grew very ill
I tried to make a miracle pill.
He shrugged it off, the wizened sage
There was no cure for his old age.
After he passed, he left to me
His title, and apothecary.
For four more years I ran the place
Healing zebras was often the case.
Unfortunately, it was the law
Priority went to the richest zebra.
Two zebra came in, one poor, one rich
The rich mare, Zekari, demanded a cure for her itch.
The poor stallion's shape was more serious
An advanced case of Syfillylis.
Zeke's coat was brown, and very patchy
His voice was faint and hoarse and scratchy.
He was dying, but because of his class
It was the law I treat him last.
If I'd be caught, I was not sure
But I knew for fact I had a cure.
Syfillylis was deadly, but a simple fix
An antibiotic that I did mix.
No sooner had he drunk it down
That his coat turned back white from brown.
His pains were gone, his head was clear
But never a “thank you” did I hear.
Instead he asked me, “Why me, why now
We'll both be punished if you are found.”
“You would have died without my help.”
I told the young, ungrateful whelp.
“The rich you must prioritize.”
But his harsh words were betrayed by his eyes.
It contradicted what we were told
But I disliked the ways of old.
For that tradition I did not care
To treat the rich first was just unfair.
But with my opinions others disagreed
They had bad thoughts and gossiped about me.
The rumors they spread, their hateful gaze
“Who is this mare to question our ways?”
I was already on thin ice
But I had no chance to do this twice.
For after a month I was put on trial
No pleas for mercy, and no denial.
I took responsibility
“Zeke didn't wish it, the blame's on me.”
The elders group and the discussed
A punishment for the dangerous.
It took them a little, neigh, quite a while
But eventually decided on exile.
I was sent out without a belonging
So I looked east, and kept on walking.
Using my knowledge of nature to survive
I looked for a place where I could thrive.
The place I wandered to was best
Inside the Everfree Forest.
Near Ponyville I've lived ten years
But I used to be a cause of fears.
Every month I came to town
To find it empty; nopony was around.
I could not shop, I could not buy
Everypony was scared of my glowing eyes.
The young, the old, the poor, the rich
All of them labeled me a witch.
Because of this, I had been forced
To get supplies from another source.
I lived outside of town, in Everfree
It contained many herbs, I was lucky.
But there were many potions I couldn't brew
To xenophobia the blame was due.
The first pony who ever trusted me
Was little Apple Bloom, the sweet filly.
Because of her, I now can buy
From town, so I maintain supply.
And that is my life story, you see
Why do I rhyme? Now that's a mystery.