> Zecora's Life Story > by Homage > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- > This Chapter Name Will Have to Rhyme / Because I Do That All the Time > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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.