Nubian Queens: The Story of Beauty and Power

You know what never gets enough airtime? Nubian Queens. Real ones. Not the costume-party version from a Hollywood set, but the regal, spear-wielding, pyramid-building powerhouses of ancient Nubia. These women weren’t hanging about in the background arranging fruit platters or writing poetry in a corner. They ran empires, led armies, negotiated with Romans, and occasionally made Pharaohs look like they needed a nap and a rethink. And not the gentle sort of rethink either—more the existential crisis type, with a bit of grovelling and a strongly worded letter to the gods.

Let’s get one thing straight. Nubian Queens weren’t Egyptian sidekicks. No one was lounging around waiting to be picked as the next temple trophy or smiling politely from the wings. The Kingdom of Kush, nestled just south of Egypt, had its own style. Its own language, its own pantheon of gods, its own aesthetic, and yes, its own queens who could give Cleopatra a run for her eyeliner budget, war strategy, and political manoeuvring. They weren’t borrowing greatness. They were exporting it. With a touch of attitude, a sharp wit, and a great sense of timing. In fact, you could argue Nubia had a better marketing department. Subtle, yet unforgettable.

Speaking of Cleopatra, she never faced down the Roman Empire with one eye. Queen Amanirenas did. When the Romans tried it on in Nubian territory, she didn’t send a fruit basket. She marched her army straight into the fray, blind in one eye and absolutely unfazed. She seized a bronze statue of Augustus Caesar’s head and, with a touch of dramatic flair, buried it under the steps of a temple. Every visitor to the temple had to walk over the Roman emperor’s face. Talk about symbolism. Rome got the message. Loudly. No awkward silence, no diplomatic ambiguity. Just one eye, one empire, and one very clear message underfoot. And yes, that message probably involved a bit of side-eye from a queen who had seen enough nonsense to last a lifetime.

And let’s chat about the Candaces. Not one person, but a royal title. Like saying “boss lady” but with pyramids, ceremonial garb, and an entire bureaucracy at their command. The Candaces weren’t ornamental. They weren’t waiting for husbands to speak on their behalf. They ran the show. They managed succession plans, economic policies, foreign affairs, and military operations. Think Prime Minister meets Field Marshal, with a bit of goddess energy sprinkled on top. These weren’t just queens in name. They were active, engaged, decisive rulers who probably had to deal with endless palace drama, rebellious governors, tax collection issues, occasional famine management, and trade negotiations that went on far too long. And yet, they kept the kingdom moving. With flair. And possibly a gold-encrusted sceptre.

Nubia didn’t copy Egypt. Bless that assumption. Nubia was doing its own thing long before historians decided who got top billing. And sometimes, Egypt copied back. During Egypt’s 25th Dynasty, it was Kushite kings who held the throne in Thebes. They wore the double crown. They poured money into temples. They blended traditions, yes, but they led the narrative. Meanwhile, back in Kush, the queens weren’t sipping date wine and writing thank-you notes. They were still in charge. Probably eye-rolling at Egypt’s drama, ordering more obelisks, and ensuring the pyramids got built on schedule, under budget, and with better acoustics.

Architecture? Let’s talk about it. Egypt gets all the glossy spreads for pyramids, but Nubia has more. That’s right. More pyramids. Over two hundred, in fact, rising from the sand in the ancient city of Meroë. They’re smaller, steeper, and intensely stylish. Built as royal tombs, many house the remains of queens. The stones still whisper their names if you listen closely. Or bring an archaeologist. Or just stand there long enough and squint meaningfully. The architecture speaks of power, of legacy, and of a culture that wasn’t trying to impress anyone else—it was simply building to its own standards. Pyramids weren’t just graves. They were declarations of identity, towering statements of permanence.

And then there’s Queen Shanakdakhete. The name might not trip off the tongue like Cleopatra, but oh, what a legacy. She ruled Kush on her own terms. She built temples, minted coins with her face on them (because why not?), and led without a king lurking in the background. No need for a co-pilot. She was the power source. Her image appears solo on temple walls, no consort, no compromise. Just her, commanding the view. You can almost hear her saying, “I’ve got this,” in the ancient Meroitic equivalent. And if she had a LinkedIn, it would read: Head of State, Architect of Temples, Economic Reformer, Absolute Icon.

People often trot out the idea that African women had no real power until recently. History would like a word. In Nubia, succession often passed through the maternal line. Some queens picked kings. Some decided kings were a bit of a faff and skipped them entirely. The queen mother wasn’t knitting socks by candlelight. She was orchestrating dynasties, grooming heirs, shaping policy. Picture a boardroom but with leopard pelts, incense burning, scribes scribbling frantically, and political decisions that shaped continents. And likely, the occasional royal decree written with style and sarcasm.

Still, their stories got brushed aside. Colonial explorers stumbled across Nubian pyramids and thought they were Egyptian leftovers. Early archaeologists, bless their Victorian sensibilities, looked the other way. Even today, textbooks get oddly quiet when the subject turns south of Egypt. It’s like someone misplaced an entire empire’s worth of receipts and just kept smiling. Entire university lectures go by without so much as a nod. It’s the historical equivalent of leaving a queen on read. Meanwhile, ancient stones sit patiently, still humming the names of queens who refused to be forgotten.

But the truth? It hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s still etched into sandstone temples. It’s still tucked inside tombs and buried beneath centuries of sand and silence. The legacy of Nubian Queens isn’t myth or legend. It’s history. Crown-wearing, army-leading, kingdom-building reality. With better jewellery and no time for nonsense. Their names deserve to be spoken. Their achievements deserve to be part of the narrative, not footnotes buried beneath someone else’s legacy. Every queen who ruled from Meroë to Napata deserves a spotlight, not a dusty citation.

So next time someone bangs on about powerful ancient women and all eyes drift to Cleopatra, do us all a favour. Raise a knowing brow and ask if they’ve met Queen Amanirenas. Or Shanakdakhete. Or the whole roll call of Candaces who ran things without waiting for permission. These women weren’t part of the backdrop. They were the directors, producers, and stars of the show. The plot doesn’t work without them. And frankly, it’s a much better story with them front and centre, where they always were—despite what the history books forgot to mention. And if you ever find yourself in front of a Nubian pyramid, take a moment. Listen to the silence. It might just be a queen reminding you she was here first, and she’s still got the last word.