Chapter 29: The Ancestor’s Judgment

 

The first child died quietly in her sleep. Princess Lindiwe, Nkosana's eldest daughter by Nomathemba, had been a vibrant girl of six summers with her mother's sharp wit and her father's stubborn chin. Her laughter had once filled the royal quarters, a sound so pure that even the most hardened warriors would smile upon hearing it. But when the serving women found her cold in her bed at dawn, her tiny hands still clutched the carved wooden doll her father had brought from his last hunting trip. At first, the palace was gripped by disbelief. Nomathemba’s wails echoed through the stone halls as she clutched her lifeless child, rocking back and forth, whispering Lindiwe’s name as if the repetition could pull her back from the abyss. Nkosana roared like a wounded lion when the news reached him, his bellow shaking the rafters of the great meeting house. He stormed into the chamber where his daughter lay, pushing aside grieving women, his eyes wild, searching for an answer. The royal physicians were summoned first. They examined the small, still body with solemn hands, finding no mark of violence, no sign of poison, no fever to blame. Then came the diviners, their rattles shaking as they cast bones upon the woven mat. The silence that followed was heavy with dread. Finally, the foreign doctors from the coastal towns arrived, their medicines and knowledge vast, their expressions guarded. They, too, found nothing. No affliction of the blood, no sickness of the lungs. Nothing. “The ancestors…” old Gogo Ndlovu began, her milky eyes unblinking, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Silence!” Nkosana backhanded the aged sangoma across the face, sending her stumbling into the arms of her attendants. The room held its breath. “Find me the killer or join my daughter in the grave!” The Second Death Prince Bandile lasted only three moons longer. He was a robust boy of eight summers, his laughter bold, his energy boundless. He had just begun spear training with the young warriors, his small hands grasping the wooden shaft with the determination of his forefathers. He would one day be a great warrior, the elders said. He would lead men into battle, bring glory to his lineage. But glory would never come.

It happened during his morning lessons, the sun barely peeking over the kraal’s edge. One moment, Bandile stood, poised for his next strike. The next, he collapsed, his small body writhing on the ground in violent convulsions. His tutor shouted for aid, his hands fumbling to hold the boy still, but the child’s struggles weakened until he lay still forever. The effort to revive him proved futile. This time, the diviners refused to examine the body. They stood in silent protest at the kraal’s edge, their sacred bones and shells tucked away, their mouths shut tight against their king’s demands. Nkosana ordered their huts burned. Flames licked the night sky, and as the smoke curled into the heavens, the people whispered behind their hands. The same words, over and over: “The ancestors are angry.” The Last Child Little Nosipho, barely weaned from her wet nurse’s breast, went next. The morning mist curled around the royal compound when her absence was discovered. A servant approached Nomathemba’s chamber, carrying a bowl of warm milk for the little girl, only to stop short when she found the cradle empty. The blankets were neatly folded, as if waiting for the child’s return. A frantic search followed. Servants scoured every corner of the palace, their voices rising in urgent calls. Warriors spread out into the hills, their spears glinting as they moved like restless shadows. The village was questioned, every hut and homestead searched. But there was no trace of Nosipho. No tiny footprints in the dirt. No wailing cries carried by the wind. Nothing. It was Zinhle, the late queen’s sister, who spoke the words no one dared. She stepped forward before the assembled court, her face streaked with tears but her voice steady. “No snake took her. No kidnapper stole her. The ancestors have reclaimed what was never yours to claim.” A collective gasp rippled through the room. Nkosana’s sword was at her throat before she could blink. His hand shook. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fury warring with something deeper, something darker. Fear. And in that moment, the entire kingdom saw—their mighty king was afraid.