Nahmba was pacing two and fro, her ears moving near the rate of her impatient feet and her eyes on the movement of the earth. She felt dirty, dirty. The small lioness paused for a moment to look over her shoulder, and her mouth quivered at its edges, teeth biting restlessly at the tongue it housed.
"I have done this before. It is fine." She spoke this in fashion next to a gnarled tree, its choked roots coming to the surface feet away from its trunk as though gasping for air in the chalk-coated ground. Small leaflets fought among each other for life, and the moon tickled their colors so they were barely a hint of green among the mass of grey in a lion's vision.
For all of her mirth, and all of land-bound blood, the pale lioness had a weakness for males. A weakness which would have gotten her into trouble, had luck not often turned her fortune rich. And Nahmba had a habit of convincing herself that certain males were strong. She had been right with Matifu, and she had been sure of her son. But she had not seen her son in the pass of many moons.
Some of the other females had scowled at them as she had left. Mothers had fought daughters. It was not good. There were dead cubs, there were no new ones. Desperate times.
But, Nahmba was sure, this time, she had found a strong one! And he was of no threat; he had his own life, his own family, with cultures strange and aggressive in her ears. Ones she did not have to be a part of.
And so now she waited, for this one who she had talked to earlier. One who had started her heart thumping and had told her strength. She was excited to see him in such a way that she was equally excited to leave him behind her. And this time, perhaps, there would be many cubs, and no males to break her heart.
