Wordcount: 1,256
Kitambi was always quiet when she decided to leave.
Some mornings, Mtembei had to persuade the skeptic in him it was worth it before he could will himself move. He could neither sing nor dance as well as most of the pride, but that didn't mean he couldn't put on a show. He'd been performing for weeks, smiling with such a persuasive crinkle around his eyes that his reflection convinced even himself he was happy.
His steps were once a thing of patience. Nothing restricted his movement, he just had no reason to hurry. He'd told his children life was to be savored and those that rushed through it would find what waited at the finish line was not worth the race.
As far as his sons were concerned, all he had left were memories like those. Flashbacks of stories and advice recited to a disinterested audience and nothing more.
Mtembei dragged his paws now because the ache in his legs got worse every day. He never said anything, yet without fail, Kitambi fulfilled her obligation as a dutiful wife and acknowledged his ails with a comment they were getting old. But she knew that was not the reason. He had always paced himself, after all.
At night, he laid down wanting to run and never stop. He slept, but he didn't rest, something his mate had always been known for. She, like him, now did the same things for different reasons.
He'd run forever and Kitambi would never sleep if that's what it took. For months -- no. No. It had been years. For years they had done just that. Something acrid was tangled around their hearts, growing like tree roots; going where it wanted and strangling away any other life.
In his darkest hour, he wondered if this mutual anguish was what kept them together when it seemed nothing else was.
It had taken the bittersweet reunion with one of their three offspring to realize how their entire lives were being rotted away by this quest both hopeless and hazardous. The Gods or luck or something else had given them back their daughter. Mtembei wished he knew who to thank so he could beseech them for the return of his sons as well. But he never would, and though they may fight off sleep and traipse through every landscape imaginable, they would never find those boys of theirs.
Nantale had freed them in a way neither wanted to admit. They couldn't. Who wanted to confess they were tired of looking for their own flesh and blood? That was the only thing anyone would hear if they dared explain themselves. Anyone else would gloss over the details, wave away the exhaustive efforts -- the hunger, the thirst, the arguing. He had never argued with Kitambi until all this, but no one would care about that.
It was easier to just focus on their daughter and her well-being, to agree in silence they returned to the Nchi with only her in mind. They were good parents for it when you looked at it that way.
That morning, he didn't have to find Kitambi. She wasn't lost. All he had to do was go to her, and he did. He left his excuses behind this time.
His mate was merciful and grieving. Mtembei wondered which spurred her decision to leave the true reasons for his behavior untouched.
Either way, they couldn't do this anymore. They were breaking apart again.
His prayers that he should not encounter anyone before his mate were answered. The first lioness he saw would be Kitambi. Her back was to him, although not on purpose and, oh, how symbolic.
He greeted her with her former title: Malenga.
"Nantale is the Malenga now," Kitambi reminded him. Mtembei could be forgiven the misnomer, though. He was always the last of them to adjust when things changed.
"Kitambi," he said.
"We need to talk" he didn't say. "You're being ridiculous" he could never say.
Kitambi squared her shoulders. It was something she did to look bigger, to give the impression she was still in control. "Mtembei." Her voice was vapid, but her posture and eyes screamed at him to leave her be.
The area around them had once been where the Mtaishi called home and where her estranged sister ruled. They had other family here, once: his own father, some of his siblings; Nantale's cousins. The list went on. The list of... of the deceased, he assumed.
"Have you been out here since the morning?" he asked.
"It's morning still."
It was not, Mtembei thought.
The grass had grown tall without any paws treading on it. Wretched creatures with many legs sprang from it and latched onto theirs. Mtembei shook them off and came to sit beside her.
He could only speak when he accepted there was no right thing to say. There was no ideal thing to ask. He couldn't win. Whatever was playing with their lives did so as if they were objects, not competitors.
"Why are you doing this to yourself, Kitambi? What if Nantale sees you out here?"
She turned her head in the other direction. "Don't blackmail me with our daughter." Save her voice and her accusations, nothing about her was with him. She was here, but she wasn't here.
"Look at me when you talk," Mtembei pleaded. What should have rang angry only sounded urgent to the ear. He was not meant to be a disciplinarian. That was her job; she was supposed to be the one keeping him under control, not the other way around.
She refused him the courtesy of a reply.
Mtembei felt a heat burning through his blood, a flame so hot it could engulf every sense. In that moment he was prepared to say anything -- say everything. Not all of it was to be constructive. Things he'd waited so long to blame her for were working their way up his throat as he moved in front of her. "Kitambi--"
He stopped.
"What?" she asked. Her monotone betrayed the shine in her eyes.
For as angry as he'd been at her, Mtembei was now that much more infuriated with himself. How had he not noticed -- or suspected -- or, Gods help him, how had he not encouraged this? She had never cried over this. Not once. And he never told her to. So many times she had wanted his permission and he had never provided it.
Why was she like this? Why did she need him to relieve her of her duty and give her permission to mourn her own offspring?
He said, with utmost authority, "Our sons are dead, Kitambi."
Her next breath sounded like she were being strangled; however, the words proceeding them were not any different than her last. "I know."
Mtembei felt his head sway from side to side, as if unhinged from his neck. She didn't want to look him in the eye anymore, huh? Well, that was just too bad. He wouldn't fail her twice.
Mtembei chased her gaze until he caught it.
The wind had respectfully decided to wait so that she may hear him the second time. "Our sons are dead, Kitambi."
"Our sons --" She swallowed. "Our sons are dead, yes. I know they are."
"Our daughter isn't," Mtembei said. He leaned over and brushed the top of his head under her chin. "We're going to be okay for her, you and me."
Kitambi was always quiet when she decided to leave.
