Wordcount 1,013
"I thought you were over this," Kitambi grumbled.
Around them was not the beautiful, littoral promise land portrayed in love stories told to lull darling youngsters to sleep. This was a dingy, vacant place absent of any life and verdure. Morbid though it may be, this was the ideal location for them to butt heads once and for all. They had nothing but bad memories associated with it anyway.
She sat in the mud, spine straight as twig shaved of branches, and stared at the vast stretch of nothing in front of them. Years they had raised those sons -- seen them through the trials of growing, taught them what they could, loved them no matter their blunders -- and for what? To be taken by the Gods or nature or bad luck. How could he ask her to do all that again?
Mtembei was a practical lion. He didn't exhaust himself hunting a zebra if he was only hungry enough to eat a hare. He was not perturbed by the thought of his age, knowing it wouldn't make him any younger to bemoan time. Ratiocination vs capricious desires always ended with his paws firmly on the ground. Why did he refuse to see reason on this of all things?
They both knew there was no logical support for this decision. They were too old, too weary; they had no means of knowing they would love their new sons as much as the two they'd lost or if they would be mere substitutions through no fault of their own.
The mourning mother and father reflected on things on their own time and in their own ways, yet there was no concern that they hadn't both addressed. It wasn't a personal trespass upon his wishes that she should deny him another litter. It just made sense to abstain.
"I thought I was," Mtembei said. "But it's not something I can stop thinking about that easy."
Kitambi sighed. "I told you we're too old. I'm too old."
"I'm not too old," he said, infuriatingly certain of it, "and you're younger than I am, as I recall."
Mtembei wished it could be more of a discussion than him accosting her to reconsider. But they were on borrowed time loaned to them by patience, to whom they already owed a debt. They had tiptoed around each other for weeks. If one felt emboldened enough to attempt conversation (usually Mtembei), the other (usually Kitambi) would find a reason to quickly and quietly excuse themselves.
At this rate, he'd be the one to leave, for once. The way Kitambi fidgeted made him feel guilty. Her claws stretched out far as they could go and dug deep into the ground. The mud smeared against her paws from the subtle rocking of her shoulders. No matter how she looked, she sounded secure.
"What would you say to Nantale?" she queried.
"Nan -- What does Nantale have to do with it, Kitambi? I'd tell her she's going to have brothers and sisters. What else?"
"And what about her sons and daughters?" Kitambi glanced askance at him in a way too accusatory. "Wouldn't they deserve our time --"
"Don't." Mtembei felt a scalding heat down to the core. His nostrils flared and temper followed suit. "Don't make this into me not giving Nantale the attention she needs. Don't make it sound like I want more cubs just because fixing the one we have is too much work. She's not fine and I know that, but you think she wants this? You think this would make her feel better?
"Watch her, Kitambi, instead of just looking at her and seeing everything wrong. She's healing. She's got Csoa and Hanyu, and frankly, I think that Ndoto fellow has eyes for her. This isn't about Nantale or grandchildren we don't even have yet. Don't turn this into that."
On the heels of his tangent, he had a heartfelt apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound that way."
"But you meant what you said," Kitambi deduced sourly.
Mtembei had more loyalty for his mate than she'd ever know. Dedication had gotten them this far. If he honestly thought sparring her the unvarnished facts was for the better, he would have. But she was better than that and she deserved more than temporary reprieve.
His father had told him a story of a medic who used fire and metal to cease the blood flow of open wounds. If truly healing meant their world must first be set ablaze, then so be it.
"That is what I meant," Mtembei confessed gently. "Kitambi, if you really didn't want them... that would be one thing. But you can't use fear and Nantale to justify it. We deserve better and so does our family. All of them, the ones who are with us and the ones who aren't."
When moments passed and silence outlasted his resignation to let her speak up, he nudged her with his shoulder. "Aren't you going to say anything?"
"Say what? You're not going to listen unless it's what you want to hear."
"Then I'll say more," Mtembei decided. "Nantale is an adult and she can take care of her own cubs. They'd have more playmates. What's wrong with that? The pride could use as much new life as it can get. They could use the joy cubs bring to everyone's lives."
Kitambi shuffled anxiously in place. They were going to return to the Nchi covered in mud. "Have you spoken to Nantale about this?"
"No, I... didn't yet. I can," Mtembei offered. Nantale would side with him on this, he was sure. Kitambi had to know it too. She was either being genuine or stalling. "If it will get you to think about it, I will."
"See what she says and I'll think about it. You have my word. For now, can you just... I need some space."
"You can't keep shutting everyone out, Kitambi," Mtembei told her wearily.
On the contrary. She'd been told she could do whatever she put her mind to.
