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You would never find comfort in her smile. No matter if the sight of it was the last bit of her you would ever see. Isoke, the beautiful combination of you and your husband, was now a scattering of dust pooled in the white linen of your sleeping gown. Between night and morning, just as the dark was pulling back to the pink of dawn, youâd heard her small cry in the bassinet across the room. Swaddled among the beautifully carved bed handcrafted by her father, Isoke quieted at the sight of your face. She was mischievous as MâBaku. Her cry had simply been a ploy to be cuddled next to your heart. You were glad to oblige.
The warmth of the small body next to your skin was a comfort. Youâd been tossing and turning since late evening. MâBaku had left then, pulled to duty by the growing responsibilities of his council position. When the tight contingent of Dora Milaje had appeared in the throne room during your nightly family time, your stomach had clenched in fear. The presence of visitors from the Golden City wasnât unusual now, but the lateness of the hour, the tension in their faces, and the hushed tones in which they spoke to MâBaku set off warning bells inside you. When his attention shifted from the fierce women before him and settled onto you, the worry in his eyes propelled you to his side. Your husband was many things, fearful was not one of them.
Youâd handed Isoke to Mosi, your son and first born. He was his fatherâs child in stature, but where MâBaku was prone to laughter which could morph into seriousness Mosi was a stone-faced boy who seemed wise beyond his years. When you settled his infant sister into the ten year oldâs arms, you placed your lips to his ear.
âKhusela udade wakho. Ndiyakuthanda.â (Protect your sister. I love you.)
Youâd watched the retreating back of your son briefly before bringing your attention back to MâBaku. Heâd seen the questions masking your face and reached down to cradle it. He filled you in on the threat at hand and your fear grew by leaps and bounds. You didnât want him to go. You wanted to shout at MâBaku that his responsibility was your people, and your people only. But from the set of his jaw you knew he felt this threat was bigger than just Wakanda. There was no getting a handle on that fear. MâBaku had excused the two of you from TâChallaâs advance party and stepped into the antechamber beside the throne. Heâd kissed you, run his hands over the curves of your face and body as if trying to memorize every bit of you. Youâd done the same, unsure if the slight tremble in his hands was an indication he knew of a possibility he wouldnât return.
Then before he descended the mountain into the darkness, youâd watched him gather Mosi to his chest and speak of bravery and responsibility before pulling back to memorize his sonâs face. Youâd bitten your lip until you tasted the cooper of blood. You handed Isoke to him, the tiny body nearly fitting into the palm of his hand. You wanted to cry at how heâd cooed at her, used one of his large fingers to press into her dimples until she giggled. The sound of their mixed laughter made your heart swell and break. You couldnât wave as the caravan pulled away from the palace. Instead, you could only raise your hand and throw your words of love into the snow after him.
You were humming to Isoke when she shattered into soft pieces in your arms. That hum had turned to a scream when the warm weight of her body shifted to the flutter of ash against your skin. Youâd screamed but remained unmoved. That ash was your baby and no part of you wanted to let a piece of her escape nor did you want the wetness of your tears to muddle her body. Youâd taken shaky fingers and gingerly raked the dove grey dust from your arms and hands into your lap. When there was nothing left to collect, you gathered the hem of your nightgown and created a small bag as you pulled it over your now nude frame. You clutched it and finally let tears break free. It broke you, but you placed the bundle as carefully as possible into her bassinet and threw one of your husbandâs tunics over your body.
The hallway between your chambers and Mosiâs room seemed endless. You ignored the cries and calls around you. Ignored the swirls of dust filling the air as you flung open his bedroom door and came face to face with your son now a small outcropping of grey nothing. Your legs would not hold you then and you fell onto them, bruises forming beneath the flowering pain.
You were unsure how long you remained there, sobbing into the quietness of the room. Somewhere in the depths of your grief you heard the stark power of your husbandâs voice shouting your name over the din of chaos filling the palace. You couldnât let him find out like this, so you backed away from your pain and softly pulled Mosiâs door behind you. MâBaku met you mid-way between your chambers and your sonâs. A sheen of blood clung to his skin, but he was there. Whole and solid. His eyes were changed, like heâd seen things he wanted to forget but couldnât. You knew that feeling well and knew soon it would draw you closer together or drive you apart.
You shot towards his body, launched into his arms and clung to him. Â He called your name again and again. Told you of carnage and death and the dusting of the world. You weakened with the knowledge your children were not the only of those now freed from their bodies. You were trying to process what had happened to the universe when he asked you to bring them to him. Heâd wanted to gather the four of you together and pray to Hanuman for your safety and his mercy. When you didnât move, he lifted your face to his and repeated his request. Something, perhaps the blankness in your eyes, made him set you to your feet. He asked again, his words breaking each time his request went unanswered.
When the knowledge finally settled onto his shoulders, what was left of your world stopped. MâBaku screamed Mosiâs name as he bowled by you. You tried to capture his arm but were unsuccessful. You screamed after him that his first born was gone. This stopped him. Youâd rather him turn to you than face the sight of his heir reduced to a drift of soot. It was as if free will left the mighty giant you loved. His stillness was palpable and large in the space of the corridor.
âUnyana wam?â (My son?)
âUbizwa ngokuba yikhayaâ (He has been called home.)
You choked on your words, wanted to place your hands onto him, but the heat radiating from him stopped this from coming true.
âIsoke? Ukukhanya kwamâ (Isoke? My light?)
âKukho, uthando lwam.â (Gone, my love.)
He broke into a run, making a direct path for your bedroom. It was impossible to keep up with his long strides. When you crested the threshold of the dim space, he was kneeled next to the bassinet, his long fingers skimming the satchel of his child atop the mattress. He didnât have to turn for you to know he was crying. The heavy shudder of his body did that for him. This time you couldnât stop yourself from touching him. He seemed grateful for the connection and crushed himself into your breasts, his breath hot and shallow through the fabric between you.
âYintoni esiqalekisiweyo? Ndonile? Ngaba andizange ndibe ngumkhonzi othembekileyo waseHanuman?â (What is this curse? Have I sinned? Have I not been a faithful servant of Hanuman?)
There was nothing you could say as comfort. You had none yourself. Your lives, what theyâd been or could have been, was no longer possible. The world had shifted in the palace and beyond. There were no answers you could give him, no respite from the pain.
âHow? Were they alone?â
There would be no comfort in Isokeâs smile for you, but for her father there could maybe some small measure of peace.
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