The day of the burial dawned with a sky heavy as iron. The sun rose blood-red over the horizon, veiled by the dust of the harmattan, and every street in Uzazzu fell silent as though the very city had bowed its head.
The announcement had been made two days ago, when the messengers first
returned. The council had gathered in the great square, the Waziri standing tall as a baobab tree, his staff capped with cowrie shells that gleamed in the setting sun.
"Hear the words of the council!" he had thundered, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. "Askia Ishaq, our king, has crossed the great river. He is no more. The warriors have brought him home, and on the third dawn we will send him to the ancestors."
"Because the king did not fall in battle, nor did he yield his life willingly to the gods, the council has spoken: the earth will not taste his flesh." His voice deepened, thundering now. "We will send him to the heavens in
fire. Let the smoke rise as a banner of defiance. Let the flames carry him
where earth and worm cannot follow."
The wail that had gone up then had shaken the very air — a cry of grief that rolled through the city like thunder. Women tore their wrappers, men beat their chests, children clung to their mothers.
I had stood at the edge of the square, Maimuna's hand clutching mine tightly, her eyes wide with a fear she did not speak aloud.
Now, the day had come.
I stood with the women of the royal household, draped in deep indigo cloth,
the dye staining my palms as though I had plunged them into midnight. Even the
air smelled different — the sharp tang of camphor and burning incense drifting
from the palace courtyards where the griots had begun their chants at first light.
When they brought my father's body into the city, it was not in secret. The entire city was there to see.
The procession moved through the northern gate slowly, steadily, as if the whole kingdom moved with it. First came the drummers, their hands striking in perfect rhythm, the sound deep and hollow, like a heart beating underground.
Behind them marched the warriors who had fought at Kano, their spears glinting, their tunics stained with dust and blood that no washing could erase. Idris walked among them, a grim shadow, his hand on his sword hilt, his head held high but his eyes refusing to meet mine.
And then came the bier.
Four bearers carried it high on their shoulders, the wooden frame carved
with the sigil of Uzazzu — the twin leopards, their jaws open in eternal roar. His body was wrapped in white shroud cloth, but they had left his face uncovered. His features were calm, proud, as though he merely slept and would wake when the sun reached its height.
The women around me wailed, their voices rising and falling like waves. Some threw dust upon their heads. Others knelt and struck the earth. I did not cry. My throat was tight, my chest aching, but no tears would come.
Maimuna moved closer until her shoulder touched mine, a silent pillar of comfort. Her presence steadied me when my knees threatened to give way.
We followed the bier to the great square where the ancestors were honored. There, the council waited, the Waziri at their head, his staff gleaming like lightning.
When the drumming stopped, the silence was complete — a living thing, so thick it pressed against the skin.
The Makama stepped forward first, his white beard gleaming like snow. He poured libation from a calabash — water, milk, and palm wine — into the dust, calling on the names of the kings who had gone before.
"Askia Ishaq II" he intoned, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Son of Askia Ishaq I, son of Ishaq the Great, who held this throne before you. Walk among them now. Take your place."
The griots began to sing then, their voices rising in long, slow ululations that seemed to reach all the way to the heavens. The words spoke of victories won, of justice upheld, of a reign that had kept the land at peace.
I stood still, my hands clasped before me, watching as the warriors brought forth my father's sword and shield. They laid them upon the bier, the steel glinting like captured sunlight. The Waziri touched the tip of the sword with his staff, a single sharp strike that rang like a bell.
"He goes to the ancestors armed," the Waziri said.
And then the fire was brought.
They lit the torches from the sacred flame kept in the council hall, and one by one the bearers lowered them to the bier. The cloth caught quickly, the smoke rising in a single white plume toward the sky. The people fell to their knees, heads bowed, as the fire consumed him.
The drums began again, louder now, faster, the beat a furious gallop that made my heart race. Warriors struck their shields with their spears. Women ululated. Children clapped their hands. It was grief, yes — but it was also power, defiance, a promise that the blood of Uzazzu would not be bowed.
When the fire burned low, the ashes were gathered carefully into a clay urn. The urn was sealed with beeswax, and the Waziri held it high for all to see.
"Behold!" he cried. "He has returned to the earth. From dust he came, and to dust he has gone, but the spirit of Uzazzu endures!"
A great shout rose from the crowd then, a single voice of thousands crying as one.
I stood rooted where I was, my hands clenched so tightly my nails bit into my skin. Inside me, a storm was breaking — grief, fury, the sharp edge of something I did not yet dare name.
My eyes found Idris across the square, just for a heartbeat. His face was unreadable. He turned away first.
Beside me, Maimuna wept softly, her tears streaking her cheeks. I put a hand on her shoulder, though my own face was still dry.
When the crowd began to disperse, I turned away from the fire's dying glow. The throne was empty now, and the whole kingdom seemed to wait, watching, holding its breath.
And I — I could feel the weight of it already, settling on my shoulders like a mantle of stone.
This crown of thorns, I thought. This crown I have not asked to wear.
But I would wear it.
And heaven help anyone who tried to take it from me.