For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The throne room was too still, too heavy, as though even the air itself held its breath. The golden light from the tall windows struck Idris's profile, carving his face into stone. The Makama sat to the right, his staff across his knees, his ageless face unreadable.
Beside him stood the Madawaki, broad-shouldered and motionless, his hands clasped behind his back like a sentinel. The Waziri leaned on his staff, shifting his weight as though wishing the ground might open and end this moment.
I stepped forward, each footstep ringing louder than it should. The gold-threaded hem of my robe brushed against the floor.
"So this is how decisions are made now?" I asked, voice quiet but sharp. "In secret halls, behind closed doors?"
The Makama's dark gaze met mine. "No secret was made, Gimbiya. The kingdom
must not remain leaderless. The people cry for a king."
My jaw tightened. "Yet you sit Idris on the throne before the mourning fire has even cooled?"
I turned to Idris. He had not moved since I entered, only sat there, one hand resting on the lion-headed arm of the throne, his eyes dark and steady.
"You have nothing to say?" I asked, my voice sharp. Today his eyes had come alive,and they stared back at me with full intensity
Finally, he spoke. "I have much to say, Amira." He rose slowly, each movement controlled, as though every word must be weighed before being loosed.
"But first, I must say this — you think yourself wronged because you were not
called into council. But you are wrong. It was you who put yourself outside this hall the day you brought war to your father's house."
The words struck like stones.
"You dare?" I hissed, stepping forward. "You dare accuse me—"
"It is not accusation. It is fact." His voice was steady, but anger flickered beneath. "The whole city whispers of it. The daughter who selfishedly used war to take her father's life. And you would still sit on his throne?"
My fingers curled into fists. "Then let me tell them!" I snapped. "Let me tell them what truly happened — how I fought to keep him from disgrace, how I—"
"Enough!" The Waziri's staff struck the floor with a crack. The sound echoed off the high walls, silencing me.
But Idris was already shaking his head. "Do you not see? To reveal it would tear Uzazzu apart. You would turn grief into scandal and make the kingdom a battlefield again — this time not of spears but of tongues."
"I would rather the truth be known," I shot back.
"You would rather your name be cleared." His tone sharpened now, like a knife cutting through thin cloth. "You think only of yourself, Amira. Of how history will remember you. But history is not just your story — it is ours. It belongs to the people."
"Do not speak to me of the people!" My voice cracked, my breath coming hard.
"You were always going on border checkups, allowed to mingle while I sat caged, trained daily on the duties I must carry, even treated as a political bargain
just for the sake of peace!"
Something flashed in Idris's face, but he said nothing.
"So you dare come back from war," I pressed, my chest heaving, "and lecture
me on duty, when you could not even protect the one man who mattered?"
That broke him. He stepped down from the dais in two strides, fury radiating off him like heat from a forge.
"You speak of grief, Amira," he said. "But you were not the one who held his lifeless body. You were not the one who watched the light in his eyes die out. His blood did not color your hands like dye."
My breath caught.
"If I had been there," I said bitterly, "he would not have died."
That broke something in him.
"You dare?" His voice rang through the hall, sharp and dangerous. "You dare say that to me? You—who brought war to his gates! You who shattered the peace this city had kept since our father took the throne! Every mother who buries a son does so because of what you started!"
I felt the sting of his words, but my pride would not let me bow.
"And what would you have had me do?" I flung back. "Kano would have come for
us sooner or later!"
"Then we would have been ready!" His anger flared like dry grass to flame.
"We would not have sent boys to their deaths. We would not be counting the
bones of our fathers and brothers!"
The hall rang with the sound of our voices. The Waziri's staff struck the floor sharply.
"Enough," he barked. "This quarrel dishonors your father's memory."
But Idris was not finished.
"You think I do not live with that every day?" His voice rang, shaking with contained rage.
"Every night I see his face, every dawn I hear his voice. And you — you — would spit on his memory because you cannot bear that the people will not bow to you!"
I met his glare without flinching, though my heart pounded like a war drum.
"Is that what you believe?" I said coldly. "That I crave the throne so badly?"
"I believe you cannot see beyond yourself," he said, his voice suddenly quiet, dangerous. "And if you cannot, you do not deserve the throne."
The room had gone utterly silent. Even the Makama, who had remained impassive until now, shifted slightly, as though ready to intervene if one of us lunged.
But it was not the Makama who spoke next.
"Amira."
The voice came from the doorway, low and commanding. My grandmother stepped
into the hall, her gray wrapper sweeping the floor, her presence filling the room like a stormcloud.
"Grandmother," I said, breathless.
"The council has spoken," she said. "They have judged what is best for Uzazzu."
"Perhaps the council needs to be judged again," I said before I could stop myself.
Her eyes narrowed. "Judged? Men who sat at your father's side? Men who kept this city standing while war gnawed at our gates?"
"Men who could not keep a king alive," I snapped.
The blow came swift and sharp. Her hand cracked across my cheek, leaving my
ears ringing.
"You dare," she said, her voice like iron.
I staggered back, the sting burning my face, my pride, everything.
"I will not be shamed into silence!" I shouted.
"You will not speak again," she said, voice cold as riverstone, "until you have learned respect."
I turned and strode from the hall, my heart hammering so loud I thought they could all hear it. I did not stop until I reached the tomb, the silent chamber where the urn rested.
I pressed my palms to the cool stone and felt my throat close. No words came, only the weight of everything I had just heard.
And for the first time since the night of his death, I wept.