The Silence of the Reeds
Princess Kandundu sat inside her hut, leaning against the woven reed wall.
The reeds still held the warmth of the day.
Outside, the palace was in mourning.
People moved slowly across the courtyards. Some cried openly. Others walked in silence, their heads lowered. No one spoke loudly anymore.
Kandundu did not move.
Her hands rested in her lap. They were still, but not calm.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.
The news of her father's death had arrived that morning.
There had been no warning. No preparation.
Just words—and then silence.
And after that, everything changed.
Kandundu's thoughts drifted without her allowing it.
Back to the riverbank. Back to her father's voice.
He would sit under the baobab and speak about the Aluyi.
Mwambwa.
Mbuyu.
The river. The law. The memory of their people.
At the time, she had listened without fear.
Now those words felt different. Heavier.
By afternoon, the palace had filled completely with mourners.
Kandundu could hear them through the reed walls.
The royal drums — the Kenda na Vafwa — continued outside. Steady. Unbroken.
The xylophone tones of the Kamuyongole followed softly between them, slower, like something trying not to fade.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
The sounds did not comfort her.
But they reminded her that things were still moving.
Her sisters were close.
Monambeza sat near the wall, her shoulders pulled inward. Her eyes were red from crying, and she kept wiping her face without realizing it.
Katoka sat closer to the doorway. She kept looking outside, then quickly looking away again.
Namatama, their meyana, sat quietly between them. She did not cry loudly. She only watched everything carefully, as if holding herself steady for the others.
Liyunyi, her attendant, stayed near her.
She did not speak much.
But sometimes her hand touched Kandundu's arm—lightly, just enough to remind her she was not alone.
Kandundu finally spoke, her voice low.
"Grief huh," she said.
After a while, Monambeza spoke.
"It feels like the palace is empty," she said quietly. "Even though everyone is here."
Kandundu looked at her.
She moved closer and took her sister's hands.
"We are just… not used to this kind of silence," she said gently.
Monambeza frowned slightly, still lost in grief.
"I don't like it," she whispered.
"I know," Kandundu replied.
Katoka shifted suddenly.
"But if Father is gone…" she said slowly, "why does it feel like he is still everywhere?"
Kandundu turned toward her.
Katoka's voice was uncertain, not fully formed.
"He used to speak to us," she continued.
"He used to tell stories. Now… even the river feels quiet."
She looked down.
"Does the river forget people?"
Kandundu softened immediately.
She moved closer and brushed Katoka's hair back.
"No," she said. "The river does not forget."
Katoka hesitated.
"Then why is it quiet?"
Kandundu paused.
That question reminded her of something her father had once said.
That the river remembers everything. That nothing is truly gone.
She did not know if she fully believed it now—but she remembered it clearly.
"Because it is listening," she said carefully. "Like we are."
Katoka nodded slowly, but she still looked unsure.
Namatama finally spoke.
"Grief does not make you weak," she said calmly.
"It shows you what you must now carry."
Her hand rested lightly on Kandundu's shoulder.
"And right now, they are all looking at you—even when they do not say it."
That stayed in the air.
Kandundu did not answer immediately.
She could feel it already. Not as pressure—but as reality.
Her sisters were grieving.
The palace was grieving.
And somewhere beyond all of it, life was still continuing.
Outside, the voices of mourners rose again.
Low. Broken. Continuous.
Kandundu listened.
Not just hearing it this time—but understanding it.
The kingdom would not stop for her grief.
And neither could she.
She exhaled slowly.
And for the first time that day, her breathing steadied—not because the pain was gone, but because she understood she had to keep going.