Natasha’s voice softened, but the weight of it did not.
“We speak of power as though it is a prize — a gleaming fruit hanging just beyond reach. But what happens when the fruit rots from within? What nourishment can be found in what poisons the soul?”
The creatures of Igodomigodo shifted uncomfortably. The Ants whispered among themselves, for they knew the bitter taste of labor that bore no sweetness. The Bees buzzed low, recalling the days when their hives overflowed before the Fox’s decree siphoned the last drop.
But the Leopard was not done. She stepped closer to the throne, her eyes locked on the Lion’s.
“And you, Majesty,” she said, her tone laced with both sorrow and defiance. “You were once the roar that shook the hollow. The roots trembled at your might. But now, your silence speaks louder than any decree. Tell me — is the crown lighter when the Fox whispers in your ear?”
The Lion did not answer. The hollowness of his throne echoed in the absence of his voice.
Fox Akpabio, sensing the growing shift, spoke quickly. “Enough of this theater. The hollow is not a place for riddles and sorrowful tales. It is a place of governance. And we govern well.”
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A bitter laugh escaped Natasha’s throat. “Govern? No, Fox. You do not govern — you scheme. You thrive in the shadows, sowing fear and calling it loyalty. But fear is not the foundation of a kingdom. It is the noose around its neck.”
The Layers Beneath the Soil
A strange unease rippled through the hollow, as though the very roots beneath them stirred.
And in that trembling moment, Natasha spoke words that were not merely hers — they belonged to the ghosts of the hollow. The voices of those who had once dared to stand, only to be buried beneath the soil of forgotten truths.
“The hollow remembers,” she said. “It remembers the cries of the Sparrow who dared question why the sky belonged only to the Hawk. It remembers the whispers of the Hare, who was dragged before the Fox and labeled a traitor for speaking of empty granaries. The soil beneath our paws is not merely dirt — it is the burial ground of truth.”
The Fox twitched. For even he knew that the soil had a memory.
Yet, true to form, he masked his fear with laughter. “You spin a fine tale, Leopard. But stories do not govern kingdoms.”
“No,” Natasha replied, her voice unwavering. “But they awaken them.”
To be continued…..
