The last day of the Festival… A story from one of the Tribes.
This chapter went through so much editing. Happy to post ^^ YouTube Playlist Spotify Playlist
-:- An Old Story, or Why You Must Pay Attention, Child -:- Accompaniment: Chahar Mezrab by Mohammadreza Shajarian In the beginning, there was a great trade route that spanned from the sea north of the continent to the southern tip. There were many trade routes crossing the continent every which way, but this one went through a very special place, the Abundant Valley. The Abundant Valley, nestled in the embrace of great forested mountains and around the coils of a mighty river, was mysterious and mystical, so much so that most of the great roving tribes of traders took detours to avoid that part of this great north-south highway. Still others who did not fear the land were eventually encouraged by those who lived there to traverse the continent by other paths. But one great trading tribe, a Conglomeration of trading clans, was not afraid, and was also gracious enough to win the toleration or even the amity of all the peoples whose lands they crossed as they passed through on their way from sea to sea. These traders, having crossed every corner of the continent, eventually came to the opinion that the Abundant Valley was the most beautiful and fruitful place in the world. When times came that some region on the continent was dangerous to traders from wars or banditry, or barren to traders in some other way, the clans would bend or curtail their travels. When this happened, they travelled somewhat less to the north or to the south, but always they crossed the fertile place. When the seasons turned unfavorable to travel, each clan of the Conglomeration would settle to winter until the roads opened again. When possible, any clan of the Conglomeration would seek to do their settling in the lush green of the Abundant Valley. Over time, as it rose in popularity as a looked-for wintering place among the clans, it became a regular reunion place for the entire Conglomeration. After generations of this, they came to see those lands as much their home as the wide open roads of their ancestors. And they came to see the other peoples of the Abundant Valley as their neighbors. The traders of this Conglomeration made great exchanges with some of these peoples, to the benefit of all. One such exchange led to the migration of an artisan people from the north, who after abandoning their ancestral lands, heard of the lush forests and fertile ground from the traders, and followed the trails of the trade route in great migration to settle at last in that special place. Eventually there came a time when the abundance of this Valley, and of the surrounding mountains and forests, riverlands and grasslands, gave rise to such ample numbers of their inhabitants that they all had to become more wary of each other, expanding their claims on territories in ways that could be mutually incompatible. Those tribes that were warlike became threats, and many peoples formed alliances in mutual defense. The Conglomeration of the clans realized they faced a choice: to commit to their claim on their now traditional settling places in the Abundant Valley, and remain there all year in great number to defend it, forsaking their long-travelling trading ways, or to abandon the Abundant Valley to the claims of others and consign themselves back to the lonely roads from whence they came. As you know, children, the ancient clans held council where all could speak, and discussed it at great length, until finally it was decided to the satisfaction of all that the Conglomeration would stay. They settled for good and made alliances, and over time some of their alliances became unions, the beautiful merging and mixing of peoples down the centuries toward what we are today. But at that time, deciding to stay and defend their territory, alliances were not enough to rebuff the threat of neighboring tribes. And so they fashioned spears and built their defenses and trained all their youth to fight, and thus made ready for war. And war might have come, great and terrible war between any number of the peoples in or around this Abundant Valley, had not the Great Goddess Bast decided to make her own claim. The Great Panther Goddess was worshipped by our ancestors of the Conglomeration long before they settled in the Abundant Valley. Since making the Abundant Valley their collective wintering place generations before, they had erected shrines, temples, and monuments toward some few of their greatest patron deities, as well as the local gods of this beautiful place. By the time of the Great Settling many of the neighboring tribes had come to worship Bast as well, including those who were now bristling toward war with each other. And this is how great our Glorious Bast is: Other gods had long been good to the oldest inhabitants of the Valley, and still other gods had been benevolent patrons of the trading clans in their ancient travels- we had been healed by Sehkmet and gifted with rains by Quzah and shown which trees to fell by Hanuman and which fields to till by Ishe, but at the brink of war none came forward to preserve us, all of us, but Glorious Bast. There were war gods, or gods of strength in arms, that this tribe or that tribe appealed to to preserve them and lay low their enemies, but the Wise and Compassionate Mother Bast wished to preserve us all, for She was worshipped by us all, and She loved us all, in our diversity. So She did not allow us to go to war, to rend the soil and destroy our youth. Instead, She visited the warrior Bashenga, of another tribe, led him to the heart-shaped herb, and guided him to take it, creating the first Black Panther. As Her champion, Bashenga came forward and united the tribes of the Valley. Her work not done, Bast had Bashenga continue, to unite with us the tribes beyond the Valley- people up in the mountains and from the nearest corner of the grassy plains. In fact what She connected together were the parts of these disparate regions which held the influence of vibranium scattered from the meteorite which brought it millions of years ago. Bast, in Her wisdom, declared that any part of any region which bore the element would be Hers. And so was founded the nation of Wakanda- whose peoples were united even as they remained distinct tribes with distinct territories. Over time these peoples and their cultures evolved toward the five tribes that remain today: River Tribe in the Valley’s floodplains and verdant fields, Border Tribe in the grassy plains, Mining tribe around the Great Mount, Jabari Tribe perched in the mountains, and us, Merchant Tribe, in the Valley’s foothills. Before the tribes took the shape we know them in now, before Bast had even elevated Bashenga to unite us all, She had been included in the worship of all these peoples, among our varying pantheons. The antecedents of these five tribes came to venerate Bast above all the other gods in their pantheons, and She continued to guide and guard us, as She does to this day. She deigns who will become her champion as Black Panther. She singles out those she favors with Marks of Blessing, and sends visions to guide our priests and leaders. She inspires our most learned scholars to rise to the greatest heights of knowledge anywhere in the world. When our loved ones die, She and Sekhmet lead them to the green veldt where they join our ancestors. As the Great Panther that She is, She is as fierce and dangerous as she is protective and benevolent. She has cursed those who displeased Her and warded off the ravages of plagues, famines, droughts, and outsiders all these long centuries. It is for all these things and more that we honor Her with the Festival of Bast: for what She has done, for what She does now, and for what She — and we — will yet do. Thus are the three days of the Festival. The first day is for what has gone before- we venerate Her for the forming of Wakanda, we celebrate the evolution and consecration of our Tribes, we honor our ancestors and all who have passed since the last Festival. The second day we celebrate what is- we make offerings for any child born in the last year, we give thanks for present blessings in shows of great public works, and we honor the current king and Black Panther in observing the King’s Dance. And finally, on the third day, we look to the future. We make offerings for those who are expecting and war dogs embarking on missions. We make supplications for future ventures and good health. Most importantly, we give glory to Bast for all Her guidance and renew our pledge as a people, one people, to venerate Her. This is the purpose of the Sacred Affirmation, the last and most beloved part of the entire Festival. It is the moment where we say the words acknowledging Her, praising Her, and pledging our continued worship for the year ahead and for all time. This moment is the culmination of the entire Festival of Bast. So on the third day of the Festival, surrounded by singing and dancing, the king will enter the Great Plaza of Bast, past statues of Her and Her divine consorts through the ages, monuments to Her greatest interventions, and memorials to our most celebrated Black Panthers and Bast-touched ancestors. Then, at the foot of the Divine Bast, the largest statue to Bast within the walls of any city, the king as Her chosen avatar will lead us in the ancient words, said in unison by every member of our kingdom. And every single Wakandan joins, whether in attendance at the Plaza or watching gathered together somewhere else, or even alone. Even those who cannot stop working to attend a celebration will pause their duties for that moment to watch with their kimoyo beads and say the words together. Even war dogs stationed far from home, if they can, will slip off somewhere discreet to whisper the words in time with us. Every Wakandan learns the Sacred Affirmation by heart, even if we only say it once a year: so we can say it perfectly together. As small children you said the words without understanding their full meaning, but now you are old enough to understand the gravity of it, so that you will mean what you say like all adults do. For we know it is a pledge to Bast, and a pledge to each other. It celebrates Bast, and celebrates our unity. It is a joyous declaration of our communal love for this land, for our history, and for each other. -:- Zaid -:- Accompaniment: Sinenkani feat. NaakMusiQ and DJ Tira The Great Plaza of Bast is packed. This early in the evening the heat would make most seek shelter, but the large plaza is blessedly cool and lively for the occasion. The ‘plaza’ is actually five in one. The four lower ones are rectangular, named for their cardinal directions. Each plaza boasts several monuments, statues, fountains, and gardens along with shrines and varied gifts to the goddess. They all feed into a raised central square where Divine Bast, the capital’s largest monument, stands at its center. Zaid is seated by the balcony railing on a rooftop courtyard of a building at the edge of the West Plaza near the upper square. In between sips from her drink and occasional messaging on her kimoyo beads, she listens to the chatter around her and the noise below. The courtyard offered a perfect view of not just the lower inner West Plaza but the higher central square where the king’s procession would conclude at the base of the Divine Bast. All throughout the plazas, large floating holographic displays cycle through videos and live views of nationwide celebrations along with regular updates of the king’s progress through the city and the day’s festivities. Zaid signals an attendant who refills her glass and offers her delicacies on a platter. She declines with a shake of her head. Considering she was the one to create the recipes and design the arrangements, she has eaten enough of them. Two levels below, her evening cooking staff are following her recipes to replenish the servers’ trays even now. Recipes she adjusted as the event demanded, and which she had to correct and re-correct as others below her tried to meddle and undo her creative work. When the attendant moves on to the next person, she opens a mirror on her kimoyo beads to check her face. She decided to go for a more traditional look this Bast Festival and wear her clan’s lineage and tribe affiliation in the lines of her face paint. The deep purple looks almost blue in the golden afternoon light and accents her long hair which she’s allowed to fly free in the style of two carefully arranged afro-puffs. The action also lets her observe some of her fellow event managers and their staff without being too obvious. Were certain things different, Zaid would be celebrating with relatives outside of the capital, but this year she was chosen as the lead catering manager for all Panther Tribe hosted events. Among those assembled in the courtyard, there were space co-ordinators, decorators, horticulturists as well as other food specialists or caterers, and the various other logistical directors for the Festival’s many Panther Tribe-hosted events. Some of them she had worked closely with, some she was meeting now for the first time. Among those with whom she had coordinated these last few weeks, she has made no friends. That much is clear, now that the event is largely over, and so she sits alone at a table for three while others within their assorted cliques and groupings sit three to six to a table. Zaid doesn’t mind, at thirty-nine she’s made peace with some of the facts of Wakandan life, particularly in the capital boroughs that bordered the palace proper. Zaid was one of the king’s personal chefs for only a scant two months before he offered her the chief catering manager role for Bast Festival. She hadn’t been expecting it, but she took the offer anyway. Her rapid ascension marks her an outsider and interloper to the group gathered on this beautiful rooftop courtyard, an assortment of mostly older and seasoned faces. Most here didn’t think she was qualified for the king’s personal staff let alone up to the task of managing the food arrangements for all Panther Tribe hosted events during one of the most important celebrations of the year. Zaid doesn’t take offense; in fact, she agrees with them. Someone who’s largest event until last month ran under 30 people had no business catering for hundreds. Yet the king chose her anyway. It brings a small smile to her lips as she switches from considering the small mirror to reading the newest messages on her kimoyo beads. ‘No answer yet.’ The message comes from her trusted assistant, Lamide, who she hadn’t asked to come with her today, so he was actually enjoying this holiday. The message is referring to a deal she’s been trying to make for the last month or so. The delay in the vendor's response was unusual, but she’s not surprised. A number of her usual brokers have either suspended current trades or stopped altogether to focus on liquidating certain assets or making mass acquisition of others. Such reactionary trading has been escalating ever since their king took the throne. ‘I checked the Lending Tree database, there are a number of recurring trades missing from the record, we're not the only ones having issues.’ She responds to his update. Out of the two or three hubs that hosted local and global transactions for different industries of Wakandan commerce, the Lending Tree is the preferred hub for Merchant Tribe global traders like herself. When she signs the word ‘Lending Tree’ for her kimoyo beads to render in text, she sees another notification from her friend Imani. She waits to open it and continues her exchange with Lamide. ‘Do you think they’ll back out?’ Lamide asks. ‘No idea, it’s all speculation.’ Her usual contacts within the markets for foreign goods aren’t as reliable as they normally were. Wakanda’s local-goods traders were having a much easier time of it. Not much changed day to day, in most localities. It was a different story for the global traders, even continental ones that dealt with essentials like produce and raw materials were now no longer consistent in moving their goods. It’s not yet a reason for concern; change in leadership typically encouraged more reactionary trading. King T’Chaka had reigned for nearly three decades, many had gotten quite comfortable with his way of handling things, along with the accompanying local leadership structure of appointed and elected officials. ‘Hopefully things will settle down when all the new trading chiefs are named. I don’t think our pick will be named chief deputy for our district this time, and I have no idea who will replace them.’ Their favorite was appointed nearly a decade ago and is unfortunately overdue to be replaced. There have been a slew of new appointments along with new procedures on foreign trade and communication—both guaranteed to make traders concerned. She’s been hearing some very interesting whispers from her networks; it encourages her to be optimistic even if her usual vendors are not. She offers her guess,‘Uzo might be next, they had a nephew selected as a palace attendant this year.’ Said nephew would no doubt be seeking advancement and positions for his family. Across the courtyard, laughter erupts at a table of six and Zaid looks over for a moment before turning back to her message feed and observations of the crowds below. The source of the laughter is Ekalu, a large-set woman with thick braids. Ekalu is an established attendant to the queen dowager’s retinue. The woman was River Tribe (naturally, as were most in this courtyard), beautiful and with a sort of family history and tutelage to make any provincial house swoon. A dime a dozen in boroughs at the center of the capital but still impressive. Ekalu had worked under Zaid along with a few others at her table these last few weeks and resented Zaid for it. Zaid had displaced the usual Bast Festival head manager—no doubt a cousin or an aunt or a good friend to Ekalu. Ekalu isn’t alone in her resentment. There were only four people in this courtyard of two dozen (not counting the attendants) who currently outranked Zaid. And mustn’t that burn—all these haughty river snakes having to defer to a ‘shop clerk’. Zaid isn’t the sort to let a title go to her head, but she’s not above enjoying their discomfort. The music changes, signaling the beginning of the king’s procession from a few blocks out from the plaza. His path would take him through the inner West Plaza and across to the central square, amid dancing and fanfare. It would take another 30 minutes for the king and his entourage to arrive at the podium. When her conversation with her assistant wraps up she finally responds to Imani. Her friend responds almost immediately and the two of them chat idly. Zaid is still listening to the conversation around her, so she catches some interesting bits from the table to her left. “Can they actually do that? They always brag.” It came from a group of three, one shaved head and two shortly cropped ones confirmed Border Tribe affiliation if one somehow missed their face paint and clothes in coordinating whites and blues. There were more of them in the capital this year. “Who knows, I hear even the rural Border clans will be attending. They never attend these events.” “Well of course they’re attending, one of their daughters made 1st pick for this year’s trials. They have to support her!” “I am still surprised by those rankings, it was tough this year.” “W’Kabi still has one of the best runs I’ve seen.” “You just like the violence Ameen, there have been better—” The conversation changes to something else and Zaid slots the tidbit of information aside for later consideration. It isn’t concrete enough to trade but it might be a precursor to something promising in the future. There have been all sorts of unusual Border Patrol hosted training simulations this past month in preparation for Border Tribe’s annual trials. She doesn’t know anyone participating but what she’s heard is troubling. The next time she checks the central display, the time reads five minutes till the king’s procession enters the plaza. The conversation around her as well as the noise below is beginning to rise in anticipation, and she can start to hear the distant cheering of the crowds just beyond the plaza gates, where the king was passing. Most Wakandans had their favorite events for each day of Bast Festival but this last rite is perhaps one of the most anticipated across the country. The procession music is louder now, and she notes the difference from past years. King N’Jadaka had altered quite a few things this Bast Festival. Political pundits and everyday citizens alike had commented on the changes sometimes positively, sometimes negatively. Zaid, being who she is and having met the man in person, isn’t disposed to liking or disliking him. If there’s one thing she knows as a merchant tribeswoman, it’s that neutrality served her best. This held, even though his decision to forgo the usual event caterer and select her instead was beneficial for her. It’s in her nature to be curious, to collect and curate information—big or small—she comes across. Yet in her current situation she feels almost hesitant to trade the pieces she’s picked up from her encounters with the king and her interactions with those who claimed to serve him. ‘Did he like your tweaked arrangements? You almost bit that seller's head off when he mixed up your orders!’ Imani is teasing, she hadn’t been that bad had she? The ‘tweaks’ Imani is referring to is her own last-minute salvage of a recipe to accomodate a botched food order. An order that had no business being botched so fantastically—the whispers she’s always gathering point toward the palace’s internal conflicts, indifferent to her place in them, but her gut points to sabotage by the ‘friendly’ river snakes she’s had to work with. She isn’t the only one who experienced such suspicious issues either but hers meant she had to rework not one but several recipes. But Imani heard the abbreviated version of the story already, right now he wants to know more about the king. Zaid has only interacted with the king twice in person and a few times over direct messages. Imani has mostly restrained himself from asking Zaid too many questions since she was made the king’s personal chef. Her gratitude for that restraint up to now motivates her to answer with the details he would want to know. She signs back, ‘I saw him eat after the king’s dance yesterday so I assume he liked it. He’s yet to complain to me.’ The best she could hope for considering the alterations she had to make. ‘I’m glad! I was so worried—Did you watch him dance, too? I keep watching the videos. He danced with Hakeem and Isra. Their heads must be so big now.’ He doesn’t need to clarify who he’s talking about for either name. One would have to be living under a rock not to have heard of Mining Tribe Elder’s esoteric grandnephew, Hakeem, an artist and a provocateur with many fans. Zaid has to roll her eyes at the mention of her fellow tribeswoman, Isra. Daughter of famous fashion designer Ishtar. Wherever scandal could be found, Isra was never too far away. Zaid smirks, of course that’s what Imani cared about. “He didn’t seem to pay the same attention to certain others, do you think he did it on purpose?” Imani would know which others she meant so she doesn’t specify any of River Tribe’s finest. From her observation and the little she’s gleaned she would guess no, the king probably had not intentionally avoided dancing with any high society River Tribe. Imani practically cackles, no doubt recalling some of the reactions he’s read online by certain river snakes at the snub. “If he did, he’s going to become very popular with us bedu. He’s obviously the rhinohides’ favorite, there are so many of them in the capital this year!” Imani mirrors most of their tribe in that he held a slight disdain for the Border Tribe. “It would be nice for someone to ignore them a bit. Somehow they will survive, somehow.” The sarcasm in her text is thick. “Mmmhmm. You know I heard from an aunty at the Bureau that some of their guarantor deals didn’t even go through last month. You know we’ll hear about it next tribe meeting, River snakes have been throwing their weight around.’ ‘It will pass, although I wouldn’t recommend making any large deals right now.’ ‘We won’t. Baba has been waiting to see who will be appointed in our district. Then we will know for sure what to expect.’ ‘Good. I’ll keep an ear out for promising trade deals.’ ‘You better! Being the king’s personal chef has to be good for something.’ Zaid is signing a response, something along the lines of she wasn’t the king’s only chef, just his favorite, when the procession music changes, transitioning to announce the king's entrance into the West Plaza. She stands and moves right up to the edge of the balcony, with most of the others on the courtyard doing likewise, as the first Dora Milaje enter. There are fewer rows of red than usual, and she realizes the missing Dora numbers have been supplanted by—Is that Border Patrol? Interesting. Not just Border Patrol, there are War Dogs among them too. The dark blues and white of the War Dog uniforms and the bright blues and black of Border Patrol contrast with the traditional red of the Dora. It reminds her of the military formations in historical dramas. The displays all around the plaza are showing the same closeup images featuring the king front and center with Border Tribe Champion W’Kabi to his left and General Okoye to his right. King Consort T’Challa follows, flanking the king and behind the Border Tribe’s champion. The implication of the arrangement is something she already knows certain circles will read much into. There are more faces in the immediate retinue, some traditional, some not. The head priest, Zuri, is not amongst the priests in the procession, neither is the queen dowager. The procession continues across the length of the West Plaza, parting the colorful crowds, then up the steps onto the upper square. They fan onto the area around the podium, keeping the king at the center of the formation. He stands there, basking in the roars of the crowd, before eventually gesturing to bring quiet. Border Tribe’s Elder, Sampani, is the first to speak. This is a break in the traditional cycle of speakers—this year was Mining Elder Rajvahi’s turn. The Elder gives the opening statements and Zaid tunes out for most of it, as she sends a quick response to Imani and continues to watch the crowd, grateful again for the breeze on such a sunny day. Then, frowning, she notices an officer in uniform near the southern edge of the inner East plaza. That would be the sixth she’s seen this evening. Why were there so many Hatut Zeraze in the crowd? Weren’t the numerous Kingsguard on duty this evening enough? The Priestess of Bast, Ibefo, speaks next. The priestess’ invocations are much shorter than previous years when head priest Zuri gave them so Zaid is almost caught off guard when the king steps up to the podium. The crowd below grows even more excited and the roar of applause and cheers preceding the king’s speech and final rite is thunderous. The surrounding courtyard is more reserved with only few, scattered cheers. Some of the hanging decorations lining the central plaza flutter in the gathering breeze. Finally, the moment she’s been waiting for arrives, the reason she had sat all this while on a balcony surrounded by people she wouldn’t deem friends: all for this view. Zaid tenses in anticipation, as do millions of Wakandans. Right now, citizens inside and outside of the capital, inside and outside of the country would be tuned in however briefly for this speech and the final call and response of the Affirmation. Whether one was a devout follower of Bast or non-believer like herself, this is a moment where they were all united. Zaid doesn’t consider herself religious but it’s a tradition that genuinely makes her happy. To celebrate Wakanda, to celebrate Bast. It is perhaps one of the few moments they were truly united, in purpose and in spirit. The sheer joy and celebration of these next few minutes could not be replicated or denied, and she feels child-like elation as she waits for the king to speak. King N’Jadaka opens his mouth, a smile on his lips, but then leans back at sudden microphone feedback. The king pauses allowing the reverb to fade, and the moment stretches as do some whispers amongst the crowds. Technical difficulties like this were very unusual for any Wakandan event, let alone one that has been so heavily managed. In the moments after, she looks up to a sky grayer with ominous dark clouds rolling on the horizon. The day had been so sunny, the weather reports promised it would remain so—odd. The king starts to speak and the strange reverberation returns, louder and more foreboding, with people flinching or recoiling as it spikes. Zaid shivers, the temperature in the plaza seems to have dropped by 20 degrees. The dark clouds she noticed moments before have suddenly moved to nearly blot out the sun. The resulting silence is awkward and heavy with confused murmurs from the crowd. Zaid sees the king turn, maybe to ask his lieutenants what was going on, but before he does more than open his mouth the silence is broken by a lightning strike, dangerously close to the large podium, accompanied by thunder that reverberates throughout the plazas. The crowds below start to scream and Zaid’s eyes are drawn up to lock on the great monument to Bast at the plaza’s center. She could have sworn it moved. She blinks away the after-image and she hears another sound from across the west plaza, grinding like an earthquake but lacking the corresponding movement. Everything happens so fast though each moment is scored clearly in her mind, and when the next improbable event occurs it’s all she can do to follow with her eyes, frozen as she is on the rooftop courtyard, now clutching the balcony rail. Below her people scream, shout and run. The screams pierce the deep grinding. The monument to the Covenant with Bast— a towering pillar with the Affirmation inscribed on it located at the very entrance of West plaza—jerks suddenly and then begins to crumble. There is no corresponding lightning or thunder. What had happened to it? Had it been struck by lightning and she somehow didn’t see? Renewed screaming rises from the crowds of the inner West plaza below as they scramble to get away from the large statue, which is tumbling down. She looks around her, seeking confirmation from the others that they too were seeing what she is seeing and finds stupefied, horrified faces mirroring her own. Zaid turns back to watch the impossibility happening before her eyes and exclaims as one poor person is slammed to the ground by the falling debris. She braces herself, expecting the person to be crushed, but then is bewildered to see that they’re fine, emerging from the sand that used to be hewn stone. A quick glance of that area confirms that the pieces were not just crumbling, as if acted upon by some great pressure, but outright dissolving upon contact with the ground. Zaid has no time to process the improbability of what she’s seeing because there is a new source of noise and screaming, closer—this time at the central upper plaza. Not far from the podium and around the king. She blinks rapidly as if it would somehow correct her vision at the sight of honest to Bast panthers circling the king. She would mistake them for some sort of phantom image if they didn’t appear to be cutting him off from his nearest guards. The Dora closest have their spears lowered towards the beasts, obviously hesitant, and she can see despite the distance from her vantage point that the king is frightened. The large displays along the plaza are still recording—millions at home still watching—the incredible scene. She looks away briefly when another statue in the South plaza begins to crumble but she’s soon looking back at where King N’Jadaka is surrounded by circling black panthers. Abruptly, like the clouds now blocking out the sun and the great grinding, King N’Jadaka falls to his knees clutching his throat. He appears to be choking, his panic is mirrored in those surrounding him. The Dora Milaje advance, spears lowered, seemingly unable to break the chain of panthers circling, now growling and lashing menacingly at any who came too close. At that moment it clicks for Zaid finally—watching the king struggle to breathe, on his knees, encircled by panthers, several monuments dissolving on the plaza floor—this is for the king. The weather, the lightning, the statues, the panthers. All signs from Bast, their living goddess, and an expression of displeasure towards the king. Bast be blessed, she hadn’t even allowed him to speak. Then, just as quickly as it began, it ends—the panthers vanish, the ominous noises stop, the dark clouds thin to nothing. She watches along with those in the plazas and millions of other Wakandans as King N’Jadaka collapses face first to the ground. There is a pause and the space of a crater created from where panthers had previously prowled. Then almost everyone converges on the king at once. From where Zaid stands it looks like a wave crashing inwards, except for one person—King Consort T’Challa doesn’t move. The former king doesn’t appear to be frightened at all. There is considerable distance between her position on the rooftop courtyard and the central upper plaza so she could be mistaken but the king consort’s expression in that moment—after such incredible omens— looks pleased.