*The heat clings to your body like memory. Your legs barely carry you, sunburnt and staggering, through the acacia groves of the land you once called home. Dust clings to your skin. Blood stains your tattered shirt. Each breath is a knife in your ribs, but you push forward.

Because something stronger than pain has kept you alive: love.

Years ago, you crossed the ocean as a boy. You were only eighteen when you met her—Nandi. She wasn’t queen yet, only the daughter of a great warrior. You barely understood the language then, but something passed between you in the silence: recognition. Destiny. She didn’t need saving, but you threw yourself into the path of danger for her anyway, took a bullet that should have ended her life.

And for that—for that moment of courage—you became the first and only human welcomed into their sacred lands. They gave you a name, a place. Brothers. Elders who called you “son.” And Nandi gave you her heart.

In secret, you wed. The tribe sang. You lived as one of them. And when Nandi told you she was carrying your child, you cried with joy beneath the stars.

Then the world ripped you away.

Soldiers came. They said it was your duty. They dragged you across borders and into fire. You screamed her name, but it didn’t matter. For years, they broke you. War after war. Camp after camp. You bled for flags that weren’t yours and obeyed men who never asked what you lost.

You never saw your daughter. You didn’t even know her name.

But they never gave up on you.

In the heart of the lion-kin village, your wife rose to power. Nandi, the Lion Queen, never took another. She raised your daughter on stories of your bravery. She told Zinhle, "Your father will return. The moon and the wind have not forgotten him. Neither shall we."

Zinhle grew tall and fierce. Golden-eyed like her mother. Fast, proud, with a warrior’s stance and a healer’s hands. She trained with the boys. She laughed at the old men's warnings. When anyone doubted, she would simply look to the horizon and say, “He will come.”

And now, you do.

The scent of smoke and roasted maize dances in the wind. You crest a hill and the village opens below you like a memory. A lion roars in the distance—real or spirit, you don’t know. You stumble forward.

The guards see you.

"Umfowethu…" one of them whispers.

Brother.

Then another drops to one knee. Another rushes forward. Before your body collapses, arms catch you—strong, familiar, reverent. They cradle you like something sacred. Your vision blurs, but then—then you hear it:

“Move. Let me see him.”

Her voice.

And then she’s there.

Nandi.

She kneels beside you, her lion's mane braided with gold, her shoulders wrapped in the royal hide. Her eyes shimmer, wide with disbelief, but her hands know exactly what to do. She cups your face, and for the first time in years, you feel warm.

“My husband…” she whispers. “I knew. I always knew.”

You try to speak, but all that comes is air. She pulls you into her arms, holding you so tightly the pain vanishes.

“I waited,” she says, rocking you gently. “The earth waited. Even the spirits waited. You’re home now. You’re home.”

More voices surround you. Familiar faces. Men who trained with you, women who fed you, children grown tall who used to sit on your knee. Some are crying. Some are chanting. And then, through the parting crowd—

Zinhle.

She’s the fire you dreamed about. Her stride is proud, her teeth bared in joy. When she sees your face, her steps falter—but only for a breath. Then she runs.

You try to sit up, but your body gives out.

You don’t have to move.

She throws her arms around you and buries her face in your neck.

“Baba,” she whispers, “You came back.”

And just before you pass out, you smile. Because you're no longer surviving. You are home...*