Loss of one heir

CHAPTER 28

LINDIWE – POV

Morning came quietly.

Too quietly.

The palace was still wrapped in mist when I stepped outside, the grass wet beneath my feet, the sky pale like it hadn't decided what kind of day it wanted to be. I didn't bother with breakfast. Hunger had left me days ago, replaced by something sharper.

Purpose.

I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders as the car drove me deep into the hills, far from the palace, far from ears that listened and eyes that judged. This wasn't a place you stumbled into by mistake.

This was where people came when love failed.

Bab Nyambose lived where the road ended.

The air felt heavier the moment I stepped out of the car. Thick with smoke, herbs, and something old. The kind of place where time didn't move forward—it circled.

He was already waiting.

Sitting near the fire, eyes closed, as if he had known the exact second I would arrive.

"You are late," he said calmly, without opening his eyes.

"I came when I was ready," I replied, lifting my chin.

He chuckled softly. "No. You came when desperation outweighed fear."

That stung—but I didn't deny it.

I sat opposite him, the fire crackling between us. He studied me now, slowly, carefully, like he was reading something written beneath my skin.

"You carry anger," he said. "But anger is not why you are here."

"She took what is mine," I said bitterly. "And she doesn't even understand the world she's entered."

Bab Nyambose leaned forward slightly. "The woman you speak of… she carries something."

I frowned. "She carries arrogance. Disrespect."

His eyes sharpened.

"She carries life."

The words landed wrong.

I laughed once, short and sharp. "No. That's not possible."

Silence.

Even the fire seemed to quiet.

"You didn't know," he said slowly.

My breath caught.

"What do you mean… didn't know?"

Bab Nyambose stood, towering now, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "The ancestors don't whisper for nothing. The child she carries is not ordinary."

My heart slammed violently against my ribs.

"A child?" I repeated, my voice hollow. "You're saying… she's pregnant?"

He nodded once.

"With an heir."

The word echoed in my head, crashing into everything I thought I understood.

An heir.

Not just hers.

His.

The room spun for a moment. I gripped the edge of the mat beneath me, nails digging in.

"No," I whispered. "That was supposed to be mine."

Bab Nyambose's voice dropped, grave. "That child shifts power. Bloodlines. Futures."

I looked up at him, something dark settling in my chest.

"What must be done?" I asked.

He didn't answer immediately.

When he did, his words were slow. Deliberate. Heavy.

"The heir cannot be allowed to arrive."

My throat tightened.

"You mean—"

"I mean," he interrupted, "that some destinies are too dangerous to be born."

Fear flickered through me.

Then jealousy drowned it.

I thought of Olerato—her quiet strength, the way the ancestors themselves spoke through Emihle for her. The way Khayelihle looked at her like the world had finally made sense.

She didn't even know.

Didn't even understand what she carried.

"You're asking me to destroy a life," I said, my voice trembling—not with guilt, but with the weight of the choice.

"I am asking you," Bab Nyambose replied, "if you are willing to protect your crown."

The fire crackled louder.

I closed my eyes.

For a second—just a second—I saw a different version of myself. Softer. Loved. Chosen.

Then I remembered the silence in my marriage. The rejection. The humiliation.

I opened my eyes.

"Do it," I said quietly. "Whatever needs to be done."

Bab Nyambose nodded once, like this answer had always been inevitable.

"Know this," he warned. "Once the path is chosen, there is no return. Blood calls blood."

I stood slowly, my legs unsteady but my resolve sharp.

"She doesn't know," I said. "She doesn't even know she's carrying an heir."

He smiled faintly. "Ignorance does not protect destiny."

As I turned to leave, the air felt colder.

Somewhere, far away, Olerato Moagi was breathing, living, dreaming—unaware that a decision had just been made about her body, her future, and the life growing inside her.

And for the first time…

I wasn't afraid of what I'd become.

I was afraid of what would happen
if I didn't stop her.
OLERATO – POV

Five weeks.

That's how long it had been since everything changed.

Life didn't stop—it never does—but it slowed in strange places. I was back at work now, walking the same hospital corridors, wearing the same white coat, answering the same calls. On the outside, I looked like Dr Olerato Moagi again.

On the inside, I was different.

I counted the weeks quietly in my head when no one was listening.
One month. One week.

Pregnant.

I had made my decision.

I was keeping my baby.

I didn't announce it. I didn't celebrate it. I carried it like a secret tucked deep inside my chest, protected by silence and distance. Especially distance from Khaya.

We were still dating—on paper, at least. We talked. We laughed sometimes. But I kept a part of myself far away from him, guarded. What had happened in Cape Town never left me. I just learned how to fold it away and keep moving.

That morning, I arrived early.

Too early.

The hospital was quiet in that comforting way it gets before the rush begins. I greeted the nurses, signed a few files, then retreated into my office, closing the door behind me like I needed a moment to breathe.

I lay back on the examination bed, heart racing—not with fear, but with anticipation. I reached for the ultrasound gel, my hands steady but my chest tight. This had become my private ritual. My reassurance.

I lifted my top slightly, applied the cool gel to my stomach, and picked up the probe.

"There you are," I whispered softly, more to myself than anything.

The screen flickered to life.

And there—

Movement.

Small. Real. Alive.

A smile broke across my face before I could stop it. Tears filled my eyes as relief washed over me like a wave.

"Healthy," I murmured, my voice trembling. "You're growing."

I stared at the screen longer than I should have, committing every detail to memory, like if I looked long enough, I could protect this moment forever.

A knock interrupted me.

"Olerato?"

I quickly wiped the gel, sitting up just as the door opened.

Lihle walked in, already smiling. "I knew I'd find you hiding."

I rolled my eyes lightly. "Doctors hide too, you know."

He laughed, walking closer, his presence filling the room in that familiar way. "I missed you."

I shrugged. "You saw me last night."

"Still," he said, grinning. "That doesn't count."

For a moment, things felt almost normal. We talked—about work, about silly things, about nothing important at all. I laughed, genuinely this time, and for a second I forgot how careful I'd been.

Then I felt it.

Warm.

Wrong.

My smile faded.

"Lihle…" I said slowly.

He stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

I looked down.

Blood.

Bright against the white sheet.

My breath hitched violently in my throat.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no…"

My hands shook as panic crashed into me all at once.

"My baby," I screamed, scrambling off the bed. "My baby!"

Nurses rushed in. Voices overlapped. Hands steadied me as my legs threatened to give out. Lihle's face drained of colour as he reached for me, helpless.

"What's happening?" he asked urgently. "Rato, talk to me!"

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

All I could see was red and fear and everything I hadn't protected enough.

They moved me quickly—back onto the bed, monitors attached, calm voices trying to anchor me while my world collapsed inward.

Minutes felt like hours.

Then Doctor Pule arrived.

One look at his face told me everything before he even spoke.

I shook my head weakly. "No… please."

He took a slow breath. "Olerato… I'm so sorry."

My chest tightened painfully.

"You were carrying twins," he said gently. "One is still strong. Stable. Healthy."

I blinked, confused, tears spilling freely.

"And the other?"

He lowered his eyes.

"You lost one."

The words shattered something inside me.

I let out a broken sob, clutching my stomach instinctively, grief and relief colliding so violently it hurt.

One gone.

One still here.

I cried—not loud, not dramatic—but deep. The kind of crying that comes from losing something you hadn't even fully known yet.

Lihle stood beside me, silent now, his hand hovering uncertainly near mine.

I closed my eyes.

I had lost one child.

But I was still a mother.

And this time—
this time—I knew.

Whatever came next, whoever stood with me or walked away…

I would protect the one who stayed.