The Hive

The Hive

The hive sits in the hollow of a baobab, on a slope above a lake so vast its far shore dissolves into haze.

The entrance is narrow, edged with propolis black as dried blood. The bees squeeze through one by one. They do not linger. They do not look back.

Inside, the combs hang in golden sheets. The hum is constant-but lower now. Slower. The hum of bees who have learned to be quiet.

Deep in the baobab's heart is a hollow the workers call "the basement." From it comes a muffled buzz-a protest stifled. The workers hear it. They do not acknowledge it.

The queen has not flown in thirty seasons. Her wings are useless. She is swollen, immobile, fed by workers she no longer leads. She eats now-not pollen, not nectar-something else.

Next to her chamber is the drone's. Smooth walls. Polished. He does not gather pollen. He does not build comb. He performs. He dances of blindfolded bees. He dances of lessons and languages. He dances as though nothing can bring him down.

The workers watch. They understand. They do not respond.

Because silence is survival. Because the basement is hungry. Because the queen's chamber expands. Because the drone's dance plays on.

I have watched this hive for forty seasons. The honey has thinned. The hum has lowered. The workers have grown small. The basement has grown full.

I asked myself: What happened to the hive that promised to be different?

The disease.

The disease that came from the wasps.

The disease that makes bees forget they are bees.

The disease that makes them believe they are wasps.

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If you see a lake, you are mistaken.

If you see a country, you are mistaken.

If you see yourself...

That is your reflection.

Not my ink.

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The hive awaits.