Beneath the Hum of the Bees

Requeening the Hive: Part I

May 16, 2017

Dear Liya,

As you know, there is an ancient saying in Ethiopia about the art of beekeeping:

“When the daughters grow wild, it is time to send for a new mother.”

What you need to remember is this: sometimes the hive grows hot. Sometimes the gentlest of bees become hostile—proving aggressive when unprovoked. They will swarm. They will sting in large numbers. They will grow restless—following their keeper for miles. Their tempers will intensify, making tending to them perilous.

When this happens, it is impossible to calm them—even with smoke and persistence. You see, dear Liya, sometimes the bees cannot be forced to become what they were not meant to be.

Now, the hive can grow frenzied for various reasons, and a good yeẖonch-aby keeper will always take care to discern the root cause.

All too often, however, it’s the queen—her genetics. She may pass off defensive traits to her offspring—or, her pheromones, which regulate the workers' behaviors, may weaken.

This said, it can be difficult to determine if it is she that falters, or if some outside force is to blame. Because of this, my recommendation is to wait—to wait and watch the bees.

Bees are intelligent; they sense their queen is unfit before we do. If you wait—the signs will present themselves. A hot hive is the first clue. The bees grow furious, for nature depends on them whilst their inner kingdom crumbles into anarchy.

Rejection comes next: watch for anger that gives way to passivity. The bees will ignore her—no longer honoring her dances, no longer feeding or grooming her. This is when you’ll know it is her, Liya—when you'll know it is she who breeds chaos. This is when you’ll know it is time to requeen the hive.

And with the requeening of the hive comes the removing of the old queen. You did this with me once—when you were eight. Remember? I guided your hands into the hive to scoop her out, and together, we held the fragile heart of the colony in our palms.

It can be emotional, Liya. In fact, it can be world-shattering for many yeẖonch-aby. But it is necessary. And it must be done with respect.

So, when you cull her, do it gently. Use smoke to calm the hive; brush her gingerly from the brood with your fingertips. A single, firm pinch on the thorax is sufficient.

Then, more waiting begins.

You must wait 24–48 hours before introducing the new queen. It is essential the colony is given time to realize it is queenless; to become ready to accept a new leader.

One day, Liya, you shall requeen the hive—just as you once did.

If you take anything from my words, let it be this: do not underestimate the power of patience. Do not let urgency cloud your judgment. Wait—wait until you are sure. Wait until the moment hums as the hive does.

And let the colony guide you, my bee.

With much love,

Your Father

My father loved to talk about the bees. I, however, prefer to talk about time—its enigma. And, it’s been eight years since I last set foot in this country. So, there’s plenty of it for me to ponder.

Eight years, Luel. It’s been nearly a decade since I worked in my father’s apiary—since I tended to the wild and sacred Ethiopian forest hives in the way of the ancient nibi ānabī. Eight years since I sought permission from the bees to draw myself near enough to honor them—to breathe the smoke of our rituals into their earth-walled hives. To whisper the words of melkam and yegna to their queen.

It’s been a lifetime since I prayer-danced under their buzzing nests. I can barely remember the last time I marveled at their woven bamboo temples—watched them sway in the breeze from the acacia trees’ crooked branches. We used to hold hands and witness the pollen of the kosso blossoms riding in on their backs at sunset. Then, we’d stay up with the stars, knowing that same pollen would become the nectar of gods by dawn. Do you remember?

Part of me hopes you do—dreams we can bring that scene back to life.

It’s been eight years since my parents’ divorce. Eight years since my French mother persuaded me to leave this country—and its bees—to relearn this storied profession in Forcalquier, where she's native to. To be retrained as a mademoiselle apiculteur the way she was taught—with its artisanal steel smokers, precise, lavender-fed honey harvests, and delicately-painted pine boxes—with its refined savoir-faire. To be indoctrinated in a rhythm so far removed from the organic pulse of this gentle, wise land.

And, it’s been eight years since I’ve seen you.

Has too much time passed for you to bother?

I’m mulling over the question, too timid to descend toward the village. There, I've been beckoned to perform a task I’ve done once before: the task my father’s death has summoned me to fulfill for the second first time.

Except, I'm a vagabond now. I wonder: will they accept her?

This weight hangs over me. I’m an unhived bee—caught between two distant colonies—struggling to slip past the tightly wound folds of the fragrant Antirrhinum flowers.

However, I must belong here.

They say scent is a time machine. From where I stand on the precipice overlooking the Great Rift Valley, the aroma of honey and petrichor hangs heavy in the air.

I take a deep breath, allowing the earthy parfum to unfurl in my lungs. My mind is a dreamscape of nectar-drenched memories, but it’s my body that knows I’ve been here before.

I just have to step down. C'mon, Liya.

I’ve waited up here long enough, I suppose. The old queen has been culled; the colony has recognized her absence.

It’s time.

Requeening the Hive: Part II

July 1, 2017

Dear Liya,

Let her arrive with grace.

If you have waited the 24-48 hours, the colony will be ready for her. The bees will be at their most receptive to a new leader.

So, let her arrive with grace.

She should make her grand entrance bedecked in the softness of gauze and eucalyptus leaves; the cage that contains her should be held like a jewel box.

She will have been chosen for a very specific temperament and degree of resilience. These qualities are not arbitrary. And, because the opportunity to teach you how to properly choose a new queen never presented itself during our brief visits, I have left this matter to Luel.

Trust him with this, Liya—no matter what happens between you two. He is like a son to me. I have trained that man well.

Remember: the queen’s arrival is not just a change for the colony—it is a renewal of life. Approach this moment with reverence and patience, for the hive senses your deepest intent.

With all my faith,

Your Father

The buzz of honey-making and humanity rumbles below me as I tread down the slope of sunbathed, red dust.

My father’s Ethiopian apiary, itself, is a beehive. As I inch closer, my diminishing bird’s eye view clings to the sight of the hundreds of busy yeẖonch-aby beekeepers zipping between nests. Their arms carry frames full of honeycombs this way and that—their bodies weaving about the majestic, century-old twists of the acacia trees.

Ethiopian beekeepers are unlike their European counterparts. They do not wear the white, spacesuit-like uniforms favored in France. Instead, they layer themselves in natural, earth-woven fibers suited to the climate. As a custom, the yeẖonch-aby allow themselves to be vulnerable to the bees; to be approached by them. There is little to no barrier between human skin and the hives. Here, bees are not feared—they are worshipped. In turn, the bees of this country are exceptionally gentle—attuned to the respectful reverence of those who keep them. And because they are honored this way, their honey is among the sweetest in the world—often described as "a song of flowers and heaven."

I bite my lip as I inch closer. I’ve been here several days—listening to and tending to the bees: waiting to ensure they're ready for the new queen. However, I’m still petrified. My father must survive by me, and I cannot fail him. With his death came the disarray of the Mother Hive—the oldest hive on the farm, here since the day papá pressed the wood and wax of this place together with his two bare hands. The Mother Hive is the ancestral core of the apiary. It stands apart for its legacy, buzzsong, and golden, sun-sweetened yield. And, without a suitable queen, it will perish.

That’s why I’ve come. Mostly. I’ve come because my father’s dying wish was that I be the one to requeen the Mother Hive, for his old queen began the process of leaving this world when he did.

I came, despite my mother’s reluctance—despite her desire for me to dedicate my hands to the vast thyme and lavender fields of French elegance. I came, even though my father’s tight-knit apiary family could hardly pick me out from a swarm of hornets. I came because today, we will hold the sacred ye‑adisūʾənät merätä together—an intimate Ethiopian ceremony: "the crowning of the new mother."

I’ve only requeened the hive once—when I was eight, beside my father’s meticulous hands. Even in France—where I’ve spent the majority of my apiary existence—I've never been honored with this privilege.

Of course, you’ll be there, too...

In all honesty, this is what truly has me on edge. You’ve been away, visiting a reputable breeder off in the lowlands—spending the week selecting and negotiating for the new queen. Today, you return.

You return for the ceremony.

You return to honor my father.

You return to see me—performing an ancient ritual where I'm certain to make a fool of myself.

As I step onto the apiary's packed earth, the sweat on my brow is cooled by the shade of our eldest acacia tree. There, once—under its sprawling, twisted branches: beneath the drowsy hum of the bees and the soft glow of moonlight—we shared our first kiss; we fell in love.

My heart begins to race as I approach the tree. I can’t look at it for too long—too many memories cling to its veins.

I walk past the tree’s tall, winding limbs, which canopy its feathery leaves toward the sky like a parasol. The buzz of the Mother Hive thrumbs against the shells of my ears as I sidle by. I don’t look at it, either—not yet. To acknowledge it is to belong. And, I still can't decide if it welcomes me here.

The scent of burning eucalyptus wafts through the air. Its smoke tendrils pull at the deeply-woven roots of my memories like hatchlings of spring, yanking at worms.

My caution is one thing, my longing another. I can't fight the ache—I do hope I belong.

Luckily, I’m early: the bees have retreated to their hives to rest before the ritual. It gives me some peace to realize they've followed my wait—that they haven’t yet placed the enatamu stones in their circular, ceremonial formation beneath the Mother Hive, nor have they sent their Amharic prayer-songs whispering on the wind. They've yielded for me.

I breathe. It appears I'll have the chance to finish my ye’abät mänor—a special garland I’ve made from the sacred, dried flowers of my father’s most cherished hive bloom. Papá knew the bees well—often followed them to the bright yellow bursts of the adey-abeba blossoms to admire them at work. He’d curl up under the grand Father Hive—falling asleep to the beat of their wings, saying their voices spoke to him on the breeze.

“The hum of the bees is a lullaby,” he’d say, “a promise that life shall continue.”

I’m thinking about the life shall continue part—wondering if it will apply should I falter today. I’m about to veer off for my garland when there's a tap on my shoulder.

I turn, and—although I’m immersed in a kingdom of bees—it's a flurry of butterflies that stirs my core. It’s you.

I stare into your honey-brown eyes, unsure what to say. The last time we saw each other… it didn’t end well. You were never too fond of my need to appease my mother.

My mind races. Damnit, Luel… I think, be a gentleman and say something.

It's obvious you can read my distress. You grin, shaking your head.

“Don’t say it, Liya.”

Your voice is calm. Upon hearing it, what little composure I have crumbles. I do the opposite of what you tell me to do, like always. I say it:

“I’m gonna make a goddamn disaster of this, Lu.”

“Nonsense,” you swiftly interject. Your words are as resolute as ever.

“It’s the truth. I don’t belong here anymore. My mother's turned me into some femme de la ruche—I've forgotten the way of the yeẖonch-aby—of the sacred and wild.”

Your eyes watch me, sparkling with warmth.

“Then speak some more French to me,” you tenderly jest.

I fight back a smile—and the butterflies. “I’m not sure what my father was thinking—asking this of me.”

“He was thinking like a true yeẖonch-aby. You know that, Li. This place was meant to be yours. It always has been.”

I allow a small grin to bloom on my lips, then change the subject.

“Did you get a good queen?”

You wink.

“She’s definitely the one.”

I take in a breath. Above us, the sunset has faded to indigo, cyan, and stars.

I look across the humming green to the workshop.

“I better finish my ye’abät mänor,” I say, stumbling over my Amharic. I flinch awkwardly, meeting your gaze. “See you at moonrise?”

“See you then,” you say.

Requeening the Hive: Part III

July 9, 2017

Dear Liya,

It all comes down to this, my bee.

There is no question: introducing the queen to the colony is a keeper's most emotionally charged moment.

You can only hope—never know with certainty—that the bees will accept her. And if they don’t, they'll destroy her.

The queen represents renewal, survival, and continuity. This is the reason we begin the ceremony at moonrise and end at dawn—to mark the hush between what was and what will be, and to bless her reign with first light.

Remember: carry her cage like a jewel box.

You will place her crate between the frames of the brood. As you know, the entrance is blocked with a thick, sugared wax. This gives the colony time to grow accustomed to her pheromones. Then, wait 3-7 more days. It’s simple, really.

I know—more waiting. But it is worth it, I promise. If the right queen has been chosen—if the colony embraces her as their own—the bees will eat through the plug and release her; her rootlessness will fade into purpose.

Remember, Liya: patience is your greatest ally in this ancient, sacred dance.

You must trust the rhythm of the hive.

With love,

Your Father

The moon is big and bright as the colony approaches the Mother Hive. Most wear robes dyed with nectar and pollen. For me, they’ve sewn a honeycomb-laced gown, woven with threads of spun gold and the tiniest of seed pearls.

As we make our formation under the elder acacia tree, I look across to you. You’re adorned with a burgundy cloak that's been stitched with the threads of midnight and sun. Your eyes are pure stars as you watch me. God, you look better than I’d imagined.

In my hands, I carry the queen. I try my best to hold her as delicately as a jewel box, but I’m trembling. Sweat trickles down my backbone despite the night’s docile breeze.

I'm not ready, but everyone begins chanting:

“Endətə-mäta-bäts’ät’a-yəməṭṭa”—Let her arrive with grace.

“Märrəchawa-əndiyadärg-ädadis-heywät”—May her reign bring renewal.

Then, once the scents of the myrrh and frankincense begin to burn and marry—I know that it’s time.

I’m done waiting, papá, I think.

I make the sign of the Miləkit, and everyone turns to face me. I don’t know how or why, but you’re suddenly at my side.

You give me a small nudge on the arm. That’s right, I've forgotton—you're to dust her with the memory of sacred blossom. You—the one who's chosen her for us in my father's place.

I smile and turn to you, then open the lid to her gate. I expect you to pull the dried adey-abeba flowers from your pocket. Instead, you reach your warm hands to my neck, gently plucking my father's preserved petals from my garland.

You look in my eyes as you do so, catching sight of the tears welling up at the depths of my soul. In this instant, I realize how vulnerable I am. I wonder if the hive can taste the great ache beneath the sugary wax of my will.

But your gaze reassures me. You place the petals in my hands and cup your palms over my own—and together, we crush them.

As the sun-colored fragments spill from our skin, the breath and the heartbeat of the ritual flow back to me.

I've done this before—once with my father; now with you.

With the dust of the adey-abeba sifted over the queen, it is time—at last— to lay her in the hive. I set her down among the bees—the entire apiary beholding me.

As the bees begin to chew at her sugar-wax gate, I don't pray they'll accept her—I know they will. I've been gifted that confidence by you.

I am filled with love as we sing the tribe's hymn of pollen and balm—the moon succumbing to the apricot daybreak above us. I fall asleep to the sensation of my father's land—his spirit—seeping back into my soul, returning to where it belongs.

When we awaken, we're the only ones left below the elder acacia tree—our bodies nested together under its great Mother Hive. We look into each other's eyes, then kiss for the second first time beneath the hum of the bees.