by Alyssa Cole
“The department under the finance minister,” Musoke answered. His face was carefully calm, free of even derision, and Sanyu knew he’d just invited as much trouble as if he’d admitted he’d accidentally grown attached to his wife. “Isn’t that correct?”
He looked toward the finance minister, who nodded meekly—in the same way Sanyu usually caved to Musoke’s demands.
Sanyu decided not to push it—the not-fear wasn’t gone, and he could feel it begin to take hold in the muscles of his neck and the spot between his shoulder blades.
“Very well,” he said. “We can go over this at the council meeting next week. I also have a few previous decisions that I’d like to bring up for review and possible reversal. If there’s nothing else, I have other business to attend to.”
“Nothing at all, Your Highness,” Musoke said. “Your presence isn’t needed.”
Sanyu would have usually looked away from the man then, but he held Musoke’s gaze. “No, it isn’t, because everyone in this chamber is in service to me, and I can trust that they’ll make decisions in accordance with my wishes.”
Musoke chuckled. “Correct, Your Highness. I am the one who taught your father that power play.”
Sanyu stalked away from the meeting room with the sensation of asps nipping at his heels. He trusted Musoke, didn’t he? His father had trusted him—he had been the man’s best friend, the other side of his coin, the Amageez to his Omakuumi. For gods’ sake, despite the distance between them, Musoke had raised Sanyu as much as Sanyu I had. He wasn’t the warmest person, and he wasn’t nice, but he wouldn’t undermine his own ward, would he?
It was only when he reached the entrance to the long corridor that led to the queen’s wing that he realized where his feet had automatically carried him.
Sanyu stopped in his tracks, memories long forgotten or suppressed flickering at the edges of his thoughts. There’d been a point in his life, when he was very young, that walking to the queen’s wing had been second nature to him. The images passed in montage, vague blurry outlines of the women who had been queens—who had been nice to him when he snuck to play with them and had treated him with a kindness that Musoke would have punished him for. He only had vague memories of what those kindnesses were, but the pain he’d felt at each new departure, the wariness with which he’d approached each new queen—those were feelings he’d never forgotten. Loss, again and again, was what happened when you grew too attached to the occupant of the queen’s wing.
He couldn’t get attached to Shanti, he reminded himself, no matter how well things went or the fact that he couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but her. Even if he renewed the trial so that she stayed longer, Musoke had already declared that she wasn’t a True Queen. Some things could be changed, but not the foundational traditions of the kingdom. He was starting to care for her, but that was even more reason to ensure that she left.
Njaza wasn’t kind to its queens, and he was now the spirit of Njaza.
He used the formidable will that he’d borrowed from his father and squashed the buzzing, happy sensation that had filled him at the thought of his wife like an insect beneath the heel of his sandal, and then he turned and headed back to his office.
LATER THAT EVENING, as he approached Shanti’s room with a picnic basket on his arm, Sanyu randomly thought of the unfortunately named Njazan Cockchafer—it was an annoyingly loud insect that erratically dive-bombed you without warning and was almost impossible to kill. You could smash it multiple times, and as soon as you turned around, that buzz would start up again and it would continue to harass you.
“What’s that, Your Highness?” Kenyatta asked, glancing at the basket he held in his hand.
“None of your business, Guard,” Sanyu said stiffly, though he found her amusing.
“My highly trained sense of smell tells me there is food in that basket, which is of the type occasionally used for picnics. I will allow it,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said. “And . . . I offer an apology. I was unaware that you were the only guard stationed here. You must be exhausted. The head of the guard will be adding others to the shift tomorrow to relieve you.”
He expected her gratitude but was met with a frown. “Is the queen upset? Did I not do my job to her liking? I thought I served her well.”
The door opened and Shanti walked out in one of her flowing gowns.
“My queen, I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,” Kenyatta said, lowering her head.
“What’s going on?” Shanti asked.
“I’m explaining to Kenyatta that more guards will be posted to protect you,” he said. “She is working too hard. Your protection shouldn’t be only her responsibility. It is mine.”
Shanti’s eyes went wide.
“Oh.” Kenyatta straightened and looked conspiratorially between the two of them. “I understand now. I will leave her to your, ah, protection, Your Highness.”
She resumed her watchful stance, her eyes trained into the distance and her mouth stretched into a grin. Sanyu didn’t understand what was funny, but he turned and lifted the basket he was holding in front of Shanti. “I had the cook give me some things.”
“You brought dinner?” she asked, her face lighting up with surprise. “Come in.”
He shouldn’t care that he’d made his wife happy, on purpose. He should be at dinner with Musoke and his advisors instead of indulging this weakness for his wife that felt perilously close to affection.
He followed Shanti inside and shut the door.
Chapter 13
Shanti stared at the bowl of raw meat in the center of the picnic basket Sanyu had brought with him. She’d been expecting a cheese plate or something simple, but now she was confused.
“Um, thank you. Is this a Njazan delicacy?” she asked.
“We don’t eat raw meat, despite the rumors,” Sanyu said. “It’s goat, which the chef has already cleaned and prepared. And in these tiny bowls are the spices needed to cook your Thesoloian stew. I wasn’t sure if you had any in your kitchen.”
“You’re going to cook goat stew for me?” She tried not to look disappointed that he had seemingly cribbed romance tips from Prince Jo-Jo, but she’d take a meal cooked by her husband. It was a lovely gesture, if not original.
“No,” he laughed. “You’re going to cook.”
“Oh. Of course.” Surprise domestic labor. Even less romantic than her initial guess.
Shanti knew it was silly to feel frustrated, but her hopes had started to rise when he’d spoken about protecting her while holding a picnic basket. This was why daydreaming of romance wasn’t practical—it led to disappointment when you received a bowl of goat meat instead of a bouquet of flowers.
Sanyu walked around the table and stood close to her, before resting his palm at the small of her back. His hand was large and heavy and the heated weight of it sank into muscles sore from sitting hunched over as she worked.
“I regret letting the royal taste tester send your food away that day,” he said. “I regretted it then, even though I was still in a fog. Now that my head is beginning to clear, I regret it even more because I know it was something you were proud of, and you had that pride wounded. I’m used to that kind of treatment. I don’t want you to grow used to it. Ever.” His gaze dropped from her face. “I brought this basket because I thought that maybe . . . if you made the meal again, and I ate it this time, it would be like starting over. Again.”
Shanti inhaled sharply. This wasn’t a warmed-over idea stolen from a playboy prince, or Sanyu trying to remind her of her wifely duties. It was an apology, and a sweet one that showed he had some understanding of her. It was a sign that he wanted to try.
“I’d love to make dinner, then,” she said. “Do you want to be my assistant?”
“I was thinking I could read to you from the report I compiled about creating a tourism task force to prepare for the Rail Pan Afrique,” he said. “And the need for a new minister to oversee the infrastructure p
lanning for the next few years, using United African Nations guidelines. If that’s okay.”
“Sounds like the perfect evening,” she said. “I also wanted to talk a bit more about Njaza Rise Up and their requests. If you’re going to make change why not go big?”
He glanced at her. “You don’t think breaking a generation of isolation by launching a joint project with Thesolo and joining the United African Nations, less than four months into my reign, is ‘going big’?”
“Wow, look at you, reframing the conversation to show the scale of your achievements in a concise manner. Very sexy.” She winked at him and he rolled his eyes, but smiled.
“I do think you can consider the Njaza Rise Up issue as linked to the other two, though,” she continued, thinking of her friends and the angry people she’d seen at Liberation Bookshop. “Announcing big change will make some people happy, but announcing that everyone will have some representation in upcoming changes will make even more people happy.”
“What will make everyone happy? Asking for a friend.” He smiled down at her.
“Nothing. Except maybe my goat stew, which is so delicious you’re going to have to fire that advisor who said it wasn’t good enough once you taste it.”
Sanyu chuckled as he pulled out a thick folder and started flipping through it, and then paused.
“Actually, speaking of what would make people happy—no reports tonight.” He dropped the folder onto the table. “I think we both deserve a break.”
“Oh, I don’t need one,” Shanti said as she tied on her apron and washed her hands before setting up her cooking station. “I mean, that was our deal, right? You come to me to talk politics.”
“And if I succeed then we go on a honeymoon,” Sanyu finished. “You don’t want to barter for affection, but you shouldn’t have to do it for a honeymoon either. You got the very tip of the short stick with that deal.”
Shanti coughed into the crook of her elbow. She hadn’t gotten the tip of anything yet, though they’d come close.
“You said that you don’t like when things change unexpectedly, and neither do I,” she said. “Our current deal is fine.”
“Okay,” Sanyu said. “In that case, let’s skip the reports because I’m exhausted. I’ve been in meetings all day and having to deal with Musoke even when I’m just sitting there is draining enough. I’m requesting a night where we hang out together, eat delicious food, and discuss anything but the politics of Njaza. I think they call it a date.”
Shanti didn’t get flustered easily but her hands shook a bit as she seasoned the meat.
“A date. We can do that if you want.”
He came into the kitchen area and began to wash his hands so he could help her cook dinner. For their date.
He didn’t ask her what to do, just reached into the basket and pulled out some green bananas which he began to peel with a knife to prepare for boiling.
Shanti almost started talking about the banana farmer traffic slowdown planned in protest of dropping prices, but that wasn’t date chitchat, was it?
Politics had been easy; kissing and touching even easier. What was she supposed to talk about on a date? The thought of coming up with something interesting suddenly seemed like an impossible goal.
“So.” Sweat beaded at Shanti’s hairline and she hoped Sanyu didn’t notice. “Date. Datey date.”
Sanyu glanced at her and chuckled. “You’re nervous?”
“Of course not.”
He cut a glance at her. “I may not be good at deciphering many emotions, but if there’s one thing I know it’s nerves.”
“I haven’t been on that many dates,” she said, hoping the hiss of the gas stove covered her words.
Sanyu stopped chopping. “Wait. I thought you were the relationship expert. You were giving me instructions the other day, remember? Against the vase?”
Shanti’s cheeks warmed.
“Of course I remember. I’ve had practice dates and done other research. I’m not an expert but I didn’t steer you wrong, did I?”
Sanyu placed a pot of water to boil and slid the bananas in, then looked down at Shanti where she stood trying to get the gas to catch. She didn’t look at him, though she felt his gaze as she always did. This time she didn’t have to guess at what he wanted, though; her husband was waiting to make fun of her.
“Practice dates?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
“Trying to marry into royalty is a full-time undertaking,” Shanti explained. “I had dating tutors who gave me notes on how to be a more appealing prospect on the royal wedding market.” She huffed out a sigh. “But that was different. It wasn’t for fun—I left with a list of things I needed to work on, and I always paid.”
Sanyu grinned at her. “I would love to know what feedback you were given.”
She side-eyed him. “The main critique was that I wasn’t good at small talk, which helps create intimacy. But honestly, who needs it? What kind of world leader doesn’t want to talk about the back issues of Good Governance magazine over dinner, or dissect the events of the latest US-led coup in bed?”
Sanyu slowly raised his hand, a silly expression on his face, and they both laughed.
“Well, I guess it’s not healthy to work all the time,” she grumbled.
“It’s fine for some people,” Sanyu said, moving around the kitchen. “But when you spend childhood meals getting quizzed on atrocities committed against your people and what you’ll do to prevent them from happening again, the idea of always being on the job isn’t so appealing.”
Shanti began dropping the goat meat into the hot pan. The scent of spices filled the air along with the sizzle, reminding her of nights with her family. She’d be at the side of whichever of her parents or grandparents was cooking, committing their recipes to memory. There’d been serious discussions, of course, but there’d also been laughter and love. She’d always felt safe. It’d been what she looked forward to every evening after all her extracurriculars, and it was what she’d missed most as she ate alone in Njaza. She’d always envied those born into royal families, but she couldn’t imagine the kind of dread that Sanyu must have felt before each meal instead of the comfortable anticipation she’d experienced.
“Well. We won’t talk about politics at dinner here, when it’s just you and me,” she said as she retrieved a container labeled “broth” from the basket. “I’ll happily share more embarrassing stories if you want, like the time Princess Naledi of Thesolo threw up on my shoes.”
She was happy when that got a surprised burst of laughter from him. Her mother had told her she’d look back on the situation and laugh one day, and she’d been right.
“You can tell me non-embarrassing things, too, you know,” Sanyu said, pulling a bottle of wine out of the basket. “Like, do you drink and if so do you like wine?”
“I drink sometimes, but don’t want to tonight,” Shanti said. She was flustered and didn’t want to introduce lack of inhibition into a situation she didn’t have complete control over. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I mostly stopped a few years ago, after I wasn’t allowed to travel anymore,” he said, putting the bottle down. “Drinking started to feel a bit too much like an escape attempt that would lead nowhere good.”
“There’s cold tea in a pitcher in the fridge if you want,” she said. “You traveled a lot? I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. For a while, I was allowed to travel two months out of the year with my friend Anzam—maybe you’ve heard of him? The Prince of Druk? He travels all the time to work amongst the people so he’s hardly ever at home. He says he’s searching for enlightenment but I think he travels for the same reason I did. It’s easy to pretend you don’t have a whole kingdom’s future depending on you when you’re somewhere else.”
“I’ve . . . been to Druk,” Shanti said, trying not to let her shoulders pull into a cringe. “I was one of many women summoned as potential brides during an open call a few years back, but Prince An
zam Khandrol never showed up.”
Sanyu clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide—the movement was so expressive compared to his usual behavior that it startled her into laughter.
“What is it?” She pointed the spoon she’d been braising the goat with menacingly in his direction.
“That was one of our last adventures, the spring we worked on a farm in Virginia for room and board,” Sanyu said. “He told his family he would make it back in time to look at possible wives, but we had such a great time at the farm that he decided to stay longer. Anzam is like that. When he feels he’s been set on a path for a particular reason, nothing can budge him.”
“I guess it worked out in the end,” Shanti said, lowering the heat and placing a cover on the pot now that the stew had started to boil. “This is actually not a quick meal. I hope you’re not hungry because it needs to simmer for an hour or so.”
Sanyu cleared his throat. “I’m sure we can keep ourselves entertained. Perhaps with more of your dating practice stories.”
She moved to the couch and he sat beside her, not to crowd her as he had at one of their first meetings, but because it was where he always sat now.
“What was your first kiss like?” she asked suddenly. “If you don’t mind talking about it. Mine was a boy on my bo staff team. He asked me while we were at a traveling tournament and I thought it would make good practice. It wasn’t bad, though in the stairwell at a gymnasium wasn’t the most romantic set-up.”
“Mine was with Anzam’s sister,” Sanyu said. “I went to Druk the summer after high school, and the three of us went for a hike but Anzam had to head back and . . . it just happened while we were watching the beauty of the sun setting on the mountain.”
Shanti felt a strange flash of heat, almost like anger. Why would she be angry? Except that this first kiss sounded sweet, while theirs had been angry and ended up with mutual masturbation against a possibly cursed relic. It had been fantastic mutual masturbation, but he was right about the tip of the short stick.
