by Robi, Carol
But there they are, white robbed Maigi people with carriages of gold, silver and precious gemstones, and the silken robbed Moreno people with their desert horses, loomed cotton and gemstones being borne by their servants too.
The Moreno and the Maigi are much similar people, though they’d hate to acknowledge it. It’s like we Bakoria and the Maaso, whose culture and physique we resemble so much, yet take pains in denying.
The Maigi and Moreno are slightly shorter than the average Bakoria adult, but taller than the Migo people. Their skins are lighter toned than ours, and they dress up in endless robes falling to past their feet, sweeping the ground they walk on.
“How could anyone in their right mind dress up in so many robes covering their full body?” One of my peers asks.
They must wonder why we choose to prance around naked, I think to myself, but choose not to voice.
It’s clear that the Maigi and Moreno think themselves superior to us. Even father has been heard saying so numerous times.
“They think us uncivilised savages,” I remember him saying while chuckling. “If our army wasn’t so strong they’d have driven us out of here as fast as they could, or attempted to put us in servitude.”
His words had sent a chill through me, and it must have been the moment I first sent a prayer to the gods, urging them to help me grow up fast, and make me fertile enough so that I may birth twice as many sons as my mother and do my part in supplying my people with warriors to protect us.
Standing here, looking for the first time in my life at these more civilised people in alliance with our kingdom, I realise that my father had indeed been right in his assessment. They do hate us. They do think they are our betters, and for that alone, I hate them already.
If I was king, I’d see to it that they pay us more dues, more than the wagon of gemstones they send us every three dry summer seasons with their royal delegation. I’d double it- no they can afford that. I’d triple it, or quadruple it- whatever amount I need to do to cripple their economy. For it is their wealth that is the source of all their evils. It is their wealth that affords them to employ servants to carry out all their tasks, which gives them idle time to think of silly nonsense like being better than others. Their idle hands give them time to think of attacking the Migo people and pushing them out of their lands so as to control the iron mines. But I’m not a king, and pondering on such matters is beyond me. What I should be worrying about at this moment is making a young mura fall in love with me. That thought causes me to chuckle to myself.
All the four brother kingdoms come for the trade days, bringing their wares with them, and as usual the Bagumbe coffers receive a ten percent tax for hosting the market on our land and providing the security and necessary services.
The market days are a success, ending with a dance performed by the Migo people, right before they hand over the wagons filled with iron that is payment for our protection. The Maigi and Moreno caravans are then shepherded away, with Bakoria warriors escorting them for days past the Migo lands, just to ensure they don’t attempt any funny business. We might be allies, but the Bakoria brother kings keep their northern allies on very short leashes.
The western market ends, and once again our youthful attention is directed towards the lazy afternoons at Pride Lake and the evening fetes. I’d be frowning about it, except I don’t have to dread those moments spent husband hunting as I spend them hidden. Immersed in water when at Pride Lake, or hidden behind gourds when at evening fetes. My poor parents probably think I’m capturing some boy’s heart. I’m not. My sister’s don’t miss my presence one bit. Weigesa sees nothing else but her betrothed, whom she’s soon to marry, and Matinde enjoys herself too much flirting with young warriors to disturb herself with my whereabouts. In fact I suspect she’s relieved that I’m not constantly in her path. This hiding arrangement helps all parties, including myself.
About catching myself a husband, I’m not too worried. I have no preferences except that I’d rather not get married. But if I must, which I know I must, then I’d like it best if he’s kind, and amiable and patient. That is my ideal husband. I’ll birth him children, many of them that’ll keep him happy, and then I’ll help him in picking out a second wife that will be more to his liking, for I know any man that would marry me is only because they’d like marry into the royal family. That’s the truth, hurt as it may.
So when the partying season draws to an end, and the cold winds start blowing our way, I’m happy again, glad to be left to the confines of my home for the most part of it.
Chapter 11
“I fear I may never marry,” I say chuckling.
“Nonsense, my prince,” is the chorus from the bevy of maidens around me.
Chacha and I exchange a look, holding back the laughter bubbling up in our throats at the obvious overzealous ways with which these girls are appraising me. I feel like a bull been sized for slaughter before a major feast.
And it is that appraisal that has been the source of my worry these past seasons, worry that though I have all the tools to ensure it, I may never really marry the right girl that will make me happy. I of all people ought to be able to have this, been that everyone tells me all girls in the kingdom want to be my future wife. Then why can’t I find her? The right one.
I’ve always wanted something like my mother and father have. I grew up in a simple home with one father, one mother, my two sisters and my two brothers. My father is a happy man, in love with my mother who loves him back very much, and they are happy with us, the children they have begotten.
It is culturally acceptable among my people for a man to have as many wives as he so pleases, but I’ve personally always frowned upon the matter. Apart from the case of barrenness, I see no reason for one to marry more than one wife. It is a practice me and my peers liken to men wishing to prove themselves as men, which is code for saying they often are poorly endowed men out to prove themselves. Like that oaf, Maga Irege, the king of the Bairege. I’d never insult my father’s brother king aloud, or even insinuate it, but it is no secret what other brother kings think of him. My father dislikes him too, though he may never say a word. Father says he’d support me no matter what wife I choose, but unvoiced but clear are his wishes that I ought to stay clear from the Bairege royal family, and all Irege princess. And by gods are there many of them, as their king seems to be getting himself a new wife every so often, and his seeds appear to still be fertile.
“You could marry anyone you wish, prince,” one girl peeps.
“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Nonsense,” the girls giggle among themselves.
“A good thing, of course!” Another voice calls.
“You could marry us all if you so choose!” One girl voices, to which I laugh heartily.
“My my! Marry hundreds of wives. I’d be one very worn out man..” A sudden laugh, high, sharp and very short sounds, right before I hear it’s owner take in a sharp breath to attempt to restrain herself, as though embarrassed for having made a sound.
I turn around in the direction the others around me have turned, just to see curled wisps of dark hair disappear under the water, as princess Nyangi, Matinde’s sister, buries herself under the water in embarrassment.
I chuckle to myself as all those around begin to laugh. She’s quite a queer little thing. Never wants to speak to anyone, and even has a lot of trouble just meeting people’s eyes.
I’m not particularly fond of her. She ignores me, and once went as far as to disrespect me by walking away when I was speaking to her! She’s rude and downright insolent, and seems to think she’s better than me. What nonsense! I’m crown prince. What is she? A princess, who’ll marry a regular warrior somewhere and thereby lose her title, from whence she’ll be just another regular Bakoria woman bearing dozens of babies and helping her husband to tile the land.
She’ll most probably find herself in a loveless marriage, because I don’t see her doing anything to talk to young warriors and try
get to know them. She’ll get offers, because everyone wants to marry into the royal family, however disagreeable the princess or plain her looks.
However when the laughing goes on some more, and the time stretches on, and yet the insolent princess doesn’t come back for air, I begin to worry despite myself. She has anxiety issues, that much I’ve deduced over time. It’s why she hides so much, at parties and youth fetes, and here at Pride Lake. I fear that with all the attention of her peers directed towards her, she’d rather let herself suffocate than come up for air and face them.
I move then, sliding off the rock I’m perched on to land in the water. I dive in and catch sight of her, crouching down there, waddling with her arms so as not to come up, wide light brown eyes staring at me unblinking as I approach her.
She shakes her head at me, as though telling me to stay away and leave her alone. She must be insane! I’m not about to let the daughter of my father’s brother king suffocate herself right before my eyes.
I ignore the plea in her eyes, and dip lower, her eyes widening with surprise when I place my hands on either of her arms and forcefully yank her back up.
When we break through the water surface together, laughter still ringing around us as people look on in amusement, it’s anger that burns bright in her eyes.
How ungrateful! I just saved her life!
“Are you crazy?” I scold her, now unable to keep my cool anymore because I need her to understand just how fatal her stubbornness could have been.
“Are you insane?” I ask her yet again when she refuses to answer me, violently shaking her thin body with frustration. She refuses to answer me, looking at me as though I’m inconveniencing her in some way. “I hope you know that people need to breathe to stay alive, princess!” I grit the words between my teeth, before letting go and turning back to the girls I’d been talking to earlier.
Chapter 12
I hope you know that people need to breathe to stay alive, princess! I repeat the words to myself silently, staring up at the dark ceiling as my sisters snore lightly in slumber on their separate bunks a few feet on either side of my own.
How insolent of him! What does he take me for, a fool? Of course I know people need to breath, I think to myself in anger, crossing my arms and running them up and down my upper arms as a slight shiver chooses to shake me then. How odd I should shiver, considering we are in the middle of the dry summer season, and as usual a lively fire is burning away in the outer room.
I chance in that moment to creep quietly out of bed so as not to disrupt my sisters’ sleep, and walk out to the outer room so as to tend the fire regardless, as it’s clear I shall not be getting any sleep any time soon.
My emotions are in far too much turmoil to settle for the night as yet, as I keep replaying the scene at Pride Lake earlier today.
Why did I laugh? I scold myself for about the hundredth time. Why why why? If I never laughed, all that wouldn’t have ensued. People wouldn’t have noticed me at the exact same time and turned their eyes my way.
I push the poker into the flames, igniting some sparks as I remember the seas of eyes that had turned my way. So many eyes- big small, wide, narrow, far apart and near, dark, light, red, bright- just so many eyes looking my way. But most undoing of all, are the slightly narrow sharp dark brown eyes that were aimed at me, almost amusement glinting in them in appreciation of my catching on on that particular jibe he’d made. His eyes. And that was the moment the pressure became too much and I decided to hide.
Given, it was a rather silly way to hide- immersing myself in water. Why didn’t I think of swimming away? I could only remain underwater for so long, but I was pretty sure I’d be able to outlast their laughter. Probably not outlast their tauntings, but outlasting their laughter was good enough for me.
And then the oh so gallant prince decides it upon himself to save me, as though I were in need of saving. I suffer from anxiety, not suicidal tendencies! Has he absolutely no way of discerning the difference? How dare he think me as silly as the airheads among my peers, who are always at his beck and call, at the mercy of his most overtly divided attention.
I hope you know that people need to breathe to stay alive, princess! What utter nonsense to say to me! I fret again, running my hands over my arms yet again, his touch earlier today yet still branded on my upper arms. A glowering burning under my skin, set there by my mind, refusing to let me be, insisting that I remember the folly of my actions, and how he’d been forced to touch me to save me from my presumed fatal decision.
I stay there, crouched before the fire, for a long while more as the night keeps cooling away, cooling so much that a cold draft blows in from under the door. It’s only when my feet begin being frozen to stone despite the fire, because of the cold draft against the stone floor, that I force myself to bed again.
I climb back into my bed, fold my knees so much that I touch my cooled feet with my fingers and my forehead to my knees, crouched into as small a ball as I can manage, that I do finally drift off to sleep.
It’s the first of many nights that my dreams are accosted by memories of his eyes burning through mine, and his hands holding me up by my upper arms. But it’s not fury that accosts my senses at his audacity, but rather a new kind of awareness that leaves me flustered and hot. A new sensation altogether for me.
Although Wei’s wedding date is fast coming up, my parents are reluctant against imposing on me to stay at home and help, and graciously permit me to go to Pride Lake and fete engagements in the evenings to celebrate my youth with my peers. I dislike them for it at the moment, for they are blatantly refusing to acknowledge the fact that I’d rather remain at home and help with the preparations than go out with my peers.
“Mother, I could help with packing up the..”
“Nonsense dear! I’m sure your sister wouldn’t want to impose on you so..”
“Surely you’re wrong on that matter. Nothing could be more pleasing to me than spending my last days with my sister and helping her with her wedding preparations,” I plead, but mother stands her ground.
And these are indeed my last days with my sister. Not that I’m never to see her again after she’s married off to the love of her life all the way in the Bairege kingdom, but that after she’s married, she’s no longer to be my sister.
Bakoria laws and customs state clearly that the moment a woman marries, she renounces her family name, ties and titles she held before, and takes up those of her husband. Wei will soon be married, and my sister shall be my sister no more, but the wife of the Bairege king’s nephew. She’ll stop being referred to as a Bagumbe princess, and she shall cease terming father as father, when in public, but refer to him as Maga Bagumbe, king of the Bagumbe. She may not even have the pleasure of referring to him as my king anymore, for father shall not be the king of her people. He shall be the king of her brother people, for she shall become a Bairege after her wedding.
It is a tradition I dearly detest, for I never wish to be so forcefully uprooted from my home and my family. It is yet another great reason as to why I’m so aversed against the idea of calling myself a wife. But if I must, then in Bagumbe I shall remain. Among my people, where I can still call father my king, and mother my queen, though I mightn’t call them father and mother before others other than my immediate family.
If I must marry, I shall marry a Bagumbe warrior, I think to myself again, and in that moment slightly narrow dark brown eyes accost my thoughts, as a burning sensation sears my upper arms, that has me taking in a sharp ragged breath.
Whatever is the matter with me, that his eyes and touch should unsettle me so!
The gods are kind, for he’s not at the Pride Lake the day after, but he comes nearly each afternoon thereafter. He comes in all his glory, knowing well that the attentions of most of the girls in the four brother kingdoms would be directed his way. How insufferable, strutting so beside his stallion, laughing cheerfully with his peers about something or other funny he might have said, as in
sensible girls wading in the water or perched on the pale yellow beach or large rocks basking under the sun turn their attention towards him and his peers with interest.
I see the confident smile on his face, the way with which his fingers run down his thick mane of perfectly braided hair dyed a deep red as is typical of Bakoria warriors, his other hand holding his spear upright, sharp end up, because for some obnoxious reason, our Bakoria warriors believe spears should not be far from a warrior’s hands, to which they’ve interpreted as that they should almost always be in their hands.
I reluctantly notice his well-chiseled chest and back muscles as his hand drops from his hair to his riding beast, stroking the animal tenderly, a motion I’d never expect from him. I’ve never particularly thought of the Nyabasi crown prince as a tender man. He seems to be whispering to his beast, who then harrumphs, as though disagreeing with whatever his master is saying.
Good zorsey! Resist this charm everybody seems to think he possesses, I think to myself, my whole body as usual immersed in water, this time placed more towards a corner formed by two rocks upon which and around which my peers are poised for this afternoon. The object of my attentions chooses that unfortunate opportune to turn our way, and almost as though certain of where I’d be hiding this afternoon, his eyes narrow down to exactly where I’m all hidden, but for my nose and my wide round eyes, and I see the open amusement on his face.
I hate it, I do! The near shudder that arresting gaze sends my way, the way my breath catches at my throat as though I’m awaiting his order to complete my exhale. I hate that my arms, at that very spot where his long calloused fingers branded when they encircled my arms- I hate that the spot chooses this moment to burn hot, reminding me of all that happened play by play. And his eyes, those eyes focussed on me sear my senses inside my head, as they accost me in this brief moment his gaze sweeps over me.
For the first time in my life, my senses listen out keenly for one’s presence, his, noting every minute thing he does as though I was suddenly to be quizzed to witness all matters pertaining him.
