by Nana Prah
Sule’s eyebrows shot up with a slight curve to his lip, looking so much of Malika that a pang of longing cuffed him in the gut. He squashed it, reminding himself that Malika was miles away.
“Don’t back down,” he said. “If you do, you’ll lose. You can’t serve two masters. Either you commit to going for the win, or you don’t.”
Just as in life.
The referee called the competitors to the fencing strip. After showing their respect, Sule and his opponent, Philip, got into the en garde position. As soon as the official told them to start, Sule initiated an attack that ended with a lunge that landed his sword on his Philip’s hip. The buzz of the score machine stimulated cheering.
Zareb hid his smile behind a hand. Sule certainly knew how to implement coaching instructions. The move had been powerful, but risky because of the chance he’d taken of losing his balance.
Back in position to fight, Sule’s opponent wasn’t to be taken by surprise again. He went on the offensive right away. Sule retreated with ease, not allowing himself to be hit. With a sudden burst of movement, Sule advanced forward. The speed of both fighters made it difficult to tell which of the two scored the point when the signal went off.
Zareb would place his money on Sule. Turning to the scoreboard, like everyone else, he was correct. Applause erupted. It was still early in the three-minute match—the result could go either way.
Back on the piste, the two warriors faced off again. In a move Zareb had only ever done a few times during competitions, Philip advanced and jumped high, crouching in the air before driving his sword down. Sule didn’t stand a chance, although he did attempt to block it when the épée came down on his head.
The crowd had no loyalty. Their cheering rose to near-deafening levels at the perfectly executed manoeuvre.
Sule tipped his head to his adversary.
In the longest, least exciting bout of the match, the next point went to Philip. A tied score. Only fifteen seconds left.
When the fighting continued, the competitors used the advantage they had over the other. Arm extended, Sule brought his rear leg forward and burst through with a classic flèche attack to the chest. Concurrently, Philip had counter-attacked, striking Sule on the inside of his elbow. Sule drove past Philip for a few steps with the momentum of his manoeuvre. When the shrill beep rang out, Zareb couldn’t tell who had scored the point. It didn’t matter when he saw Sule with his mask off, grabbing his sword arm.
Zareb sprinted onto the piste. “What’s wrong?”
Sule removed his hand with a wince. There was a tear in the jacket, and a tinge of red stained the white uniform. Was that blood? The medic rushed over and put on gloves before assessing the injury.
He glanced up at Philip to see him scratching his head and scowling as he stared at the broken tip of his sword. Zareb scanned the area. On the floor, not far from Sule, was a small piece of metal, no longer than two inches. He’d bet that it would fit the end of the broken épée. A broken blade wasn’t a stupefying occurrence. Someone getting injured from it was.
“Let’s get to the treatment room. I need to get you undressed to examine the wound,” Dr Keita said while applying pressure to a gauze she’d put on.
When Sule took a step, the silent crowd cheered. He raised his uninjured hand. The walk to the first-aid room seemed to take forever.
Behind closed doors, Sule sat on the examination table.
“Please take off your jacket,” Dr Keita said.
Sule attempted to shirk away. “I’m fine, really.”
Had the boy taken a blow to the head, too?
“You’re bleeding. We need to see the extent of the damage.” Zareb remained calm as his heart hammered wild and fast.
The doctor touched Sule’s shoulder. “Prince Zareb is right.”
Tearless pleading filled the young man’s eyes as he turned to the medical personnel.
“I’d prefer you to do it,” Sule ground out. “It’s probably just a scratch. The prince should leave. He has a lot to take care of, and I don’t want to waste his time.”
The request had no chance of being granted as Zareb took charge by unzipping and removing Sule’s fencing jacket.
“Wait. I …” Sule swallowed hard as his face scrunched. “I need to tell you something.”
The young man held Zareb’s wrist with surprising strength when he went to unhook the plastron, the underarm protector used as extra protection just in case of a broken blade. The edge of the sleeve had soaked up blood and was hiding the injury.
He ignored Sule and removed the garment. Dr Keita stepped in to inspect the wound.
“Prince Zareb, I’m—”
“Now is not the time,” he said in a commanding tone that nobody dared question. “Let the doctor do her work.”
“It’s a small cut that will need stitches,” the doctor said a moment later. She stood and grabbed a large green case with a white cross on it.
Relieved, Zareb shifted his vision from the wound to Sule’s face. He noticed that the T-shirt didn’t lie flat against his chest. There was something he wore underneath. He reached out.
Sule pushed his hand away before he could. Not to be deterred, Zareb used his other hand and made contact. The garment was hard.
That could be only one thing.
Like a tsunami wave, understanding crashed. His left foot stepped back in order to keep him balanced, to keep him from stumbling as everything he’d experienced with Sule and Malika during the past six weeks flashed before his eyes.
It all made sense. Hoping he was wrong, he looked into Sule’s eyes. “Why do you wear a chest protector?”
Sule flung his gaze to the doctor. “Can we talk about this later?”
Men didn’t have to wear the equipment, but it was mandatory for women. Considering that Sule’s chest was flat rather than with the bumps of a female chest guard, he held out hope that Sule just preferred using it like a few of his male fencing colleagues had. The intuition he’d ignored for so long blazed.
“No. Answer me now.”
“To protect my chest.”
His anger rose. “Sule!”
He lowered his gaze and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it.
“Take off the plate.”
He snapped his eyes up to his. “Prince Zareb, please.”
His stomach sank even further. He already knew what his protégé would say when he pressed. “Then tell me the truth.”
“I use it to protect my breasts,” he said in a small voice. “I’m Malika.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Horrified at how the revelation had gone down, Malika would give anything to know what ran through his mind.
Daring to look into his eyes, all she could interpret was fury. Disappointment radiated from him like the stench from hot garbage.
Dr Keita’s clearing of the throat did nothing to ease the suffocating tension in the room. “As I mentioned, you’re going to need sutures.”
“Does he—” Zareb glared at Malika. “—she need to go to the hospital?”
The woman stepped back a little bit. “No, I can do the stitching here.”
Malika had never had the procedure done, but her older brother had described the injections used to numb the area as worse than obtaining the cut itself. To keep her mind off the incoming torment, with a heavy heart, she watched Zareb stalk across the small room, lean his shoulder against the wall, and cross his legs at the ankles.
His casual appearance didn’t deceive. Those flared nostrils and hardened eyes told her everything. Their budding relationship had crashed before it had gotten the chance to lift off the ground.
Swallowing, breathing, even just existing for these few moments became the hardest of her life. She’d had love. He may not have been in love with her, but she’d fallen in a way that had bound her to him. No matter how he felt, she’d always love him. She held out hope that the strength of her affection could keep them together.
Doubtful.
&
nbsp; She shut down the pessimist and chose to believe. There was no other option she’d accept. She’d infuriate him even more if she leapt and begged at his feet for forgiveness. That would come later.
“It won’t take long, Your Highness,” Dr Keita said while preparing. “You can return to the competition if you’d like.”
“I’ll stay.”
The next twenty minutes weren’t as bad as her brother had made it seem to be. She tolerated the numbing injection with a sharp inhale through pursed lips.
Distracting herself from Zareb’s looming presence across the room, she watched the needle disappear then reappear again on the other side of the wound three times over.
After covering the dressing with one last piece of plaster, the physician arched her back in a stretch. As she cleaned the organized mess she’d made, Malika closed her eyes. How could she initiate the necessary discussion she needed to have with Zareb?
“I’ll change your dressing in two days. Keep it dry, which means protecting it with plastic if you decide to shower. The sutures will stay in for ten to fourteen days, depending on how it’s healing.”
Where would she be when it was time for them to come out? In the palace, or tossed out on her ear and having returned back home?
She had to find a way to make Zareb understand.
After cleaning her hands, the doctor helped her to dress in the clothes Zareb had retrieved from her locker during the procedure. It had been the only time she’d been able to relax. The secret was out, so there was no need to bind her breasts, but she didn’t have a bra with her, so she kept the binder on.
The doctor held out a packet of pills. “I’m leaving you some pain medication. You were lucky. If the sword had gone any deeper, you may have severed a tendon.”
It could also be said that the freak accident had to be one of the unluckiest things that had ever happened to her. Of course, she’d get stabbed through protective gear with a tournament épée, then expose her true gender to the man she’d fallen in love with. Karma had a nasty way of saying, “Gotcha!”
The doctor exchanged words with the prince that Malika couldn’t hear.
“Let’s go.”
The fierce anger in Zareb’s voice caused her more anguish than being stabbed.
She swallowed around the heavy lump in her throat and swung her legs over the edge. Light-headedness took over when she stood, so she leaned heavily against the cot.
Her lover made no attempt to assist. A sword piercing her and then getting sewn up hadn’t made her cry. His indifference brought on a burn behind her lids. Wrestling her pride to the forefront, she tamped down any sign of weakness.
Applause and shouts greeted her as she stepped into the gym. She raised her left arm and waved as she meandered to the area she’d sat for most of the tournament when she hadn’t been competing.
Once seated, her last opponent came up to her and bowed before he squatted so they were closer to eye level.
“I’m sorry for the pain my broken épée has caused you,” Philip said with the softy rolled ‘r’s of a South African accent. “I never would have expected such a thing to happen.”
“It’s okay. It was a peculiar accident.” She held out her bandaged arm. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad. Thank you for an energetic match.”
Malika wondered if he’d feel the same if he knew he’d fought a female. Males and their egos could never be predicted.
“You, too.”
She still had no idea who’d won. They’d both landed solid strikes at nearly the same time. Logic dictated that since she could no longer fight, her adversary would proceed to the next round.
What did any of it matter since the price had been losing both her coach and her man?
Curiosity wouldn’t allow her to stay silent. “Who won that last point?”
“I did.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement, allowing good sportsmanship to rule her response. “It was well-earned.”
“Thank you.” He offered his hand, and they shook. “I’m sure that I will meet you in future competitions. Until then, I will practice defending against infighting.”
Malika chuckled.
Her gaze drifted to Zareb. His back was rigid, and she could hear the terse instructions he gave to the coaches and officials while assessing the clipboard of the matches which had occurred during her fix-up.
He turned and caught her staring. Without reaction, he pivoted, giving her his back.
Not even her initially inspired optimism could prevent the depressing harshness that smacked her at realizing that she’d officially lost him.
***
“May I have your attention please?”
Scanning the room from the podium at the front of the gym, Zareb’s traitorous gaze kept up its pull to Malika against his will. Having anything to do with the woman who’d made him out to be a huge fool was the last thing he wanted, and yet, he kept glancing in her direction to make sure she was okay.
His skin prickled when Malika’s mouth puckered as she shifted positions. Was she in a lot of pain? Maybe she needed something stronger than what had been prescribed. Why should he care?
He’d been an idiot. Even his toddler nephew had greater deductive skills than him to have figured out that Sule and Malika were the same person. He’d known from the beginning that something was off about Sule. His gut had tried to warn him. Why hadn’t he dug deeper?
An ear-piercing shriek made the crowd groan. He loosened his grip on the neck of the microphone.
When silence prevailed, he announced the winners for the various styles.
The fourth, third, and second-place winners for the male épée category claimed their places when called. “The first-place champion is Philip Nkosi from South Africa.”
The crowd cheered for the man who had beaten Malika by one point at the last second and gone on to win two more matches.
To be fair and honest was the only way he knew. He’d revealed to the other coaches and officials that Sule was a woman. He’d been the one to bring up the question of disqualifying her. They’d read through the competition’s by-laws. There was no rule which stated that same genders had to fight each other.
He’d left it up to his officiating team to decide Malika’s fate. They’d unanimously agreed to give her the fifth place that she’d earned.
Being a woman didn’t downgrade the scores she’d obtained. Instead, it had impressed everyone.
Left with one last certificate to distribute for the participants who didn’t place, he tapped the paper, struggling to keep a scowl from his lips.
“Congratulations to Ms. Malika Ahvanti who entered the competition as Sule Ahvanti. We’d like to wish her a speedy recovery.”
Malika stood and walked with her head high towards the front. The crowd’s murmurs gathered volume before wild applause and shouts of encouragement shook the gym’s walls.
The electrical zip in their handshake jarred him. Looking into her eyes was a no-go area, so he gave his attention to the camera as he presented the certificate, wanting the moment to be over so he’d never have to see her again.
The honourable side of him reared up. As much as he hated to admit it, he had to take partial responsibility for her competing with the men.
Yet, understanding the deception didn’t eradicate the extreme sense of betrayal of having gone through it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zareb raised a fist to pound on Zed’s apartment door, then thought better of it. It would be a shame to wake his nephew if he was asleep. Not that he’d mind being around the energetic boy, but Rio would bite his head off, and Zed would enjoy watching it happen. He settled on a regular knock.
When the door opened, so did his mouth. “He’s a woman.”
Zed backed out of the way. “What are you talking about?”
He whipped around from the other side of the room. He wouldn’t have to explain if his brother had stayed at the tournament lo
nger than the opening ceremony. “Sule is Malika.”
“Still not clear.”
Clenching his jaw, he relaxed it only after taking a few rounds of the room. Ever since he’d learned Malika’s devious secret a couple of hours ago, he’d been jumpy with the need to express his frustration by smashing his fist into anything that came near him. A foreign experience that he wished to do away with. There would’ve been a lot less to explain if Zik hadn’t been off on one of his grand adventures.
Zik would’ve witnessed the debacle first-hand as he was the only one who enjoyed fencing almost as much as Zareb did. The rest of his family had left the tournament as soon as the photo ops had been completed.
“I just learned, through a freak accident, that Malika and Sule are one and the same person. She’s been pretending to be a male.”
He dropped onto the couch and held his drooped head in his hands. “I’ve been an incompetent imbecile for letting a deceptive snake get so close to me. I knew something was off with Sule, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.”
He scrubbed his palms down his face. She hadn’t even lied about liking men when he’d questioned her male counterpart after kissing him.
Zed’s smirk fuelled Zareb’s frustration.
“Bro, this has got to be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said before breaking into an uproarious round of laughter.
Zareb’s temper peaked.
His brother wouldn’t be so amused if he knew the angst he’d experienced over this sham. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a juice so that he wouldn’t leap forward to throttle his twin. Popping the top, he drained half the bottle while Zed got himself under control.
Zed wiped the tears of mirth from his cheeks as he sighed, indicating the end of his entertained state. “You know our mother had everything to do with this, right?”
“Malika couldn’t have gotten in without her support.”
Zed snorted. “It was probably Mama’s idea. I should’ve picked it up when she didn’t question me when I went to get Malika’s contact info. She kept going on and on about how wonderful she thought the young woman was, knowing I’d relay every word. I hate being played.”
