Masquerade

by O.O. Sangoyomi

Memory is Master of Death, the chink in his armour of conceit. —Wọlé Ṣóyínká, Death and the King’s Horseman

in this moment, all I see in front of me are two beautiful sisters.” He winked at me. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. My mother, on the other hand, remained unamused. She had worked with far too many precious metals to be impressed by the silver of the stranger’s tongue.

an odd glint appeared in his eyes, illuminating them—no, that was not it. There was a light, but it did not make his eyes shine. It made them blacker. Sharper.

“She makes that silly flower again and again, yet she still does not understand that it would not have died had it not been beautiful enough to be picked in the first place.”

Just like blood circulating in the body’s veins, iron ore flowed through Earth’s core. The strikes of two-handed basalt hammers against blistering metal echoed the cadence of the heart pumping life through the body. The two rhythms were nearly indistinguishable to me, each equally as intrinsic.

“You see how naturally we fit? As though the human body was created for the sole purpose of completing another. If a person requires another to be whole, then it is you who I want to complete me, Alál Òdòdó.”

“You really believe you’ve fallen in love with me? So soon?” Àrmọ shrugged. “What is love but a choice? I do not need to fall in love with you. I have chosen to step into it—and I pray that you choose me as well.”

deception is a tool the Sahara uses well. Heat is the desert’s strength, but mirages are the strategy it utilizes to make its enemies succumb to that power.

“I have heard of the Aláàfin’s brutality, of course. I have seen how children cry when those stories are told. But I have also seen the awe—grudging or otherwise—sparked in men as they speak of the empire he is building. Sometimes stories make him a hero, and sometimes they make him a villain, but all of them say he is great. And that is admirable, isn’t it?”

he draped a fur over the windowsill. It was as orange as the sunset, with white edges branching out into a stubbed limb on each corner. Black stripes unfurled over it like spilled ink. “A discolored zebra,” I observed, nonplussed. “Actually, this is an animal from Asia.” “Oh. A discolored exotic zebra.”

I nodded, looking down expectantly at the elephant. When he only continued to shift in place, however, I said, “You have told me how to steer him, but how do I make him go?” “Ah, that is a very complicated procedure. It has taken me years to master this command, so watch closely.” Àrmọ leaned over me, as close to one of Ajá’s ears as he could reach. “Ajá,” he said. “Go.”

“Why was I just told that fragrances are being prepared for our wedding?” I asked. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though he could squeeze the sleep from his system. “I was in the middle of a wonderful dream,” he sighed. “There was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She looked like you.” “You promised we would not marry until I was ready.” “She looked exactly like you, actually. Same face, same height, same braids.” One of his eyes opened and squinted up at me. “Yet you cannot be her, because she only ever smiled at me. But you, imposter, look like you want to step on me.”

My foot met the side of the soldier’s thigh—and glanced off harmlessly. Pain shot up my ankle, but the soldier remained as still as ever. He had not even winced. As I gripped my ankle, the soldier looked between Àrmọ and me. Then, much too late, he lowered himself onto the ground, sitting with his hands behind him as though he had fallen. “Well done, my lady,” he said.

I bent my leg in front of me and, focusing on the spot that Àrmọ had showed me, slammed my foot into the man’s chest. Immediately, he doubled over and fell to the ground, clutching his abdomen. His frantic gasps for air were much too desperate to be faked. After a moment, I snapped out of my shock. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think that would work—Àrmọ, it’s not funny,” I hissed over my shoulder, but he was laughing too hard to hear.

Àrmọ’s reason for expansion was particularly lacking in substance. Nothing more than selfish desire drove him eastward. To some degree, I acknowledged that a different person—perhaps most people—would have been horrified at such an admission. But to have conquered so many lands and to have garnered such a fearsome reputation simply because he wanted to, simply because he could … The idea fascinated me.

The kiss did not make my heart flutter or frantic; instead, I relaxed. It tasted sweet, as dulcet as the music I played with the other noblewomen while lounging in our field. It was as gentle as the people who regularly attended to me, and it was as warm as the sun that I was no longer subjected to all day. The kiss tasted like reassurance, security. The kiss tasted like power.

a very old man who poured into his seat like jelly badly imitating a human.

“How are you not frightened?” Àrmọ took my hand and put it to his chest, his skin warm to the touch. A rapid pulse raced beneath my palm, as though his heart sprinted across his chest. “I am leading boys into battle, too many of whom are unarmed, and I am endangering you, the woman I love,” he said softly. “I’m terrified.” I looked up at him in surprise. His face was the same tranquil mask he had worn for the soldiers, as smooth as still water. But now he had pulled me beneath the surface with him. It was strangely comforting, knowing I was not drowning alone. Two was too many to be an accident; if there were us two, then maybe we were meant to be under. If I had him with me, then maybe I did not need air anyway.

We fought without needing to say anything; he took aim, and I struck. He turned, and I was already facing a new direction. I was his third arm, his third blade. A shadow molded to extend his reach.

“They say that you followed the Aláàfin into battle and died.” “That the Earth swallowed you, but you clawed your way from its bowels.” “You, the woman warrior, made of darkness and anger and beauty.” “You, the warrior witch who burns everything in her path, like the fire in a forge.” “You, who holds death like a kiss.”

The song was so full of sorrow that palm trees would bend in their suffering; so full of sadness that the humidity swelled into tears the world wept.

I realized that I was humming the daffodil’s song, a dazed smile on my face. I tried to stop, but, in the song’s absence, I felt laughter rise within me like vomit, threatening to spew from me once more.

It is every single subject kneeling for their king, but when the doors close, and it is just you and him, it is you who puts their king on his knees. It is your hand running along each and every one of his scars, drawing out their stories from him like a man confessing his sins. It is him offering himself in libation, and it is the entire world trembling with rapture as the divine is coaxed out from between your thighs. It is the deliverance to his lifelong search for paradise; the scripture that your nails etch into his back; the hymns that he can’t help but moan in your ear. He calls you queen; he calls you mercy. He says your name over, and over, and over. A fervent prayer; a man begging for hallowed relief. Worship has never felt quite like this.

I had loved him, but so long as I belonged to a man, I would never have any power of my own.