Masquerade

by O.O. Sangoyomi

“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.”

“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,

“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.”

Anyway, it was not uncommon for rich men to marry pretty girls who they had only seen once.

It was this, even more than our seemingly mystical abilities, that made us so despised; our largest crime was being, not just women, but women without a man to belong to.

my value had lain in my ability to produce for the state. And now, according to Gassire,

my value as a noblewoman would lay in … my ability to produce for the state.

“What is the key to deception?” Gassire asked. “The key is to condition the enemy to see only what you want them to see.

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?”

“Anything,” he affirmed, swaying us from side to side. “Would you like me to capture the southern winds and bottle them in a crystal vial? Would you like me to pluck the stars out of the sky, one by one, so that you may adorn your braids with them? Say it, and it is yours.

“The heart is a safe bet. Break a man’s heart, and you’ve broken him completely.”

I was grateful he was teaching me how to protect myself, but I also learned there was more than one way a woman could find strength. Being betrothed to the Aláàfin did not just grant me an easier life, as I had thought it would. I was placed right next to the Aláàfin’s power, so close that, sometimes, I could touch it.

“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.”

“The one thing you both agree on is that the bride is valuable indeed,” Gassire continued after a moment. “As such, you are to put her on a scale and fill the other side with gold until the scale is balanced. That is to be the minimum bride price, for a highly prized woman is worth her weight in gold.”

“I once told you my soul is intertwined with yours, Òdòdó. That is still true. And no matter how many lives it wears, every version of me will search and find you. I apologize if I implied that my love for you is constrained by something as flimsy as time.

“You listen to her tale One her teacher always told Of roads his son walked Roads paved with petals of gold See them bloom, see them shine See this garden become a sky With a thousand tiny suns It’s no lie, it’s no lie Light the world through the night Keep this glow inside your heart Flowers wilt, lands dwindle But survival is in the art.”

They knew how to visit the past without getting trapped in its clutches, a skill as impressive as it was tragic to have already learned at their young age.

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.

I felt nothing—and that was everything.

It was dark, both around and within me. It felt like a chill settling onto my skin, but I did not take cold. It felt like my stomach was completely empty, but I was not hungry. It felt like peace. I was moving, I realized. I walked forward, but to where, I could not tell. The only thing I knew was that, so long as I kept moving, everything and every thing would be okay.

They were the most beautiful beings I had ever seen. They were blacker than the night, yet they shone as bright as the sun and radiated as much warmth.

Men called us witches, they thought us demons, and yet, it was they who wished to possess us.

I was not sure if this was what I had wanted, but it was certainly what I had asked for.

It is no one being able to agree on the exact details of the story, but you understand anyway. Because no matter how different their versions are, they all have the same roots. Roots that have been here long before you existed, and roots that will remain long after everything else has turned to dust. Cities have risen, and cities have fallen. Entire empires have been sparked from nothing, flamed, then waned. But this story, this story remains. It has seen its culture deliberately stolen and burned. History has tried to kill it, has tried to bury it under the guise of “lost” or “forgotten.” But now, you know this story. It is a part of you. Great though the world’s animosity may be, the world will never succeed at killing us so long as there are minds and hearts in which our story may live. So, yes, you understand the stories the women tell, confused and whimsical though they may be. For even if the details of other times or spaces mask the stories’ roots, still those roots remain.

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 expected him to keep his promises regardless of whether they had been said by him, or by the image of him that resided in my mind.

In fact, most are quite willing to redefine their morals as needed.”

Loving him had become a reflex.

I supposed our relationship would end as it had lived: one of us made a false promise, and the other pretended to believe.

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