Masquerade

by O.O. Sangoyomi

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.

Gassire was not just speaking; his voice swelled and decrescendoed with the music, building and molding the tale into something tangible. I listened, transfixed; just as I was a craftsman of metal, the griot was a craftsman of words.

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. The elegance with which they sat made me think thrones had been created just to accommodate them, and the majesty with which they ate made me think feasts had been invented just to feed them. Had they not been so wholly perfect, they could have been human.

I knew he understood that I was thanking him for more than his company today, and when he bowed, I understood it was not just a polite gesture.

He killed Omosewa to save her from him.

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.

She nodded, her amber eyes glowing, and I was struck by the odd feeling that came with the realization that elders were not born at their advanced age. There existed a time when they had been young, growing and seeking wisdom from elders of their own—an entire reality stolen by the greedy hands of time.

It reminded me that we were the same age. Like me, she was raised within the cruel conditions of being a blacksmith and had sought a better life. The opportunity that presented itself to me, in the form of escape, was Àrmọ; the opportunity that presented itself to her, in the form of change, was the strikes. I understood the need to cling onto one’s only chance to rise in life.

With his face unobscured, I looked at him—truly looked at him. I looked at the tenderness with which he regarded me; the same affection that had motivated me to cling onto life after he left me for dead, only for me to be immured and deemed insane. I looked at his black eyes, ever shifting like a restless sea; the same eyes that had watched me kill my mother at his command. I looked at his dimpled smile; the same smile he had given me before he had me dragged across the desert, ripping me away from the only home I had ever known, just for his enjoyment. And I smiled.