Two lions roar. The mistress shut up quick.
The two doors open to a burst of sound. People. The court. Chatter, laughter, gossip in a hush, rumor in a whisper. Air flowing in and out and around, and sending to Sogolon’s ear loose talk she didn’t ask for. Which forgetful god suddenly remember she . . . mark it, when he go the peace go with him . . . conducting herself quite like a man these days, look how she soon take wife . . . war? No no no no war. But she look around too late and can’t tell who say what. All she can do is see women and men dress up with so much finery that the whole room glow. Some even wearing gold. Women in patterns of every color and shape, and in competition for the tallest and widest ighiya. Men and women in every color and pattern of Basotho blanket, so much that Sogolon catch the mistress looking at her own outfit, different because she choose so, and frown. Sogolon know. The mistress want more than anything else to stand out, but now she is ruing because stand out is exactly what she do. Sogolon as well, for she is wearing the same style. Whispers come to her, too quiet to hear, but she know that none of them mean well. For now everybody looking at Mistress Komwono, who nod slightly at a few of the people she know. Two men darker than blue smile. A few people nod, a few women frown, and many do nothing at all. Farther back in this gathering than the airs she put on would suggest is Lady Mistress Doungourou.
This is the procession now. Two lions in front, two wingsmen, Keme in full armor, the mistress, Sogolon, and two lions in the back. As they come up to the throne, this happen, the lions crouch down. First the hair go wild like wind rippling it, then their back skin grow darker, and darker as the back widen, and muscle build on muscle, and limbs stretch into legs and hands, and four naked men, dark in skin and light in hair, rise and stand. The mistress quick hobble to the high steps leading up to the throne and throw herself down on the floor. The room quiet, save for whisperers who think they quiet.
“The house of Akum, descended from the divine blacksmith who spoke to Bakali, the god of lightning and fire, who killed his own family in error and from that night shares his fire and his melancholy with the world, but his triumph also,” a deep male voice say.
“As it was and is and shall be,” the gathering join together to say. The voice continue.
“Bakali put his eye on Kalifa the blacksmith, and found him most pleasing of all men so he elevate him to the corner of kings, who one day join the ancestors, who one day join the gods. In his name, Kwash Kalifa.”
“As it was and is and shall be,” the gathering join together to say.
“Blessing to those of you who seek divine counsel,” he say as he come in from the west door. He, the Aesi. He step into the room wearing a flowing red cassock. Long sleeves, and a white tunic peeking out from the chest. Seven or eight bead necklaces, orange and yellow, and all of them around his neck like rings circling. A straw-weave cap with two bead tails going past his ear all the way to his waist.
“Blessings,” the people say.
Sogolon watching the mistress. First she is all flat on the floor, her forehead and nose pressing into the tile. But now she raise her head, as if music nobody else hearing catch her ear. The Aesi turn to her without moving closer and say, “The King is about his business today.”
The mistress either don’t hear or don’t know what he mean, for she stay on the ground.
“Get up,” he say much louder. The mistress struggle. Sogolon rush to help her up. The mistress grab her hand, and soon as she find balance slap it away. The lion men hear something, and they all drop to the floor, rising as cats, standing by the four corners of the throne platform. Another commotion come from the west. The room all bend the knee until the princess sit on the throne. Princess Emini, in no regalia at all, and dressed more humble than anyone in the room, in a tunic and cloak as if pulled away from some sport that men play. Regal she leave for her head, a gold headband around the forehead, with a fringe hanging over her brow, gold and cowrie beads dividing her long, full, and curly hair in two, four or five necklaces in four or five patterns, and hoop earrings twice as big as her ears. Following her, a pale wet rat of a man, shuffling to catch up with her.
“Your Highnesses, Princess Emini and Prince Majozi.”
The prince set himself to the right of the throne. The princess throw herself in it.
“Your Highness, the King’s throne is—”
“Cold. But it will do. What kingly responsibilities did the crown prince leave with me today?” she ask.
“Duties of the throne, Highness,” the Aesi say. Sogolon watching his broad back.
“So much for my brother’s sense of duty to his people,” she say.
“The crown prince is busy—”
“And I am bored. But you don’t see me hoarding killers and killing whores. Or perhaps I should, eh, Aesi? You don’t seem bothered by boy transgression half as much as a girl’s.”
“But you’re a woman, Princess.”
“Save that flattery for a wife. Or a slave. One can never tell with the women around you.”
Some people, the one who look like they don’t know better, laugh. People like the prince. The Aesi make a motion to turn around and everybody stop quick, but the prince. He giggle for so long that the princess have to glare at him to stop.
“And of course, my father is busy. If only the crown prince would be so busy. Aesi, is that treason?”
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
Sogolon watch his back as he nod. But as he straighten himself he look off to the side, almost turning around. Like music just catch his ear. Sogolon clear her throat and he turn again.
“The King is about his business every day, not so?” say the princess. “What I would give for people of Fasisi to speak freely. Or maybe just this room.”
“They speak as you demand it, Princess,” the prince say with a laugh.