The morning of the coronation, masters of the stable come for the white horses to drape them in white and gold fabric. The stable busier for the crowning than the burial. Best for Sogolon to stay out of the way, so she keep to her perch. For in they come, slow graceful horses with two humps, of the like she never see before, with riders like nomads. Horses taller than trees, with manes that reach the floor, and hair bushing up their hooves. Chariots with two, three, and four horses, including one made of gold and two made of ivory. A cart carrying players and another carrying horns longer than the cart and also made of ivory, that take two men each to lift. Five elephants, a prophet who travel by ox, and warriors from Juba on rhinoceros, and from Dolingo in a massive wagon scraping the ceiling of the stable, pulled by men.
Escorts, guards, horsemen, knights, and servants all leave their beasts by the guardhouse, for this is not a place for people of the court. But several times some disembark in the stable and not the guardhouse. Men and women who didn’t earn the grace to be in the radiance of the soon-to-be King. Sogolon watch in hiding on high, and hear their grumbling, their disagreement, and their blasphemy. Two cousins dressed like monks who not happy one bit about this horrible banishment, but already see some new virgin at court to sink their cock into. A brother of a cousin of an uncle who nine generations before try to seize the throne from the house of Akum and now live in inglorious banishment in the Purple City. A prince on a chariot who is magnificent because he say that he is magnificent and will see title now that a new King with sense will sit on the throne. Another cousin who is thinking that this invitation means a restoration of favor until he hear that his horses are to take him to the stable and not the throne room. Four men and three women who grumble and cuss that the family of the Kwash Kagar’s wife should be at the side of the throne, not here with the field mice. A blacksmith who joke with the stable hands that he don’t know why he is here, but hear that the first ruler from the house of the Akum is called the Blacksmith King.
Around noon Sogolon hear wings flap and a wind, cold and quick. She is rubbing the neck of a black horse when he step in alone. The Aesi. The urges to slip away and to stand firm both come over her. He halt when he see her, surprised she is in the stables. This is what you come to? he seem to ask but don’t.
“That one will do,” he say. She step out of his way.
“The gods don’t look down on honest work, young Sogolon,” he say.
This is not my work. It coming to her mouth, she can feel it in her mouth, ready to leave, but it don’t.
“A saddle, girl.”
That is not her work. The saddle in her hands before she think better of it and he watch her saddle the horse. Before he mount, the Aesi stop and grab Sogolon by the cheek, not hard, but firm. She grab his hands and struggle, but he is a rock. He stare at her and she stare back, even with her mind wanting to do something else. The Aesi is on his horse and out the gate before she realize he let go. And still a while after before she stop feeling his grip on her face. Little after that a headache hit her so hard that she collapse in a pile of hay. She press her temples but the pain is throbbing from her forehead as if some demon is forcing his way out. She crawl over to the nearest wood post and bang her forehead against it until her mind go dark.
* * *
—
Sogolon tell herself that nobody would permit her to the ceremony, so she should be neither angry nor sad. And when it do come to pass that nobody take notice of her, Sogolon tell herself over and over to be neither. And over and over she repeat it until the thought become words, and the words become fierce, so fierce that when she grab a bowl full of water and fling it against the wall and it shatter with a crash that rile up the horses, two stable boys rush back in shouting where is the fire. Instead they scowl at the girl, for they know she is there by royal order, but also that she have no business in this place.
At least she can ride a horse, is what she want to say. Indeed, she should just grab any horse and put distance between herself and Fasisi, for it was never her choice to come, nor is it her wish to stay. And the princess say to more people than her that she is not a slave. But if she can’t move of her own free will and she is not a slave, then she must be a prisoner. But girl, all your life you been bound to something or by someone. Chains been on you so long that you believe the shackle is part of your neck. Maybe Keme did come around to free you, say a voice that sound like her. She would rather just see him naked, to speak truth. To look at him rather than to want from him. Him walking to her naked with a slow stride. His broad smile, and sweaty shoulders, and head with a helmet on. Off. Blocking cock with his shield then not blocking it, his chest catching sun, his bare legs about to leap off the banks into the river. Sogolon thinking to stop herself, but stop is just a word from her mouth, or a mark on Olu’s floor, not something to do. He marching across her mind.
No, he is on horse and marching past her door. The horse and him almost one, for they wearing the same robes. The horse draped in that white and gold. A strip running from mouth to ear and a gold headpiece above that, and the rest of the fabric wrapping his neck, covering all the way to his tail, and as long as his ankles. At the ankle, stripes of gold and white with shiny diamonds. Keme, the same in white and gold stripes under a full suit of chain mail, his helmet in white silver and so broad and high that it rest on his shoulders and reach down to his chest. She watch as the procession swallow him up.
Sogolon run. Out into the courtyard, down the trail still dusty from marching soldiers. She hear the far-off rumble outside of the procession long gone and as she come to the grand gate and guardhouse, notice that nobody is there but sentries stationed at the gate and the battlements. She at the slot to let herself out when guards begin to open the gate. Four men approach carrying a covered palanquin and as they pass Sogolon, stop. She pull the curtains apart and stick her head out. She, Queen Wutu, last wife of Kwash Kagar. Sogolon mark how she don’t look much older than her, just a girl under the burden of so much gold jewelry. Her face still round, her cheeks still full, but her eyes tired.
“I don’t know you,” she say.
“Your Excellency,” Sogolon say and kneel quick.
“No. Not anymore. Not by the time the day go out. Then I just a woman.”
Queen Wutu tap the handrail and the men lower the palanquin to the ground. The Queen point to the wide seat.
“Let us be women together, then,” she say and she bid Sogolon to climb in.
“I smell like a horse, Excellency,” she say.
“The only beast in this compound that I can stand,” she say.
The men take lesser-known roads and reach the city center before the procession. Sogolon expect the Queen to leave the palanquin, but she stay within, pulling back a curtain to see outside, while unseen in the shade. From there they see the platform, covered in red velvet, leopard skin, and zebra skin, while seven elders stand on the platform chanting and singing and burning sacred herbs. One elder brush his large feather broom over the stool in the center of the platform, and another drape it in leather skin.