“Ceremony of the leopard skin is here,” the Queen say. “Then one ceremony of the bark cloth, down in the Baganda district, one for the calfskin in the blacksmith’s row, and the crowning on his father’s throne before they burn it.”
Drums and horns move in close, while kora and lute follow. Then dancers, not in masks but wearing talismans on arms, elbows, neck, and waist, and spinning in mushrooming pantaloons that fill up with air and lift them off the ground to land slow. The dancers leap higher and spin faster, clearing the way of dust and spirits. Following them, soldiers in ceremonial armor, red chain mail for the troop on the left, green for the troop on the right. They split and march around both sides of the platform. Taking their place at the side of the platform too, the princess and consort, and Prince Likud’s twin boys. And others close in blood to the house of Akum. The drums stop thundering, but the horns continue to blow.
Two fetish priests, both painted blue, lead the way, chanting and throwing smoke, and then it is him, Prince Likud, in a silent march wearing nothing but palm oil. He stand at the foot of the steps, straight and looking ahead, his skin dark like burnt wood and shiny. The prince is a tall and strong-looking man, but he is thin and women of the court seeking to be concubines make promises aloud to nobody that they will fatten him up soon. Beside the twins is a woman Sogolon never see before, but who she is guessing is his wife, soon to be Queen. Two of the elders, both in headdresses of feathers and gold, take the prince by both hands and shout that he is no prince, no father, no son, no one. No prince, no father, no son, no one, until he is right before the stool draped in leopard skin. Then they speak for long in a tongue Sogolon don’t know.
“The tongue of priests, kings, and gods,” Queen Wutu whisper. “Only they know how to speak it. None of them ever teach it to me.”
Sogolon don’t think to say nothing to her, for until this prince is crowned she is sitting beside a Queen. Sitting so close that their arms touch, and this Queen don’t seem to notice. Let us be women together, she did say, but Sogolon can’t take those words to mean anything.
“Sword-bearers, soldiers, guards, soul washers, drummers, horn blowers, umbrella men, priests, chiefs, kings of the lower lands, none of them come to see me marry the King,” the Queen say.
The two elders, still holding Prince Likud’s arms, turn him around to sit on the stool. The drummers, hundreds of them, beat harder and faster, making the ground shake and waking up the gods of the underworld and the spirits of the land, while the horn blowers blow loud enough to reach gods of sky.
“He is incomplete until he sit on the stool, they saying,” Queen Wutu say, even though she say before that she don’t understand their tongue.
The dancers in mushroom pantaloons spin and spin until they lift off the ground again. Prince Likud close his eyes and the elders guide him to the stool. Another elder standing behind the stool, remove the leopard skin and hold it up. The elders release the prince, for he must by himself sit, with the mystic coolness that every wise and strong king must have. He must not hesitate or falter, and he must resist the urge to wave his hand behind him to make sure it is there. Prince Likud sit in one movement. The drums and horns stop. The people cheer, chant, and sing, and the drums and horns return. The elder holding the leopard skin drape it over the prince’s shoulders. Mystic coolness. The prince’s face show nothing.
“Not a king, not yet,” Queen Wutu say.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“If you want to follow to the Baganda district, don’t let me stop you. But I go back to the palace until I am no longer Queen. You wish to go?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“Like me, you done see enough.”
They wait for the prince, now wearing leopard skin, to leave the platform with the elders. As soon as the family leave, Queen Wutu tap the handrail.
* * *
—
The prince return to the royal enclosure as King, under the new name Kwash Moki, meaning he who will still the winds. Princess Emini return as the King Sister, but for that there is no crown. Sogolon return to her bed of rugs and hay. In half sleep her mind run on the twins, on how they are crown princes now, and all she can hope for is that they long forget her, or they gone past bored with seeking revenge on a bush girl. Celebrations for the new King go on for three quartermoons, with the stable overflowing, emptying, then overflowing again with people and beasts. Sometimes the feasting get so large that it spill into the stalls, with drunk men and loud women eating and drinking on the grounds, and tossing meat, bread, and wine. More often than not Sogolon wake up to the sound coming from a dim corner of fucking; men, women fucking whoever in the dark. Royal inside commoner. Priest atop sorcerer. Friend astride foe. Chief and girl who don’t want his cock. And then there would be feasting again, or the departure of somebody whom this new King and kingdom has left most bitter. The stable keepers, when they get used to her, start to supply Sogolon with food. Before the celebrations end, Sogolon start grooming the horses to earn her stay.
Nobody from the King Sister’s palace ever come for her again.
NINE
Bobo, the white one. He is the one she talk to when the hands take leave and the stable is empty, except that the stable is never empty. More nights than not it fill with the most agreeable beasts in the whole kingdom, more pleasant than any man she ever meet. Will ever meet, say a voice that sound like her. She lose count of how many quartermoons back she realize that this is the most agreeable place she ever stay. And horses the most agreeable company. If horse could shapeshift like lions, then maybe that person would be the perfect friend, or maybe all that is man would ruin all that is horse. She talk to all the horses as she feed and clean them. But Bobo, the white horse with the black patch on his left eye, is the one who listen. Sometimes he reply. Talk of people he don’t find to his liking rile him up, especially Keme, maybe because Bobo is male too, and he don’t want to hear of anybody else when she brushing his hair. But she would ask him a question like, Should I present myself to the King Sister even though she don’t ask for me, and he will shake his head fierce. A strong no.