—
Three mornings later they come for her. Nobody grab her or even call her name. They march right up to the foot of the ladder and wait. That frighten her more. She can’t dress so she wrap herself in the blanket. Coming down, she almost slip off the ladder. Guards in red armor. A cold morning and her teeth chatter. She think of women who have different clothes to wear for the different things they get called for, and try not to look down at the blanket. Uneasiness make her tongue slip, and the chattering teeth getting louder, because the morning cold, she think. Because the morning cold. There is no fault with me, she promise herself. “Where are the lions?” she ask, but no guard answer her. For the better, she think, for with the times being the times, she might not like the answer. Four guards, two in front and two behind. She try to keep up with the march but have to trot several times. Most of the time she watch only the backs of the guards in front, but at times she look away and see people of court watching her. Men and women, some she see before. Some stare, some glare, some look away. Eyes on her making her feel guilty of something everybody is hiding from her. Some of the women she remember from the princess throne room. King Sister. Whatever it is that they now call her.
Rumor spread by voice, pigeon, and crow. Not by drum, for drums would make such tidings official. And word is that they calling it an inquest, not a trial. They, the counsel. Commander Olu is the first name they call alongside the King Sister, but victim is what they call him, not perpetrator, for she take advantage of his disappearing memory. And his love of whores, say a female voice. Rumor is news and news is rumor. How we going to fight any war if the King execute every cock that fuck her? That mean all the mightiest warriors in the kingdom. A general of the Green Army. Three warriors from the Red. Two berserkers, who never wear clothes, so the whole of Fasisi know why she choose them. Some even see wisdom in breeding with a warrior instead of a prince. But none in a chief in the West from the Purple City, or two men of the King’s chamber, including one who know him from childhood. Or that apprentice to a fetish priest, or that apprentice to a griot. Maybe that one fuck her with verse, say another voice that wind keeps blowing to her ears. Even Olu is the Butcher of Bornu. But nobody know what they accuse her of, since this is an inquest and not a trial. The bewitching koo. Many a woman and a few men already see the executioner’s blade for witchcraft against Ancestor Kagar and other people. Many a husband have been getting rid of wife, wife getting rid of mistress, mother of daughter, and Sangomin against anybody they divine to be witch-born or witch-bound. The fear infect the people. The fear infect the court. And still nobody can find Commander Olu.
The guards take her past the arch standing in front of Kwash Moki’s castle. Taller than any castle, higher than she can guess, maybe more than ten and five men standing on shoulders. A road leading straight through it to his castle. Red Guards flanking it all the way up to the steps. They lead her to the archives, the first time she seeing it. Musty dust floating on the sun rays. A wide space full of books, scrolls, and papers stacked from the ground to ceiling, like a library nobody use. Not just books, but also birth, death, and masquerade masks, gold bracelets, spears, and arrowpoints. Glass jars on high shelves with red, green, and blue fluids, maps on a faraway wall, and in a corner, robes, capes, tunics, and chain mail of old kings. They pass a shelf full of stones, busts, and bowls, all floating above the board. They walk between pillars covered in patterns, glyphs, and words, some she recognize. The crunch of the soldiers’ metal and leather on the mortar floor. By the stairs, a sleeping lion. An archway and a door already open. Diviners, priests, noblemen, chiefs, and elders waiting for her.
Ten and two men in all. Some sitting on stools, some sitting on cushions, none telling her to sit. Most of them old, two as young as the King, but none younger. One on a stool, with mighty white hair and a beard just as long, another bald and hunchback with smoke coming out of his mouth, another tall and skinny, his arms like branches.
“You the one they call Sogolon? What is your name?” say a noble.
“You just call it,” Sogolon say.
One of the men, a diviner, walk up to her holding an iron plate with ashes and twigs and an eggshell burning. He walk around her twice, then blow the foul smoke in her face. She try to fight the cough but fail.
“This room have the power to challenge a king, little girl, so treat yourself to a favor and fear us,” say the one.
“Fear provide as good a testimony as torture, man from Malakal,” the white hair one say, though nobody show any sign that they agree. “How long you stay with the King Sister, Sogolon?”
These men making her afraid. Then angry that she is afraid. Then afraid of what she might say because she is too angry. She don’t want to tremble or for her voice to quiver, for they will know they are the cause of it.
“Six moons.”
“How it is that you stay with her?”
“Mistress Komwono gift me to her.”
“Mistress Komwono?”
The men turn to each other and talk in a mumble.
The man from Malakal look straight at her. “Talk true, girl. You are no gift to the King Sister. This mistress present you to the throne, but the King Sister take you for her own use.”
“Well, she look more like a milkmaid than a throne room guard, brother,” say the white hair one.
“I not your brother. As for you, girl, why you? You play any instrument? Sing any song? You know any verse, girl? You have skills in midwifery or even know how to clean silver? You have any skill with a weapon to protect her?”
“N—”
“No. The answer to all these is no. So what we have here is a nothing girl. A girl that if the princess make her into something, she would be grateful indeed.”
“You yap so much, maybe you are the witness and she is the inquisitor. Brother.”
“All the years this elder been eldering and you don’t pick up much wisdom, friend. I taking us somewhere.”
“Wherever you flying, perch soon, brother.”
He approach her.
“Did you not injure Prince Abeke?”
“Prince who?”
“Only the second in line to the throne, girl. You injured him with a stick and would meet justice had the King Sister not taken you in. Do you deny any of this?”
“I didn’t injure nobody. His father—”
“Don’t even dare!” he shout.
Sogolon jump.
“Don’t dare think you can call His Excellency anything other than King.”
The white hair man sigh, wondering how much more of this he have to take.
“I say to perch, brother,” he say.
“You are in the King Sister’s debt. Perfect girl to keep her secrets.”
“She don’t tell me nothing.”