With a smirk playing on my lips, I commanded the guards to open the doors to the ballroom. As the grand doors swung open, I stepped in, taking a moment to soak in the atmosphere—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the hidden malice in every pair of eyes. These are no friends; they are vultures, each plotting the downfall of the other. If this place has taught me anything, it's the necessity of being quick-witted, for a careless word could be as lethal as a dagger.
All eyes turned to me, including those of my father, who, with his usual pompous pride, called out, "Ah, Orode, my beautiful daughter, the girl after her father's heart." His words, dripping with deceit, made my skin crawl. He reached out to pinch my cheek in a gesture of affection, but I pretended to stumble, skillfully avoiding his grasp without appearing rude. Standing before him as he sat on his throne, I bowed my head, a picture of obedience.
Good morning, Kabiyesi King. Good morning, chiefs. And good morning to you, emissaries from King Shakale's court," I greeted, my voice laced with barely concealed anger and sarcasm. "I see a grand celebration is underway. I apologize for spoiling your festivities—I had assumed the party was for me. But why begin without the host?
The room fell silent, eyes wide with shock. I could see the disdain in their gazes; to them, I was already a walking corpse, a queen in name only, soon to be forgotten. But they did not dare laugh outright. Only one man, part of King Shakale's retinue, chuckled. His audacity struck a chord in me, and I met his gaze, letting him know his insolence would not go unchallenged.
"Well, Father, your wish is my command. I hope I haunt your dreams," I declared, turning my attention to my mother. A concubine with no power, her life in this palace was a series of humiliations. I approached her, taking her hands in mine, and looked into her eyes, which were already brimming with tears. Despite her sorrows, she still bore the grace of a queen, the beauty of a gazelle, even if she was only the daughter of a humble swordsmith.
"Mother, look at me," I whispered, wiping her tears. "I will be fine. Stay strong and safe. I will return to you." My words seemed to open the floodgates, and her tears flowed freely.
"I hate to interrupt, but we must be going," a voice intruded. It was the same man who had laughed earlier, his face smug and unapologetic. "And who might you be, sir?" I asked, my voice icy.
"I am Badiru, King Shakale's right hand," he replied, puffing out his chest with pride.
"Ah, I see. For a moment, I mistook you for King Shakale himself, given how you address his future queen. Or perhaps you disagree with your king's choice?" My words hung in the air, the tension in the room palpable. Even my mother looked astonished at my boldness.
Badiru's face twisted with barely concealed rage, and I could hear him mutter under his breath, "Not for long anyway…" His companion quickly stepped in, bowing low. "Good morning, Princess," he said, his voice dripping with forced courtesy.
I nodded in acknowledgment, then turned my gaze back to my father. "Don't miss me, Father. May your kingdom flow with milk and honey," I said, my tone dripping with irony.
With that, I turned on my heel and strode out of the palace towards the waiting wedding carriages. A procession of soldiers and handmaidens awaited, and as I settled into the carriage, I replayed my mother's words from the night before.
Orode, you might hate me for my helplessness, but remember, the palace is no place for childish games. Be strong," she had whispered, her voice a mix of fear and hope.
As the carriage rolled away from the beautiful kingdom of Ijanku, with its towering acacia trees and innovative people, I couldn't help but feel a mix of sadness and relief. I was leaving behind a kingdom with a rotten king.