Women Of Steel | ✔

XIII

There is a single gold bracelet sitting in the box when I open in the dark of my tent. There is nothing special about it, it is a thin circle that bears none of the glow of the stash of jewelries I have back home — the thought of home is enough to bring a pang of pain to my chest, what is home anymore? Has home ever been anywhere? Not Ile Wura, and not even here where omens of death chase me.

I left Ile Wura to find a home, a purpose, but I find myself here and with still none of that purpose. I slip the bracelet on, letting it hang loosely on my wrist, waiting to feel anything at all, but when I don't feel anything — except a sharp sting that might have been nothing than a piece of the hair on my arms attaching itself to the clasps — I slip it off and lock it back in its little box. There is something not right about it that gives me shivers, I bit my lip as I consider Maami offended because I refuse to wear her gift.

For the first time in a while, I remember my brother and feel a pang that might be pain or something else, this time when I remember him, I don't remember the brother who gave me his rarest smiles, the one who humoured my stories, I think about the one that other people saw, the one they are so certain is the real Tadenikawo. The real Tadenikawo, owner of slaves, wife slayer, and tyrannical king.

My brother was no saint and I have always known this, but maybe the problem lied with me, I was raised by a father who ruled with an iron fist, and despite all his evil, his kingdom prospered under his rule, my brother ruled the same and things fell to pieces under him.

I came to think of a good king as one who does necessary evils, I began to make excuses to justify actions that were black and white, but Demilade is nothing like them, Ile Wura loves her even though they grumble under their breath about being the first Yoruba kingdom to have a female ruler and I know very well that whatever child she carries will ascend that throne after her even if she claims otherwise.

My brother was not a good person, neither was my father. The realization scares me, makes me inhale a breath too sharp that my chest hurts with it. If I come from a family like that, then it says enough about who I am and why I keep running from it, desperate to be somebody else.

But running has done me no good, instead led me to a father whose real motives I do not understand, to the middle of a battle mightier than I am and to a future husband who doesn't even want me.

I toss and turn as I lie on the hard woven mat. There is nothing here for me, except my apparent death, then why do I still stay?

***

"Again!" The god of mischief shouts, tossing the fallen staff at his pant opponent, and when the burly man bends to pick the fallen staff, he is frowning, when he rises, he receives a sharp jab to his stomach that sends him tumbling to the sand. Both men are bare waist up and their chests heave with the heady rush of a fight.

My so called father, grins, flexing muscles at the swooning women gathered to watch. I snort where I stand, leaning against my tent. All afternoon, he has done this, challenge every man willing to a fight and every time, he wins without even breaking a sweat, the way the men treat him like one of them tells me that they do not know who he truly is and it makes me wonder how long he has been among them to gain their trust like this.

Do the other gods wander our mortal world the way he does?

I stomp my foot, tired of waiting and march to my unaware father, he chats animatedly to his opponent and none of the previous anger is present, just like that another has fallen for his charm. Charm I lack.

"A word please," I snap, barely reeling in the urge to flinch when he turns to meet my eyes, towering well over me.

"Princess." He gives a mocking nod, the other man leaves, not without shooting us strange glances.