News of the handsome foreign stranger spread through the palace like a whirlwind. Did he have any identifying tribal marks? No, but his arms were solid, his face rugged and his eyes greener than the densest forests in Benin. Had he said anything about where he came from? No, only incoherent mutterings that fell flat on the ears of the uninterested guards. Was he recovering well? Yes, but slowly, and there were shadows lingering in the corner of his eyes. Overgrown black hair grazed his neck, days old beard covered his jaw and a tear shaped birthmark nestled high up his inner left muscled thigh. To catch a glimpse of him female servants armed with wet cloths and herbal brews offered the excuse of nursing him while their eyes struggled to absorb every small detail of the new stranger who now languished in the dark. Surely the arrival of this pale stranger meant something? Nobody knew. Unaware of the hum and flutter he’d caused in the palace, Sully was waging his own battle, a battle that rushed through his veins and boiled his blood. He shook fervently and violently. He wrestled as the naked taunts of the old whispers choked his throat, twisted his heart with long, brutal fingers and echoed his cries off the hollow, bruised walls.
Oba Odion was still celebrating the news of Omotole’s pregnancy when a councilman came to him brimming with excitement at the news of a stranger in the palace. He thought his tongue would leap out and of it’s own accord tell Oba Odion about this new development. Instead, it resigned itself to darting out sporadically, pink and shining.
There were times when the Oba saw his council as resentful, hungry shadows that loomed over him and were barely tethered to the line he drew for them. He imagined them picking at the same white line with their greasy hands till it became faint from each mauling. So when councilman Ewe came to him, green beads jangling against his hairy chest, Oba Odion’s reaction wrong-footed him. “But we should use this opportunity to make the stranger talk while he is weak, a little pressure and he will surely crumble before our eyes!” Ewe said. Oba Odion rocked back patiently in his, sturdy chair “Leave the man alone for now; I have other things troubling me. When he recovers, bring him to me.”
“Ah, Oba you are becoming soft, I know you are still celebrating your good news but do you not find it troubling that this pale man comes from nowhere to find himself clinging to the palace gates? This is no accident.” The Oba shook his head in annoyance, “When I speak to him, I will decide what happens to him. He may be somebody who came to the palace for help. Did you not say he was beaten?”
“Yes Oba, but let us ask why he was beaten, this is a prosperous land, and there are enemies out there willing to try anything to destroy us.”
“Ewe, I will think over what you have said.”
“Most of the other councilmen agree with me Oba.”
Oba Odion sighed wearily, “Must I have my own council’s approval on every decision? Get out.”
“Yes Oba” Ewe replied, turning on his heel, his anger smarting two steps behind him.
At that moment, Adesua was biting back her fury after discovering the brass head vanished from its home on her mantle. She could still feel its imposing presence in her chamber, shifting the air till there was a powerful undercurrent of expectation, as though something chameleon-like was coming, and menacingly entwining itself with her hot breath. So she swallowed a dose of it daily. She searched every inch of her chamber till having had enough of that pointless exercise; she hit the palace grounds barefoot. She screamed at the servants to find the thief among them who’d taken her prized piece. Gone was the uncertain young woman who had arrived at the palace, wary of the strangers surrounding her. The woman in her place had roaring flames in her eyes and barked orders as though she was born to do so.
The servants pushed by her slicing ire scoured their quarters keen to escape whatever terrible punishment awaited them if they failed to find it and kept the fact that the brass head was missing to themselves so desperate were they to make sure word did not reach the Oba. Adesua continued to search the grounds her veins swelling in anticipation. She dug her nails into her palms. Fresh sweat popped on her brow and down her back. She tried to dampen the panic that was eating its way into her heart.
In the end, it was a raven-winged bird that led her to the brass head. She watched it from the main palace flapping repeatedly above the roof of Filo’s quarters as if was alarmed, before running. She ran through the glare of disapproving councilmen, past the open mouths of servants and the glee of two other wives. She met Filo’s door open and the sound of sniffing drew her in. Filo was gripping the brass head as if she would never let it go. Tears trickled onto her raised knuckles and onto the head. Filo only looked up at Adesua briefly and then turned away, as if she had been expecting her for some time. She continued to sob, gut wrenching cries that wandered all the way back to the entrance of a palace darker than the first scowl of night. She heaved, as if emptying her insides out.
The murmurings over Sully’s presence were such that after a few days, even some of the lazy guards were bitten by curiosity. As his body slowly recovered, something else happened. The guards became less suspicious. He told them that he had travelled from the north where the golden-hued land was dry and stretched wide in endless waves lit with sunshine. Land that could break you if you did not use a gentle hand on her. He spoke of the women, dark, dusky loose-limbed nubile beauties who walked the land as though wading through water, bearing miniature reflections of themselves tied onto their backs or at their breasts. At night he said, when the brazen glow of the moon courted the pliant land, you thought you could sometimes see the fragments of light falling down from the sky.
The guards were spellbound, why would he leave such a place? He told them he was a restless soul, an explorer and that Benin had been hailed as the land of possibilities. He wanted to travel and see as much as possible. He had been coping with an unusual affliction for as far back as he could remember. His feet could not stay still in one place long enough to grow roots, as if as a child an itchy curse had been cast on them. What of his family? Surely they disapproved of his running from place to place. He told them he had no real family. Sully answered their questions, throwing a patient smile here and there, a nonchalant shrug if they attempted to pull his tales apart. He informed them that he had just crossed into Benin when bandits attacked and stole some of his belongings. Joking and laughing with all of them, he found himself telling the story several times to different guards. In each instance, he told it as though it were the first time.
On the day Sully was to be taken before the Oba, he awoke craving ripe mangoes. His limbs were still sore and thin, black scabs had formed over wounds only the eyes could see. He was quiet too, only nodding his thanks to the slight servant girl who brought him a small pail of water to wash himself. He sniffed his armpits; an, eye-watering smell emanated from them. Disgusted, he picked up the cloth left beside the sleeping mat, dampened it in the water and gently began to wash his body, careful not to wet his wounds. He waited for his body to dry before slowly slipping on the loose fitting shirt that had also been washed and dried.