Adesua waited till evening, when shadows fell across the sky. She wandered the palace grounds as she often did, just as the fireflies became restless, decorating the air with dots of green light that guided her to a sturdy, mango tree weighed down with fruit. In the palace garden, she sat at the base of the tree and listened to the sharp, shrill chirp of grasshoppers as they called to each other, jumping across the grass as though the waning heat still scorched their long hind legs. She followed their sound, crawling towards the bed of strange looking plants hemmed in by the sparse trees and high earth-coloured walls. On her knees, with her nose to the ground the waft of something rotten filtered through. As though the offending patch of earth had released a smelly belch and all it needed was the rain to come down to wash it away.
Omotole knew about the wish that had impregnated her, the desire for a son had danced its way into her womb. The Oba had done his share of work too but it was the sweet desire she’d kindled on their nights together that finally came to fruition. A son would firmly seal her position in the Oba’s life and the palace. Omotole had no real proof the child she was carrying was a boy, except that innate feeling in her bones, a deep tingling that began way down inside her stomach and spread right through her body. She could have consulted an oracle but there was no need. The stewing scowls she caught on some of the other wives faces before they vanished confirmed this. Only Adesua truly seemed unaffected either way and had congratulated her with an empty hug and a distracted smile. That one was an odd young woman, Omotole thought, recalling the way she bounded about the palace grounds, hiking her wrapper up to her knees. At times muttering to herself, a slip of uncontained energy.
Oba Odion was happy on hearing the news of her expectancy but these days he was not himself. Omotole like everyone else discovered he was regularly in disagreements with his council and becoming slimmer around his waist as if something was eating it away. Some nights he spent in her company would see him tossing and turning, at the mercy of some invisible hand flipping him from side to side, breath infused with the scent of worry. She asked him what was troubling him and unusually, he did not tell her. Instead, he lamented on how useless the palace cooks had become, that the spoils were making people lazy. A tiny gap opened between them, the Oba was now keeping secrets and Omotole’s mouth formed a grim, suspicious line at the thought. But she did not push; a man would reveal his secrets in his own time. Instead she would knead the worry out of his shoulders and use his back to plan her next steps. And she did not tell the Oba that on discovering she was carrying a child, small oval shaped blue petals had began to appear inside the moist pocket under her tongue.
Trouble was coming. So when Sully heard the whimpering of snapped branches behind his quarters, he sat up in attention. If it had just been the scurry of a monkey or some other animal, he would have ignored it, allowing the thought to melt away like a drop of water into a river. These movements were tentative, deliberate in their attempt to attract as little attention as possible. He had always had an ear for picking up even the most secretive of sounds; he had even heard the tiny wings of baby’s heartbeats fluttering in their chests. He crept out of the back window silently, landing in an unkempt yard flanked on either side by thick shrubbery and scattered sticks. He crouched low on the ground, spotting a woman’s back arched down way ahead. Her head was bent, fingers rummaging through dirt, so intent on what she was doing that only his hand grabbing her shoulder broke the spell and she gasped.
“Are you stupid?” Sully asked, thinking he had happened upon one of the servant girls. “Running around at this time?”
She jerked her body back alarmed. “I lost my beaded bracelet!” Then, “How dare you open your mouth to speak to me like that?”
Sully took in the thick, full hair jutting out of her head in tight springs. The long ripe body with her breasts looking like globes of fruit pressed against her wrapper while her black eyes spat embers.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked slowly, as though speaking to a child.
“No.”
“I am Oba Odion’s wife.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Which one are you?”
“My friend, do not ask me questions as if your father owns this land! Who are you?”
“You will find out soon enough.” He looked at her knowingly and said, “You will never make a good queen.”
“Insult upon insult!” she fumed “I will shame you and report you to the Oba first thing, you will be thrown out.”
He nodded then, almost amused. “Before you tell him, I will escort you back.” He took her arm gently and knew then that she would never sit still. He knew without understanding how he did, that she was a curious woman and recognised an adventurous spirit when he saw one. The scratches on her neck, the restless eyes all spoke of this.
On the walk back they both ignored the thing between them that had come alive and breathing, through the long, winding curves of the servants area, past the compact, terracotta apartment blocks where some councilmen resided and the empty, gutted courtyards and settled deep within them. Later, Sully would remember details; the glimpse of her naked ankles, the sound of laughter carried in the air, beads of sweat on her long neck that sat like jewels waiting to be plucked. At the entrance to her quarters she still glowered. Even if she had bathed then, she would not have been able to wash away the imprint of his hand on her arm. She did not thank him and he had expected nothing less but her haughty back disappearing into her haven.
Out of her sight he ran, thought it funny how you travelled to a place to find one thing only to discover something else, because it had truly begun now. He ran till his knees ached and he felt his feet take off the ground, careening forward till he couldn’t separate the expanse between the sky and the solid earth. And he thought he could grab stars out of the firmament, shards of silver light glittering in his palms.
Pupa: Stage 2
As a child butterflies fascinated me. One of my earliest memories is of catching one, placing it in a tall, empty hot dog jar and watching its purple wings skim the glass. And scraping my knee in our garden from a fall aged twelve, only for a blue butterfly to land on the bleeding wound that momentarily became its respite. Since then, I’ve never forgotten how a butterfly could flutter down and change the shape of a moment or the line of a body.
As Mrs Harris and I trudged up the steep London Road in Forest Hill, I thought I heard the butterflies in the museum breathing, waiting. Rain had washed our earlier expressions away. A bitter wind argued with clothes that flapped back and umbrellas were led astray from firm grips.
“Did you bring it along?” Mrs Harris asked, referring to the brass head tucked out of sight in my rucksack. She stopped, stuck her tongue out to catch drops of water. Her grey raincoat was soaked, beneath the hood at the front exposed shocks of white hair were damp.
“Yes I did.” I tugged her forward. “What are you doing?”
“I used to do that sometimes as a kid. Rainwater makes me see possibilities!” She answered, picking up the pace. Her eyes were alert and there was a spring in her step. I began to think maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have asked her along. You never knew what she was going to say or do.
“I hope this is productive and creepy.” She said, wiping her brow.
I moved a fat, wet twist of hair from my cheek. “Why creepy?”