EVERY DUMB ANIMAL HAS EYES, even me, but hers… there are no appropriate words to describe them. Subtle and searing? No, it was more than that. Wide-set and wistful? It was only a few moments, but I see the girl from the market everywhere and nowhere. Her eyes staring into mine from around corners, and in my sleep. I’ve never been smitten like this before.
I bow low to one of the sultan’s senior wives at the gate of the compound, removing my shield and smiling broadly so that she can see me clearly as a royal guest despite her rheumy and clouded vision.
She nods, and one of the guards lets me inside the wooden gates. While the city isn’t protected by much more than the river and a few military outposts, the sultan does keep his family well-guarded, and as members of Mansa Musa’s noble retinue, we are his guests.
“And where have you been all day dressed like that?” my father asks as he waves disdainfully at my borrowed foot soldier’s attire.
“Nowhere.”
“Ah, and with no one, I’m sure.”
I laugh. Father knows I pretend to be a warrior so I can move freely in the villages, and chooses to look away. A title can be a burden, a fact he’s well aware of.
“You are too predictable, son,” he says as he gathers his prayer mat from the corner and hands me mine. “I wanted to wait until we returned home from the hajj to find you a wife, but you have forced my hand with this carousing. You are getting too old for this. Did you at least win anything this time?”
I blink hard. I thought he’d given up on the marriage talk after what happened with my last betrothal, or at least put it on hold so that we could travel in peace.
“I am seeing the world. Is it not my privilege to do so as the son of one of the most respected Mandinka chieftains, living or dead?”
“You flatter too easily, and that is your main failing. Marriage will center you, or at the very least occupy your days so that you don’t risk defiling my good name or Mansa Musa’s. Maybe we can outrun your bad luck.”
“That silly old witch is senile,” I say with irritation. Father is overly superstitious. Only a fool leaves his fate in the hands of some blind old woman in our home village who spins tales to earn her bread each night. Yet, he clings to the old ways and seeks out the advice of soothsayers and such for every big decision.
His eyes soften. “Forget luck, then. We will outrun your poor decisions.”
I realize too late that his mind is made up and this is not idle conversation. I grasp at straws.
“B-but it was you, Baba, who insisted that I marry a Senufo girl like Mother.”
He draws in a deep breath, no doubt taking the moment to remember Mother, her smile and her quiet spirit.
I lean into my argument.
“How would it look for your only son to return home with a foreign bride?”
He blinks hard and shakes his head. “It would look like a brazen attempt to get into the good graces of Mansa Musa, who is desperate to solidify alliances inside and outside his empire and among all the tribes of this land,” he says calmly.
“So, this is political, then?” I ask, letting the deference fall from my tone. Father’s ambitions are far worse than anything I do when the moon rises.
He releases a huff of air and leads me out into the courtyard and toward the mosque with the other men, lowering his voice so that we cannot be overheard.
“I am not immortal, Fayard, and this journey wears me thin. You are my only son, and I must see some things settled before I die.”
I nearly throw up my hands in frustration. Father is legendary for his theatrics. “You are not dying, Baaba.”
“We are all dying, my son, some of us a bit faster than others. I will tell you what my father told me when his time had come. He said, ‘Love gives a man purpose. When we are in love, we are most like Allah.’ It is time for a wife, children, and responsibility,” he says soberly.
One of the palace guards greets Father warmly as we walk, and they begin talking, effectively sealing Father’s edict. The conversation is over. I will be married before the rains come, and I will have no say in the matter. He speaks of love as if he can gift it to me like a candle waiting to be lit on his command. I know better. He will choose someone meek, dull, not too pretty, and very well connected. I don’t have a year. All I have is a few weeks. And if I can only live for that time, I intend to do so for myself and not for political gain.
The next day I make it my business to find the girl in the market, and I know just where to start.
“As-salaam ’alaykum, Khala Farheen,” I say, smiling broadly. For good measure I wave my hand over the auntie’s fabric and beckon a few passersby to take a look.
She crosses her arms across her large bosom and squints her eyes in disapproval. “Wa’alaykum salaam. My answer is the same as yesterday evening. She is not here.”
“But you must know something.”
She laughs. “And why would I tell you? There are plenty of little birds hidden in every dark corner of the market whose time you could waste for the right price. The girl is a good customer. A respectable girl, and you are a brute,” she teases. She likes the banter, but I am running out of time.
Tired of the pretense, I drop a small bag heavy with gold dinars in front of her. She nearly faints when she pries it open with a henna-covered finger. The intricate floral design is no doubt in preparation for one of the many weddings taking place every day.
“I knew you were a scoundrel, but now I see you are a thief. I will not take it.”
“I am no thief. I am no soldier, either. There is enough money there to secure the transport of your grandson to Niani and with a recommendation to set him up as an apprentice to one of the city’s scribes,” I say quietly.
She claps her hands, then covers her mouth and eyes as her head shakes from side to side in surprise. Or is it despair? I cannot tell. When she does open them, they dart from one side of the stall to the other, making sure no one overheard. She even goes so far as to look under the tables.
Satisfied we’re the only two in earshot, she leans forward. “I do not know who you have been talking to, but they lie.”
I lean farther still and lower my voice as far as will go without losing its power altogether. “Even if the little bird is your lost daughter? Now, before you get too upset, please hear me out. I know what you thought you had to do to protect your reputation. A fallen daughter is hard to stand by, but the boy has no future here. He has no father who will claim him, and a mother who struggles daily to feed him. Do him this kindness. Save him from a life of poverty.”
She closes her eyes, considering. I’ve played her a dirty hand, but what I’m offering is worth far more than the few coins I’ve tossed her way. The lies I’ll have to tell to get the boy instated in Niani may cost me quite a bit in favors, but I’m willing to pay it; besides, it is a kindness. The boy will be better off.
She nods, snatching the bag of coins and whispering a string of curses in her native tongue. I exhale in relief and smile. I’ve got the better end of the deal, in any case. I would have paid three times that to see the girl just one more time.
“Give me your hand,” she says, and I slide it forward. She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “If I had paid close enough attention, I would have known these hands had not seen a day’s worth of good hard labor. I will not make that mistake again.”
And then, without warning, she slices my palm with a small dagger. I bite my tongue and taste blood. She grips my hand too tight for me to pull away, but instead of hurting me further, she wraps my hand in a strip of linen.
“Go and see the midwife. Tell her that I sent you to get a dressing for your wound. She will tell you where to find your girl.”
“You could have just given me directions,” I say, biting back the pain.
“This way is much more convincing and, for me, much more fun.”