THE CALL TO PRAYER RINGS out across the city. I open my eyes and I run. My robes threaten to trip me as I try to catch my breath; I stop just in time to gather them. It is a mistake. His legs are longer, and his stamina far outweighs mine, or a gift of his military training. I am no match for him, and I can do nothing when he wraps me in his arms.
He found the honey stall and gifted me with dates the likes of which I’d never tasted before. The next day it was an ivory comb from Timbuktu. I hid it inside my sleeping mat and dreamed of him. Each day he brings a new gift. Each day a new adventure, a sweet reprieve. We melt into the shadows and soften where life has made us hard. This is a respite made sweeter because I know it won’t last, these stolen moments, an hour here, an unnecessarily long errand there. I’ve told him every secret except the ones that matter the most, and I don’t let the knowledge that I can’t have this forever cool the warmth of his embrace.
He tastes of salt and the spice of good meat and raisins. He tastes of wealth, much more than a simple soldier can acquire. He too has secrets. I break the kiss, stare into his eyes, and search for the truth. I decide that I do not want to know.
I turn and run, faster now. He will not chase me much longer.
Hours later my lips still burn with the memory of him as I pray with my mistress, Iyin.
“What is this smile, Tamar?” she asks. “Afternoon prayers rarely make you this happy.”
I wipe the smile from my face as I roll up my mat in the common room. I gather her much more intricately woven mat as well and place both in a basket in the corner. Weak light spills in from the window, along with the smells from the cooking fires in this corner of the city, as we make our way to her room.
I can hear the calls for the last ferry of the day across the river and feel the tension that can only come from so many people pushed into one place. But there is joy in the frustration as well. There is so much life before the rains come, so many people bustling about, things I never get to taste for myself. I wonder where my soldier is now, what preparations he must make before he is gone again, what—
“Tamar?” Iyin chuckles.
She is thin, with skin the color of pale copper and soft eyes that weep too easily, but beautiful nonetheless. We are the same age. She should be married by now, but none of the acceptable men from good families will have her. Despite her beauty she is fragile, with a cough that shakes her entire body and leaves her covered in sweat. Her monthlies are but a trickle if they come at all, and some days it is all she can do to sip a bit of broth. She was born too early, and the midwife insists that each day is a gift her father should be grateful for, but he is too stubborn to accept the finality of good wisdom and instead prefers to pay money we don’t have for doctors who give her a more favorable diagnosis. Childbirth will surely kill her. Still, her father exhausts himself as he looks for a suitor, even if he must go looking among the enemy.
“I am happy for you, sayida. Tonight you may meet your husband, inshallah,” I reply, not answering her question.
She laughs, a weak and wispy sound that would be pretty if it weren’t so faint.
“Inshallah.”
She’s done this before. Yet another introduction. We are weary with it. The preparations, the costly feast. Music. An exchange of gifts. And, after a night of fearful anticipation, rejection.
Iyin looks at me with those fierce eyes, as if she’s about to tell me something, and then she’s overcome with a cough. The first one rattles like bones spinning at the bottom of a cauldron. More follow, and it is as horrible as it has ever been. I serve her the midwife’s tea with the lemon honey she prefers. It helps, but not enough.
“I will not make it through dinner with the amir,” she wheezes after a few tentative sips.
“Of course you will.”
She shakes her head, a few tears leaking out of her eyes. “I grow tired of this. I detest the pageantry, as if I am a prized cow, up for the highest bidder. Except no one is willing to bid.”
She laughs mirthlessly and takes another sip of tea. It helps the cough but also soothes her nerves. I find a small cushion and slip off her sandals so that I can massage her feet. Her eyes close in bliss as I rub shea-nut butter into her arches.
“Sometimes I envy you.”
I blink in shock, unable to understand her meaning. When we were much younger, she would sometimes play cruel tricks on me, compel me to answer riddles that would put my ignorance on display, but she hasn’t done that in years. Still, the urge to distrust her is there.
“Why?” I ask tentatively. I am a slave, even though she no longer likes me to remind her of that.
She shakes her head and manages a real smile this time. “You think I don’t know when you slip out of here on your little adventures? How you wear my wraps and pretend you are not who you are?”
My instinct is to deny it, but to add lying to my list of sins would be too much. I remain silent, head down, unable to lift my eyes to hers. Even if we are the same age, even if we have grown up together—closer than any pair of sisters—she is still the mistress of the house. It is a wall between us that keeps us apart, a wall that gets thicker with each year and more impossible to scale.
She waves a hand at me like she’s shooing a fly before taking another sip of her tea. “Do not worry. Your secret is safe. Jealousy burned within me after I discovered your deception, but I had to be honest with myself. We must all take our joys where and when we can. I would do the same if I could.”
“How did you find out?” I ask, hoping this question won’t put her over the edge.
“One of Father’s spies. A candlemaker in the market. You are kind to him, so he told me instead of Father. He is duty-bound to report, but he guessed I would be more lenient with you.”
“I must thank him,” I say quickly.
“No,” she says sternly. “Do not remind him of his disobedience.”
I nod, and my face heats with humiliation. I am not as clever as I thought myself to be.
“What is his name?” she asks.
“Who?” I say, trying to feign ignorance.
“The soldier. What is his name?”
And just like that, my humiliation is multiplied. How can I tell her that I do not know? How can I say that we speak of dreams instead of the cruelty of our reality, our attraction as natural and necessary as a thirsty man’s pull toward water? I cannot admit that it was her name that crossed my lips when he asked.
She laughs that wheezing laugh again and my heart pains for her. “Tamar, do not worry yourself. I overstep. I wish so much to be free of these shackles and find my own adventure and joys. Does he know who you are?” she asks lightly.
I shake my head. I can’t believe how well she is taking this. Perhaps her condition is wearing on her more than I’ve realized, leaving her little energy to care.
“We speak in his home tongue. To him I am a merchant’s daughter playing a dangerous game, but nothing more,” I say. He probably prides himself on his conquest. From his clothing, his status is no higher than mine, but his hands are smooth. Every truth he has told me could be a lie, not that it matters.
“I guess those shared lessons paid off. You have always had a regal bearing. It represents us well in the community. But these meetings will have to stop. If you dishonor this house, please know that Father will not hesitate to make an example of you. He will have no choice. Our family name must remain unstained,” she says, her voice cold.
“Yes, sayida.”
I am not new to my position so my face betrays none of the pain, but my heart beats wildly in my chest. She has saved my life. Did I know that I was risking it at all? Yes, and I did so with reckless abandon. I made the wrong choice, but that doesn’t mean I did not enjoy it. I knew the day would come when I would give him up, when I would discard him like the few others and recommit myself to God’s will, but something about him has made me want more. Too much more. I lock eyes with Iyin and see pity on the surface, but, like mold on once-fresh fruit, there’s jealousy around the edges.
“I apologize for my shamelessness,” I say softly.
She doesn’t reply. She is lost in her own thoughts.
Light from the lanterns dances along the walls as I help Iyin dress in her rooms. Her grand boubou is made of the finest Yemeni silk, the color of fresh dates; a cinnamon-tinged purple is woven throughout, with gold thread and tiny gold rings. I nearly drool at its magnificence as I help her tie the matching wrapper that will flow out from underneath the garment. The wide sleeves make each flick of her wrist the answer to a question you didn’t know you’d asked, and the billowy cut hides her skeletal frame.
A bell rings from the courtyard.
“They are here,” she sighs.
“Do not be nervous, sayida. You have been here before,” I say, trying my best to encourage her despite my own belief in the futility of the endeavor.
“That is what I am afraid of. The new taxes are cutting Father’s profits to the bone. He has no sons, and he is not as respected as he tells himself he is. I do not know why this amir has accepted his invitation. I must wonder what he is really out to gain,” she says skeptically.
“The legend of your beauty,” I reply in my best imitation of her father.
“Father’s words sound strange in your mouth. Do not taste them again,” she snaps as her mood shifts from anxious to frustrated in the fraction of a second.
“Of course, sayida.”
“Leave me,” she says without looking in my direction.
I am in no place to argue with her when she is like this. Her father is a snake, and there isn’t a man, woman, or child in the market who does not know it. I try to shake off the bad energy before I make it into the kitchen.
“Mihofnima, Binta,” I say to the cook.
The Fulani woman grunts, sweat pouring down her face and arms. She has been cooking nonstop for days.
“They are here already. Did you know that? The griot has already begun The Epic of Sunjata. Do you know what that does to my timeline, oh?”
She isn’t really talking to me, just venting. She’s had to do most of the preparations herself, when two years ago she would have had a staff of five or more.
“If he is skilled it will be quite a long time before he is finished,” I say.
“And then they will be ravenous, devouring every bite of my creations in seconds flat. What have I done to deserve this, eh? And why haven’t the rains come and driven this heat away? Sira! Fan!”
Sira, the youngest of the house girls, jumps at the sound of her name and struggles to effectively handle the imported bamboo fan, Binta’s pride and joy. The thing is nearly half the girl’s size and only serves to move the hot air around. I shake my head and try to hide my smile.
“Don’t delight in the misery of others, little girl,” Binta admonishes, and then turns to look at me, mischief in her eyes. “Have you practiced at all while you were out with your soldier?”
“Does everyone know?” I say in shock.
She chuckles. “We were all young once, and there are no secrets in this house. Get your kora. You will play tonight.”
Deep breaths. I draw the air into my lungs and marvel at the aromas wafting from the feast. Yusuf Ibn Mustafa, Iyin’s father, has outdone himself. The house has been stretched thin in the last two years, so there have been no feasts or cause for celebration, but when Mansa Musa arrived with a caravan of twelve thousand slave women, three hundred camels, and enough gold to put the sparkle back in the eyes of every hustler in the market, it put a dance in everyone’s step. My head swims with the scents of ginger, hot pepper soup, fufu, and fante kenkey. I send a silent prayer that I play so horribly the entire party will retire early and allow me to gorge myself on their leavings. I can almost taste Binta’s jinjinbere washing down everything, the hints of lemon and sugar from the sweet drink lingering on my tongue for hours afterward as we wait, inevitably, for Iyin’s formal rejection.
Voices drift into the hallway while I delay interrupting the conversation for as long as I can. I don’t like to draw attention to myself, and in these lean times a pretty slave girl with a talent for playing the kora might be just the souvenir this amir has a taste for. I’ve always had a gift for music, and in more prosperous times it was quite fashionable to purchase lessons for the house staff.
I should be grateful. Sayid Mustafah is many things, but I can say he has never looked at me with lust in his eyes; in that I have been blessed. I was purchased when I was only four years old, to be a companion for Iyin. I don’t even remember my parents, whether I was loved and then sold to save me from a harsher fate, or if I was a burden, the last in a long line of unwanted children. When I was younger, I dreamed that my fate was all a mistake. I prayed that my real mother would come to the door looking for me or, better yet, see me in the market and recognize me as her own so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the awkward explanation that I was never really a slave at all, but a lost nobleman’s daughter. The fantasies were fun for a while, but as I grew older, they brought me more sorrow than joy, so I gave them up. Now I don’t live in daydreams. My joys come with each present moment, singular temporary delights.
Laughter rolls in waves on the back of perfumed smoke, and a twinge of familiarity unnerves me. I hover closer to the door but stay out of sight.
“You must excuse my nephew. He spends all his days at the local madrassa. Since we arrived, I have not laid eyes on him for more than a few minutes.”
The man’s rich tenor booms out over the few guests in attendance. It commands attention to his clipped Arabic, betraying that the language is his second or maybe even third. Although the accent is one I have heard before.
“Fayid, I admire your dedication to the faith. If Iyin had been born a boy, she would have surely followed the same path, maybe even to the famed Sankore Mosque to study. It is such a blessing to have a future mullah in our presence,” Sayid Mustafah says, his voice effusive. He is used to giving praise in a way that seduces men from their money.
“Inshallah! Inshallah! Have you ever traveled to Timbuktu to visit the mosque? It is magnificent,” the amir says.
“Sadly, no, but my daughter has had premonitions of marrying into a traveling family, so there is an incentive. Her grandmother was also gifted in this way, so we shall see,” Sayid Mustafa says.
They all laugh.
“I guess that is my cue,” Iyin whispers. I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn’t hear her walk up behind me. “Play me to my cushion?” she says quickly, and busies herself with straightening nonexistent wrinkles and ridding herself of invisible dust.
I nod and walk stiffly to a stool that has been placed in the center of the room. My eyes stay downcast as I begin to pluck the strings of the kora. Its long wooden neck reaches far past my shoulders, but I have slender fingers, and the wide body of the gourd that makes up the instrument fits perfectly between my legs. The men fall silent as I play, and I close my eyes as I let the notes create a cloud for Iyin to float on. I float too, allowing myself to be buoyed up beyond this place to an oasis where I am bound by nothing. The music settles my nerves. My heart beats to its rhythm, letting the melody erupt from deep within me, root me to the spot where I can tell the world who I am without opening my mouth. I feel their eyes, but I don’t care. I am my truest self right now, and for the fleetest of moments, I wish there were someone else here to witness it—someone I actually want to bare this side of myself to—but it is a silly desire.
When I am done, the small audience explodes in applause. I open my eyes and offer them a rare smile, a smile that I root firmly in place to hide my shock. I make certain to lock it there and back slowly out of the room.
He stands front and center, his confusion plain, in finery that eclipses anything Sayid Mustafah owns.
Fayid, the amir’s nephew and honored guest, is my soldier.