Kofi’s father entered the room and cleared his throat.
Grasping his fist, Kofi held it against his chest and bowed his head as a sign of respect. “Bawoh, Father, my king.”
Imani gave the same sign of respect. “Bawoh, Uncle, my king.”
King Babatunde nodded and shuffled to the sofa across the room. He settled his wooden staff against a table where the sole item sitting on its surface was a photograph of Kofi’s mother, Queen Nahla, in full regalia.
His father was a giant of a man, taller and thicker than Kofi. Most days he wore traditional attire, and today’s outfit consisted of a white agbada with bronze embroidery and a matching fila on his head. His skin was a lighter color than Kofi’s, closer to the golden brown hue taken on by the baobab trees when sunlight filtered across their trunks at dawn.
The old man moved slower now, much slower than before Jafari and Queen Nahla passed away. But Babatunde was more than twice Kofi’s age and a lack of vigor expected. Kofi thanked God and his ancestors for sparing the life of his father, at least.
A servant approached and handed the king a glass of bissap, a drink made from dried hibiscus flowers. His father drank half the maroon beverage before giving a curt nod, indicating he’d like more. The servant filled the glass from the pitcher on the tray and then turned to Kofi. He waved him away, but Imani took a glass and sat beside the king.
“He looks like you when you were a boy,” Babatunde said.
“Yes, he does.” Kofi smiled.
There was no doubt Noel was his son in appearance, but he inherited his mother’s temperament. The little boy was friendly, and Kofi already felt fully bonded to him. Aofa adored him, and the few staff he’d interacted with had fallen under the spell of his inquisitive nature and warm giggles. When Dahlia and Noel left to go to Kofi’s apartment in the east wing, the boy marched ahead, as if he knew the way, while everyone else followed behind, watching him turn his head from side to side as he examined his new environment.
Kofi’s grandfather commissioned the construction of the palace when King Babatunde was a boy, not long after gold mines were discovered in the mountains. Some rooms were open to the public as a tourist attraction, but for the most part the palace consisted of living quarters and offices for the royal family and staff.
Caramels, varying shades of gold, and rich browns pervaded the decorations. But so did deep blue and purple. The wood floors looked polished enough to glow in the dark. The marble floors were covered with hand-woven rugs, most sent from far-reaching villages in the kingdom by citizens who’d received the honor of having their work accepted and utilized by the royal family.
“How did you ask her to marry you? Did she say yes right away?” Imani’s eyes practically glowed with red hearts.
Kofi stroked his beard for a bit before he answered. “I asked her in her apartment, the first night we saw each other again. At first she was unsure and doubted her ability to be an effective princess, but I basically gave her no choice but to accept my proposal.”
“Awww, true love. How romantic.” Imani sighed.
“There’s nothing wrong with arranged marriages,” Babatunde said.
“Arranged marriages are the old way. The new way is to find the person you love and make a life with them. That’s what I intend to do,” Imani said.
“What does your father have to say about your idea?” Babatunde asked.
“He agrees and will let me choose,” Imani said, a trace of defiance in her voice.
“Make sure you choose wisely.” Babatunde centered his attention on Kofi. “I like Dahlia. She seemed nervous at first, but I can tell she’s strong, like your mother.” A soft smile crossed his features.
To this day, his father couldn’t mention his mother without a wistful smile taking over his face. Strong winds from an impending storm had been to blame for the plane crash that killed her and his brother, but no explanation had been enough to ease the trauma of losing two members of the royal family in one fatal blow. The entire country had mourned.
Sadly, his parents’ relationship soured near the end because his mother discovered in the early years of their marriage, Babatunde had taken a lover and gotten her pregnant. Queen Nahla never forgave him for cheating and having an outside child. His father never forgave himself for hurting her and lived with the guilt of knowing he’d never won her forgiveness before she passed.
The king took another swig from the glass and then set it on the mahogany table. “She needs to be strong because she’ll have a lot to learn and get used to.”
Kofi remained silent, suspecting his father wanted to say more.
“You should talk to the council right away.”
His ears perked up. “Why?”
“They expected you to choose another bride from one of the tribes. They feel shut out that you chose an American.”
Kofi went to the open window behind his father’s sofa. As far as the eye could see there were orchards and gardens that supplied much of the food for the palace, a testament to the country’s origins as an agrarian society, before their warlike instincts developed as a means of self-preservation. The voices of the workers carried on the wind, and he heard them laughing and yelling at each other as the day came to a close.
“I can marry whomever I please.”
“And they will accept her because you chose her, but I suggest we throw an engagement party to introduce her to members of the council. I know we’re short on time, but that should take care of any offense to their delicate sensibilities.”
For once, his father suggested a metered approached. Usually, Babatunde did whatever he wanted with little thought to diplomacy.
“All right,” Kofi agreed.
Babatunde sighed heavily. “I know how you feel about this woman. Do you think you can trust her?”
Kofi remained silent. His father knew about the embezzlement, and he didn’t want to lie to him or reveal his remaining reservations about Dahlia.
“You need to be wise, Kofi. Lead with your head, not your heart. Make sure she’s ready to face them. If you don’t, the press will not be kind.”
Kofi laughed bitterly. “I know all about the press.”
Eleven years ago at the young age of nineteen, he’d made the terrible mistake of sharing his private thoughts with a fellow student in London, a young woman he cared about and thought cared about him. Instead, she’d simply been milking him for information to sell to the tabloids. Acknowledgment of the advantages he received as royalty, as well as offhand comments about the pressures and limitations of being a young prince, had been printed out of context and made him appear simultaneously arrogant and ungrateful. A PR nightmare and a harsh lesson to learn. He’d spent years performing public service, anxious to change the narrative about himself.
“And then there is the issue of the oil. The representative from Titanium Oil came back while you were gone.” A few months ago, oil had been discovered off the coast of Zamibia, and the company set up an office to offer their services as a partner to the government.
“Alistair Davies? What did he want?”
Kofi walked around to face his father.
“More of the same. To convince us we need them to help us with drilling the oil. I put him off, but he asked for a meeting.”
Imani snorted. “They want to rob us.”
“They’ve been very persistent,” Babatunde told Kofi. “We may need the help, but I don’t trust them. I worry they’ll find a way to stir up conflict through bribes or some other means and threaten our way of life.”
The royal family benefited from extraordinary wealth, but unlike the royals of other countries, the Karunzikas were generous. By keeping the businesses that mined the gold state-owned, they kept the majority of the money in the country, only hiring consultants as needed. They built hospitals, schools, and other public facilities for the benefit of their citizens. Roads had been improved and public transportation upgraded. Jobs created around the mining industry were not o
nly service positions, but executive and management roles mostly filled by qualified Zamibians.
Thirty years ago, they instituted universal healthcare and funded education from elementary school through college. This made the Zamibians very loyal. Loyalty meant physically and mentally able young men and women who finished high school often chose to give a year of military service. As an alternative, others volunteered to work for eighteen months in the government or a local non-profit in their region before attending college or a trade school.
“Can’t we kick them out?” Imani asked.
“It’s not that simple, and they might be able to help us,” Kofi muttered.
They needed to handle the delicate nature of rebuffing the outsiders with diplomacy before escalating to more aggressive measures. For years they’d had a tenuous relationship with the British because they’d failed twice in their attempts to take over Zamibia. The Mbutu were the fiercest and most warlike of the Zamibian tribes. With them leading the way, the country fought a valiant first war against colonization. But after seeing neighboring countries come under European rule, they knew it would only be a matter of time before the British turned their attention to them again. That’s when they reached out to Barrakesch, purchased more guns, and trained and armed every member of the country willing to fight.
The second time, the British attacked by sea, but they were ready. They defeated the invaders, making Zamibia one of only a few African countries—Liberia and Ethiopia being the other two—that had never been taken over by a European power.
Babatunde grasped his staff and rose from the chair with a groan. “I’m an old man. I no longer have the patience to deal with these foreigners. You know what your job is. Keep our people safe and happy, govern fairly, and continue our line. You’re not successful if you don’t do all three.” His father spoke with a firmness that demanded a response. He spoke to Kofi not only as a father, but as his king.
“I understand,” Kofi said.
“I know you have to go to a meeting in the north country for a couple of days, but when you get back, take care of the council and set up a meeting with Davies. See what he wants, and make a decision about what we should do.” Babatunde then left the room.
14
At the sound of men’s voices, loud and strong, Dahlia left the rack of clothes she was sorting through and went over to the window.
Downstairs, Kofi and Abdalla practiced hand to hand combat with a long stick in each of their hands. Today was Kofi’s first day back since he left town for a meeting in a region north of Jouba a couple of days ago.
Kofi moved with swift agility, looking as lethal as his leonine title suggested. Abdalla, big as he was, moved fast, as well. Both men were shirtless, their muscular bodies glistening with sweat, but her eyes remained riveted on Kofi. She licked her suddenly dry lips.
The tendons and muscles in his arms grew tight as he circled the bigger man, seeking to strike first. Three lines of tiny, evenly spaced circles stretched across the upper plane of his back. The raised skin, implemented during a scarification ceremony, indicated his warrior status.
She hadn’t spent much time alone with Kofi before he left town. They ate dinners with the king, formal affairs at a long table in an ornate dining room in the king’s quarters. Afterward, while she and Noel went back to the apartment, Kofi remained with his father. She assumed they talked late into the night. He never knocked on her bedroom door to say good night.
Which was an interesting part of their marriage—separate bedrooms. They were separated by a short hallway, a secret passageway at the back of her bedroom, behind a wall. One day she’d have to get a map to see where all the other passageways and secret rooms were hidden in the palace.
Similar to the rest of the palace, bright colors adorned her room, along with hand-painted textiles and decorative touches such as handmade furniture carved with intricate designs from trees native to the country. The floor near her bed was covered with a plush, camel-colored accent rug she enjoyed losing her toes in, currently occupied by Noel and his toys.
Their living quarters were located on the second floor in the east wing. The entire apartment was the size of a large penthouse, and the palace itself was so huge the first couple of days she’d been tempted to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find her way back and forth.
And, she was overwhelmed by all her responsibilities, which made her tired and cranky. Every day, someone needed her attention for one task or another. Did she want to change the paint on the walls in her office? Ready to choose the fabrics and furniture for Noel’s room? There were also numerous introductions. She met Imani, Kofi’s cousin, and other members of the family who lived in the palace or stopped in to meet her and “our young prince,” as they called Noel.
Dahlia froze and caught her breath as Abdalla swung low at Kofi’s leg. Kofi deftly slid out of harm’s way and doubled back, twisted his club and struck Abdalla in the arm.
“You shouldn’t worry.” Mariama, her maid, came to stand beside her in front of the window. She’d been so engrossed in the performance below, she didn’t hear the young woman come in.
“Looks rather dangerous,” Dahlia murmured.
“Prince Kofi is a skilled boxer and an expert in the African fighting arts Dambe and stick fighting. He will land as many blows as he takes.”
Dahlia turned away from the window because she couldn’t stomach watching the men hurt each other.
Tomorrow they took engagement photos, so she sorted through the outfits Lisette, one of the stylists, brought to the palace. Speak of the devil, the petite, dark-haired French woman waltzed into the room with a container filled with scarves.
“I knew I’d left something in the car.” She plopped the see-through box on the bench in front of the bed. “What about this?” She held up a red and green scarf and pulled a cream pantsuit from the rack. “And this?”
Dahlia tilted her head to the side. “What do you think?” she asked Mariama, who now sat on the side of the bed.
“I like whatever you like, ma’am.”
She was young, with large doe eyes and short-cropped hair, only nineteen, and obviously grateful for the position of working with Dahlia. Her deference at times embarrassed Dahlia, but she worked hard and was clearly trained well.
“You can be honest with me, you know,” Dahlia said.
Mariama smiled shyly.
Dahlia sighed. “Maybe the pantsuit. Yes, the pantsuit.”
“And what about this, for an evening event?” Lisette pulled another article of clothing from the rack. A black, strapless gown covered in hand-sewn beading.
“It’s beautiful,” Dahlia said dully. At some point she needed to sit down with the social secretary and schedule events, which included attending functions with Kofi that were already on his calendar. Yet another task on her to-do list.
“It would be perfect for one of the formal dinners. You should try it on.”
Unaccustomed to having extra people around all the time, Dahlia took the dress into the dressing room, which was literally the size of her old apartment, but only contained the clothes and shoes she’d brought from the States. Lisette’s job was to increase her wardrobe, put matching outfits together, and fill the closet with high fashion clothing, some of which hadn’t hit the runway yet.
Dahlia slipped on the dress and stepped into the bedroom. “Well, what do you think?” she asked, doing a quick twirl.
“Pretty, Mommy,” Noel said.
Dahlia blew him a kiss.
“Noel has good taste. You look lovely.” Lisette knelt in front of her and folded up the hem. “I think we can go a little shorter here, no?”
“I think you’re right.”
Lisette held the hem in place using pins from the cushion attached to her wrist and then got to her feet. “Bon. Let’s see what other goodies we can find.”
They went through all the clothes, pulling out the must-haves and leaving the discarded choices on the rack. Accessories and sh
oes were also set aside. By the time they were on the last two dresses, poor Noel had fallen asleep on the rug.
“I’m not sure about this one.” Dahlia came out of the dressing room in a blue dress and turned her back to Lisette.
Before the woman could pull up the zipper, Kofi’s deep voice said, “I’ll take care of that.”
Her stomach contracted. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him approach from across the room. As usual, he exuded power and confidence, this time in a dashiki shirt and matching pants.
Lisette drifted out of his way and Mariama went to stand against the wall, hands clasped in front of her.
“This dress is exquisite,” Kofi said quietly. He’d taken a shower, because she smelled the pine-fresh scent of soap, and the unique scent of his cologne—a proprietary blend created just for him. The same one he’d worn years ago.
His hand rested on the zipper at the base of her spine, and Dahlia held her breath, intensely aware of the intimacy of the moment, and kept her hand pressed against the bodice of the expensive gown to keep it in place.
“I think it might be a little too small,” she said.
He didn’t move right away to zip her up. Instead, he brushed his knuckles along the skin of her lower back.
Dahlia tried to edge away without being too obvious, but Kofi held her fast by tightening his grip on the dress. Lucky thing, too. Her trembling legs might not have taken her far.
“What are you doing?” she murmured in a hushed voice to ensure neither the stylist nor Mariama could hear.
“Zipping your dress,” Kofi said calmly.
“Are you sure?”
His knuckles continued moving up her spine, causing the flesh of her back to tingle and every hair on her body to stand on end.
“Be patient,” he whispered.
Her body warred within itself, part of her wanting to pull away, the other part wanting to succumb to the sensations he evoked.
Finally, he did as he said he would do. He slowly slid the zipper into place, securing the dress against her body. Hugging her curves, it drew tight around her ass and left nothing to the imagination. Dahlia turned to look at him, smoothing her hands over her hips, when she noted the darkened pupils of his eyes.
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