“It was bound to happen. Maybe he has feelings for you, too,” Angela said gently.
“Maybe. Even if he does, at any time he can get another wife or mistress, and there’s not much I can do about it. Hell, at one point, I told him he should.” The anger and ugliness of their reunion in the States seemed like a long time ago, but less than two months had passed.
“That was before, when a lot of animosity existed between the two of you. But listen, I didn’t ask the question to make you upset. Come here.” Angela pulled her into a hug. “Have I told you that I missed you?”
“No. But I know you did. I missed you like crazy, too,” Dahlia said, her voice thick. She pulled back and looked at her friend. “I’m glad you came.”
“Are you kidding?” Angela’s eyes were overly bright with tears. “You’re getting married and about to become a princess. Even those damn slave drivers couldn’t make me miss this day.” She managed a watery smile.
At a soft tap on the doorframe, both women turned their heads. Mariama stood in the doorway.
“It is time,” she said in her soft-spoken voice.
Dahlia took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She let Mariama add the last piece to the dress, a silk head covering the same white color, trimmed in gold to match her dress. She then applied gold lipstick and added gold dots around her eyes using face paint.
Dahlia took one last look at her transformation and faced her best friend. Angela smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand, and all three women exited the room.
Golf carts took Dahlia and ten attendants to the other side of the palace, where the ceremony would take place in a large event room. A long, purple rug ran the entire length of the hall. Angela left to claim her seat, and at the appropriate time, the doors opened and the sounds of hands beating softly on drums could be heard.
The ten women, dressed in gold dresses and matching gold head ties, tossed down white rose petals as they made their way down the purple carpet. Dahlia followed behind them, keeping her eyes demurely focused on the floor, according to the custom. When she arrived at the altar, she lifted her gaze. Kofi stood beside her in a flowing robe, also white and trimmed in gold. His face remained expressionless, but his eyes were alive with undisclosed emotion.
Did he feel it, too? Just a little bit. The gravity of this momentous occasion. That no matter their reason for standing before these people today, they would soon embark on a road where their lives would be inextricably bound together for years to come.
The priest spoke in both English and Mbutu, in a confident, loud voice. The ceremony included acknowledging the ancestors, repeating pledges to each other, and praying over the couple. At the end, the officiant tied their wrists together to represent they were now one unit. He used a strand of cowrie shells, to symbolize fertility and prosperity. After one last prayer, he introduced the couple to those in attendance.
Because her coronation would take place in a private ceremony later, the officiant made the introduction by saying, “I now present to you, Prince Kofi Karunzika and his wife, our future princess, Dahlia Karunzika!”
Cheers and loud claps went up from the group, and the drummers beat a faster rhythm, joined by the sound of ivory horns as they made their way down the long carpet to another room, empty except for more servants waiting for them. After the makeup artist retouched Dahlia’s makeup, she and Kofi took a myriad of photos—together, with their male and female attendants, and with Noel. The photos with the king saddened her a bit because her own parents were missing, but Dahlia didn’t dwell on the sentiment too long.
The final step involved walking out into the sunlight to introduce the new family to the thousands gathered on the grounds. When they stepped out onto the balcony—Dahlia, Kofi with Noel in his arms, and King Babatunde—some of the people dropped to one knee and bowed their heads, but many others let out a loud cheer and waved Zamibian flags in joyous unison. Dancers in traditional garb and face paint high-stepped and twisted their bodies in a flurry of movement. Drummers, whose instrument in times past were used to relay messages across miles, beat a frantic rhythm that joined with the chorus of voices.
Overcome with emotion, tears filled Dahlia’s eyes. Then she remembered the rules and fixed a smile on her face and waved with her fingers close together.
Her gaze slid to Kofi. Noel, excited by the crowd, laughed and waved his hands vigorously from the perch on his father’s arm, and the crowd cheered louder. Kofi smiled and waved, too. His profile was so lit up, he seemed like a new person. Nothing compared to this man’s smile. She wanted to climb on top of his face, he looked so sexy.
Tomorrow they left for their honeymoon, one week in Tofo, Mozambique on the Indian Ocean. But tonight, they consummated their marriage. Heart racing at the prospect of a night in his arms, Dahlia returned her gaze to the people below.
A section of the group shouted louder than the rest. “Eyeh-kabo! Eyeh-kabo!” they chanted.
“Do you know what they’re saying?” King Babatunde murmured from the side of his mouth.
Dahlia listened closely. “No,” she admitted, though she was certain they were speaking Mbutu.
“That is Mbutu,” the king confirmed. “It means Welcome.”
Emotion clogged her throat. Her smile broadened, and she privately vowed to do her best so that she was worthy of such enthusiastic acceptance.
From the balcony in the Great Hall, Kofi took stock of all the wedding guests.
Despite the short notice, hundreds of dignitaries, heads of state, and ambassadors attended the ceremony. They brought lavish gifts from their homelands—exquisite diamonds culled from the mines of South Africa and rich tapestries from Ethiopia. The Moroccan delegation brought belly dancers to entertain the couple and their guests, while Ghanaians sang and performed the Nmane dance to the beat of drums in honor of the bride.
Goats, sheep, and cows had been slaughtered, and fruits and vegetables harvested from the palace grounds for the three-day celebration. News cameras and journalists from all over Africa captured the events on video and in print.
Wasim and another friend from his university days approached and came to stand on either side of him. Wasim extended a platter of grilled goat meat, and Kofi popped a hunk of the flavorful meat in his mouth.
“What’s the real story between you and Dahlia?” Andres asked, a prince from a small European principality. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and rested his back against a column, arms folded over his chest.
Kofi braced his hands on the stone railing, his gaze drifting to where Dahlia sat on a cushioned chair edged with an intricate gold design. She was deep in conversation with her best friend, Angela. In a short while, they’d leave their guests and the celebratory atmosphere to enter the coronation room, where his father would give Dahlia her new title.
His stomach and chest tightened, but the choking sensation from his first marriage, like a noose around his neck, didn’t surface this time. He felt surprisingly free.
“There’s no real story.”
“He’s lying to us now,” Wasim said.
These men were his best friends, as close as brothers, and knew him better than his older brother ever did. Jafari had been consumed with his role as the crown prince and the rigid constraints he’d been forced to live within. Kofi had lived a more exciting life with these men by his side.
Wasim peered around Kofi to look at Andres. “Do you remember him telling us how much he despised her but wouldn’t tell us why? And how he never wanted anything to do with her again because she’d betrayed him, but never told us how?”
“Then two minutes later proclaimed she was the love of his life,” Andres pointed out with a chuckle.
“Remind me never to get drunk around the two of you ever again,” Kofi said drily. “All you need to know is that she’s the mother of my child, the heir to the throne.”
They fell silent because that they understood. They carried the same burden of responsibility he did. Th
at’s why they’d been close at school. The three socialized with some of the wealthiest young people in the world, but wealth and privilege were among the few things they had in common with the children of government officials and business owners. None of those young men and women understood the added strain that came from having to create a legacy an entire country depended on.
“Thanks for helping set up the meeting with the head of the Ministry of Oil. Hopefully, our two countries can work together on this project,” Kofi said to Wasim.
Nothing had been finalized, but Barrakesch and Zamibia had entered into an exploratory agreement, and Kofi’s office had already notified the ambassador and Alistair Davies. Neither was pleased by the news.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Imani. She was quite persistent.”
“Who’s Dahlia’s friend?” Wasim asked, shifting his gaze to Angela.
“Hey, I had my eye on her,” Andres said.
Kofi shot both men a warning look. “Down boys. Reserve your charm for someone else. Angela leaves tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Too bad,” Wasim said.
“Angela. Nice name,” Andres murmured.
“Time for a toast.” Wasim called over a waiter and gave him instructions. After a few minutes, he returned with two champagne-filled flutes and juice in a glass for Wasim.
“I’ll start,” Andres said. “I wish you the best, my friend. You deserve some happiness.”
Andres, like Wasim, attended Kofi’s first wedding and the funerals of his mother, brother, and wife.
Andres raised his glass. “May you both live a long and happy life together.”
“And through the grace of Allah, may your house be filled with love and the sound of children’s laughter,” Wasim added.
They clinked their glasses together.
Kofi tossed back the champagne and then settled his gaze on Dahlia. He fully intended to have everything they wished for him with her by his side.
19
Mariama entered the room. “Your bath is ready, Your Highness.”
Your Highness.
Hearing others refer to her as “Your Highness” instead of simply “Miss Sommers” or “ma’am” would take some getting used to. The private coronation ceremony had taken place that very night in the coronation room where she received a gold crown bedecked with diamonds. It was one of five differently adorned crowns, and she learned each one served a special purpose and were only worn during formal events, ceremonies, or when officials came for state visits. King Babatunde had given her the title of Great Wife, an honorific which meant she was the one through which the royal succession would pass.
“Thank you, Mariama.”
Mariama helped her remove her jewelry, and Dahlia removed the shoes and dress she’d worn during the coronation. Although Mariama hovered nearby, she undressed without embarrassment. She’d gotten used to having her maid in the room with her and understood this was part of Mariama’s responsibility, to ensure even the most mundane of tasks–a bath–would be pleasurable and carefree.
She sank into the tub, filled with warm water and red and white rose petals. Leaning back against the pillow, she let the warm, rose-scented water relax her body and mind as it flowed over her skin. The soft petals tickled away the remnants of stress from the long day. She was in heaven.
Dahlia dozed a bit and woke to Mariama tapping her on the shoulder and holding a large towel.
“Thank you.”
In the bedroom, she dressed in a white nightgown, and Mariama let down her hair until all the chunky twists fell around her shoulders. An artist came and covered her hands and wrists in intricate henna designs and after completion, they both left her alone to wait for Kofi.
Dahlia sat on the side of the bed, waiting. She’d seen the way Kofi looked at her earlier and knew he’d arrive any minute. She hoped he’d be pleased. The anticipation made her heart flutter.
She sat there and waited, and waited, the silence in the room seeming loud as time stretched on. Swallowing hard, she glanced at the clock. Had she misunderstood the marital custom? Was she supposed to go to him?
No, she didn’t misunderstand. He was supposed to come to her. According to custom, the groom came to the bride on their wedding night.
She checked the time again. Two more minutes elapsed, but it felt like two hours.
She finally realized he wouldn’t come, because he thought she didn’t want him. She’d sensed him holding back, containing the ‘wild boar.’ If he wouldn’t come to her, then she would go to him. She would have to be the one to take the next step—to bridge the gap.
Rising from the bed, Dahlia took a deep breath and went to the panel in the wall. She opened the door and slipped into the hallway, which was illuminated by small lights that lined the floor on either side. Moving quietly on bare feet, she turned the knob at the other end and pushed open the door.
Bare-chested, Kofi lay on his back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He sat up immediately when she entered, looking at her like he’d seen a ghost.
Dahlia let the door close quietly behind her and drifted closer, hands clasped together to keep them from shaking.
“Tonight is our wedding night. I’m your wife.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You didn’t come to me.”
“So you came to me.” A few seconds ticked by. “Come here, wife.”
She crossed the rest of the way and stood in front of him. Their eyes locked on each other as Kofi snaked his hands under her nightgown and tugged her lacy underwear down to her ankles. She stepped out of them, never letting her gaze leave his.
Slowly, he lifted the hem of the filmy nightclothes past her hips, and she finished undressing by tugging it over her head and discarding it to the floor.
His breathing pattern changed when he looked at her naked body, and he muttered something in his tribal tongue, licking his lips as he stared at her breasts. One finger traced the henna design on the back of her hand up to her wrist, and that mild touch sparked heat in her veins and made her step closer to stand between his open legs. Big hands cupped her hips and smoothed up the curve of her waist, riding higher to either side of her breasts.
“My wife,” he said softly, nostrils flaring, eyes hooded as he looked at her.
Her pulse quickened and her loins throbbed at the softly spoken words. “My husband.”
He kissed her belly, and his tongue left a moist trail from her navel to the middle of her chest. The familiar touch of his lips and facial hair triggered a sizzle against her skin, making her press closer. As if a switch suddenly turned on, Kofi stood and lifted her off the floor and placed her on the bed.
Their lips fused together in a hot, fierce kiss that tangled their tongues. He pressed hard against her, kissing deeply, thoroughly. The edge of his teeth nicked the inside of her mouth, and she plunged in, too, delving deep to taste him. He filled her mouth and kissed her with brutal, uncontrolled desire. Her lips clung to his as he crushed her to him, his tongue stroking throughout the warm, damp cavern of her mouth. She whimpered with need as he simultaneously kissed and sucked her lips, taking what she’d come to willingly offer.
For far too long she’d been without this type of intimacy. Alone, fighting, struggling. But the rush of Kofi’s touch made the wait worthwhile.
Her nipples hardened into painful points against the hard warmth of his bare chest and the drag of the hairs sprinkled on his torso. Smoothing her hands over his back, she explored the hard muscles and the scarred tissue on the upper portion that warned he was a formidable fighter.
He pulled her on top of him, and she slid along this body. Soft against hard. Smooth against rough. She felt his hands cradling her hips as he thrust up against her.
With fumbling, hurried fingers, she undid the knot of twine holding his pants around his waist and helped him maneuver the article of clothing from his firm body. He was a gorgeous specimen of a man. Broad-shouldered and lean-waisted, coupled with a beautiful landscape of tight
abs and muscular arms. She licked those abs and filled her mouth with the sweet taste of his skin.
Snaking a hand lower, she slid her finger into the tuft of hairs at his groin and teasingly massaged all around his shaft, watching his face contort into what could only be described as an expression of agonizing pleasure.
“Dahlia...” Unintelligible murmurings climbed up his throat.
She sucked his flat nipples and nipped his hard pecs. “You’re beautiful,” she said, her voice husky and low. Her body pulsed with need for him. Familiar, natural need that simmered beneath the surface whenever he was near.
She clasped his erect shaft, smoothing moisture from the tip up and down his hard length.
With a deep-chested groan, Kofi filled his hand with her hair and used the twists as leverage to tug her onto her back in the middle of the bed. The other hand grabbed her bare bottom and squeezed, and she lifted her body close to his.
She flicked her tongue into his ear, and like a heat-seeking missile, his probing fingers found the desire that hammered between her thighs. Her thighs parted willingly, opening around his hips and affording him unrestricted ease to cup and slide one finger into the slick warmth. She whimpered as his finger strummed within her, but it wasn’t enough. This was agony.
She ground her hips against his hand, panting and hungry and desperate to relieve the intense pressure below the waist, wound so tight she could hardly wait for him to enter her. She would only be satisfied when his body claimed hers.
“Dahlia,” he groaned on a ragged breath. “You’re ready for your husband, yes?” He slapped her ass and then curled his fingers into the flesh, grabbing in a firm squeeze. The stinging blow echoed into a pounding heat at her core, so intense she almost came.
“Yes, Kofi, yes,” she breathed.
He tugged at a nipple with his teeth, torturing the dusky-colored flesh into a more turgid peak. The soothing lave of his tongue followed each nip of his teeth. He rained little bites over the soft crests until she couldn’t take anymore teasing and grabbed his head, arching her back and forcing his face into the valley of her breasts.
Princess of Zamibia Page 11