by Alyssa Cole
Lumu placed a hand on Sanyu’s shoulder. “So do you, my king. Remember that you cannot please everyone, but I think the people of Njaza will be happy with the man they meet today.”
“Thank you for being my friend all of these years,” Sanyu said. “Seriously. When I reflect on the past, you’ve always been there when I needed you. And when this country needed you, even though you could have moved anywhere else on the continent and been rich and successful. I’m lucky to have you as my advisor.”
Lumu smiled widely. “And I’m glad to see that you’ve accepted peace and love into your life, my friend. May Okwagalena bless you always.”
After making his way through the back entrance and walking past sweaty reenactors, Sanyu made it to the area serving as the prespeech greenroom. Anej arrived to prepare him for the speech, draping him in an ivory robe that looked simple but was finely woven fabric that was soft and silky against his skin.
Sanyu watched himself in the freestanding mirror as she worked.
He could see his father in his nose and cheekbones and eyes, in the way he stood tall and proud, but he was not the former king. For the first time, he allowed himself to realize that not being his father wasn’t a flaw—that perhaps he was the only one who’d ever thought it was. His father had never told Sanyu to actually try to be him, after all. He’d shown Sanyu his love in the way he best knew how, by offering the one thing he was confident he possessed and the one thing that might keep Sanyu safe in a world that would crush him if given the slightest opportunity. His strength.
“You can pretend to be me. What use is my strength if it is not also yours?”
Sanyu would still draw on his father’s strength when necessary, but he would also tap into that free-flowing emotion that now filled the hollow space carved deep within him by fear and anxiety and hopelessness: love. That, too, was the strength his father had passed onto him.
“You are ready, Your Highness,” Anej said, looking up at him and giving the drape of his robe a final tug. “You seem different today.”
Sanyu smiled. “Thank you.”
When he walked out onto the stage, his heart pounded in his ears and his stomach churned, but he was used to that. He looked out on his people, on the thousands who had come today and seemed to be joyously celebrating in the stands, and thought perhaps he’d been right not to cancel the parade. People needed joy in their lives.
As the applause died down, Sanyu opened his mouth and began to sing.
“Sanyu II! Even fiercer than his fa-ther!
Our prince! One day our mighty king!
Enemies! Of Nja-a-a-za—
Sanyu II, he will vanquish you!”
The crowd picked up quickly and began to clap as he sang, cheering when he finished and attempting to move into the second verse, but Sanyu held up his hand.
“I hate that song,” he said, his voice booming through the sound system. “Hated it, rather. My entire life it seemed to mock me, reminding me that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be as great a king as my father, the mighty Sanyu I, breaker of chains, who built this kingdom with his bare hands and held it together through sheer will. Because I was weak.”
Sanyu had his contacts in, so he could see the crowd growing uncomfortable. This was not the kind of speech a king of Njaza gave—but he was king of Njaza, so now it was.
“After becoming king, I had to grapple with many things, in addition to the loss of my father. Like the fact that our country is isolated and our people have fallen behind other nations. Our economy has flatlined, innovation and industry have dried up.”
He could hear the confused chatter of the crowd, and he paused for his words to sink in, and then continued.
“I thought I wouldn’t be able to be a good king, because to do that would require change, and a strength I didn’t think I possessed. But I’ve learned something over the last few weeks. I am not your former king. I am Sanyu II, and I am even fiercer than my father—fiercer in my love, fiercer in my hope for Njaza’s future, fiercer in my desire to not only protect my subjects but to make sure this kingdom provides the best life possible for them. I am fiercer because I am my father’s legacy. Because he made sure I was.” He paused, licked his lips and gathered his thoughts, sifting through them for the thing that felt right. “I hope to never know war or strife as my father and all of our elders did, to never have true enemies to protect this kingdom from, but I know I’m strong enough to face all that is to come. And I know that, with the help of you, the people of this kingdom, I will do everything I can to ensure Njaza’s future is one every citizen can be proud of, and every subject can be part of.”
He looked out at the crowd, knowing that last bit was perhaps corny but having been unable to come up with something more rousing on the fly.
The chatter continued to grow louder, and then applause broke out, and then shouts of support. Sanyu watched as his people cheered—for him—and he smiled. He didn’t allow himself to get too excited as the ovation of the crowd continued without cease. This was phase one of the speech, and this time he wouldn’t disappoint Shanti or his subjects who were relegated to the sidelines by what he’d thought was tradition.
“I’m not particularly long-winded, so that’s all I have to say for today. Now, if our audiovisual team is all set, I’d like to try something else new, a speech live from—”
A movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye and he turned to see Shanti gliding across the stage toward him. She, too, was clad in ivory, though she wore the traditional Njazan dress of a cropped top and a wrapped skirt of many layers.
“—live from this stage,” he said, holding out his hand toward Shanti. “As you know, today is also the four-month anniversary of my marriage, and I would like to formally introduce my wife, our True Queen, Queen Shanti.”
She clasped his hand in hers as the crowd applauded, her red-painted mouth stretched in a smile and mischief in her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered as he pulled her into a hug. “You’re supposed to be at the Royal Unity Weekend.”
“I thought it more respectful to be in Njaza when speaking of Njaza,” she said. “I also wanted to see you.”
“And?” he asked, squeezing her closer to him.
“And I didn’t trust the AV team to handle this since they’ve never done it before,” she admitted. “Sorry! But Queen Ramatla sent a crew so that this will be streamed to participants at the conference as well.”
Sanyu smiled. He was indeed lucky to have such a wise wife, even if she was a bit of a control freak.
When he released her, Shanti stepped closer to the podium and adjusted the microphone, clearly more comfortable with public speaking than him.
“Hello, dear subjects of Njaza. Today I was supposed to be in the kingdom in which I was born, to discuss the beautiful, and hidden, history of Njaza. I was so proud to be able to share this information with the world, but then I realized that first it must be shared with you. Before I begin, I’d like to announce the creation of a very special committee—the council of former queens.”
She looked to the side as the women who’d driven him to Njinisbade walked out onto the stage to confused applause.
“This council, along with selected advisors, will help create a kingdom that integrates all voices, not just men like those who’ve currently held power for decades.”
Sanyu watched the crowd’s reactions, his stomach in turmoil, but Shanti forged on. “But we will not be throwing out the old ways. We believe that for a kingdom to be strong, we must hear all voices, and try to amplify those who have longest gone unheard. The council has not yet been assembled, but today in this celebration of Njaza’s history, we will begin to restore the missing pieces that are so crucial to making this kingdom whole.”
She stepped away from the podium and into the space beneath Sanyu’s right arm, and they both watched Anise approach the podium.
“The story of a kingdom is told by its victors,” Anise
said. “I, first queen of New Njaza and the queen who left, am both victor and loser in equal parts, and I hope what I tell you today reflects that dichotomy. I hope that it helps you to know all that we were, and see all that we might be.”
The audience fell silent, and Anise told the old tale that would be the foundation for the new story that Sanyu and Shanti would create together, of a kingdom where emotion wasn’t weakness, where there was strength in teamwork, and, most importantly, where a king and queen could find their happily-ever-after.
Epilogue
Five years later
Shanti stood on the platform of South Palace station, amidst the buzz of journalists, advisors, engineers, and select citizens chosen for the trial run of Rail Pan Afrique’s first cross-continental trip. There was a honk in the distance and she squinted, her heart leaping when she saw the sleek silhouette of the approaching train come into view.
“Train! Train!” a high-pitched voice squealed and she turned to drop a kiss onto the rounded cheek of the small brown prince beside her, and then onto the bearded chin of the king who held him.
“Yes, Dembe. Train!” she said, tickling her child’s round belly then placing her hand on her own round belly. Ever practical, she’d decided she wanted two children relatively close in age, and then to be done. Sanyu had agreed, not wanting his child to experience the pressure of being a sole heir. That she was carrying twins was likely a reminder from Ingoka that life was beyond the control of mere mortals.
“What sound does a train make?” Sanyu asked Dembe as if it were a matter of grave importance as he adjusted the strap of the diaper bag on his shoulder.
“Choo choo!” Dembe shouted.
“Yes, choo choo,” Musoke said, shuffling over to squeeze Dembe’s leg. “The brilliance of this child! He is clearly touched by Amageez!”
Musoke was often still annoying, but now it was mostly about giving parenting advice and demanding that they let Dembe do as he pleased. She often caught Sanyu watching Musoke’s interactions with Dembe with confusion, but was happy that the old advisor had taken Sanyu’s words seriously. They no longer went to family therapy, but the sessions they’d attended had helped immensely to change their relationship to one that enriched instead of drained.
A gnarled hand reached out toward Musoke and gently shoved him aside. “No. Look at that happiness in those eyes of his! The joy! He’s clearly a child of Okwagalena.”
Anise and Musoke had a strange relationship where they bickered constantly but spent nearly all their time together, having decided they’re too old to hold grudges after fifty years and the loss of Sanyu I.
“Ingoka would like a word,” Shanti’s dad said, approaching to take both Dembe, who he passed off to her mother, and the diaper bag. “Don’t forget this boy is half Thesoloian!”
Kenyatta and several royal guardswomen kept close watch over the grandparents from a meter or two away. They said proper farewells to everyone, including Dembe who was busy playing with Musoke’s new cane.
“Have a good honeymoon!” Shanti’s mother chirped, giving both her and Sanyu hugs as the train pulled in.
“We’ve been married for five years. This isn’t a honeymoon,” Shanti said. “It’s PR. The launch of the rail line is very important and—”
Shock and then delight filled her as she was swept off her feet by her handsome husband. “I booked us a sleeper car, Wife. It’s a honeymoon.”
“Oh, by the three gods, have some decency,” Musoke grumbled, but Shanti laughed and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck.
“How many honeymoons can we have?” They’d traveled all over the continent and the world over the last few years, and explored their kingdom as well.
“Endless honeymoons,” Sanyu said as he nodded farewell to their family. “It’s the one thing you’ve agreed to barter for, and several trips with my beautiful queen is a small price to pay for . . .” He inhaled and exhaled deeply and smiled.
“For what?”
“For you.”
Shanti assumed that the way she burst into tears at her husband’s earnest words as he carried her into their private suite on the train was caused by her hormones. But the love that filled her when she looked at him? The pride she felt as the train carried them through their kingdom, in the midst of both massive change for the better and reclamation of its past?
That was only logical.
Acknowledgments
As always, I’m thankful to the Avon staff at all levels of production, especially my editor, Erika Tsang, as well as my agent, Lucienne Diver. Special thanks to Rose Lerner, whose early feedback was incredibly helpful.
I’d also like to thank my readers—your support is a beacon that helps me navigate around the many garbage fires burning in the world and find my way to the happily-ever-after as I’m writing.
Excerpt from When No One Is Watching
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Chapter 1
Sydney
I spent deepest winter shuffling back and forth between work and hospital visits and doctor’s appointments. I spent spring hermiting away, managing my depression with the help of a CBD pen and generous pours of the Henny I’d found in Mommy’s liquor cabinet.
Now I’m sitting on the stoop like I’ve done every morning since summer break started, watching my neighbors come and go as I sip coffee, black, no sugar, gone lukewarm.
When I moved back a year and a half ago, carrying the ashes of my marriage and my pride in an urn I couldn’t stop sifting through, I thought I’d be sitting out here with Mommy and Drea, the holy trinity of familiarity restored—mother, play sister, prodigal child. Mommy would tend to her mini-jungle of potted plants lining the steps, and to me, helping me sprout new metaphorical leaves—tougher ones, more resilient. Drea would sit between us, like she had since she was eleven and basically moved in with us, since her parents sucked, cracking jokes or talking about her latest side hustle. I’d draw strength from them and the neighborhood that’d always had my back. But it hadn’t worked out that way; instead of planting my feet onto solid Brooklyn concrete, I’d found myself neck-deep in wet cement.
Last month, on the Fourth of July, I pried open the old skylight on the top floor of the brownstone and sat up there alone. When I was a teenager, Mommy and Drea and I would picnic on the roof every Fourth of July, Brooklyn sprawling around us as fireworks burst in the distance. When I’d clambered up there as an adult, alone, I’d been struck by how claustrophobic the view looked, with new buildings filling the neighborhoods around us, where there had once been open air. Cranes loomed ominously over the surrounding blocks like invaders from an alien movie, mantis-like shadows with red eyes blinking against the night, the American flags attached to them flapping darkly in the wind, signaling that they came in peace when really they were here to destroy.
To remake.
Maybe my imagination was running away with me, but even at ground level the difference is overwhelming. Scaffolds cling to buildings all over the neighborhood, barnacles of change, and construction workers gut the innards of houses where I played with friends as a kid. New condos that look like stacks of ugly shoeboxes pop up in empty lots.
The landscape of my life is unrecognizable; Gifford Place doesn’t feel like home.
I sigh, close my eyes, and try to remember the freedom I used to feel, first as a carefree child, then as a know-it-all teenager, as I held court from this top step, with the world rolling out before me. Three stories of century-old brick stood behind me like a solid wall of protection, imbued with the love of my mother and my neighbors and the tenacity of my block.
Back then, I used to go barefoot, even though Miss Wanda, who’d wrench open the fire hydrant for kids on sweltering days like the ones we’ve had this summer, used to tell me I was gonna get ringworm. The feel of the stoop’s cool brown concrete beneath my feet had been calming.
Now someone calls the fire department every time the hydrant is opened, even when we use the sprinkler cap that reduces water waste. I wear flip-flops on my own stoop, not worried about the infamous ringworm but suddenly self-conscious where I should be comfortable.
Miss Wanda is gone; she sold her place while I was cocooned in depression at some point this spring. The woman who’d been my neighbor almost all my life is gone, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
And Miss Wanda isn’t the only one.
Five families have moved from Gifford Place in less than a year. Five doesn’t seem like much, but each of their buildings had three to four apartments, and the change has been noticeable, to say the least. And that doesn’t even count the renters. It’s gotten to the point where I feel a little twinge of dread every time I see a new white person on the block. Who did they replace? There have, of course, always been a few of them, renters who mostly couldn’t afford to live anywhere else but were also cool and didn’t fuck with anybody. These new homeowners move different.
There’s an older, retired couple who mostly have dinner parties and mind their business, but call 311 to make noise complaints. Jenn and Jen, the nicest of the newcomers, whose main issue is they seem to have been told all Black people are homophobic, so they go out of their way to normalize their own presence, while never stopping to wonder about the two old Black women who live next door to them and are definitely not sisters or just friends.
Then there’re the young families like the people who moved into Miss Wanda’s house, or those ready to start a family, like Ponytail Lululemon and her Wandering Eye husband, who I first encountered on the historical tour. They bought the Payne house across the street—guess they had been casing the neighborhood.
They don’t have blinds, so I see what they do when they’re home. She’s usually tearing shit apart when she’s there, renovating, which I guess is some kind of genetic inheritance thing. He seems to work from home and likes walking around shirtless on the top floor. I’ve never seen them actually interact; if I had a man walking around half-naked in my house, we’d be more than interacting, but that’s none of my business.