Escapades II
1238 Words
He straightened, drawing in a long breath, jaw clenched.
“Enough.”
Ameera’s heart skipped. She knew that tone.
“I strip you of your court privileges,” Yusuf said. “No visits to the market, no outings beyond the harem wing. No correspondence without my seal.”
Her eyes widened. “Yusuf—”
“You’ll remain in the women’s wing for thirty days. You will reflect. And when next I speak to you, I expect sense.”
He turned, the folds of his robe sweeping behind him like a final judgment.
“Guard,” he called. “Escort the princess to the Queen’s former chambers. And no one enters without my word.”
Ameera stood frozen as the footsteps of the guards approached again—heavier this time. Her fists clenched at her sides, her throat burning.
But she walked. Head high.
She would not break—not here. Not yet.
The doors closed behind her with a final thud, and silence swallowed the room.
Ameera stood still at the center of her mother’s old chambers—rooms heavy with the scent of rosewood, frankincense, and memory. Her eyes traced the ornate ceiling, the draped curtains, the carved mirrors. All of it beautiful. All of it a prison.
Her chest rose and fell, breath tight with rage and something else—hurt.
She sank slowly onto the cushioned divan, fingers trembling as they brushed over the embroidery. Yusuf’s words echoed in her ears, sharp and cold like winter steel.
He had spoken to her like she was a child. Like she was a pawn. Like love was a sin.
Tears threatened but didn’t fall. Ameera didn’t cry easily. Not even as a girl. But her throat ached, and her heart felt swollen with things unspoken—desire, grief, frustration, rebellion. She hated this feeling of being cornered. Caged. Silenced.
Yet beneath the anger, a thread of guilt tugged.
She had lied. She had risked the palace name. And she had done it not once, but many times… for Tajudeen.
And now, she was paying the price. Alone.
She stood, slowly, and walked to the open window, pressing her fingers to the carved wooden frame. The sun had begun to dip, casting the sky in dusky gold.
She didn’t regret loving him. But she regretted being caught.
And that… that was a dangerous beginning.
That evening, long after the court had emptied and the shadows had lengthened across the marble floors of the palace, King Yusuf sat alone in the Hall of Ancestors, eyes fixed on the flickering flame of a single oil lamp.
He didn’t flinch when the great doors creaked open and Dantani stepped in.
“You summoned me,” Dantani said quietly, his voice echoing under the high dome.
Yusuf didn’t look at him at first. He simply said, “It’s about Ameera.”
Dantani stepped closer, hands clasped behind him. “She’s strong-willed. Much like her mother.”
“She was meeting Tajudeen,” Yusuf said. “Not once. Several times.”
A pause.
Dantani’s jaw tightened. “Tajudeen… son of Kawu?”
Yusuf gave a slow nod.
Dantani exhaled sharply. “Yusuf… that cannot stand. You know this.”
“I know,” the King replied, voice low. “But she says she loves him. And he… he’s not without honor.”
“Honor?” Dantani’s voice hardened. “His father tried to murder your father, King Mustafa, in cold blood during the palace siege. Do you remember the stories? Arewa remembers. Always. No son of a traitor can lie with the blood of the royal line.”
Yusuf said nothing, but his eyes flared with pain.
“You want my advice?” Dantani said gently now, the edge softening. “Let Tajudeen go. Quietly. No blood. No chains. But far from Arewa. His presence alone is an insult to the ancestors.”
The King finally looked up. “And Ameera?”
Dantani’s eyes were steady. “She’ll heal. But if word spreads, she may never be seen the same. Her dignity must be protected. And yours.”
Yusuf nodded once. Slow. Final.
A decision had been made.
King Yusuf sent the order by nightfall.
Tajudeen was to leave Arewa within two days. No public notice, no spectacle. His crime was not to be named. Only silence would escort him out—a silence heavier than chains. Dantani saw to the arrangements. Guards loyal to the crown, discreet and seasoned, would see Tajudeen safely beyond the city’s golden gates.
Ameera was not to know. Not yet. Yusuf could not bear to see her eyes when the truth struck. For now, it would be written off as a reassignment—an honourable mission to another province. Time, Yusuf hoped, would wear down her ache like water does stone.
But elsewhere, the palace was preparing for beauty, not heartbreak.
The sun rose over the palace like molten amber poured across its domes. The women’s wing, usually quiet, pulsed now with laughter, whispers, and the rustle of silk. Twenty-two girls remained in the harem. Their bodies scrubbed with sweet-scented lalle oils, their hair threaded with gold, their eyes lined with kohl.
But this was no idle beauty.
Here, they were being prepared.
The Mistress of Courtly Graces had arrived—a tall, sharp-eyed woman named Hajiya Safina. Former concubine, now the King’s most trusted hand among the women.
She did not smile.
“Sit straight,” she commanded on the first day. “When you bow, your neck must bend like a reed, not like a dying flower. There is a difference.”
The girls obeyed.
“You do not speak first in the presence of the King,” she said, her voice crisp as frost. “You wait. You listen. You offer answers, not questions. Royalty detests chatter.” “And when you speak, your voice must fall like rain, not thunder.”
They are taught how to smile without revealing too much teeth, how to look at the king without looking too long. How to kneel in greeting, rise without effort, and serve water in a way that makes a man feel like royalty.
“Royalty must be flattered, never overwhelmed,” Hajiya says. “You must be art, not noise. You are not here to show your power—you are here to be his peace.”
Yet despite the roses and gold, it is a trial by fire.
For only one of them will be chosen.
And the rest will be remembered only for how well they lost.
Each day, they were taught how to dress—layers of cloth that floated like clouds, colours that complemented their skin, perfumes that lingered like memory. They were taught the art of the dukhiya—the graceful, deliberate walk of queens. How to laugh lightly, how to lower their gaze, how to look up just enough to hold attention.
One girl cried on the third day. She missed her home. Another dropped out due the pressure. But the training didn’t stop.
“Royalty is performance,” Hajiya Safina said, her voice like thunder. “Every word you say, every tilt of your head—it must be measured. Because you are not girls anymore. You are contenders.”
Outside, the palace gardens bloomed.
Inside, something sharper was taking root.
And far across the palace, the King readied for the day he would choose.
- Writer
