The White Witch and the Stable Boy - Part I

TITILAYO Wherever she passed, silent stares crept at her heels like a shadow. Titi felt strangled beneath the weight of a million eyes that galled at her pale skin and brown hair, some in fascination, most in disgust. She shivered past a group of matronly women busy with chatter, their eyes tracing her as she passed. They were her aunts, but felt no more than strangers. Her nerves stiffened like the carcass of a dead rat as she waddled her way to the end of the long, garnished table beneath the canopy, all too aware of the eyes glued to her strange and supposedly witch-like features. Her brow was beaded with sweat, and her heart was a booming drum. She watched her sister walk in, the sight of her offering a small measure of relief. Ronke was dressed in a fine purple _Aso-oke iro_ wrapped gracefully around her waist, with a _gele_ and a milk-white _buba_ tucked into the iro. It was a hand-me-down from Mother. Titi's own dress was a hand-me-down as well, though not from her mother. Adesina had gifted it to her. Simi the seamstress had worked her magic to make it fit. The bright orange of the dress matched the gold of her eyes. Her mother seemed merry-stricken and joyful when she joined them at the table, a joy she had not displayed when she saw her daughter for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Titi had run to hug her mother when she saw her upon her return. Unlike her sister, she had never pushed Titi away, but she held her in her arms for a brief, awkward moment. There was scarcely any warmth in it. The coldness of her mother's arms was like a thorny briar wrapped around her heart, prickling savagely from all sides. Returning home did not feel as sweet as she had envisioned. She had found herself in a strange place. For the first eleven years of her life, she had lived there, in that very house. The house felt new to her now, new and foreign and different. The room she once shared with Ronke, the kitchen, the small granary, the pens that held a brood of clucking chickens—all of it was as foreign as uncharted land, offering only blurry glimpses of nearly vanished memories. The only memories vivid in her mind were the ones that stung. Past grief she would rather forget. And her father. She remembered her father. His room she could remember as clearly as her own existence. The Akinṣọlás arrival was as grand as one would expect of a district governor and wealthiest man in Walli-ille The wheelhouse was a large, clunky mass of wood and iron that groaned like a mournful beast as it rolled upon its heavy wheels. Inside sat the Akínṣọlá family and whatever else they cared to bring with them. Armed guards flanked the wooden beast on horseback, riding at a canter that slowed to a trot as the wheelhouse lost speed, until at last it came to a halt. Mother and Ronke went to welcome their guests. They were Titi's guests as well. But she was a stranger here. The door to the wheelhouse opened with a creak from thirsty hinges. The Akínṣọlás stepped out elegantly, all dressed in glamorous shades of blue. Big-boned Chief Olúwáfẹ́mi Akinṣọlá emerged first. He was a heavy man in a heavy cobalt agbada that flowed like a sea of gleaming fabric. A woven _fila_ crowned his bald dome. He was all smiles behind the shaggy grey beard that sprouted like a dense thicket around his fat cheeks. Sickly Funmilayo Akínṣọlá crouched out of the wheelhouse after her husband, who offered her a hand in a courteous display, taking step after careful step. She was dressed in glittering teal _Aso-oke_. The necklace dangling over her chest seemed too heavy for her frail neck, blue and heavy like frozen droplets of seawater. Two servants followed them out with gifts aplenty. Mother bowed. “You're highly welcome.” Ronke followed. “Are you well Funke?” the district governor greeted. “I am well, my lord,” Mother answered. “Funke.” The slender Lady Funmilayo called her by name before embracing her. “You look well,” Mother noted. “As healthy as a maiden,” Funmilayo quipped. “I feel as good as I did in my youth.” She turned towards Ronke. “Come, dear child. Won't you give your mother a hug?” Ronke towered above the older woman, so she had to bend a little to be of height with her. The woman's eyes turned to Titi. “Titilayo,” she called. Her voice was tender. “Come.” The spite in Ronke's eyes could not have been clearer. It followed Titi like a sharpened spear as she walked towards the woman. Funmilayo took Titi by the arm and caressed her cheek with a gentle touch. “Are you well, fair maiden?” Though most people looked towards Titi with contempt and disgust, there were always others she found to be kind, however few they might be. The Akínṣọlás had been among the kinder lot. She remembered her visits to the Akínṣọlá compound, back when her father served as Chief Akínṣọlá's steward. The sweet fragrance of the rose fields. The aroma of spices drifting from the kitchen. The countless ceremonies she watched her father arrange. The neighing of horses from the stables. The large iron gates. The green door. And the obnoxious yet friendly stable boy who had taken to calling her Milk Girl. She remembered all of it. But what she remembered most of all was the feeling of acceptance. The Akínṣọlás proved ever averse to superstition, so in Titi they saw no witch. Only a child. A normal child, innocent like any other, only a few shades lighter. Funmilayo had taken to calling her the “fair maiden,” a name Titilayo always held dear. She was glad to see that had not changed. Last to descend from the wheelhouse was Ronke's husband-to-be. The handsome young man walked up to Ronke, courteously took her by the arm, and laid a gentle kiss upon her hand without uttering a word. It looked almost rehearsed. Her sister's groom-to-be was tall and strong of stature. The thick black hair that crowned his head had been twisted into long dreadlocks, drawn tightly back, with one loose lock falling across his brow. The ends of the locks were spotted with colourful beads and a sprinkle of cowrie shells, announcing his presence with chimes and jingles wherever he walked. Adewale Akinṣọlá was dressed in a crisp cobalt _Aso-oke_ woven sleeveless top with matching _Sokoto_ trousers veined here and there with glittering stripes of vermillion and gold. Beneath the vest he wore a plain blue shirt, its sleeves folded to reveal his sturdy forearms. Stacks of beaded bracelets, piled one atop another, were wound tightly around his right wrist, sparkling like gemstones when they drank in the sunlight. A short necklace of blue beads hung around his neck. A narrow, closely trimmed beard ran along the sides of his cheeks, meeting at the point of his sharp jaw. Mother led her guests to the table beneath the milk-coloured canopy, set against the backdrop of a modest two-storey house. Titi took her previous seat at the end of the table, next to her estranged aunts, watching the eyes seated around her and those across the other tables. Spread across the tables was an assortment of meals served with a variety of soups. At the head of the table, gluttonous and ungraceful, Chief Olúwáfẹ́mi Akinṣọlá feasted on a healthy serving of pounded yam with egusi soup, while his wife beside him found amala and ewedu more to her taste. Ronke was all smiles and giggles, sitting next to her husband-to-be and blushing at every word he uttered. Titi's aunts were busy with their usual gossip, most likely spilling intimate secrets about this person or the other, occasionally flashing disdainful looks in her direction. After a brief period of feasting, Titilayo dipped her hands into a bowl of water. She decided she needed some air.

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