The Witch, the Warrior and the Wedding - Part I

FOLASADE The narrow-eyed scholar from Ming Xhi stroked his whiskers. The golden-haired Westanian beside him was engrossed in note-taking, occasionally bobbing his head in fascination. The scholars from the Black Lands carried out their studies in private chambers, since they required no translators. The men studied illustrations on scrolls and books that stripped Wazobia naked. Temilade had been generous with details and labels in her illustrations, allowing the scholars to study the beasts' anatomy in its entirety. The most powerful weapons in Wazobia. The beasts that had made Old Karnak. All their secrets now lay in the hands of potential enemies. Wazobia had kept Westania, Ming Xhi, Al-Aqtar, the Black Lands, and all the nations beyond her borders at bay for centuries for one reason alone: all feared the might of the beasts. But Ramon had taken Wazobia's sole deterrent and exposed its secrets in exchange for gold, riches, and Ming Xhi paper. Folasade still failed to see the wisdom in the Bashorun's orders. Ramon must surely have gone mad. The Custodian of the House of Orunmila rose from the head of the lengthy table. She nodded to their unwanted guests and made her way out of the Grand Hall and into another section of the House of Orunmila. Walia was in the midst of a power struggle, and Folashade found herself caught in the middle of it. Not only did she now have two kings to serve, she was also expected to balance the Alaafin's Walian restoration project against the Bashorun's wild-life tourism project. She walked into the hall. Titilayo's hair glistened like spun copper beneath the flames that illuminated the chamber. The fair-skinned girl busied herself piling page upon page of translated texts from the army of scribes that littered the hall. Beside her, Bisi barked at an elderly scribe who had probably mistranslated a word. Folasade smiled as she watched her daughters. The traces of hostility in Bisi's eyes had lessened even further. Folasade came before them, watching their eyes light up at her presence. “You two seem busy,” the woman announced with a smile. “Oh, Mother.” Bisi looked up. “Mo— Iya Bisi. Welcome.” Titi looked away, almost embarrassed. “Mother. Look at this.” Bisi pointed to a line of text on a page. “Is this written correctly?” “Let me see.” The momentary distraction allowed Titi to regain her composure. “It says _ooru_, but the black script... I'm not sure what was meant.” Folashade studied the text, comparing the original against the translation. The original text in the Black Tongue read: _A metal's destiny is shaped by heat._ The translated text read: Irin kii se ohun ti a bi; ooru ni n se e di ohun ti o je. A metallurgy text, Folasade noted. “I see.” She rubbed her forehead. “It seems to be an error, albeit a minor one.” “I knew it!” said an excited Bisi. “This translates to Iron is not what it is born as; heat makes it what it becomes.” “You are correct, my daughter.” Folasade rubbed the girl's braids. Bisi's eyes turned towards Titi with palpable pride, almost as though saying: She's my mother, not yours. The hostility had not disappeared entirely. But that was still progress, given the bitterness of earlier days. Folasade lingered in the hall until the sun neared its setting. All around the chamber, scribes and scholars vocalised their exhaustion in yawns. The girls, too, seemed weary. So Folasade rose. “That will be all for today. You may all rest now.” The overworked scribes and scholars murmured their relief, and almost immediately the exhausted men and women were on their feet. Muscles were stretched. Joints were cracked. A yawn here, a sneeze there. Before long, the hall was empty. Only Folasade and her daughters remained. Titilayo was already snoring. A yawning Bisi struggled to rouse her. After a brief struggle, Titi's eyes opened, barely. As they rose, he approached. Like an untimely omen, red eyes, red agbada, red fila, and red shoes entered the hall. Ramon the Red. “A little emptier than I expected,” said the Bashorun. “You dismissed them early. Why is that?” “The scribes need rest. So do my girls.” Titi and Bisi clung to her garment. The man still frightened them. “Too much rest and your work will be delayed. Your Queen would be displeased.” _My Queen?_ Folasade thought. _She is yours as well._ The thought she would not dare vocalise. She responded instead: “Her Highness the Alaafin understands the immensity of the task, and a task this immense would surely come with considerable longevity.” “Indeed.” The Bashorun stroked his short red beard. “Translating every text in the House of Orunmila into the Walian tongue is, dare I say, no easy task.” He paused. “That being said, it is a meaningless undertaking.” “Meaningless?” Folasade could feel her nerves wriggle beneath her skin. “Her Highness wishes to return us to our roots, to free us from colonial shackles, and to have us reclaim our ancestral tongue. How is such a restoration meaningless to you?” The Bashorun took gentle steps, admiring the books nested within grooves in the walls. “Why do we need to return to our roots?” He allowed the question to linger as he studied the disgusted expression on Folasade's face. “What is wrong with what we have now?” He turned towards the girls sheltering behind her. “Hello.” He waved. They stiffened. “The Black Tongue seems to be doing quite well for us, don't you think?” “The tongue is foreign,” Folasade protested. “It does not belong to us. We have a tongue we call our own.” She paused. “A tongue is the vessel of a people's memory.” The Bashorun smiled. “The Black Tongue does belong to us. So does our Walian tongue. One does not negate the other.” “The Walian people have but one tongue. The Black Tongue belongs to the Black Lands, just as the Westanians have their own tongues.” Ramon tilted his head, looked at her, and smiled ludicrously. “Languages only exist as means of communication. What matter is it how a message is passed across, so long as it is passed in the end? Sentiment might say otherwise, but languages are just that... languages.” Folasade returned his gaze defiantly. “Languages are more.” There was passion in her voice now. “Linguistics is the ultimate form of art. A language is heritage. It is history. A language can tell you about a people: how they lived, where they lived, when they lived.” She stepped closer. “The nature of words used, how they are used, where they are used, when they are used. These things differ from one language to another because people themselves differ.” “Different experiences. Different social realities. Different geographical realities. These are all reflected in the languages people speak.” Her voice grew stronger. “Our language is inseparable from our identity. It is entwined with the very fabric of our history. So reclaiming it is reclaiming our identity, and reclaiming our identity is reclaiming the history that created that identity.” Ramon merely stared at her with an expression of disinterest. “You're very passionate. It's very beautiful, really.” He paused. “But you see...” Another pause. “All a language does is divide.” He tilted his head. “Do you like division, Lady Folasade?” He did not allow her to answer. “I, for one, do not. I quite like unity.” He smiled. “Do you know what I desire most of all?” She waited. “A united Wazobia.” Bold. That was all Folasade could think. Beyond bold. “But...” Titi's voice was barely audible. Bisi tugged at her garment, urging her to remain silent. Ramon moved his head like an owl. His gaze fell upon Titi. “But,” Titi continued, “centuries have passed since the migration, and there has never been a united Wazobia.” “You're right.” Ramon's gaze remained fixed upon her. “And does that mean anything? The absence of a precedent does not denote impossibility. It has not happened before; that does not mean it will not happen.” “You are correct in that assertion.” Titi felt bolder with every passing second. “But how do you fathom a united Wazobia will come into being?” “Certainly not by reverting to our old tongues,” he answered. “The common tongue we share would allow for better understanding once unity is attained.” He paused. “But to answer your question, there are two paths I see to a united Wazobia.” He raised two fingers. They watched him. “Conquest from within.” One finger dropped. “Conquest from without.” The second followed. Silence. “Let us debate this no further. I came to check your progress in translation, but you were done already for the day.” He straightened his agbada. “I shall take my leave now.” They nodded, and the man left with the clacking of his shoes. Titilayo walked into Iya Bisi's room that night. “I want to talk to you.”

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