The Witch, the Warrior and the Wedding

IBIRONKE Ronke was the most beautiful bride in all of Walia. That was what her mother told her. She believed her mother. Ronke observed her reflection on the polished surface of a bronze mirror. She smiled. The smile matured into a giggle, then into hysterical laughter before settling into a sigh. She was glamorous. She turned her face left, then right, adoring the dimples carved into her polished cheeks before reaching for a decorative hand fan to shield part of her face. Her eyes were dark and radiant behind luscious lashes and narrow sockets. She narrowed them even more to concentrate her gaze. Polished cheeks. Glowing lips. Brown eyes. Carved eyebrows. She was beautiful. She studied her attire next. A delicious congregation of gold and cobalt threads that warped and wefted into a glistening iro, wrapping itself tightly around her waist to her ankles, diverging around her curves before converging once more around her feet. Her buba sparkled with golden threads, with scattered communities of blue threads embroidered into intricate shapes. Her ipele was regal. The heavy blue piece settled like a dignified serpent over her shoulder, with smaller serpentine stripes of gold thread racing down its back. The gele was the piece that crowned the set. Deep blue, heavy, expertly woven and tightly wrapped around her head, burying her face in its shadow. Ronke turned, bent, and did a full rotation before the reflective surface before settling into a hand-on-hip posture. She was stunning. Her jewelry was the kind queens and aristocrats wore. Her wrists and ankles were shackled in blue and gold. Heavy bracelets of beads stacked one atop another. Blue. Gold. Blue. Gold. Her head bent slightly from the weight of her neckpieces. A large blue piece and a large gold piece fought for ornamental dominance, surrounded by smaller pieces of gold and blue, with one red piece providing aesthetic contrast. Ronke doubted if even the Alaafin herself wore such pieces. She was fabulous. Ronke rose as her mother came into the room. Immersed in her own reflection, the women attending to her had become invisible. She only re-registered their presence when they rose as her mother entered. “My daughter,” said Funke. “Mother.” Ronke blushed. “You look glamorous.” Ronke touched her cheek. “You look beautiful.” Ronke covered her face with a hand fan. “You look stunning.” Ronke fanned her face. “You look fabulous.” Ronke fiddled with her dress. “May you get all the happiness that you deserve.” “Ẹ ṣe.” “May your womb be blessed with many children.” “Ẹ ṣe.” “May the gods deal with anyone who wishes you evil.” “Ẹ ṣe.” Ronke’s lips twisted wickedly. Titi came to mind. Her evil witch of a sister. Tales had a way of spreading, and this one had made its way to Ronke’s ears. Adewale Akinsola had been seen riding with the White Witch. Titilayo. That menace. She must have bewitched him. But evil must crumble in the face of true love. She smiled before picturing herself within Adewale Akinsola’s embrace. “What has stolen your mind, my child?” Ronke snapped out of her thoughts. She sighed. “Titilayo thought she could take him from me.” Mother placed a hand on Ronke’s cheek. “Listen, my child. Your sister may try as she may. The gods clearly favour you. Ibironke, my child, you will not lose the favour of the gods.” “Yes, Mother.” Ronke didn’t always hate her sister. There were times, long ago, when they were well and truly sisters. They would run around the house, trailed by their mother’s yells, as sisters did. Danced together to the beat of talking drums, as sisters did. Rolled around together in carpets of grass and sand, as sisters did. Flesh and blood. Two sisters with contrasting complexions. Ronke did not know when it all changed. It was perhaps gradual. Maybe it started when she heard a man call her mother a harlot who slept with a Westanian sailor because she had given birth to a fair-skinned child. Maybe it was when she barged into her mother soaking her sheets with tears, lamenting why she had been cursed with such a child. Maybe it was when her mother was dragged forcefully by the city matrons to defend the birth of her child. Maybe it was when she witnessed her father slap her mother for calling his daughter a curse. Or maybe it wasn’t because of her mother. Maybe it was when her father shifted his gaze entirely toward the younger daughter. The elder was neglected. She had to watch her father march around Titilayo every time, like a bodyguard fighting anyone who dared as much as point a finger at his precious daughter. Ronke was never spared even a drop of his time. When he wasn’t being Titi’s guard, he would be immersed in historical texts, scribbling down proofs that his daughter’s fair skin was not a curse. He studied text after text tirelessly, going as far as to present a centuries-old text in which fair-skinned people were seen as a blessing, not a curse. She watched him march into the Walli Ille court to present and win his case. Titi was spared from meeting the blade. It should have ended there, shouldn’t it? All the worry and sorrow? No. Her father died. Not too long after. Perhaps the weariness had gotten to him. One day, he fell and never rose again. So Titilayo took her mother’s happiness, her father’s health, eventually his life, and most of all, his love and affection. Ronke never truly believed Titi to be a witch. Anyone who believed so was foolish. She was quite clearly just a girl. Only fair as milk. Her hair might be bronze-bright, but it was no different in texture. In fact, Titi’s hair was far nappier than Ronke’s curls. She was a girl. Just a girl that brought misfortune to her family. She took Ronke’s happiness. And now she tried to take her husband. But the gods would not allow it. Ronke smiled. Talking drums colonized the air with the rhythm of festivity. Outside the house, carriages, wheelhouses, and horses began to gather, depositing the aristocratic guests of the wedding festival. Everyone and everything was buried in glamour. Guest after guest disembarked from their mounts. Agbada galore. Every conceivable shade. The women were no less elegant, with geles that sparkled underneath the sun. Ronke didn’t know most of the men and women. These were the highest echelon of Walli Ille. Aristocrats. Wealthy merchants. All ten of Walia’s district governors. The Bashorun, buried in red. Akinwale Adeyemi Ajibade, the Master of Goats, was there too, his pot of a stomach protruding through his agbada. She even saw Chief Oluwadamilare Adebayo Akinjide wink at her mother and felt shocked when she watched her mother blush. Then came the Alaafin. Her carriage was flanked by guards on horseback. A herd of drummers encircled her as she dismounted. The woman was nowhere near as embellished in glamour as Ronke would have expected. Around her, men and women were throwing chants and praises while the guards struggled to subdue the crowd. The drummers were more vigorous. The woman’s face was masked with fatigue. Her wise eyes seemed to be pulled down by the weight of the bags beneath them. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. This woman clearly slept very little. The ruler of Walia adjusted her ipele quite a few times before finally taking a step. Her children followed behind her. Princess Adeola had her hand held by a female servant, her gele appearing too heavy for her head. Her older brother, Prince Adeyemi, stood beside her. The Crown Prince of Walia stood slender and handsome in his fine-tailored agbada. He walked with a dignified gait, wearing a dignified mask in dignified attire. Ronke thought he looked quite like a prince until she saw his mother smack him on the back of the head for trying to touch a woman’s buttocks. He’s a fool. A handsome fool. Ronke spied her evil witch of a sister. The Matron of the large house with books was there too and her ugly daughter beside her. Ronke couldn't help but smile. She had won. Titilayo had failed to steal her husband. She would be sure to remind her once the wedding ceremony was over. The groom and his family arrived right after the royal family, in usual fashion. The large, clunky wheelhouse. A flag bearing an iroko tree. Armed guards. And everyone dressed in blue. Ronke watched her groom disembark. Her heart was fluttering.

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