Mikayla
The land behind the palace stretches far into the night. Fire from torches and hearths dance in the soft breeze. A sea of people, babies to the golden age, surround me. I’ve been given gifts, flowers, family heirlooms, and I clasp my hand around a miniature wooden elephant, treasuring the fact that one of my childhood friends, who I can’t for the life of me recall, remembered such a thoughtful thing about me. Somehow it brings me comfort as I’m transported to what can only be compared to a “Coming to America” set. Men and women dressed in leopard skins and what I assume are ostrich feathers, dance and sing. Wow, how I wish I understood the language. It is beautiful.
A heap of flowers are at my feet. I stay put, not wishing to crumple a single one, and hell, I don’t have anywhere near the rhythm of these dancers.
After a man sung what Qaaim who sits to my left stated was our national song, I’ve been engaged in conversations with people who remember me. It’s embarrassing to not have the slightest idea of who they are.
Words whisper against my skin. The uncomfortable ones that appear every once in a while. I only welcomed them when Trick stabbed Jagger with his poisonous knife. Other than that, I’ve done a good job at ignoring them because the whispering only asks variations of one question.
‘Would you like to remember?’
And the underlying terror continues to ride along with me. Heck, no. I almost can’t stand myself. I’m the woman who spent hours ruminating over her work in order to grab that scholarship to med school. In this instance, playing ignorant seems the safest bet…. for my heart.
My stomach begins to coil and I look up to see Kmota, she’s in the left corner of the vast audience. Leering at me as she speaks with friends, family, maybe? Perhaps she’s saying I got Abayomi murdered or I just didn’t give a damn about him because it was clear before we parted ways that she believed he loved me.
Hell, even with the memories fading from my mind, I have this overwhelming understanding that Abayomi and I had a connection. The kind of connection that would imply I’d care about his death. And when Kmota and I spoke earlier, I might have appeared indifferent, or worse in her eyes, because she doesn’t know me.
They all have their perceptions.
I was such a sweet girl.
I was as beautiful as my mother when she was a child, oh and, as handsome as my father, too.
I was Princess Mikayla, who loved gooseberries. The me that I know me to be, doesn’t even recall how that fruit tastes.
A family with a tiny baby comes to me now. The mother places another twining of flowers around my neck. “Princess Mikayla, we have missed you and prayed for you every day since you left.”
“Thank you,” I nod my head. “How old is your baby,” I ask, although the child appears about six or seven months, at best. I just don’t feel like hearing another line about how someone knew me.
“Twenty-six weeks,” the father beams proudly.
“Would you like to bless our baby?” the mother asks.
I swallow. In Peru, I provided immunizations to children, but blessings? I can recite the Lord’s Prayer.
A trumpet sounds into the night. My uncle, Qaaim, arises from his chair.
“I thank you, my brothers and sisters, for gathering with us this evening. Look to your left and to your right,” he tells everyone in a booming voice. With such a crowd, clinging to his every word, it takes a moment for the people to do as requested. “Our ancestors are among us this evening. They have returned our Princess Mikayla from a land that has attempted to strip her of her heritage.” He stops speaking a beat and rubs a hand over his mouth. The confidence that radiated from him is still in the atmosphere, but my uncle looks like he’s teeming with regret. “I would like to apologize…” his mouth purses deeply. He grips my hand into his and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
At a table cater-corner from us are five men. I’ve been told that they’re the elders. Though it’s clear tonight was for me, each family has given the elders respect.
Chumi, the elder in the center, offers a slight nod which brings Qaaim back to life and helps the crowd suck in a breath of air that they were just too shocked to about.
“We all know Her Royal Highness, Queen Makuachukwa, and King Bannan, were assassinated. Against the government's beliefs that they were in a car accident, our tribe has truly mourned the death of a great nation.”
There’s nods and whimpers around me. I grip the wooden elephant so as not to shed tears. I have two parents who love me. I’ve cried until I almost died as a child, I have no need for it now.
“In order to keep my niece, her royal highness, safe from the person—or persons—who were never brought to justice, I sent away Princess Mikayla. I sent my niece to what I assumed was a safe haven.”
I glance around at the faces of sympathy.
“However, as you all know, our great warrior Thulz Okeke was murdered while attempting to transport Mikayla to a safe land. For over fifteen years,” he stops again, it's sinking in for me.
Okeke... Where do I know the name?
“She’s a western devil!” Kmota shouts. “Thulz died trying to keep her safe? Rubbish!”
“Quiet,” Qaaim booms.
“The princess is not blessed by our ancestors! She’s an abomination like her father. Thulz died. Then his little brother, Abayomi! What’s next, my entire family?”
“Quiet. Silence yourself, Kmota or you will be silenced,” his words lash out in anger.
She stands there, trembling in rage. Thulz Okeke. Abayomi Okeke…they were brothers. Some faces are cast to the ground, others glare at me. A few who just offered flowers glower as if they’d rather had spit in my face, had they previously known. Then there are questions:
“Abayomi is dead?”
“What happened to Abayomi?”
People whisper silently amongst themselves.
“Everyone will silence themselves at once!” Qaaim slams his wooden stick into the ground. “I just said that my niece, the one true princess Mikayla Mthembu was sent away due to her parents deaths. It is a mistake that I will always regret. Thulz’s death… we have no information as to what happened. Mikayla was five years old, a baby! He was one of our most prized warriors. The Okeke’s have helped defend our land from European settlers—criminals—for ages! Kmota, your family is the backbone. But, Mthembu is the bloodline that has ruled this nation for hundreds of years. No blood of mine will be spoken of in such a manner, or you will be dealt with. No one dare say a thing about Mikayla! She was stolen from us. And yes, she has been raised in an evil Western society, that stripped her of everything our ancestors have given us, but they have returned her! Mikayla is our princess and will have her coronation once she’s grown accustomed to our nation again. She will be crowned Queen!”
Like a rubber band snapping in slow motion, a round of clapping commenced and begins to pick up speed. I’m numb to all feeling, which is a way of life I knew all too well as a child after awakening from night terrors. Yet, I don’t want to be that way now.
I miss my family.
I need Jagger like oxygen. He was the best part of drowning. I’m drowning now, but it isn’t anyway near like it would be if he were around. I grew to depend on him. My eyes burn, I close them tightly and then…
“This devil murdered Abayomi,” a masculine voice snarls.
My eyes snap open, pupils dilating to the point of popping as I search for where the voice came from. There are five officers, two hold rope, which are bound to the wrists of…
“Jagger?” I gasp the word.
He’s bigger than I remembered.
Blond hair masks his face. His jeans are dusty, they must’ve dragged him up the damn hill. Drops of blood are everywhere. His mouth is dripping blood, like he is a vampire. Heck, I wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, that might be how I was compelled to love him.
Oh my, I love him!
The two men yank on the rope and his ripped biceps tense. His chest puffs up. He yanks and they fall.
In a flash, Jagger has one of the semi-automatics from another officer and is holding it to the fourth guy’s head.
“Put it down,” he grits out.
“You put it down,” the forth guys shouts. Although his demand is ineffective since he’s awkwardly angled and can’t seem position his gun properly. The fifth man looks ready to give up, unsteady as he trains the gun on Jagger.
“C’mon, I’m the devil who believes in nothing. Die before your family, your friends. Do you have a wife, children? Let’s allow them to watch, too.” He presses the nozzle further against the fourth man’s head.
“Okay..” the officer lets his hand drop, and the gun goes to the ground.
Soldier five does the same.
“Jagger,” I stand up. Well, this scene is awkward. Do I go, do I stay?
Jagger traveled thousands of miles for me. I jump from my chair and run into his arms.
“She is no Mthembu! Not anymore, King Qaaim,” someone shouts.
Then another is shouting for King Qaaim to “do something about the both of us.”
The arguing intensifies, and Jagger looks ready to fight.
“I am not a traitor!” I speak up for myself. “Nor am I your princess.”
My words bring them to silence, yet again.
I start with, “Jagger shot Abayomi—”
Wrong words. Yelling ensues.
“But!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Jagger was attempting to defend me. We did not know who Abayomi was.”
Now, I’m called a liar, a whore, and every other vial thing.
Chumi slams a hand onto the table. “Princess Mikayla has made her choice. Unfortunately, she has allowed herself to be enraptured by the evil western society. This is a man, whose mother has stolen much of this nation's family. We won't allow a Johansson to take any more of our people. It stops now. She and the devil can go!”
“What about Abayomi?” another man shouts.
“Kill him!” some chant.
Heck, I think I even hear kill them.
“Princess Mikayla,” Chumi addresses me. “Our people do not pardon those who murder our warriors. How would you like to proceed?”
I breath slowly. The look in his eye tells me I have one last chance. I can follow their customs, which means something…bad happens to Jagger as punishment. Mistrust floods my veins. He, Qaaim, every one of them are not to be trusted. My uncle had the perfect presentation earlier this afternoon. Come to think of it, he never allowed me to use a phone. They’re all liars.
“Don’t worry about me,” Jagger whispers into my ear. “These are your people.” He glances around wildly. “I’m used to being the devil. But you people have condemned the wrong person.” He points the tip of the gun at Qaaim!
I push myself in front of him as a crowd of more police officers surround us. At the top of my lungs, I declare, “I chose Jagger. Let us leave! We will never return