Page 59 of Firstborn of the Sun
‘Curse the sun, Alawani!’ she whispered.
‘Sorry.’
‘I swear if you get me killed, I’m taking you with me.’
Alawani coughed softly.
L’?r? shoved him again, ‘Shh …’
‘I think we’re all clear. I don’t hear anything,’ Alawani said.
Only then did L’?r? realize that the wagon had stopped moving again. Her eyes widened, and just as she was about to speak, someone lifted the top cover of the compartment, and L’?r? squinted at the sunlight that broke into the dark space.
‘You’re both the worst cargo I’ve ever carried. Not worth any amount of coin. Why in the gods’ names are you making noise?’ the angry driver scowled at them.
L’?r? pursed her lips and eyed Alawani, who was clearly now suppressing a cough.
‘Get out. Now!’ the driver said, pulling off the rest of the top layer.
L’?r? and Alawani got out of the wagon and watched the driver mumble as he drove off into the city. The first thing L’?r? noticed was that her feet sunk slightly into the uneven ground. The sand was much darker than at Ìlú-Ìm, which was red, hard and cracked, covered with an ever-moving top layer of sand and dust – and different from the ground in the capital with its well-designed cobbled streets. This earth was dark and soft, and as she gazed across the horizon, she could see the result. Lands of green spread as far as her eyes could see, interrupted only by the border wall in the distance that led into Ìlú-Ìm, the ring they’d just escaped. Her home state. The wind in her face was cool and smelled like rain, and when she inhaled deeply, there was no dust clogging her nostrils.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ L’?r? breathed, spinning around slowly, taking in the cluster of trees, hundreds of animals flocking along the hills and the neat rows of cultivated land on the terrain in the distance.
Unlike the capital’s houses with their constant sparkle of gold and white limestone towers, or her own home which was covered in a constant hue of red clay dust, the housesin Ìlú-Ò.p? spread out in a commune of humble bungalows surrounded by large farms.
They’d agreed that the first thing they’d do was take Máywá’s à?írí to his family, who lived here in Ìlú-p?. L’?r? had been carrying his à?írí – such as it was – since she’d knelt by his side as he died. The passing on of secrets by the dying was necessary to gain access to the afterlife.
This practice, thought L’?r?, kept legends alive and sought justice for past wrongs – nothing must be hidden under the sun. That was her people’s way. There must always be someone alive who knew the truth to tell. No secret could be lost forever.
Everyone in the kingdom was named in a specific enough way to be easily tracked down. The combination of a person’s Àmútrunwá, the name unique to the circumstances surrounding their birth, their Oríkì, the praise name that described their personality, and their Orile, their family name, when combined with their tribal marks which told where they were born, made each person as distinctive as could be.
Máywá’s full name was Máywá – the one who came with joy, Àjàgbé – the one who they fought to have, Oníl – owners of land. They were already in his home state, so all they had to do was to ask the first person they saw for the home of Máywá Àjàgbé Oníl, the Àlùfáà of the third ring.
Máywá’s parents sat across from L’?r? and Alawani on the large mat that filled the living area. The mat was thin and felt like sitting on dry grass. L’?r? shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the perfect spot. They all glanced at her in unison when the shuffling became too loud, and she stilled herself.
‘Sorry, if we’d known we were having guests, we’d have made more suitable arrangements,’ Máywá’s father said.
L’?r? put her hands together, rubbing away at her nerves.
Alawani shot her a quick glance, and she understood his meaning. They had no time to waste, and there was no point in making them uncomfortable in their home. ‘No, Bàbá, the fault is ours. We’ve come a long way and we’re grateful for your hospitality.’
L’?r? observed the older man as he moved around the chewing stick in his mouth, exposing stained teeth. Máywá’s mother sat quietly next to him with a hand on his lap. L’?r? felt a tightness in her chest, like a hand squeezing the truth out of her.
‘Any friend of Máywá’s is welcome at our home,’ the older man said, gesturing with his calloused hands. Máywá had had the same farm-worn hands. L’?r? noticed how the man’s faint smile made him look just like his son.
L’?r? and Alawani had introduced themselves as Máywá’s friends the moment they arrived, but intentionally left out Alawani’s true identity. They’d received a warm welcome, and although L’?r? had rehearsed what to say, she still stalled.
‘How is my son?’ Máywá’s mother finally asked.
Next to L’?r?, Alawani sank back, allowing her to carry the conversation, and the inches between them felt an ever-growing distance. He wanted L’?r? to tell the truth – but L’?r? had promised Máywá she would not.
‘The stripping ceremony was a few days ago,’ L’?r? said, and she saw hope fill their eyes. Máywá’s father adjusted. ‘Máywá didn’t wake up,’ L’?r? said, and watched as the hope in their eyes went out like a light snuffed out from a candle.
Máywá’s father stared at L’?r?, his face pale and ashen, his red eyes piercing into hers. Máywá’s mother closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. L’?r? lowered her head, unable to keep looking at their faces. Máywá’s mother couldn’t hold in her sobs and fell into her husband’s arms, crying for her son.
The older man kept the tears from falling, but the stick in his mouth shook as his lips trembled. He held on to his wife as she heaved into him, holding on tightly to his clothes, ripping the delicate and faded embroidery around his neckline. L’?r? found herself face to face with grief and was strangely aware of every breath she took. She could feel their pain, much more than she thought possible. Next to her, Alawani’s eyes watered too.
Máywá had been right to tell her to lie – the news she’d relayed was bad enough. The truth would have crushed his parents forever.
