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A Divine Romance

By Ifueko Ogbomo

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PROLOGUE

White.
It was the most beautifully bittersweet, unwanted yet beloved gift she had ever been bestowed. Fashioned from a fabric the purest of hues, she deemed it the loveliest raiment in all existence and one worthy of a queen. At least it was in her innocent eyes. Grasping two fistfuls of its pleated skirt, she buried her oval face in the delicate cloth, wanting to revive the unique scent of the garment’s rightful owner. But it was long gone. 
It was not supposed to be gone. Just like she was not supposed to be resting in her luxurious chambers in the middle of the day, especially one so fair-weathered as today. But then again, she had not expected the rite of passage into womanhood to feel like a hive of angry bees stinging her belly from within. Mercifully, she was beginning to feel like her body belonged to her once more, for it was all she could do the past three days to sit in bed, sipping spicy vegetable soup and nibbling on freshly baked bread. Well, that and daydream. 
Sighing, she leaned back onto her plush pillows, gently pulling the garment upward and laying her cheek on its delicate fabric. Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander back to the day she first beheld a familiar feminine form adorned in this stunning kalasiris. ONE YEAR EARLIER
The evening air was chilly, so a robust fire was burning from the heart of the lavish indoor garden in the center of her family’s extravagant villa. Sprawled out on an intricately woven mat, as close as possible to the fire, she was enjoying its warmth while practicing hieratic script on papyrus. This was but a prelude in anticipation of the imminent arrival of her best friend, which she was looking forward to, because any ten-year-old daughter of nobility would testify that daydreaming about love and marriage was twice as much fun with a partner in fantasy. She had just penned a difficult hieroglyph flawlessly when she caught wind of a familiar, cherished scent. Raising her head to find its source, she let out a gasp of delight that echoed across the garden. The slender, bronze-skinned, raven-haired beauty that sauntered toward her sparkled in jewels from her head to her ankles, but her brilliant-white, one-shouldered kalasiris, fitted her form to perfection, its bejeweled belt enhancing her waistline.
“Blessings of the evening, my little sun,” the approaching lady of the house said with a cheerful wave. Neglecting to return the greeting, the wide-eyed little girl dropped her ink-laden reed pen, leaped to her feet, and in five swift strides, closed the distance between both females.
“Mother, you look like a goddess! Where are you going?” she asked, circling her mother in awed admiration.
Mother’s laugh burst forth like the sound of a brief melody. “Your eyes are affected by affection, my little sun!”
“What does that mean?” 
“It means you cannot see my flaws because you look at me through a veil of love. And to answer your question, I am going to a wedding.” 
“A wedding!” The girl yelled, clapping her hands in excitement. “Will it be a big one?”
“Yes! There will be many guests as the bride hails from an enormous family. Her mother had twelve children!”
“When I grow up, I want to have a big family,” she said, spreading her slender arms wide, “with hundreds of children!”
“Hundreds?! My little sun, that is not a family, it is a VILLAGE! And after you birth your first child, I have no doubt you will change your mind.”
“Never!” the determined child said, shaking her head from side to side as her thick chestnut curls bounced. “I WILL have a village, Mother! And a big wedding feast—at the palace!”
“The palace? In that case, you will have to marry Pharaoh, lord of Egypt—long may he live!”
The girl paused as twin furrows appeared on her flawless, brown-skinned brow. “But, Mother, does he not already have a wife?”
“He has many! And he will marry even more.”
“Then I do not wish to marry him. I want to be my husband’s only wife—like you are.”
Raising her bracelet-bearing arms in surrender, Mother replied, “Then you had better be content to have a smaller wedding here at home. Better a small wedding to be the only wife than a royal wedding to be one of many wives. Would you not agree?”
“Yes, Mother,” the daughter meekly agreed, “But may I still wear a beautiful wedding dress?”
“For the queen of a village? Only the most beautiful wedding kalasiris!”
“And jewels!” she yelled with renewed vigor, pumping her fist skyward.
“The rarest in all the land!” Mother said, her outstretched arm encompassing the garden in a graceful gesture.
“And I want my husband to love me as much as Father loves you!”
Mother paused, a sad expression crossing her dark eyes for the briefest moment. In a voice just above a whisper, she said, “By the mercy of Isis, he will love you much more.” 
The girl felt her mother’s lips brush the crown of her curly head, and then she looked up into her mother’s shiny eyes. They locked smiles for a moment. Then Mother broke the silence with a swift shake of her stylish head. “Now, a wedding awaits me. Does the queen of the village grant me permission to go?”
“Yes! You may go,” she said with head held high and right arm extended in a dramatic wave. 
Giving an exaggerated bow, Mother responded, “Your servant is most grateful, Your Magnificence.”
Laughing, the happy child threw her arms around her mother’s waist, reveling in the sweet scent of her fragrance. Long after her mother departed, she was fantasizing about owning such a goddess-worthy gown.

THE PRESENT
She opened her eyes and looked at the white kalasiris: the only gift she owned she had been allowed to select herself. It was but three months ago that Na’eemah—her mother’s chief handmaiden—had given her the painful pleasure of keeping just one of her late mother’s garments. There had been no doubt in her recently bereft mind about her choice. With trembling hands, she had latched on to the stunning kalasiris. In that moment, her fantasy from the day she first saw it became a bitter reality.
Even now, the gods permitting, she would instantly trade the regal raiment to have but a moment with its previous owner. In lieu of that, being able to call the garment her own would have to suffice. Until the day she could make it her own. She was eleven and still too small for the lovely attire. If she could make herself grow up faster just to have it fit her sooner, she would.
She fingered the fine fabric, admiring how its white color contrasted her sun-kissed skin, and speculated to what future occasion she might wear it. 
A special temple festival. 
Her best friend, Satiah’s wedding. 
Perhaps even her own betrothal ceremony—to Sahure. Assuming Satiah had her way, and the best friends became sisters by marriage. Though she was not exactly sure how a ceremony between herself and Satiah’s twin brother would unfold—he was always red-faced and tongue-tied in her presence. She giggled at the thought of him trying to nod his way through the ceremonial questions, and her bold best friend yelling out the answers from behind the nearest pillar. 
Shuffling herself out of her lavish ebony bed, she gingerly picked up the kalasiris, and draped it over her brown shoulder such that its skirt fell to her bare feet. Taking a few steps forward, she imagined herself walking down the center of a grandiose hall. 
If I am half as elegant as Mother was, the eyes of every man shall be on me. But my eyes shall only rest on one man: my groom. She pictured herself standing tall, front and center of a magnificent chamber, as the priest performing the ceremony began: “Radiances, Reverences, Eminences, and people of Heliopolis, you are wel—”
“Come, my sunshine, your father calls,” a familiar female voice from outside her chamber said, interrupting her daydream.
Father is home! Spinning around and laying the beloved garment back on her bed, she bounded past Na’eemah’s plump, womanly figure, and raced towards her father’s wing. 
I wonder what he brought me, she thought with excitement, her waning abdominal discomforts forgotten. She did not know why he was home, but one thing was certain: if her father had returned earlier than scheduled, today was a special day. 
Servants raised opulent curtains as she sped from a spacious hallway into a grand antechamber, in a most ungraceful manner. Once before the doors to her father’s receiving chamber, she stopped and took a few calming breaths. Then, stepping inside, she paused at the door frame and looked at him, awaiting his invitation. 
He was reclining on his favorite, one-armed sofa. Sitting up, he lifted a welcoming hand toward her.
“Come, gift of Ra.”
“Life, prosperity, and health, to you, Father,” she said, dipping her head in a bow and then entering gracefully.
Smiling, he returned the greeting, “Life, prosperity, and health, to you, daughter. I see your lessons are going well.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, warmed by his rare praise. He seemed almost cheerful today—more like his old self.
Patting the soft cushion beside him, her father said, “Come, sit. I have something for you.”
Eager, she sat and raised her face toward his. “What is it, Father?”
“This,” he answered, holding a sheer, small, white fabric.
What is that? She thought, trying to practice her lesson on listening more than one speaks.
“Na’eemah tells me you are having your first bleeding.”
Why would she tell Father that?! Too mortified to answer, she merely nodded.
“Therefore, you are now a woman. It is time you know you are no ordinary woman . . . Your mother would have been better suited to explain this . . .” Father’s eyes grew distant for a moment, even as her own heart tightened.
“I miss Mother.” She whispered, but Father did not seem to hear her. Shaking his head, his eyes focused on her once more.
“From the first moment you opened your eyes in this world, we knew you were a gift from Ra himself. Yours is no ordinary life—you have a divine destiny.”
“I do not understand, Father.”
“Patience, daughter, your father still speaks.”
She gave an apologetic dip of her head as he continued.
“The gods have destined you to bring honor upon this house, and the eternal favor of Pharaoh, lord of Egypt—long may he live. For no later than the dawning of your eighteenth year of life, you shall become a royal bride. Your husband shall be a pure-blooded royal, chosen by the lord of Egypt.” 
I will not get to choose my husband?
“I pray Ra, who has given you such unmatched beauty, sees fit to make you the wife of Pharaoh himself.”
Wife of Pharaoh? Her heart skipped a beat. Mother said Pharaoh has many wives!
Oblivious to her rising anxiety, her father went on. “Henceforth, you are to be preserved from prying eyes. No man but your husband shall see your face.” He picked up the sheer fabric and reached his arms toward her face.
No one shall see my face anymore? The thought was alarming. Before she could stop herself, she raised both hands, shielding herself. “I do not want my face hidden!”
“It is not about what you want, but what is right. Unworthy eyes must not behold the face of Ra’s gift. You are a woman now; comport yourself as such!” Her father tried to hold her head in place with one hand while using the other to veil the bottom half of her face. It was proving to be a herculean task, as the frightened girl was squirming with all of her might.
“Sit still, child!” her father hissed.
She felt like she was suffocating. Why do the gods hate me? They took Mother away. Will they also let Father make me invisible? No. I will NOT be invisible! Forgetting every lesson on propriety and protocol, she did the only thing that came to mind: she opened her mouth and bit down hard.
Her father let out a sound like a wounded animal as he abruptly released her. “The curses of Ra!” He yelled, his plump, fair face suffusing with crimson. “Have you gone mad?”
She leaped off the sofa, blazing eyes aimed right at his. “I hate you! I wish it was you who died instead of Mother!” 
He moved so swiftly she did not see it coming. The sound of his open, bejeweled palm colliding with her soft cheek echoed like a solitary thunderclap. She fell backwards onto the floor. Five fingers of fire began spreading up the right side of her face as a lone tear streamed down it. The slap shocked even more than it stung—Father had never struck her before. His re-approaching hands sent waves of panic rushing through her petite frame and she cowered. But the second slap she feared did not follow. 
She heard silence, followed by her father’s long, weary sigh. When she looked up at him, his face bore a strange look.
“Come, gift of Ra. One cannot hide from one’s fate.”
As she rose on shaky legs, the truth soured her stomach like a rotten pomegranate: there was to be no fighting her father or fate. 
She approached him with her head lowered in defeat. 
He lifted her face toward his, but she kept her eyes averted from his. Tenderly drying her now wet cheeks with the offensive article, he used it to conceal the bottom half of her face. “One day, you will thank me for this,” he said. Then he rose and strode out of his chamber without a backward glance.
She lowered her head and let the tears fall. She did not realize anyone else was there until she felt soft, fleshy arms envelop her. 
“My sunshine, do not cry.” Na’eemah comforted. “Your father is only doing what is best. You are the gift of Ra. When your time comes, you will be the envy of all royal wives—”
“No! I do NOT wish to be a royal wife!”
“Bite your tongue! Ra must not hear you speak so! It is your destiny.”
“No. I do not want . . . I do not want them anymoooore!” she wailed.
“Them? Calm yourself, child. You are losing reason.”
The tears poured down her veiled face as sobs shook her frail frame. 
“I . . . I do not want . . . I only want Mother!” She crumbled to the floor and gave rein to her renewed, intensified sense of grief. She wanted to tell Na’eemah, but she could not speak past the guttural groans gushing from her throbbing throat. Not that it mattered. Na’eemah would not understand. Only Mother could, for only Mother had known. 
The wedding kalasiris. 
The grand feast. 
The village of a family. 
She no longer wanted them. They no longer mattered—she was now invisible. If no man can see me, how could any ever love me? Even Father does not love me anymore. 
She could not have been more wrong about today. 
It was not a special day.
It was a sad, bad one—a black day. 
Were the gods inclined to grant her desires above Father’s, she would make but one, four-word request of them: Take me to Mother.

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