The Right Company

On the fourth morning after Afiwa’s departure, Senamé discovered that even an imaginary queen could be kept waiting by a man.

Sètondji stood between her and the empty ceremonial seat, holding the staff that marked his borrowed role as a palace messenger. Behind him, the chorus waited for her response. A bell sounded over the drums.

“You’re supposed to ask why I’ve come,” Sètondji said.

“You’ve come to keep me standing in the sun.”

Someone in the chorus laughed. Sètondji lowered the staff just enough for her to see his mouth.

“The line, Senamé.”

She knew the steps and the line. The difficulty was announcing her intentions three times before being allowed to act.

The ceremony would recount royal history in song and dance. During rehearsals, the women took turns. Adonon would probably remember their mistakes longer than the story.

She began again, waiting for the drums, settling into Sètondji’s movement. At the answering bell she turned to the chorus with such injured majesty that he nearly missed his reply.

There. Much better.

Beyond the court, oil hissed in a cooking pot. Her stomach answered. She had learned which attendant sold the little fried things in leaves, and exactly how long it took to reach her stall without appearing to run.

Each morning, she and Sètondji checked the unanswered register request. Waiting hadn’t stopped her enjoying his company. That was becoming a separate problem.

“Once more?” Sètondji asked.

“Does your messenger ever bring good news?”

“Occasionally he announces a meal.”

“Give him more lines.”

Across the court, Dèdoun lowered her fan. When a chorus singer leaned towards her, she answered without taking her eyes off them.

Senamé returned to her starting place. She wanted to make Sètondji miss his cue again.

Instead, she saw Kossiwa.

Her travel bag stood beside the entrance. Dust marked the hem of her wrapper, but her back was straight, her hair immaculate. She waited for an attendant to finish speaking, then looked directly at Senamé.

The bell sounded. Senamé missed her entrance.

Sètondji followed her gaze and stepped aside.

She reached Kossiwa too quickly, then slowed for the last few steps as though she had meant to approach that way.

She nearly embraced Kossiwa. Road dust and bitter hair oil brought back Azara’s forge yard, upper paths and the rain above her old bed.

Then Kossiwa’s eyes passed over the gold in her braids.

“They’ve been taking care of you.”

Senamé’s hands stayed at her sides.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“The decision was made after you left.”

Behind her, Sètondji approached. Kossiwa greeted him with a precision that required no visible calculation. She named herself, thanked him for receiving her and presented a folded letter addressed to the queen.

Senamé stood beside them with the sensation of having arrived in her own life several minutes late.

“We trained together,” she added.

Kossiwa turned toward her with a small smile.

“For years.”

He arranged delivery of the letter and a place for Kossiwa to wash. Such competence was less charming when the visitor remembered Senamé’s failures at training.

Dèdoun welcomed Kossiwa before the arrangements were finished. Kossiwa managed to acknowledge her long journey without a single complaint.

Senamé remembered arriving with sore legs, tangled hair and several opinions about elephants.

“You must be tired.” Dèdoun glanced toward the dancers. “We’ve been making rather too much of a little practice.”

“Then I’m sorry to have interrupted.”

“You haven’t.”

They smiled at each other.

Senamé wanted Afiwa back with a violence that surprised her.

The attendant returned, but before she could collect the bag, Senamé took it.

“I’ll show her.”

Kossiwa allowed this. Her bag was heavier than it looked.

Inside the guest rooms, Kossiwa stopped beside Afiwa’s empty bed.

“She’s gone?” Kossiwa asked.

“With our report.”

“When?”

“Four mornings ago.”

Kossiwa had left before Afiwa could reach Azara. Her mission had been decided without their report or anything Senamé had learned.

Of course they had sent someone else.

She set the bag down more carefully than she wanted to.

Kékéli came through the inner doorway carrying a cup. At the sight of Kossiwa, he stopped so abruptly that water ran over his fingers.

Kossiwa examined his human face.

“Wash your hands.”

He retreated at once.

Senamé almost laughed. It was the same voice Kossiwa used with younger trainees who had picked up something sharp.

“The genette?”

“At the lodging outside the palace. I was told about the rule.”

That answer had a neat little edge. Senamé left it where it was.

Kossiwa took a second letter from inside her bag and handed it over. Nan Loló’s seal lay unbroken across the fold. Senamé pressed her thumb beneath it, and a trace of familiar warmth reached her skin.

The instructions were brief. Kossiwa would assist her. Information was to be shared. Their obligations remained unchanged.

Senamé read the word assist twice.

“Am I supposed to hand everything over?”

“I’d prefer you told me where to begin.”

Senamé fetched the reference from her chest, explaining the unanswered petitions and the inaccessible transfer register.

Kossiwa sat to read. Dust fell from the hem of her wrapper onto the clean floor. For the first time since entering the court, she looked tired.

“Does the queen know you’re asking?” Kossiwa asked.

“Not yet.”

“Who does?”

“Sètondji. The clerks we spoke to.”

Kossiwa’s fingertip rested beside the stamped number.

“Then we should find out whose permission they’re waiting for,” Kossiwa said.

“We’ve asked.”

“And?”

“They tell us the request has been sent.”

Kossiwa looked up.

“To whom?”

Senamé opened her mouth, then shut it.

She hated the small satisfaction that moved across Kossiwa’s face. She hated more that the question was useful.

A knock interrupted them. Yétundé entered with fresh water and a clean cloth, then stopped when Kossiwa stood.

“This is Yétundé.”

As Kossiwa washed the road dust from her wrists, Yétundé asked where to put her clothes.

“Here for now.” Senamé indicated the chest. “We haven’t heard about her room.”

“I was told the queen mother has offered one.”

Kossiwa’s hands stilled in the water.

Yétundé continued arranging the cloths, unaware that anything had happened.

“The lady who came from the practice court sent word.”

Dèdoun.

Senamé folded Nan Loló’s letter. She made the corners meet precisely and pressed them flat.

Kossiwa dried her hands.

“Apparently I should thank her.”

By the time they were summoned, Kossiwa had washed the road from her skin and repaired a loosened fastening on Senamé’s chest.

Kossiwa had noticed the clasp catching and bound it with thread, tightening the knot with her pearl. The lid closed cleanly for the first time since their arrival.

It was the sort of thing she had always done. Found the fault. Corrected it. Left the result where everyone could see.

Senamé tested the fastening after she left the room.

Then she followed her.

Adonon received them in a long gallery overlooking a planted courtyard. Several of the prospective brides were there with their attendants. Dèdoun stood near the queen mother, holding a strip of patterned cloth against another woman’s shoulder and explaining, gently, why its colour did her no favors.

She put it aside when Kossiwa arrived.

Kossiwa greeted Adonon faultlessly. Senamé had braced as though she might stumble and need help, but she took her seat without looking towards her.

Adonon’s interest sharpened.

“You have been well taught.”

“I had demanding teachers.”

Across the space between them, Senamé’s shoulders remembered those teachers with great clarity.

Dèdoun showed Kossiwa the gifts assembled for the receptions. One candidate stood embarrassed while her attendant repaired a fine veil’s loosened border.

Dèdoun lifted one corner.

“What a pity. It was beautiful.”

The girl reached for it. Her attendant had not yet withdrawn the needle. A thread pulled, and a tiny section of the embroidery puckered.

Senamé stepped forward before she could stop herself, but Kossiwa was closer.

“May I?”

She eased the damaged edge across her hands while the attendant freed the needle. Her pearl held the threads in a working so fine Senamé could barely find its boundary.

Kossiwa returned the veil to the girl.

“It will hold until the stitching is finished.”

The girl’s relief was immediate. She thanked her twice. Even the attendant’s face softened.

Adonon beckoned for a closer look.

Kossiwa explained the repair in two sentences, neither of which made the girl or her servant appear foolish. The queen mother examined the border, then Kossiwa.

“Useful hands.”

Senamé knew exactly how that praise would land.

Kossiwa lowered her eyes, but one thumb passed over the smooth surface of her pearl. When she stepped back, Dèdoun made room beside her.

Kossiwa settled into conversation, displaying skills Senamé had spent years pretending weren’t worth learning.

That did not make the tightness beneath her ribs any more dignified.

Sètondji arrived with a message from the queen. He greeted Adonon, delivered it and turned toward Senamé.

“Her Majesty would like you to attend her after this.”

“What for?”

The question escaped in its old clothes. One of the women glanced up.

Sètondji’s mouth shifted.

“I was entrusted with the invitation, not her entire afternoon.”

Senamé grinned before remembering where she was.

Across the gallery, Kossiwa had stopped speaking.

It lasted only a moment. Dèdoun asked her another question, and she answered it. But when Senamé looked back, Kossiwa’s hands were folded so tightly that the knuckles had paled.

Senamé knew those hands. They had steadied younger girls on practice walls, dressed cuts, corrected grips. A short time ago, they had fixed her chest without being asked.

She turned toward Adonon.

“Kossiwa should come with me. She’s just arrived, and the queen hasn’t had the chance to speak with her properly.”

Sètondji hesitated, ready to accommodate the change.

Adonon laid a hand on the repaired veil.

“She has only just sat down. You needn’t take her away immediately.”

Dèdoun smiled at Kossiwa.

“We were hoping to borrow your judgment.”

Senamé waited for Kossiwa to look at her.

When she did, her expression was perfectly pleasant.

“I’ll see you afterward.”

At the entrance to Tassi’s court, Sètondji slowed to let a pair of attendants pass. Senamé was still looking back along the gallery.

“Have I missed something?”

She almost told him.

He would listen to her complaints about the girl who remembered every fault she had hoped to leave at home. That was the danger.

Instead, she drew the stamped reference from her sleeve.

“Those clerks. When they say they’re waiting for permission, whose permission do they mean?”

He took the slip.

“I’ll find out.”

“Can you show me how?”

His attention returned to her face. Then he folded the slip once and handed it back.

“Yes.”

The answer eased something. She tucked the paper away before they entered.

Behind them, in the queen mother’s gallery, laughter rose and faded. Senamé recognized Dèdoun’s bright voice. The other was quieter, unfamiliar in its ease.

She had not heard Kossiwa laugh like that in years.

Tassi had three gold pins between her lips when Senamé entered.

The woman dressing her hair took two of them, tightened a braid and ignored the queen’s complaint.

“If you want it to stay through the ceremony, stop turning.”

“People keep speaking to me from different directions.”

“Then they can move.”

Senamé liked her immediately.

Sètondji handed over Kossiwa’s letter and withdrew. By the time the last pin was in place, Tassi had read it and heard about the torn veil.

“Adonon will want to keep her,” she said.

Senamé examined a loose thread on her sleeve.

“She’s good at most things.”

“And you sound delighted.”

“I am. She’s my friend.”

Tassi let that stand. Once the hairdresser had gathered her things, the queen stretched her neck with the care of someone carrying a bowl of hot soup on her head.

On the table beside her lay another letter. Senamé recognized a marriage proposal by its expensive cord.

“For Sètondji?” Senamé asked.

“For me,” Tassi replied.

“Oh.”

“Try to hide your surprise.”

“I thought you already had enough people telling you what to do.”

“That appears to be the attraction.”

The queen pushed the letter aside, but Senamé remembered Adonon laying out young women’s names as calmly as dishes for a meal.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“I would like to be asked what I want before someone explains why the kingdom needs it.”

For a moment, Senamé could think of nothing light enough to say.

She took out the paper she had brought.

“Then I’m about to be very annoying.”

Tassi held out her hand.

She explained the petition entries and the missing signature, adding the official’s name Sètondji had helped her find on the way.

“Why didn’t you bring this to me?”

“I thought asking the people whose job it was might work.”

Tassi rang for an attendant.

“Have the keeper bring the register. If he cannot, I want his reason in writing. And tell him I am asking about an entry, not requesting that he surrender his office.”

When they were alone again, Senamé let out a breath.

“You don’t know whose father he is.”

“You have told me whose husband he was. That should be enough to find a page.”

They waited in a small pavilion behind the queen’s rooms, where the afternoon sun fell through a climbing plant. A few white petals floated in Tassi’s cup. She fished them out with one finger.

Senamé had been trying to decide how to ask her next question since the audience recordings.

“The girl who wouldn’t withdraw her accusation. The one whose brother had been arrested.”

Tassi’s hand stopped above the cup.

“I watched her hearing,” Senamé said.

“I see.”

“Did anyone find him?”

“I don’t know.”

Senamé had prepared herself for an explanation. The plain answer was worse.

“She thought you would.”

“Yes.”

Beyond the pavilion, a gardener pulled a dead branch from the climbing plant. Dry leaves scraped over the roof.

“You offered to spare her if she took it back,” Senamé continued. “What if she was telling the truth?”

“Then she had been badly wronged,” Tassi said.

“By your people.”

“Possibly.”

“Does that make it harder to find out?”

Tassi set down her cup.

“Yes.”

Senamé waited. The queen looked towards the garden, but there was no dismissal in it.

“I’ve asked to see what evidence was brought against her brother,” Senamé said. “I want to know what happened after she left that room.”

“Bring it to me when you have it.”

“And if it makes the court look terrible?”

“Especially then.”

Senamé wanted to believe her. It would have been easier if she had not also wanted Tassi to like her.

An instrument hung from a pavilion post, one broken string curled against its wood. Senamé went closer, relieved to inspect something without hurting anyone’s feelings.

“Does someone still use this?”

“No.”

“May I?”

Tassi nodded.

The instrument was lighter than Senamé expected. A thumb had worn a pale hollow into its side; whoever had owned it must have carried it everywhere.

“Kokou always complained about the tuning,” Tassi said.

“Was he any good?”

“At complaining? Excellent.”

Senamé smiled, then noticed the queen’s face.

“Was he a friend?”

“Yes.”

The answer made her hold the instrument more carefully.

“He would have liked you,” Tassi added. “Though I might have had to put you in separate rooms.”

“Too many questions?”

“Neither of you would let me decide a conversation was finished.”

“Did you send him away?”

The words escaped before she could soften them.

Tassi looked down into her cup.

“No. I went away. He followed.”

Senamé settled on the edge of the bench with the instrument across her knees.

“After Akaba died,” the queen began, “there were mornings when I woke thinking I had heard him outside my door. Then someone would arrive with his seal, his old instructions, some convenient memory of what he had wanted. Everyone had found a way to make my brother speak except me.”

Her thumb moved along the cup’s rim.

“My orders came back unsigned. Meetings happened without me. When I objected, they said grief had made me unwell. When I stayed calm, they said I didn’t understand the danger.”

“So you left.”

“For seven days,” Tassi replied.

“Where?”

“A cave. It had fewer advisers.”

Senamé almost laughed. Tassi did, briefly.

“Kokou found me on the first evening. He brought food, water and that instrument. I told him to leave everything at the entrance and go.”

“Did he?”

“He sat down and started singing.”

Senamé’s fingers rested against the worn wood.

“He began with songs I liked. When that failed, he chose songs he knew I hated. By the third day, people were stopping along the path to listen. I threatened to have him removed.”

“From your cave?”

“He asked who I intended to send.”

They laughed. Senamé could almost see Kokou settling comfortably before the cave and his furious sovereign.

“What changed your mind?”

“The mirror.”

Tassi glanced towards the palace.

“I had brought it with me. Eventually I looked. Orders were still being issued in my name. People were still being taken from their homes. My absence had given the court everything it wanted.”

“So you went back.”

“On the seventh morning. Kokou could barely speak by then. He asked whether I had enjoyed my rest.”

Senamé looked at the broken string.

“Where is he buried?”

For a while, Tassi said nothing.

“He was killed after we returned.”

The garden sounds seemed suddenly too loud.

“They gave me the men who did it,” the queen continued. “They expected me to be satisfied with that.”

“But not whoever sent them.”

“No.”

She remembered Sètondji’s singing through the dark. Without knowing she was listening, he had made her night bearable.

She understood why Tassi had kept the instrument.

“Have you got another string?”

The queen pointed to a small box beneath the bench.

She struggled with the old knot, then the new string. Tassi watched without summoning someone better at it.

By the time Senamé had secured it, an attendant was waiting at the pavilion entrance.

The register had arrived.

The keeper opened it on the table, carefully avoiding the queen’s cup.

Senamé found the reference before he finished explaining the delay.

There was the name.

For weeks, she had imagined this moment ending with a place: a prison, a work camp, a house where an old man might still be waiting for someone to remember him.

The entry listed his detention, then his transfer towards the coast. Beside it sat an acknowledgment of delivery.

She read the line again.

“Where was he taken after that?”

“This book records the transfer,” the keeper said.

“I can see that. Who received him?”

“The payment receipt may name the receiving party.”

“Then bring that.”

The keeper glanced at Tassi.

“You heard her,” the queen said.

He began to close the book.

“Leave it open. Have this entry copied, and the entries on either side. The original remains in your custody.”

While the clerk copied, Senamé watched the name. Kpénahi’s mother had asked three times. After all those years, these tidy lines could not even say whether he lived.

Tassi stood beside her.

“We will look for the receipt.”

Senamé nodded. She could not thank her yet.

Back in her room, a length of deep blue cloth lay across the bed. Gold thread caught the evening light along its edge.

Yétunde stood beside it.

“For the ceremony. From the queen.”

Senamé put the copied record in her chest. The repaired clasp closed easily beneath her hand.

Kékéli reached towards the gold stitching.

“If you bite that,” Yétunde told him, “you can explain it to her yourself.”

He withdrew his hand.

The cloth felt cool and fine against her wrist. She wanted to wear it, wanted Sètondji to see her. Reading the record had changed neither desire.

That troubled her enough to keep her quiet while Yétunde measured the cloth against her waist.

“Can I dance in it?”

“You are expected to.”

“Properly, I mean.”

Yétunde studied her, then allowed more room in the fold.

From the rehearsal court came the first beat of the evening practice. Senamé listened for the answering bell.

When it rang, her feet remembered.