Deities of Deceit

Chapter Sixteen

Yarima Abubakar | Sixteen
A NEW SEASON
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I first met Hareti at the age of twenty-two. Military training stretched five years, but I completed it in two. The youngest graduate of the Arjanian military academy. Acing both my tertiary education, swordry and combat.

Still too young to be made a sergeant–the age limit was twenty-five–my educational adviser decided that I train in the royal guard for a year. In six months, I completed my training. Once again leaving my superiors with no idea what to do with me being too young. I was sworn into secrecy and sent to the desert to train more guards for 'a high priority individual', they called it.

It was a year before I saw her for the first time. Skin darker than the most dazzling night. The blue of her eyes rivaled those of the Caribbean seas as they twinkled like dying stars. Lips a soft pink shade with dark edges. Her curly hair was in the wind like trees in a storm as she stood gallantly by her window, staring out into the vast desert with a body adorned with jewels. By the gods and all things marvelous, I knew I'd never ever be the same again.

At all costs, I needed to belong to her. I needed to make her mine. No matter what it took, no matter the lengths I had to go, I was going to get her to take notice of me, give me her attention, her smile, her time. I knew in that very second I wanted to matter to that woman. To worship the very ground where her foot struck, cherish the melody of her voice and the warmth of her wisdom.

I would go to the afterlife, knowing my life had meaning, because I had loved her, and she had loved me. Seven years later, that dream had slipped away from me and life was a daze. I felt nothing but emptiness, but each day woke up with a warzone in my head.

Igbankwu season was over and with its ending, Arjanians welcomed Mmanwu, the festival of masquerades, a five day celebration of the dead.

After new life bonds had been formed, Arjanians prepared to welcome dead relatives and ancestors into the land of the living, so they may be appeased and encouraged to bless new bonds. The capital was never more colorful and bold than during Mmanwu. In front of every home, a small shrine was erected in honor of the ancestors. The gates were smeared with colorful blessed chalk so dead relatives could easily find their way home. Every house or place of business flew the royal banner, windchimes hung in the streets and the scent of burning incense and spices filled the air.

Arjanians prepared mouth watering dishes to be shared with in-laws and friends for goodwill. But what everyone looked forward to the most was the masquerade dance. After a week of eating and praying, the people of the town would gather at the great temple of Amadioha–a three storey round structure, wide enough to hold thousands–to watch the masquerade dance.

The dance was sacred and holy. Those who wore the masquerade were the only people who didn't eat during Mmanwu. They were baptized and left deep in prayer and fasting in the shrine to be purified. It was believed that on the fifth day, they became possessed with the deities and as they danced, their blessings would spread across the land. A pure connection between the deities and living beings.

My family and I arrived at the grand temple a little past 7pm. In front of the temple we washed our feet, hands. No one entered the temple with footwear or jewelry and no one was allowed to wear color. Anything other than white would send a masquerade charging at you. But this didn't stop the people of Arjana from dressing like they were worth millions of coweries.

The finest silk was used for wrappers, gowns. Agbada and oleku outfits were always a welcome trend. As a sign of humility, people would bow to the young priests and priestesses, children below the age of ten who stood by the wide entrance, and their forehead would be marked with white chalk. Mmanu was a fun experience I particularly enjoyed each year, but I could sense that year would be different.