Entangled

KHALID & AGBÉ̩KẸ́

KHALID

The tender memories of my mother gradually enveloped me, igniting a comforting warmth while my paintbrush gracefully crafted a picturesque garden on this canvas. I often wonder, had I not been born into the confines of royalty, would my path have diverged towards the world of art, just like she did.

Her memory, like a delicate fragrance, lingered in the air, I cherished her radiant smile, kind nature, and the lingering scent of fresh flowers that define her. Losing her at eleven not only left an irreplaceable void, it further exposed me to my father's wrath. Erecting a temple in her memory is my humble tribute to honour her gentle soul, a sanctuary where her spirit could dwell eternally.

A cherished memory replays in my mind whenever thoughts of her surface. "I want to be an artist like you," I declared with youthful exuberance, watching her work her magic on the canvas. She wore a beautiful white gown, and her black hair cascaded elegantly over her shoulders. Her effortlessly beautiful smile, which always made her eyes slightly smaller, mirrored my enthusiasm.

"Really! You can be whoever you want as long as you are happy doing it," she replied, her fingertips daubing paint on my nose in playful affection. Yet, even in that moment of bliss, a shadow of concern clouded my young mind.

"But what about Father? He doesn't seem to like me very much. Why?" I questioned, grappling with the confusion of a child trying to understand a parent's seemingly harsh treatment.

I recall her face dropping, and she held onto me as if afraid I might vanish. "Your father doesn't hate you. He just has a lot to deal with. You don't have to worry; we can make painting our little secret. What do you say, my little artist?" I nodded, bursting into laughter as she tickled me.

As an adult, I realize she was attempting to convince herself of that reassurance more than me. I shake off the lingering thoughts, appreciating the depth of her love and efforts to shield me from the complexities of reality.

The rhythmic grind of ink against stone provided a backdrop to the silent exchange between us. Her presence, though cloaked in the humility of her maid's uniform, held a captivating grace, her every movement an echo of regal elegance. Lost in the depths of her thoughts, she seemed a world away, yet her magnetic aura drew my gaze like a moth to flame.

"What occupies your thoughts?" I ventured, unable to resist the pull of curiosity.

"Nothing," she replied, her eyes meeting mine with a depth that stirred something within me. It was a fleeting moment, yet it lingered, leaving a trace of unease in its wake. How easily she wielded influence over me, a realization that unsettled the carefully constructed walls around my heart.

"You think I'm supposed to take your word for it, what's going on?" I asked, setting down the paintbrush.

"I haven't set foot beyond these palace walls since I arrived; I wish to explore what lies beyond them," she confessed, her voice tinged with longing.

"And you expect me to believe you won't pull any tricks once you're outside these walls?" My tone held a note of skepticism.

"Do you mean running away? That just doesn't make sense. I can't go back home, and I'm quite certain you'll manage to find me no matter where I land," she countered.

"No, I cannot allow it!" My hand reached instinctively for the paintbrush, but a sharp creak from her chair halted me. I looked up to find her standing, a storm of fury brewing within her. After a tense moment, she finally spoke her mind."

"You won't allow it!" Her voice quivered with suppressed anger. "Do you know how I feel, being your servant cramped up in this place? On second thought, you don't. You took me away from my family and my loved ones, and you ruined my life and stripped me of my status. I have one simple request: Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend?"