I am told

That I was carried to earth

Cradled in the careful arms of Time herself

Whose somber and heavy footsteps

Split open the sky to let through the rain.

 

I am told

That the moment I opened my eyes

My mother could see the tormented black sea

That beats against

The distant shores of my homeland.

 

I am told

That the braids of my hair

Coil like the venomous nôga, the black-mouthed snake

That turns my people’s hearts to ice

Beneath the searing African sun.

 

I am told

That the tattoos on my face

Are the fingerprints of the universe,

The map of my destiny sunk within flesh

As black as the most starless of nights.

 

To my people, I am

The Goddess of the Skies

The Princess of the Plains

The very last of the women rulers

The last of the Rain Queens.

 

But to me,

I am just Naledi.

 

***

 

My mother is dead.  Twenty-three days ago, she grew weak from an illness that pounded its fists inside her skull, loosened her bowels, and made her skin burn like the dry earth at noon.  Our healer told her she would die soon, but she waited until she saw the stars behind her eyes to pull me to her side.   

 

“Lerato,” she called me. “My love. You are now the only one who can lead our people. It is your birthright, and your destiny.” Her eyes were cloudy. I thought I could see myself, shadowy and dark, in their reflection. She gazed at me for a long time, as if searching for something buried deep in my eyes. Finally, she spoke again.

 

“I must now tell you the secrets of the Rain Queens.” Her voice was heavy and damp, a coming storm that darkened the horizon. I sat, cross-legged on the floor next to her bed, well-trod dirt cupping my calves, listening. My mother spoke of the rains, of drought, of life, and death, and of the power I was about to inherit. Power that drenched the soil until the mud ran in rivers. Power that dried the ground until it shattered like brittle bones.

 

Power that my very being rejected.

 

“Our people need you. You must promise me that you will guide them. Tshêphiša, promise.” The dying flame of her queenship burned in her eyes. With my heart in my mouth, and my fists clenched tight, I promised.

Several minutes later, with the help of one of her wives and the royal household around her, the Queen tasted poison, committing the ceremonial suicide that all Rain Queens perform upon their deathbed. She held my hand as she passed, her back stiff and her eyes fluttering quietly until she sunk back into the pillows, her fingers loosening from mine. I held them tight, eyes closed, my cheeks wet with tears. I was unwilling to let her go, unwilling to let go of myself. This was the end of her life, and the beginning of mine. Instead, I felt as if a part of me was dying with her. Firm hands untangled my fingers from hers. I didn’t fight them. I felt myself carried into another room and laid on a bed. My eyes stayed closed as someone softly pricked the skin beneath my eyes, and sliced thin lines along my cheekbones. My tears mingled with blood as they marked me as Queen. A woman’s voice spoke to the room.

 

“Queen Tiisetso Maleshoane Modjadji is dead. You, Naledi Litšeho Modjadji, are the new ruler of the Lobedu people.”

 

That night, it stormed.

 

***

            I can hear the drums in the distance, and see the village fires glimmering through the leaves of the garden outside my window. If I concentrate hard enough, I tell myself that I can feel the ground thumping, that the pebbles on my floor are vibrating slightly with each dense beat. My feet long to dance like they once did, to pound the earth with every footstep, to be lost in the music, whirling around the fire, hair fanning out, a torrent of limbs and joy and life spinning wildly, caught somewhere between the soil and the stars. 

 

Instead, I must stay inside the kraal.

 

My room is small but luxurious, with a plush, pillowed bed on the floor and two windows with thin screens to block the light. I pull one of these back to gaze outside, longing to join the distant ritual that thrums like a second heart. Tonight is the twenty-third night of the mourning ceremony, when people from the one-hundred-and-fifty villages of the Lobedu tribe gather in the village closest to the royal kraal, a series of huts intended only for the royal family. These people have come to honor the dead Queen with the sekgapa and the dinaka, our tribe’s traditional dances. They will dance from the moment the sun sets until the instant it rises again.

 

I begged to go to the ceremony like a child, pleading with the counselors to let me honor the Queen, my mother, with my own dance. They explained to me again that I must not break tradition, that I must remain isolated from the world and from the people, that with mystery comes control. I feel like a flower without sunlight, drowning in the water that is meant to nourish me, rotting away in the shadows.

 

***

 

There are few pleasures in my life as a young Queen. I learn to weave, sew, and paint, to watch the horizon for rain, and to care for the delicate flowers of the garden. I do not want them to wither away like me. I walk for water with my attendant, Matete by my side, the heavy clay jug balanced on her head. I pester my mother’s counselors to let me go to the village like I did as a child. I make friends with a small, brown mouse who scurries in through my window at night, leaving him scraps of bread and fruit to nibble at in the dark. I sit with the advisors on an open porch in the kraal, silently staring into the distance, waiting for something to change.

 

The friends that I once had are no longer themselves. They bow, and look away, and tap their feet nervously. They are afraid of my power, of the counselor’s glares, of the title that has latched itself to my name. Becoming the Rain Queen has taken even them from me. My duties now include attending meetings with my mother’s elderly counselors, three of my uncles, and several village chiefs. They talk of politics, and outsiders, and crops. Today, my ninety-seventh day of being Queen, they are discussing the benefits of trade with another tribe. Their sandaled feet scuff the floor as they talk. I know that my role is ceremonial at best, that I am still not old enough to give direction to the men that have years more experience than me. I try to pay attention, but I end up picking my favorite counselors based on the smile lines by their eyes, the ones that don’t go away even when they frown. I contemplate what I would look like if I had a beard like Uncle Moeketsi, if I could have a pet giraffe, or what would happen if an elephant broke down the wall and carried me away, curled in his trunk. I would probably be happier, I think.

 

“Mmakgôši” a councilor says, “my Queen. What do you think of these things?”

 

I look straight at him. “I think,” I say, “that the elephant would be the better option.”

 

***

 

Nights pass. Months go by in a slow procession of misery and formalities. My fourteenth summer passes, then my fifteenth. I take to watching the stars outside my window, naming them again and again but forgetting them every night. I remember only one, the brightest. She is Tiisetso Maleshoane, my mother.

One cloudy day, my luck changes. I make a deal with the counselors. I am to be allowed into the village once a month starting on the sixteenth anniversary of my birth, given that I go in disguise, and have an escort. My persistence has finally paid off. I count down the days, recalling stories I have overheard from the servants, mixing them with my own blurred childhood memories of the colors, tastes and scents of the market. I fantasize about snake charmers who hypnotize tall, twisting serpents, magicians who make thin coins appear from one’s ears, and street performers with bells sewn to every inch of their clothes, hurling their bodies down the streets in strange, exuberant dances. I have heard stories of men with pale skin, white as if bleached by the sun, trading intricate, shining weapons for food. I remember the tale of the lion pelt, flat and lifeless, that one hot day transformed back into a breathing lion, and with one stroke of its mighty paw, cut off the head of the disbelieving vendor, stalking back out of the village onto the plain. I shiver with terror and pleasure at these things. The market must be a wonderful place.

 

I send a servant to the market for cloth. She comes back with beautiful skeins of white and blue yarn for a shawl, dark green fabric for a skirt, and stiff black fabric for a shirt. I spend a night sewing the shirt and long skirt. I spend eight days weaving the shawl. It is soft and heavy, able to cover my hair and my mouth, wrapping my shoulders in a wooly disguise. I will cover the ceremonial scars beneath my eyes, the ones that mark me as royalty. I will be unrecognizable. For the first time in almost three years, I will just be Naledi.

 

***

 

The market is crowded and colorful, an oasis of smells and sounds at the center of the village. I am happily jostled between men and women rushing toward stalls, bargaining loudly, or pulling howling children behind them. I see one young boy tenderly leading a pregnant goat through the throng, careful to go slowly so that the rope leash does not tighten around her neck. Matete is nervous. She keeps a tight hold on my arm after losing me twice to the will of the crowd, once because a fat man nearly twice my height blocked her way, and the other time because a very persistent woman selling oranges would not let her go past without buying some. Matete returned lugging a netted bag stuffed with at least fifteen of the bright, round fruit.

 

“Don’t ask,” she huffed, taking hold of my arm once again.

 

We pass by stalls leaden with food: fried plantains, nuts, pumpkins, pineapples, feathered chickens hanging by their feet, sweet potatoes with butter and sugar, and a stall with scaled, rippling fish who’s eyes are still bright with life. Others sell hides, stretched and dried in the sun, some with stripes, some with manes. I do not like these stalls. They remind me of the lion pelt story. I decide I would rather see an animal, teeth bared, menacing and alive, than skinned and dead. My eyes flicker quickly, back and forth, taking everything in. This is not the market I remember, overwhelming in its vibrancy and noise; nor is it the one I have heard of, filled with strange people and strange wares. This market is full of people whose skin is like mine, whose eyes are like mine, and whose hair is like mine. They sell foods I have eaten all my life, and goods I use every day. But despite all this familiarity, there is still so much to see.  

 

“Matete, look!” I cry, grabbing her hand in excitement, spying a cart heavy with flower seeds and planting tools. 

 

“I see, Litšeho, I see.” She replies without enthusiasm, calling me by my middle name so as not to arouse suspicion as to my identity. I pull her to the stall, and run my fingers through the seeds, cupped in various clay pots atop the cart. They are like black beads of water, engulfing my fingers, sliding past one another, sinking back into themselves.

 

“Hêi, don’t touch those. I can’t tell if you’re trying to take any; you could be a seed thief for all I know, stealing all my seeds and ruining my family’s livelihood. My sister and I would be out of work.” I glance up in surprise, as a tall, lanky boy maybe a little older than me unfolds himself from behind the cart. His face is even darker than mine, his mouth set in a hard, stern line, but there is a twinkle in his eye that lets me know he is kidding.

 

“Oh, and what if I am?” I reply coyly, my voice slightly muffled through the shawl. “I could have plans to start my own seed stand. I’ve got to size up the competition you know,” I raise my eyebrows at him.

 

He smiles, pleased that I’m playing along. “Then I’d have to warn you, I know my seeds. I could just accidentally mix up the ones at your stand. People would be having green squash grow instead of the King Protea flower. Not a pleasant surprise.” He shakes a small hand shovel at me, trying to look serious. I laugh.

“Alright then, I promise I won’t steal any of your seeds or open my own seed stand. I would, however, like to buy some for my garden.” His face lights up, and I want to stare. His eyes are deep and brown, his jaw strong and his lips full. I have never seen a boy this beautiful before.

 

“Remember, Litšeho, you have a set amount of funds,” Matete murmurs over my shoulder, “why waste it on seeds?” I frown, having forgotten she was behind me.

 

“Seeds are not a waste." I say firmly, holding out my hand for the coin purse.

 

I buy seeds for seven types of flowers, including the King Protea, which happens to be the boy’s favorite, as well as seeds for sorghum, squash, and beets. While a bored Matete browses through the stalls nearby, the boy teaches me how to properly pot a flower after extracting it from the soil, and to identify flower seeds from vegetable ones. Before I leave, he presses a handful of orange seeds into my palm.

 

“Maybe someday they will grow a tree in your garden. Then you won’t have to buy so many oranges.” He smiles, glancing at Matete’s bag as she looks at dyed leather in the stall to our left.

 

“Thank you, “ I say smiling shyly. Matete returns, informing me that it is time to leave. I say my farewells and walk away from the stall, turning back to wave, squinting so that I can see him wave in return. When we reach the edge of the village, I realize I do not know his name.

 

***

I spend the next month doing only two things: dreaming of the boy from the seed stand and learning the secrets of the skies. I take to lying in the grass in front of the meeting house, Matete weaving baskets on the porch behind me, watching. I close my eyes and try to suspend myself in a space within my head, isolated from the world around me, my body ruled only by emotion. Slowly, I begin to see patterns, ties that link my most extreme moods to the behavior of the heavens.  There are days that my skin hums with tension, that my fists clench with anger, and my toes curl with the desire to run from this prison that is supposed to be my home. These are the days that the sun burns hotter against my skin, and the dirt dries beneath my feet. Matete, sheltered beneath the porch in the shade, retrieves a paper fan from inside and fans herself feverishly. I enjoy the pain of the sunlight. Other days, I daydream of the boy at the seed stand, his hand momentarily in mine as he hands me orange seeds, his eyes skimming over my mouth as I smile at him. On these days, it rains gently, cold and fresh, and I open my mouth so I can taste the clouds. Some days, I remember my mother, and the tormented storm inside me materializes in the skies, the clouds dark and churning, the rain stinging against my skin. Matete ventures into the winds to take my hand and pull me to the safety of the porch, while lighting flashes through the sky. Most days, it is simply sunny, as the emotions within me are not potent enough to be reflected by the weather. I don’t mind the sun. It helps my flowers grow.

 

The month passes quickly, and again, the day I am to go to the village arrives. I put on my shawl, and set out with Matete. I head straight for the seed stand, while Matete goes to look at beads nearby. The boy sits on a stool behind the stall, sorting seeds into pots as his sister stares through the crowd, watching a snorting bull with long horns pull a cart of melons.

 

“Dumêla,” I say, greeting them brightly. The boy looks up.

 

“Hey, it’s the seed thief!” He laughs. “Back for more already?” I improvise, not having a better excuse for my visit other than wanting to see his smile again.

 

“Of course! I heard of a, um, purple and white flower, that I want to go in my garden. I think it would look nice with the red King Protea that should be blooming soon.” I prayed that he knew of a purple and white flower, because I certainly didn’t.

 

“You mean the Ginger Spice flower? That’s purple and white. “ I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

“Yes, that sounds familiar. I think that’s it.” He smiles and points down the street to a house pressed against the market stalls with a flowerpot in its window.

 

“See that pot right there? That’s a Ginger Spice flower in it. Come on, let’s look closer. Lipalesa, watch the stall for a minute, would you?” She nods distantly, still watching the bull, and he leads me toward the flowers.

 

“They’re lovely,” I say. “The petals are so delicate.”

 

“Yes, they’ll look beautiful with-“ He stops short, looking over his shoulder as the volume of the crowd rises. The bull, only several yards from us, bucks, kicking and snorting, a loud crack splitting through the air as the arms of the wooden cart behind it break. Then it charges. My breath is knocked out of me as the boy pushes me against the house, sheltering me with his body.  I keep my eyes open as the bull charges past. I am so close that I can see its eyelashes, framing a big brown eye that glistens as if with tears of apology. We are lucky: the bull’s horn has whooshed above our heads, almost like it tried to miss us. I relate with the bull. It’s not purposefully hurting anyone, it just doesn’t want to pull the cart. The bull simply wants freedom.

 

The boy releases me once the bull has passed, destroying a cloth stand further down before slowing to a stop, and being reigned in again by the pursuing owner. Miraculously, no one has been seriously hurt. I can see Matete looking frantically for me through the crowd. I look back to the boy.

 

“Thank you,” I say simply, not knowing how to express my gratefulness. I could have died. He looks up at me.

 

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you,” He looks, for a moment, serious. Then he smiles and the playfulness returns to his eyes. “I never introduced myself. I am Katleho. What’s your name?” He asks.

 

“Naledi,” I say, and then I realize my mistake. I am supposed to be Litšeho, the girl without a care, without a title, without royal blood.

 

“Naledi? Like the Queen?” He laughs, joking.

 

I suddenly trust this boy, Katleho, with the strong, dirt-covered hands, blinding smile, and kind eyes. I turn away from the crowd and pull the shawl down from my face, revealing the scars that mark me as Queen.

His eyes grow wide, and I cover myself again.

 

“You-“ he begins, gasping.

 

“You cannot tell anyone.” I whisper fiercely, “or I will never be allowed outside of the kraal again. I will never be able to come back to the market. I will never see you again. Katleho, you must promise me. Tshêphiša, promise,” I say, echoing my mothers last words. He looks at me quietly, lips slightly parted.

 

“I promise,” he breathes.

 

***

 

I visit Katleho each time Matete and I go to the market. Every visit, Matete trusts me more, wandering further and further away until we finally come to the agreement to simply meet at the fish stand at the end of the day, and go our separate ways. Katleho has taken to walking around with me, leaving his younger sister to run the stand. He knows the village and the people well, taking me to all the good stands hidden in the nooks of the houses. He feeds me samples from his friends at the fruit stands, slipping his hand under the shawl that covers my mouth to press slices of pear, or watermelon to my lips. Sometimes, we hold hands. It is dangerous, we know, but we cannot stop. Today, he takes me down a side street, past four rowdy boys who kick a ball through the streets as the earth rises in dusty clouds. A scraggly dog runs past us, searching for scraps.

 

Katleho shows me his house, and I peek in his bedroom window, happy to see several potted plants near his bed. We rest against the shaded wall of the small house, sheltering from the sun. Katleho takes my hand, and turns to me, looking quietly into my eyes.

 

“What?” I laugh.

 

“You are bogêga, beautiful,” he says, brown eyes alight in the slant of the sun. I blush, not knowing what to say. So I kiss him instead.

 

Katleho’s lips are soft, and his breath is hot and damp, mingling with mine. He takes my face in his hands, and gently pushes me against the wall. I touch his chest through his shirt, feeling his heartbeat.  There is a sun, glowing and warm, in the pit of my stomach.

 

He tastes like earth and rain and sky.

 

***

 

The counselors have called me to a meeting. I sit in the chair at the head of the room and face them all, wishing I could be in the garden, planting my seeds, instead of the stuffy meeting room. I worry about Katleho. During my past two visits to the market, he has been absent from the seed stand.

 

“He’s sick,” His sister tells me each time, avoiding my eyes. I ask to go to his house to see if he is all right, but the girl assures me quietly that he is better off in the hands of his family, and that it would be better if I didn’t visit. She looks at me as if with pity. Something is not right. If Katleho is not there at my next market visit, I tell myself, I will go to see him anyway.

 

A voice calls me back to the meeting as Matalana, the eldest of the counselors begins.

 

“Naledi Litšeho Modjadji,” he says formally. “The council has come to a decision. You are approaching the age where your life as Queen will begin to change. You must embrace these changes as we, the counselors, know best for you and for your rule.” He pauses and waits for me to say something.  I am silent. My stomach twists with apprehension.

 

“As you know, it is tradition for the Rain Queen to take a series of wives to show loyalty and dominance to the villages that are a part of the Lobedu tribe. As queen of that tribe, it is time for you to take your first wife, and for the relative who will be your partner in childbearing to be named. Within a week you will marry Mokoke Tokoso, the daughter of chief Oupanyana of the village to the south. She is a few years your senior, but age should not be an issue. And your uncle Moeketsi has agreed to impregnate you with the future queen when the time comes,” Matalana’s words echo through the room, suddenly vastly larger than it had been before. Across the room, Uncle Moeketsi smiles at me, his silver beard shifting to show his teeth. I want to throw up. I can only think of Katleho.

 

 I compose myself and smile at the counselors, my heartbeat pounding like bird wings in my ear.

 

“Thank you. I understand that my role as Queen is changing as I age and that things cannot always stay the same. I respect your choice, and will abide by your wishes.”

 

Later, when I am sure the household is asleep, I climb out of my bedroom window and leave the kraal through my garden, the flower petals kissing me goodbye.

 

***

 

I arrive at Katleho’s hut before dawn, my feet tired, and my breath short from running. The night is dark. I round the house to stand in front of his window, pausing to catch my breath. I hope that he’s not too ill as to speak to me. A shade hides his room from the outside, and I quietly roll it up so as not to startle him.

 

Then, I see him. His body is tangled in the limbs of another girl.

 

They are both fast asleep, breath soft, noses almost touching. Their bodies are hidden only by a light cover, and I can see the outline of their legs, intertwined beneath the sheet.

 

I feel like a child. I now know why Katleho has been avoiding the market on the days he knows I visit. He is newly married. The girl’s bridal garb hangs over a chair in the corner, blindingly colorful and stark against the plainness of the room. I feel as if I am suspended in water, slowly solidifying into ice. The world is so quiet, I begin to imagine that I can hear someone screaming, high and anguished, very far away. I stand there for a long time. After what seems like hours, I break through my ice, unfreezing my limbs and pulling the shade back down, slipping away quietly from the boy that represented my rebellion.

 

It has begun to rain as I walk from the village, taking a rural, dirt path used only by the men who hunt on the plains. This is a new kind of rain-it is soft and warm, trailing down my skin like the shimmering trails of snails, sparkling in the hazy light of the stars. I understand the rain to mean acceptance: a surrender to emotion, to nature, to the call of the plains.

 

The trail ends, but I continue, parting the thin, green grass that has grown as tall as me, listening to the chirp of the insects at home in this wild, and the heavy pant of the animals of the dark. I know that somewhere nearby, night prowling cats with bright eyes and claws like spearheads are following my scent. I know that elephants, with their sharp tusks and powerful trunks are close too, ready to protect their young at any cost. But for now, I am safe.

 

I find a clearing beneath a tree, and lie down on the grass flattened by the sleeping bodies of lions. I gaze up at the stars, drops of rain pattering against my cheeks like silver tears. The sky, endless in its darkness, cradles me from above. Through the thin rain clouds, I can see my mother’s star, Tiisetso Maleshoane, winking overhead. I know that I will have to answer to her for leaving our people and breaking my promise, but I am ready to pay the price. I have no intention of going back.

 

This is my story. A story where I fell in love: not with a boy, but with freedom.

 

I can say now that I have

Run from my destiny

Laid with the lions

Spoken with the Milky Way

Wept with the rain-torn heavens

I am strong, I am beautiful,

I am Naledi,

Queen of no-one but myself.