Saving her guard, p.15
Saving Her Guard, page 15
That was one thing he would give his brother. Zik paid attention to things Zawadi would consider trivial. Like noticing the queen’s new outfit.
While the dress was lovely, Zawadi hadn’t known it was new. It wasn’t the kind of detail he would care to note, except when someone else pointed it out.
Anyway, if his brother was trying to keep Queen Zulekha sweet, then there must be something grave he wanted to discuss. Which brought them to why they were here.
A servant approached the other side of the bank of chairs and bent to whisper in Zik’s ear.
Zik nodded and the man stepped back towards the side where a projector had been set up.
“Something was brought to my attention that I think you should all see,” Zik said. “I won’t say anymore until you have watched the video. May I play it?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” the king confirmed.
Zik turned the servant and nodded.
The lights dimmed, the place lit only by the light from the projector which turned the far wall into a giant screen.. As this was an internal chamber, there were no exterior windows.
Silence descended into the room as the images rolled across the screen that Zawadi could only describe as human devastation—demolished buildings, piles of dead bodies, mass graves, refugee camps.
Zawadi’s mind went to all the current locations of conflict in the continent.
Was that Darfur, South Sudan? Or the Central African Republic? Perhaps DRC or Angola?
Whatever the location, his stomach hardened and his chest tightened painfully.
These were Africans. Fellow Africans.
His grief was also tainted by anger. Anger because those in charge of the location obviously did not understand the responsibility of power. True leadership was about the greater good and should never be about personal gain. It wasn’t about egos.
Yet many who wielded power didn’t seem to understand or simply didn’t care.
From when he’d been a boy he’d been taught about power and prepared for leadership. Prepared to rule the Kingdom of Bagumi. That was his duty. He would not fail.
He would be damned if he would fail the citizens of this country, by giving into personal whims or something unnecessary.
He accepted that Bagumi and the welfare of its citizens came first about everything else.
But who was going to fight for the aggrieved citizens of the country being shown on screen? The Royal House of Saene had always intervened where possible during conflicts especially in West Africa. In the past, they’d sent diplomats, brokered peace deals, and had brought warring factions to the table.
But this didn’t exactly look like war.
At least there was no mention of war in the commentary.
They talked about random attacks against unarmed civilians.
Hang on. A name on the commentary caught his attention. And another one.
And he knew something was wrong.
Zawadi tilted his head and squinted under the flashing light to glare at his brother sitting across the aisle.
As if he was expecting Zawadi’s reaction, Zik stared at him boldly.
What was his brother playing at? Was he trying to ambush Zawadi? For what purpose?
The lights came on as silence descended when the projection stopped.
Zawadi didn’t wait. He couldn’t wait.
“Azikiwe, what game are you playing?” Zawadi asked, keeping a tight hold on the anger bubbling inside.
“This is no game, brother,” his sibling replied.
“Then that footage must have been doctored … Fake news.”
“I’m afraid not. That is as real as they come. I got it from a reliable source.”
Zawadi shook his head. “No. Somebody is trying to stir trouble. You can’t trust everything you see. They have video altering software that distort the truth.”
“If we can’t trust the video it means we can’t trust the Bagumi Intelligence Service.”
“What?” asked Zawadi in shock,
The queens gasped.
“Azikiwe, explain yourself,” the king ordered.
“Your majesty,” Zik started. “About a month ago, I received credible information about the systematic violation of human rights of the people of the Ganuri region of the Wanai Republic. Wanting to verify things before I could present the information to you, I commissioned the Bagumi Intelligence Service to investigate to verify the validity of the allegations.”
“On whose authority?” the king asked the question at the top of Zawadi’s lips.
His brother could have triggered an international crisis with their neighbour by sending spies into Wanai. There could still be repercussions from that video alone.
“Mine, Your Majesty. I thought it was best to keep you and Zawadi out of the loop in case something went wrong. That way you would have plausible deniability and your integrity would not be compromised. And I would take the blame alone.”
Okay. Zik had thought it through and had been willing to bear the consequences.
Still.
“And when did you get the video?”
“The intelligence officers returned last week and I had a meeting with them where I watched the footage.”
“Hang on. You’ve been sitting on this information for a week?” This was getting worse.
What excuse would his brother come up with this time?
“I had to travel to Wanai the day after I watched the video. As you were aware, our sister Isha was visiting Kweku, her fiancé at the time. Her immediate safety was important at the time and I had to extract her securely. Once we returned other matters grabbed by attention. This was the earliest opportunity to discuss it with the rest of you.”
What Zik had omitted was that Isha had been abducted by her ex-lover, her old university lecturer who was now a terrorist and had taken her to Wanai. Kweku had rescued her from the man and taken her to the presidential palace in Wanai where Zik had picked her and brought her home.
But they hadn’t informed their father about the abduction. Zawadi would not mention it now. He didn’t need to aggravate the old man or trigger another heart attack since Isha was now home and well.
A palace guard approached and spoke to Zik in a low voice.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Zik said before following the man out of the door.
“Do you really think that footage is fake?” Queen Zulekha asked in a sober tone.
“I don’t know,” Zawadi replied. “Our intelligence service would not create fake videos. For what purpose?”
“No. Our intelligence service would not stoop to such levels. They know it would be easy to test the video for veracity. And the culprit would pay a heavy price.”
“Which leaves a troubling reality,” the king said. “Our allies have not been frank with us. According to that report, Kweku Doona is responsible for many of the atrocities.”
“I am shocked, Your Majesty. And you will have to forgive me for not rushing to condemn him until I can double check the evidence.”
He needed undeniable, irrefutable evidence before he could condemn a man he’d called his friend for over fifteen years.
He’d known Kweku Doona since they were at the military academy as teenagers. As both first sons of heads of states, they’d become fast friends and had been on adventures together.
In recent times, they’d assumed greater governance roles and more responsibility which meant they didn’t see each other as often anymore. But they kept in touch by phone and other messaging services regularly.
About a year ago, Kweku and Isha got engaged.
Zawadi was looking forward to cementing his friendship with Kweku by becoming brothers in law.
Talk about the devil.
His sister, Isha walked into the reception room, hand in hand with a man whom Zawadi didn’t recognise at first.
Zawadi’s body tensed and he ground his teeth as recognition dawned.
Professor Bassong? How did that terrorist get into the palace? Where the hell was Zareb? Did he know about this?
As Isha greeted their parents, Mr Bassong who stood in the middle of the aisle.
Zawadi glared at the man, hands balled by his sides.
He wanted to smash the man’s face in for what he did to Isha when she was a young student. Hell, he wanted to lock the man up and throw away the key.
Imagine a lecturer seducing his student. That’s what the man had done to Isha. She hadn’t even been out of her teen years when the two had met. Mr Bassong was ten years older, had been the lecturer in a position of power and he had abused that power by preying on Isha, seducing her, and then abandoning her.
Such immoral men shouldn’t be allowed to walk around freely.
Now, here he was in the palace, apparently with Isha’s consent. What did Isha see in such a man? Didn’t she know that the man probably did the same things to other women?
Worse the man had become the leader of a terrorist organisation.
If Zawadi had been a betting man, he would gamble that all the atrocities they had just watched in that video was due to Mr Bassong and his militia, the MLG.
Isha turned to him, saying hello.
“I was not aware that you had a guest.” Zawadi didn’t hid his displeasure at seeing her former lecturer in their midst.
Isha seemed to take that as her cue to introduce the professor, who in turn prostrated before the king.
Zawadi jerked back in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that. Even Kweku had never fully prostrated, only choosing to bow before the king.
It seemed the man was here on a charm offensive. Hopefully, the king would see through the act.
But things went in a different direction and the king gave the man an audience, allowing him to state his case with Isha reminding everyone about the situation in Ganuri.
“Oh, yes,” Queen Sapphire said. “Those were horrible scenes. Imagine all those women and children in those camps. We must do something about it.”
“We are, Mum,” Isha said. “We’ve submitted a case file to the International Criminal Courts who have started their investigations.”
“Does Kweku know about this?” Zawadi asked, unable to contain the contempt from his siblings. They had bypassed him, bypassed protocol, and already filed a case with the ICC. Azikiwe and Isha had pulled some stunts in the past. But this was the worst. How dare they?
“Yes, he does. He and his father are the accused.”
Zawadi flipped. He’d heard enough of the bullshit. “You can’t be serious. The only person guilty of a crime is the terrorist you brought into this palace.” He pointed at Zain. “Papa, that man is the lecturer Isha had an affair with when she was in London. He is also the leader of the separatist group fighting to split from Wanai.”
“No, it’s not true. He’s not a terrorist.” Isha stepped down to stand beside Zain.
Of course, his sister would deny it. Like she hadn’t been shacked up with the man for the past month when she should have been preparing for her wedding to Kweku.
Mr Bassong took Isha’s hand. Right there in front of everyone.
Zawadi loved his sister. But Almighty give him strength. Did she not have any shame? How could she have rekindled her doomed love affair with the man only weeks to her wedding.
There were certain behaviours not allowed in the presence of the king. No public displays. And holding hands with a man you were not engaged to was certainly one of them.
Why couldn’t Isha obey simple rules?
Zawadi wanted to walk down the dais and separate the two. But the man was pleading for the king’s forgiveness about his affair with Isha when she’d been a student and asking for their father’s permission to marry her now.
What an effrontery. The man had cajones after what he’d done.
“That may be so, young man,” the king said. “But no terrorist is going to marry my daughter.”
Thank goodness their father wasn’t easily swayed by talk.
“Your Majesty, I swear to you on my life that I have never committed any of the crimes that Doona accuses me of. Prince Azikiwe sent spies into Ganuri to document the events. If he found any evidence of members of my group persecuting the citizens, I’m sure he would have presented them to you today.”
“That’s true, Papa.” Zik joined Isha and Mr Bassong on the aisle. “The intelligence officers that went into Ganuri found no evidence of crimes committed by the MLG. Instead, the group have provided safe zones and shelter for the people who have been attacked. There is genocide going on, and all fingers point to Doona, especially Kweku who has been arresting and torturing the people campaigning for independence.”
The hits kept coming. Now, Zik was blaming Kweku for the atrocities? What was wrong with his siblings? Kweku was no angel but this was farfetched.
But thing flew away from him.
Before Zawadi knew what was going on their father was proclaiming that there would be a wedding between Isha and Mr Bassong and everyone stood to congratulate the new couple.
Zawadi stood still reeling from the shock when Zik came up to him and patted his shoulder. “Don’t take this personal. You should know Isha well enough. When she wants something, she will move Heaven and Hell to make it happen.”
“But how can you accept him so readily after what he did to her?” Zawadi tilted his head in Mr Bassong’s direction.
Zik shrugged. “I accept him because I know how much Isha loves him.”
“Even if he’s not good enough for her?” Zawadi just couldn’t get his head around such whimsiness.
“Grandma used to say that true love is unconditional. The heart yearns for whom it yearns.” There was a forlorn expression in Zik’s eyes that Zawadi had never seen before. Then the man shook his head, wiping the expression. “Maybe one day you’ll understand the idiom.”
Zawadi nearly laughed. He would never be so besotted that he would be able to tell right from wrong. He didn’t have his head in the clouds.
There was already a woman in his life whom he cared for and loved. Soon they would be married and they would live happily ever after just like his parents.
Continue reading for chapter one from Scar’s Redemption by Kiru Taye.
Chapter One - Scar’s Redemption
Sweat rolled down Pacca Zhuri’s skin. The wavy corrugated iron roof of the corn-coloured brick house was too far away to provide any shade, and the nearest tree was at the back of the building.
Ignoring the large droplets mixing with dust at her feet, she concentrated on laying out the coloured stones in the outlined mosaic pattern. Between school and other chores, it had taken weeks to reach this final phase. Still, she was determined to finish everything before her mother arrived home.
Mama was the most important person in her life and today was her birthday.
Pacca couldn’t afford to take a bus to the nearest town so she could visit one of the brightly lit supermarkets to buy a present. Neither could she spend the little fund available at the local market.
Using ingenuity and her hands, she had crafted a gift instead.
Mama was house-proud. As a busy nurse and midwife who ran the local clinic, she rarely had time for herself—tending to residents and sometimes travelling to other places. With no losses recorded, she’d assisted in the safe deliveries of a generation of children in the small town and beyond, earning a reputation of having been blessed by the gods.
When not at work, Mama tended the garden. The land at the back of the house had been turned into a vegetable and herb farm.
However, Pacca had decided to convert the front lawn into a flowered patio.
“Are we going to eat flowers?” her mother had queried.
“No. But the garden will look pretty, maybe as pretty as you, Mama,” she’d replied.
Mama’s laughter echoed and filled Pacca with warmth and joy.
“You are such a sweet talker. In my next life, I will choose you as my daughter.”
“And I will choose you as my mother.”
She grinned and hugged her parent, who acted as both mother and father. She had no recollections of the man who sired her as he’d been a soldier killed in an ambush before she’d been born. Mama often said Pacca had her father’s spirit, which would explain why she behaved like a boy sometimes.
To accomplish her goal for the front yard, Pacca had taken books about landscaping from the school library and had been able to make a rough sketch. Over the weeks, she’d made or borrowed items. Her friend, who worked as a part-time labourer, brought leftover paints sourced from different building sites. She even reclaimed wood from neighbours’ old thrown-away furniture.
While her mother had seen the work in progress, she hadn’t witnessed this final installation. Painting the individual stones and laying them out in the correct arrangement was the trickiest and most tasking aspect. But the multi-coloured mosaic added vibrancy and energy to the final display, and she couldn’t wait to reveal it.
She lifted the corner of her yellow T-shirt and wiped the sweat on her eyebrows while stones prodded her bare knees. The knee-length baggy shorts helped her move freely while doing her chores.
However, when she cleaned up later, she would change into a white-with-blue-polka-dots sundress to please Mama.
Some people believed a girl shouldn’t wear shorts or trousers.
The first time Pacca had picked a pair of shorts from the market stall, her mother hadn’t refused. A few townsfolk made comments about the ‘inappropriate’ clothing, and Mama had laughed them off. No one had pushed the issue. Who would dare to piss off the one person they would call during a health emergency?
“How easily people forget their history?” Mama had said. “Our ancestors dressed differently from the way we dress today. Fashion is guaranteed to change.”
Pacca laughed. “What do you know about fashion?”
Mama winked at her. “I was young once, you know. I wasn’t always your Mama.”
Pacca’s lips widened with her smile at the memory.
