THIRTY-THREE-A PRINCE.

Oma pulled on her clothes, uncomfortable with how they made her feel and how they exposed her. It was not because people could see her thighs and stomach, she thought, trying to fold into herself; it was more that everyone could see her, and they were seeing her in a way she did not feel was herself. It was difficult to explain, she thought, and decided to stay angry at Amarachi instead. She watched the torches over her sister flicker, moving against the soft breeze of the night. Amara was beautiful in an understated way. It was not any singular thing; her eyes were too large, but they were perfect in the way they framed her mango long face. Her lower lip was larger than her upper lip, and it was so evident that it drew your attention when she spoke. And Amara took advantage of it; she coloured her lips black, drawing a line from her nostril with white dots. It made her appear like a craft and art that deserved your compliment. In the line of crafters and painters, she somehow stood out. It was the way she flicked her wrist as she wielded the scapple, as if she expected that even that movement should be perfect. The others in the competition did not stand a chance against Amara. She liked attention and commanded it, Oma knew as she watched her sister carve form into a piece of log, her wrapper shimmering in the moonlight, and the flames of the torches playing with her dark skin, that her sister would win, and it would have nothing to do with her craft being better than everyone else. 

“You have to give it to her; she is not like you, but she does know how to mesmerize.” 

Oma cocked her head, considering Nkemu’s statement. Was her sister like her? She did have a way of bewitching when she wanted to. She could make you ignore her if that was what she wanted, but when she wanted to be seen, it was impossible to look away. 

“I am just looking forward to your wrestling match. This is boring. How can anyone stand sitting still for any length of time, just carving or painting?” 

Nkemu raised his eyebrows at her and laughed. 

“I am not saying this is not some punishment for a sin we have forgotten committing, but the girls up there are not half bad. You know, crafting is what a woman is supposed to do?” 

“But I am not a woman, and neither is Amarachi, at least not yet anyway.” 

“Ha, you just hate that you are wearing clothes for girls. I had no idea you were even capable of looking like a girl.” 

Oma scowled at Nkemu and balled her hands into a fist. 

“Okay, calm down before you punch me. I am going to be hit enough tonight as it is.” 

“Why are girls not allowed to do things like wrestling? I would have been really good at it, you know that.” 

“I do. You are right, but it is not like boys are allowed to do girl things either. Look up there, do you think boys do not want to paint? And how many of the carvers are actually boys? Also, nobody wants to watch a girl be thrown to the ground by a boy.” 

“Why, because we are too fragile? Let's go now and see who is fragile.” 

Nkemu laughed and moved away from Oma, who was trying to put him in a headlock. 

“Oh, no one thinks you are fragile, believe me. Look up there at Amara, does she look fragile?” 

Oma looked over at her sister again; her formless wood was beginning to take a prominent shape. She had a serious expression on her face, a single bead had fallen forward from her hair, it hung tentatively between her eyes, but she paid it no attention. She was focused, and Oma knew from experience that it would take the worst disaster to move her from her focus. Amara wasn’t fragile, and only a fool would think of her as such. 

“So why do I have to wear these clothes that make everyone comment on my developing chest? And why can’t I wrestle you?” 

“Oma, I don’t know. You are strange. What other reason is there?” 

“You know I can hurt you without moving a finger, right?” 

Nkemu laughed and shoved her playfully. 

“Lighten up. I was only joking. You can wrestle me any time, and all the boys lined up last week to wrestle you, remember? And they think you are pretty.” 

Oma gave him a look. 

“I know.” 

He said, laughing because of the look on Oma’s face. 

“I vomited in my mouth several times as well. But they did not think you were pretty because you were wearing girls' clothes. Only adults think wearing the clothes you are wearing right now makes you pretty.” 

“If I win and get chosen for the palace, I will get the king to tell people to let people be people the way that they feel comfortable being themselves. I don’t want boys to admire me because I am pretty; I want them to admire me for my skills. I don’t want to wrestle someone who will let me win. I will change all that when I get chosen.” 

Oma said with determination in her voice, her chin jutted forward had an edge to it. Nkemu’s face fell, and Oma looked over at him and smiled reassuringly. 

“You are going to be selected, don’t worry.” 

“What?” 

Nkemu laughed. 

“You can see the future now?” 

“No.” 

Oma shook her head.  

“But I know your strength, and for a scrawny thing, you are deceptively strong.” 

Nkemu gave her a lopsided smile, and Oma took his hand, smiling for the first time that night. He squeezed Oma’s hand in gratitude, and she understood. Hand in hand, they watched Amara bring the image of a beautiful woman with empty eye sockets to life. And for an unexplained reason, the image of the woman filled the onlookers with a feral dread, and this in turn made it impossible to want to look away from it. 

“Wow. I did not expect her to be that good.” 

Nkemu said later, as the overseers of the craft contest covered up the crafts and paintings, and the crowd moved away to watch another contest. Oma nodded in agreement with Nkemu, but an unease she could not shake filled her stomach every time she saw the image in her mind.