Humble Beginnings
Keziah Akilah (Kez-EYE-uh Ah-KEEL-uh)
“Your father is having company tonight,” Mother tells me, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and tying on her housemaid’s apron. “The kind that requires our silence.” I know all too well what that exactly means. Ever since I could remember, it was the same drill I’ve been following since I was born.
“When will he be home?” I emptily inquire, voice devoid of all emotion. My heart weighs far heavier than the worst heart in the underworld. With how much resentment and vengeance I inwardly conduct in my being, I’d never stand a chance against passing Anubis’s test of Ma’at’s feather.
“In minutes,” my mother dismally replies, already ushering me to the wall of the tiny room. “Hurry along now. There’s not much time.”
We both stop short of a metal door, which can only be locked and unlocked from the outside. My body trembles. I can recite the exact dimensions of this tiny closet; feel every deep gash against the door from me trying to claw my way out; can predict the frigid temperature right down to the degree; can count the number of fingernails I’ve lost; can estimate the pints of tears I’ve cried. “How long will his guest be here tonight?”
My mother’s hand rests on the doorknob. Her other hand gently ushers me forwards as she swings the door open. “It shouldn’t be for more than a night.” Father was a drunk, which meant he would wake up late in the afternoon, too. I’d be in this closet until late into tomorrow night, undoubtedly.
Before I step inside, I turn and ask, “Do we at least have any food?”
I don’t need to hear Mother’s response when I can plainly see the dejection in her face. “I’m sorry, Keziah.” If she was really sorry, she wouldn’t be locking me in the closet. “I haven’t made anything yet in fear of it spoiling in this heat. You know this is the hottest it’s been for many years. Ra has been strong to us.”
Ra, the god of light. If you can hear me, please bring light to this little family, if it can even be called that. Give this tiny closet warmth. Comfort me with your gentle rays of sun.
There’s a boisterous laughter at the front door, accompanied with girlish giggling and slurred speech. Father is here with his temporary companion. “There’s no time,” Mother solemnly alerts, locking eyes with me and frowning. “I wish we didn’t have to do this.”
I don’t have much compassion towards my mother. If she really didn’t want to entrap me in a closet for days on end, then she would leave my father and take me with her. But because work is short, my mother stays here, where she works as a disrespected maid who had an affair with her boss. It was mainly on the basis of blackmail – he threatened to fire her during a poverty spike if she did not fulfill his wishes.
Once I was born, my father was repulsed. He could barely take care of himself, let alone a child. My mother has been both parents for me over the past 10 years of my life. When my father started sleeping with new women, they found it unbecoming of a man to have a kid of their own with such a lacking woman as a mother.
The consequence: keeping my existence a secret. For the longest time, I would beat against the door, scratch the rough metal, and wail for hours. He would drag me by my hair or limbs while I fought back, preferring death to that closet. Starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion visited me often in that cramped little space. It wasn’t until my father started beating my mother whenever I’d throw these fits, did I stop my persistence. In the end, I had to resort to stifling my sobs and drying my own tears.
Nevertheless, I mumble, “Be well,” as my mother closes the door on me. Slowly, the light falls out of place, filtering out until the door closes. The defining sound of a lock falling in place echoes in the miniature room.
“Fetch us some dinner, wench!” a man bellows, staggering footsteps clamoring through the living room. “And change my bed sheets while you’re at it, huh?”
I lean against the wall, slowly slumping to the mercilessly cold floor, icicles stabbing at my skin. The darkness adds to the biting cold. My eyes grow watery as I can only listen to my father order my mother around and treat her like he didn’t have a child with her.
Hugging my legs close to my chest, I bite down on my closed fist to muffle my cries. Closing my eyes, I try to ward off the hunger pains and the cracked, dryness of my lips.
Goosebumps crawl all over my skin. On the rare occasions I can go to the markets, I’m often made fun of. Unlike most others, my skin isn’t sun-leathered and battered with weathering. Instead, it’s more of a milky mocha tone, with less blemishes than the average citizen. Others say it’s because I’m an unproductive member of society, but I know it’s from being caged in this miniscule space.
Because of this, I’ve had to learn to fend for myself. Though my fending is typically evading any attackers and blending into a crowd. Since my birth, I’ve been forced to keep my head down low, and have become masterful at becoming utterly immemorable. In fact, I’m sure the only people who know of my actual presence in Egypt are my mother and father, when he isn’t in a drunken stupor. Being eternally nameless in a world that celebrates the names of important influences has always been a bit shameful, but it’s better than the alternative: being known as the daughter of a maid and drunk.
As my father continued his life bathed in dishonor and filth, I lived mine in the shadows, certain I would never find my way to the light. Forever, I would be doomed in the quiet shadows of this torturous room.
“Widen the face,” I order the artist. The clay statue captures too much of my femininity; the cheekbones too high, the lips too full, the lashes too round, the nose too petite. “I want to appear manlier. Give the people a bold face to worship.”
“As you wish, your majesty,” a feeble man responds, bowing before me. “Your strength will be shone to all people before you. Looks alone will show the world why the gods have chosen you as our pharaoh, sir.”
Sir. Nobody knows I’m a woman. Since I’ve come into the palace at age 12, I have never once been suspected of anything other than a peculiar man with a high voice. In a dream, a goddess shrouded in darkness visited me, telling me to dress as a man come sunrise tomorrow, and to never let myself be otherwise.
Being born into highly unfortunate circumstances, I didn’t write this dream off as some silly reverie caused by extreme hunger. I would do anything to come into some good luck. The day after my dream, we were visited by the high king; the son of Ra; the pharaoh. Similar to my circumstances, he also had a dream, where Horus instructed him to come to this house and wed my mother, though he was warned: do not bring her into the palace – bring only the son.
Perplexed at the pharaoh’s assumption of my manhood, but not wanting to ruin any opportunity, my mother let me go with the pharaoh like she locked me in the closet all those times; silently, but with sorrow.
From age 12, I was raised in the palace, where I then came into a family of twin step brothers who were almost in their 30’s. A proper woman was never present in the pharaoh’s life, but his concubines were always very kind. For instance, when I found myself lonely, I often engaged in games of chess with them. I was always a fan of strategy; ever curious about meticulous processes of how people get to the places they are, how things crumble, and how things rise. It’s because of that desire for thinking ahead and planning that I brought my country out of the poverty that left my mother in the residence of my father. Had it not been for the poverty of the previous pharaoh, Mother could have left that house long ago.
“That’s better,” I acknowledge the bust. “Have the scribe put these into blueprints for a large structure by one of my temples.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“I’ll answer the question you must be thinking,” I tell the man. On a higher level of the palace, I look out one of the grand, open windows, eyeing the ledge of the balcony. “No, I don’t know when that scribe will be here. I will send for you when he arrives.”
A set of footsteps echoes from behind me. Whirling around, I make eye contact with my step-brother, Asim. His face has hardened into a permanent scowl since I took the throne, and the charming twinkle in his olive-green eyes has turned devilish. Both brothers resent me from stealing their throne from right under their feet, and it’s understandable. They’ve assumed that I’m the unsaid son of a favored concubine, for the pharaoh never disclosed my true origins because it would have been embarrassing. “When will you feed that scribe to the jackals, brother?”
Evenly, I meet his resentful eyes, keeping my composure. Years of choking down my emotions has given me the ability to put on a fantastic façade. “When you find a scribe who has been selected by Thoth himself, please let me know, dearest brother.”
“I’ll do so immediately,” Asim bites, a distinct snarl in his voice. “For being touched by Thoth, he behaves like the goddess Hathor; so glib and frenetic and neglectful of his duties.”
“Is there anything you need, Asim?” I inquire, inserting a bite in my tone.
Looking at me like he’s already thought of 100 ways to slaughter me, he smirks. “Just making sure his majesty was doing well.”
“I am,” I assure. “You may go about your business.” To the sculptor, I nod. “You, too.”
Silently, Asim and the man bow, mumbling honorifics and courtesies. I’ve been pharaoh for two years, and still, I have to fight the urge to crinkle my nose at the eggshells people feel the need to walk on with me. I’ve never jailed a person for personal gain, nor punished anyone without cause. I’ve been a fair ruler; fair enough that Ma’at, goddess of order, would be proud. Still, those around me smell of fear.
Once Asim leaves, I feel a lot less tense. Whenever he comes around, every nerve in my body pinches and becomes alert. Knowing how much he hates me is frightening, because I know that every time he looks at me, he’s looking for flaws. What would make me forfeit the throne? What could get my people to disown me as their ruler? Though it’s farfetched to Asim that I would be anything but a man, my heart still pounds that he might piece it together one day.
With a final survey of the bust, I exit the room and head down the hall. The sun is setting, and if my scribe hasn’t come by the palace by now, then he won’t be back later. “That damn scribe,” I mutter under my breath. One of Asim’s only nitpick-worthy subjects is my handling of the inner-palace workers, specifically the scribe. You need to be harsher with them. Show them their place, Asim would say, referencing my rather lax rules.
I’m the king of Egypt; I don’t have any wives, any children, or any concubines. Asim and his brother, Aziz, think it’s because I’m a weak king with no assertion behind closed doors. In reality, it’s because I’m not a man. Regarding the scribe, however, I’m lenient with his overt misdemeanors because of other reasons. The day I entered the palace was the day the scribe had entered as well. He took the spotlight from my arrival (and gratefully so), because he had been touched by the god of wisdom, Thoth. He had been gifted the ability to write and read in every language. And in a world where hardly anyone ever knew how to do either, it was an incredible skill.
Though sometimes, I find myself wondering if that’s all he can do. There are times when he thinks nobody is watching him, and I find his eyes skipping from person to person, a secret expression etching on his face that he tries to hide. It’s like he sees more than meanings behind hieroglyphs.
I arrive at my private chambers, guarded by two burly soldiers in gold-plated armor. They stiffen and straighten at my presence. “How long have you two been here?” I inquire.
“About five hours, your majesty,” one of them answers, keeping his eyes glued ahead of him.
“Go ahead and take off for the night,” I dismiss. “Order the next shift to come here. Tell them that if anyone comes by, they need to wait until I’m alerted and ready for them to enter.”
“Yes, your majesty. Thank you, your majesty,” the second guard gratifies, bowing before leaving. I frown at the persistent use of “your majesty.” I’d much rather just be called by my name, but I know requesting such a thing would be added to Asim’s nagging and be viewed as inferior.
Entering my room and closing the doors behind me, I remove my headdress, which had been pinching my tight bun against my scalp for far too long. I shed my garments and remove my chest bind. From my trunk of clothes, I dig for a nightgown. I send my scribe for clothes meant for a woman every now and then, giving him measurements that were unwittingly my own, telling him it was for someone else.
I tug my caramel waves free from their hold, my head sighing with relief at the sudden lack of tension. Now that the sun has set, I open my balcony window doors, letting in a fresh breeze that carries the scent of lotus flowers from the nearby Nile. Leaning against one of the railings, I stare up at the sky, finding comfort only in these moments. Here is the only time and place I can be myself while still in the palace.
“Why me?” I ask the starry sky, seeking for the gods’ answers. “Who was it that told me to dress as a boy? Why did Horus guide the previous pharaoh? What did I do to be chosen for this place?” I’ve never been one to hit the temples and shrines every day, and after the years of remaining locked in the closet, I lost a lot of faith in the gods. Despite all my prayers and pleas in that dark closet for years, nothing changed for 12 years.
Placing my chin in my palm, I continue to stare at the stars, searching for a map of answers. My thoughts wander to the scribe, who did not show up at all today. That punk. We all expected him to be respectful and honored to have such a gift directly from Thoth himself, but we couldn’t have been more wrong. He was wily and mouthy, though clever and cunning. He’s only ever remotely respectful. But through the eight years I’ve known him, I can easily say he does display loyalty.
However, knowing his worthiness, he feels he can do whatever he wants because he’s too valuable to discard. Of course, this holds true. One of the examples of this is him simply not showing up to work. “I’ve never liked feeling confined,” he often says. “I need a breather every now and then.”
Snorting, I shake my head. “You need a breather?” I ask aloud. “Take a number.”
“The runt?” Asim roars to his ailing father, unaware of my presence just outside his chamber doors. “Father, you can’t be serious. I deserve the throne. I’ve worked the hardest for it. At the very least, choose Aziz. That kid isn’t even related to us by full blood.”
“You work hard to come to your wealth,” the pharaoh retorts, unwavering on his decision to pass his throne to me. “Aziz does not work for it at all. Both my own sons are short-sighted, like their father, which is probably why Egypt has been suffering a terrible poverty under me.”
Asim roars inside the room, something slamming on the ground and making me flinch. So close to the door, I imagine for a moment that I’m in a closet, with the doorknob the only thing in my view. My mind tricks me into thinking I’m jailed between four cold walls of isolation and my heart races. It’s only the passing footsteps of guards that remind me of my real location. Curse my father for permanently scarring my memories.
“What does Keziah have that I don’t?” Asim challenges.
“The voracious hunger to understand,” the pharaoh answers without hesitation. “He wants to fix what is broken without being told to. He needs no incentive to right others’ wrongs, but does it on his own.”
“The people will not follow a man only half related to Ra’s chosen one,” Asim says. Little does he know; the only people in this palace who know I’m not related to the pharaoh in the least are the king himself and I.
“Nobody knows his true origins,” he responds. “And if it comes that you reveal them to the people, then I will request that every god and goddess inflict their wrath upon you. Now, I’ve had enough of this talk. Leave me to rest unless you’ve something enlightening to say.”
For seconds, Asim says naught. I take that as my cue and abandon the door, treading lightly through the halls. My head spins and my stomach churns. Me? A pharaoh? It doesn’t seem real. Five years ago, I was begging to be let out of the imprisoning closet. Now, I’m being selected to rule all of Egypt? What do I know? I’ve hardly even been able to leave my home or palace. I’m far too unknowledgeable for a lifelong task as such.
The world spins as I absentmindedly wander the palace. My feet take me to the court, where I bump into people, run into the corners of tables, and lean against railings to keep my balance. My hands are clammy and my chest is tight, though this time it’s from more than the bindings I bare. Through my spotty sight, I see the keeper of the palace’s available concubines – an older man with a long beard of white – talking to a younger man just a few years older than me.
“I’m uninterested,” the younger man denies, shaking his dark-haired head. “For the nth time: no. I don’t know how much more direct I can possibly get.”
“It’s not like you do your job as a scribe very well,” the older man snorts, not being wrong in his judgement. That scribe is hardly ever around. “You might as well do something like join the courtesans. Many have requested your presence, seeing you more as a physical appeal than an intelligible one.”
“It’s not my fault Thoth chose a guy as good-looking as I am to read and write,” the scribe disses. “And I do my job very well…I’m just a bit untimely is all. Nevertheless, please stop asking me.”
A table set with food and drinks catches my attention. Water. I need some water. Stumbling to the table, I lean on the ledge and try to catch my breath. Should I just give up the boy act now and take my consequences? I’ll either be executed or experience the wrath of the gods for abandoning my duty, but now, even those seem a much lighter way of life than being an unfit pharaoh.
I make a grab for a chalice, though it’s a lot harder than it seems. I know there’s only one cup I’m looking at, but my eyes fool me into thinking there’s three. Soon, the chalices begin to tip, as if turning on their sides, though I haven’t even touched them. I’m falling, I piece together.
“Prince!” a voice calls, sounding like they’re at the end of a long tunnel. The words echo in my brain, bouncing off the walls of my cluttered thoughts. Prince. How long will it be until the people will call me “your highness?” A pair of hands secure my shoulders, pushing me upright and holding me steady. “You’re unwell. You need rest, sir.”
Clutching the arms that hold me to maintain balance, I look into the eyes of the first responder. Purple eyes stare worriedly into mine. Those eyes are the physical sign of a god’s enchantment, marking him worthy of all. Shakily, I whisper, “…I can’t do this anymore.”
I’ll never forget the unchanging expression in the scribe’s face when I said this. He wasn’t confused or puzzled. I’m sure he just didn’t hear me. “Prince, should I escort you to your chambers?”
“I don’t care,” I answer. And in this moment, I really don’t. I’m sick imagining the weight of Egypt pressing on my shoulders, holding me hostage in a different way than my father’s closet ever did. As pharaoh, I’ll forever be forced to act as someone I’m not, while unable to escape the throne unless Osiris, god of the underworld, decides to come for me. But now, I almost prefer that.
“I’ll escort you,” the scribe offers, giving me a gentle push towards my room. When we slowly make our way to a reclusive hall, he asks, “What’s going on, Kamilah?”
Gritting my teeth, I use my anger at that name as strength to stay standing. I’ve been by this scribe’s side for five, almost six, years and he can’t get my name straight. I have told him multiple times that it’s Kez-i-ah, not Kam-i-lah, but he doesn’t listen. Or, he does and just does this to push my buttons, which is more likely. In front of the public, he is the scribe and I am the prince. But when nobody pays too much attention, he’s Asena, who is more like a brother to me than the ones I’m legally related to. I don’t know much about his past, but I do know he doesn’t have a last name. He never told me why.
“It’s nothing,” I brush off. “I’m just feeling ill.”
“Kamilah, I’m not dumb.”
“I know,” I growl, not having the capacity to feel guilty for lying about the cause of my faintness.
“Then tell me what’s happening.”
“I will when I know what’s happening, too,” I tremble, making it to my door. “I just need some time to myself.”
Without asking for permission, Asena follows me into my room, helping me whenever I tip too far to one side. We make it to my bed, where I let myself collapse on the feather-stuffed pillows, the ceiling spinning like a whirlpool. “I’ll be here until you fall asleep, Kamilah. If you need anything, let me know.”
Asena retreats to the restroom, where he dips a rag into a basin of fresh water, wringing it out and coming back to place it on my forehead. The cool cloth soothes me only in the slightest, but it’s enough for me to want to close my eyes and rest, spiting the echoes of Asim and the pharaoh, as well as my own thoughts.
The windows open by Asena’s hand, the night wind far more than “nice.” He comes back and pulls up a chair next to my bed. As I float into slumber, something warm and soft covers my hand. Simultaneously, I hear Asena sigh the name only he calls me. “…Kamilah.”
This memory was always odd in my mind, but I suppose Asena has always been dutiful, when he actually shows up. I never did tell him what I heard between the king and my step-brother, because I could never muster up the strength to repeat it without feeling nauseous.
Three days later, the pharaoh passed of disease of an old heart, giving the torch of leadership to me.
