I’ve been told countless times that I look like my mother. I’ve been told I have her eyes. Charcoal black with brown rims around the edges. I’ve been told I have her hair. Deep brown, long, thick and wavy. I’ve even been told I have her teeth. Pure white, straight to perfection, with an almost invisible gap in the middle. “But why don’t you have her attitude?” People would ask finally, not bothering to hide their confusion and disapproval. 

You see, Hermione Jennifer Socrates was perfection made flesh. She was poised. Polite. Elegant. Forgiving. Graceful. Intelligent, but also street smart. Merciful, but also not a pushover. Extremely talented; she could play a violin—and the piano, and the celo—worthy of the New York Philharmonic. Inspite of all this, she still found a way to be humble, to be supportive. She never thought or spoke negative about anyone. She treated her staffs like they were part of the royal family—I never could understand why she did that. She even loved Africa and African children and pioneered several charities there—charities, non of which were in her name. Above all, she loved her family with all of her heart and might and soul and loved her country even more. Hermione Jennifer Socrates was everyone’s champion, and I don’t have her attitude. 

They said it was an accident. The eighteen wheeler truck had come out at the intersection between royal road and spice lane. According to the forensic experts—because an event that threatens the life of any member of the royal family is ruled as criminal activity by default, and is treated as such—after a thorough examination of the scene of the accident: the big truck had jerked ineffectively on the slick pavement, leaving skid marks as the driver tried to bring the rig to a stop, but unfortunately, the breaks of the truck had failed, resulting to a collision into the royal convoy, driving them off the road and down the mountain cliff the royal road was known for.

That’s it. That was all they told me. No one could have foreseen it, no one could have controlled it, no one could have prevented it: the royal doctor kept saying over and over again as if that was supposed to make me feel less distraught. I needed more details. But it was against the rules of Eirene to share the details of a catastrophic event of any member of the royal family to the public.

 “They are my family.” I shouted at the top of my lungs, frustration eating at my mind. But the look on the face of the chief corona when I screamed at him is one I would never forget. Shock. Sympathy. And disapproval. The same disapproval I would see on the faces of people when they wondered why I didn’t have my mother’s attitude. Because Hermione Socrates would never raise her voice at anyone no matter the direness of the situation. In my tragedy, they judged me still.

“My apologies, Your Highness.” He bowed, as if that was the most natural thing to do at that time, then walked away from me. He walked away from me. Watching him go, I wanted to scream: I will have your head for that. Nobody walks away from royalty, but almost immediately, my line of sight was blocked by my father’s private secretary. I needed to go into my mourning room. It was past overdue.

“But I want to see my parents.” I pleaded, sounding as child-like to my ears as I knew I did to Dame Cynthia Basil. Her eyes grew smaller as her brow furrowed. Again, another disapproval. A princess does not beg, she demands and obeys and respects the rules of her nation.

“I'm sorry, Your Highness, but you can not see your parents until after your mourning period is over.”

Sitting cross-legged on the same spot the maidry had left me, eighteen hours later, I stared ahead, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. A prisoner of my own mind as it played back as if on a loop, the pitiful events of the day I went from daughter and princess, to orphan and queen, with the future of approximately three million two hundred and thirty seven thousand eight hundred and thirty six people—and some—in my painstakingly manicured hands whose ability was so limited it couldn’t run a store, talk more of a nation.

The mourning room was a seventy square feet empty wooden shack (save for the sobhan and an electric fan) located under the palace. One of the many things I didn’t know existed on this earth. The reasons as to why the king needed to come down to perdition, whenever it was obligated for him to go through mourning rites—that is if any member of the royal family passed on to glory, both immediate and extended—had not been explained to me. Reasons as to why his emotional distress had to be gift wrapped and delivered in a state of physical distress had also not been explained to me. 

I had not had a bath for five days, since the moment I stepped into this hell. Actually, I had not bathed for six hours before I stepped into the mourning room, so you could say I had wallowed in my own filth for one hundred and fourteen hours. There were no windows in the shack. The only air in the room was the one that originated from the fan mounted on the wall at the end to my right, and the one from my nose and my mouth as I breathed out exhaustion and breathed in the rotten smell of my body, or was it the rotten smell of the spilled beans porridge? I could hardly tell.

I brought my head up to the ceiling, staring daggers at surveillance cameras I couldn’t see. I knew they were there. I knew they watched me in my pain and distress. And I knew they mocked. Everybody always mocked. Among my school mates when high school was the only public place it was allowed for me to be seen. And then came one of queen Hermione’s charity galas: my debut into the public eye. More fundraisers (I cared for none of them). Then the events I had to chair as the princess of Eireen. Then the occasional walk through central market, accompanied by my entourage of groupies and royal guards. The girl who couldn’t be as perfect as her mother. Zero poise. Zero attitude. Zero grace. Zero talent. That girl was now their queen, and I wondered what they thought about that. The imagination of demoralized homes, offices and dinner tables, when the news spread of the death of their favorite king and queen and the coronation of the only successor, brought a slight smile to my face. 

Oh, how I wished I could see the look on their faces when they realized that the one they didn’t respect was the one who now ruled them. Oh, how I wished I could see the look on the faces of the ones who realized that they should have been nice to me when they had the chance. The ones who realized that the little girl they judged silently with their words in their homes, and openly in public with their actions and stares, was the one who now had their future in her hands. How I wished I could see their faces at that moment.

I closed my eyes and held my breath for a few seconds in a pathetic attempt not to perceive the stench surrounding me. Who treats their queen this way? I understand that my coronation had been a simple one. Usually, after the period of mourning, the coronation of the new ruler would come after months of their accession. Not that it was law to wait for that extended period of time, but because of the gigantic amount of preparation required to organize the ceremony. With the church and state in attendance, the Prime Minister, representatives of the House of Parliament, leading citizens from the common wealth, company Presidents and CEO’s from the nations in business with Eireen, leading representatives of other countries, and the creme del a creme of Eireen. 

All these people would congregate in the silver hall (mostly known as the General Estephan church and the most adorned church in Europe) and watch the new ruler as he or she took the oath of ordination. And after, the high priest would recite the lasting psalm, the ruler would parade round the silver hall, with seven decorated priest (which were called elders) following behind, as if to show the backing of God and the blessings of God on the ruler. Then the parade would be over and immediately the royal banquet would begin, which would naturally last for days because of the stages of feasting, where the entire nation of Eireen would join in on the last stage. But guess what? My coronation entailed none of that. I could hardly remember the details of the oath of ordination.

Sitting on on exact spot in the godforsaken room, I recited words that were asked of me to repeat, and then the high priest said the lasting psalm, and the crown was placed on my head. After which they all filed out, begining from the high priest and finishing with the royal secretary who shut the door with a silent thud. That was the first day for mourning. I recall that the echo of that thud was like a death sentence. My life as I knew it was over. My dream: to maybe finish graduate school and get a fancy job where no one knew who I was. My dream: to one day resign from said fancy job just because I can, and then travel the world and see what the fuss was about Africa. Highly cliche I know, but that was the best I could do. My life as I knew it was over, and they just placed a stamp on it. 

Not only did I mourn my parents, I mourned my dreams and my plans and I mourned the life of Aretha Joy Socrates. I knew one day I would have to take the throne, but I didn’t know it would be too soon. Too soon for me to fathom. Bringing my right hand up, I felt the imperial silver crown still lying loosely on my bun. The same crown that had been passed down three generations and the most valuable silver on earth. Yet, no presidents and prime ministers and all the fancy people. No parade round the silver hall, no banquet, no feast. They hadn’t even bothered with pictures. I understand that my coronation had been an insignificant one. Yet, who treats their queen this way? The laws of Eireen were more important than the citizens of Eireen. Apparently, the laws of Eireen was also more important than the queen of Eireen. 

A lone tear leisurely strolled down my right cheek as I thought of my father the king and my mother the queen. I had not even been given the sympathy to look upon their bodies. Death by accident? what a cliche way to die. Certainly, her royal highness Queen Hermione didn’t see that one coming. Killed by one of the very citizens she adored so much. The very citizens who couldn’t honor her good name long enough by treating her daughter with respect. I’m no Hermione, they themselves knew it. I am Aretha. Hermione they knew and loved. Aretha they knew not but judged. But Aretha they would soon know, and realize that they should have been on their best behavior when they had the chance.

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NEW CHAPTERS EVERY THURSDAY.

Next: Chapter Three - The Invitation 

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Story by Chelsie Uche Louis

Written by Chelsie Uche Louis

© Mental Town, 2022