Set in Lalibela, Ethiopia
You are a queen.
This is what Mother hears, as she is encompassed in spectral light.
You are the woman we live to worship.
Mother hears this being said in the soft voice of her son, and she smiles to herself.
But then she opens her eyes, and she notices she is nowhere in the presence of him.
She is floating in the middle of the sky, descending slowly to the ground.
Our queen. It is you. We see who you are, and we know you. It is your face on our monuments, it is your image we imagine when we write about you in our books. It is the one and only you, our queen.
Under her are thousands of men, their skin a caramel bronze, their coiled hair a dripping black, their bodies draped fully in white. It is akin to the white wrap that Mother herself is wearing, as she floats. They hold up their hands to the sky, their eyes wet with tears.
Our Queen Makeda. You have come to us.
Queen Makeda? Mother asks herself. That isn’t my name at all.
The light is strobing, flashing, headache-inducing. Mother remembers that just a few moments ago, she was sitting over a bucket, trying to scruff the burned shiro paste and injera rinds off of her mogogo. Flies were whirring around her, and she was thinking of opening the window to let them out.
Mother is by no means a queen.
And despite that, here she is, being coronated by light, as people from afar worship her.
Queen Makeda. Finally, you have returned.
They take their turns to bow down to her. Right behind the throng is the church of Saint George. She is far above it, seeing only the cross shape of the stone roof, and then the cavity of ground that rock was exhumed out of, and the church then built out of. The tuff of the church is a chipped-away pink and red and brown. And by the stairs, in between the carved-out empty space and the building, more and more people are coming out to bow towards Mother.
This is not where I wanted to go, Mother thinks. If she focuses her mind, maybe her dream will take her to the destination she wishes.
But is her mind focused enough when she calls out to the person she is looking for?
Does she even say her name?
As she imagines her face, does she wish that this woman will finally take the time to respect her?
The crowd meanwhile rejoices.
Our Queen Makeda, we thank the heavens you are home. We thought you had gone with Prince Menelik to Gaza, but then centuries passed, and you never returned. How we awaited you, our queen. We sing songs about you, we build statues for you. Now that you are here, the great kingdom of Aksum will rise once more. Guide us to greatness, our queen. Come, sit on your throne.
The stone doors of the church burst open, and a group of men carry out a golden throne, hoisted on a sheepskin rug by two iron rods. The rod is elegant, magnificent. The moment it hits the sun, the rays strike back radiantly, almost blinding Mother. Mother has never seen anything shine as it does.
The fact is if Mother closes her eyes, shuts her mouth, doesn’t correct them, and lets them believe that she is the queen they think her to be, then she could have her feet massaged and washed at any given moment, be fed dates and olives by hand at any passing whim, and live out the rest of her days in luxury and comfort.
A dozen fingers tap over the tough points of her face, unwinding each and every muscle.
It will be like never being told no again. It will be like her son or nephew or husband or anyone else finally admitting that she has been right all along. It will be like basking in their eternal love.
Or not really an eternal love. More like the idea that they will treat her like a queen and listen to every order she says without a second thought or doubt.
That is what Mother wants, Mother suddenly realises.
Not to be in unconditional love with those she has given her heart to.
But for them to obey her, because she knows what’s best, and everything she does is in their best interest.
But that isn’t love, is it?
Mother eyes snap open. She drops to the bottom of the ground, the same level as this crowd. She does not want there to be any confusion. She raises her voice and, as loudly as she can, lets out her thoughts in a roar.
I’m not here to be worshipped! I’m not here to see any of you. There’s only one person I need to see.
I need to see my sister.
