He looked up as she appeared from behind the shimmering curtain – a quarter of an inch taller than him and as slender as she was when he took her into his arms as his wife fifteen years prior. Her head was held high, her sharp jawline angled upwards and her eyes were fixed ahead without a hint of slipping in his direction.
His gaze was fixated on her while she strolled past him, now just a forgotten picture on her wall of memories. She was from a long line of African chiefs, once his queen and soon to be someone else’s.
He pushed his chest outward slightly, standing a little taller. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head with the confidence that she displayed – he’d only just recovered from the pain of her walking out after over a decade of them bearing twin rings on their fingers. His hands had developed a multitude of lines and cracks from excessive dipping under a tap. He needed internal cleansing and for the sadness to be washed away with the rubbing of his hands, face, arms and feet. Facing eastwards and hiccuping through tears was where he found solace, his thick lips quivering under the weight that pushed his heart to the level of his feet.
He exhaled the mouthful of air that he had entrapped into his lungs when she entered the room, and his chest fell back into its deflated state.
It was final. The emboldened type on the bronze-shaded sheet was a confirmation that Nefertiti had not been resurrected as his.
© LaYinka Sanni, September 2011.
For those who are in any way interested, this is a work of fiction and thus should not be misconstrued as anything else. ~ LY