He was entranced, and far into the night, the symphonies of Lisbon and Hamburg rang in his ears. That evening he hadn’t had to help undress the sultan. Two of Njoya’s wives, Mata and Pena, his current favorites, had stayed with him. So the child headed back to the matron’s, whistling as he went. He lay down on his mat and covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, the better to see far-off places. The day had left a smile on his lips that he couldn’t quite explain; a taste of happiness surged sporadically through his veins. Bertha was already asleep. Her rhythmic breathing filled the room. Nebu thought about what it meant to be a slave. He wondered why the joy of two powerful men came at the cost of a little girl’s damnation. He also wondered what would have happened if the sultan had refused to come to Yaoundé. Would Sara have had a different life? Would Yaoundé have been different? And history? Would its course have changed? Ah, history! Is it inevitable? A series of knots in the weaving of a gigantic braid, isn’t that what it is when all is said and done?
