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Set in a wonderfully reimagined 15th century West Africa, Masquerade is a dazzling, lyrical tale exploring the true cost of one woman's fight for freedom and self-discovery, and the lengths she'll go to secure her future.
Òdòdó's hometown of Timbuktu has been conquered by the warrior king of Yorùbáland, and living conditions for the women in her blacksmith guild, who were already shunned as social pariahs, grow even worse.
Then Òdòdó is abducted. She is whisked across the Sahara to the capital city of Ṣàngótẹ̀, where she is shocked to discover that her kidnapper is none other than the vagrant who had visited her guild just days prior. But now that he is swathed in riches rather than rags, Òdòdó realizes he is not a vagrant at all; he is the warrior king, and he has chosen her to be his wife.
In a sudden change of fortune, Òdòdó soars to the very heights of society. But after a lifetime of subjugation, she finds the power that saturates this world of battle and political savvy too enticing to resist. As tensions with rival states grow, revealing elaborate schemes and enemies hidden in plain sight, Òdòdó must defy the cruel king she has been forced to wed by reforging the shaky loyalties of the court in her favor, or risk losing everything―including her life.
Loosely based on the myth of Persephone, O.O. Sangoyomi's Masquerade takes you on a journey of epic power struggles and political intrigue which turn an entire region on its head.
1
Each day, countless fleets of camel caravans sailed across the desert sea to reach Timbuktu.
Here, in this port city on the southern edge of the Sahara, waves of men, women, and children flooded the market, searching for supplies. Farmers and craftsmen proudly showcased their wares from behind wooden stands or in front of tents. Threads of dancers wove through cheerful crowds; juggling entertainers could be found on every corner. Travelers' stories of far-off lands rose and fell with the playful chords of musicians. Vibrant colors and savory scents swirled in the air as Timbuktu teemed with the trading, buying, and selling of everything from exotic spices to brilliant fabrics to precious salt and gold.
But today, Timbuktu was still.
I stood in front of a wooden platform, along with what felt like half the market goers. Rain poured from the skies, soaking through my brown wrapper. Thunder rumbled as a Songhai general was dragged onto the platform by soldiers who were not his own.
They forced the general to his knees, the wood beneath him groaning over the incessant patter of rain. His wet robes were stained with blood and grime. Water trickled from his turban, down his bruised face.
A third, smaller man drifted onto the platform. Lines were etched into his face, like ripples in a shadow. Each line marked a history—a birth, a marriage, a death. He frowned as his gaze swept over the crowd, chronicling yet another wrinkle, another event.
He extended his arms on either side of himself, and his billowing sleeves crowded around his elbows. "Ọba kìí pkọrin."
The customary introduction of griots pierced the air. The griot paused, allowing his baritone words to take their place among the crowd, before continuing in accented Arabic, "Gather, gather, hear me now. The Songhai rule this city no more. As of today, Timbuktu belongs to the Aláàfin of Yorùbáland."
The griot gestured to a group of soldiers standing nearby. From within their circle, an old man stepped forward. He wore a red and white kente toga that draped over one of his forearms and shoulders. Beneath the painted white dots covering his body, his skin was as brown and gnarled as an ancient baobab tree. It felt as though time itself paused to accommodate his slow approach.
The griot stepped back as the old man mounted the platform; griots represented nobles and the people, but divine correspondence with the òrìṣàs was left to babaláwos.
The babaláwo looked down at the general and raised a fist. Slowly, very slowly, he uncurled his fingers, uncovering a single cowpea in the center of his palm.
People around me recoiled. I leaned forward. I had heard of the sacred Yorùbá bean, but I had never seen one myself.
Although the general had not flinched, his full lips were clamped thin. From where I stood at the front of the crowd, I saw the fear that flashed across his eyes. He struggled in vain as soldiers pried open his jaw, and the babaláwo forced him to eat the cowpea.
"Great Ṣàngó," the babaláwo cried. His gossamer voice whirled around me, as though entwined in the wind. "This is the man who led your enemies. What is to be his fate?"
There was no answer, of course; the òrìṣàs never personally descended from the heavens to speak to the humans they presided over. Wind howled around us, growing crueler in its acceleration. Fruits were blown off nearby stands; orange sand surged forth. As I shielded my face from the storm, I wondered if all of Timbuktu would be uprooted before the trial ended.
Then lightning ruptured the sky, and the world shuddered under the thunder that followed.
"Ṣàngó has spoken," the griot boomed. He beckoned a soldier forward.
Rage rippled through the fear on the general's face. "This is what you call justice? You Yorùbá are nothing but a tribe of superstitious pagans—"
A soldier plunged a spear into the side of ...
Excerpted from Masquerade by O.O. Sangoyomi. Copyright © 2024 by O.O. Sangoyomi. Excerpted by permission of Forge Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Please be aware that this discussion guide will contain spoilers!
Unless otherwise stated, this discussion guide is reprinted with the permission of Forge Books. Any page references refer to a USA edition of the book, usually the trade paperback version, and may vary in other editions.
After the conquest of port city Timbuktu by the king of Yorùbáland, nineteen-year-old Òdòdó is kidnapped from her mother, Okόbí, and their blacksmiths' guild to Ṣàngótè, the capital. There, she discovers that a charming stranger she earlier entranced with her trader's song while crafting one of her special silver daffodils is the current ruler, or Alàáfin, of Yorùbáland: Àrèmo. Elevating her from blacksmith, an impoverished working class status scorned for being the domain of unmarried women, Àrèmo decrees that she will be his bride. Òdòdó agrees to marry him only after he brings Okόbí to the royal city to share in her newfound wealth and social status.
Though Òdòdó has Àrèmo's love and affection, her new role as the Alàáfin's betrothed is unstable. Derided for her blacksmith's background, she must learn to navigate the intrigue and shaky political alliances of the royal city and eventually fight for her survival against rebels, conquered slaves, and rival states — forces of resistance formed in opposition to Yorùbáland's warmongering. Meanwhile, the search for her mother, who has gone missing, drags on as a blacksmiths' strike spreads throughout Yorùbáland.
In this setting based on fifteenth-century West African society, following Òdòdó as she takes up the helm of her story in first-person narration is thrilling. While others see her as nothing more than uncultured, fragile, and (initially) illiterate, Òdòdó's growth into a resourceful and clever chessmaster, revealed through intimate access to her thoughts, scheming, and determination, makes Masquerade engrossing. She teases out intricate networks of overlooked knowledge, becoming Àrèmo's unofficial advisor by channeling to him the important politics and news the wives of powerful men casually drop during daily gossip. When Àrèmo confines her to her room, Òdòdó has two slave children relay her information. Òdòdó's attitude towards her kidnapping is fascinatingly pragmatic. Though she berates Àrèmo for treating her like "entertainment" and a "commodity" to whisk away for his own "enjoyment," she clasps onto her elevated status as a way out of impoverishment. She is never enthralled by either naive romanticism or illusions of selflessness.
No less captivating are the female characters surrounding Òdòdó in her new environs. Soon after her arrival in Ṣàngótè, Òdòdó seeks out the friendship and guidance of Kòlò, Àrèmo's first wife from a political union. Kòlò's bold wit and affectionate nickname for Òdòdó, "little flower," give a seemingly picture-perfect first impression of her. But belying her bold words of self-deprecating jest — "you need not compete with me for Àrèmo's affection…when our wedding night did not yield any children…I suppose he was so distraught at the prospect of having to lay with me again that he went to find a better wife to give him sons" — is an underlying bitterness and sense of inadequacy, a preemptive hedging that Òdòdó, still a newcomer to double-dealing, fails to register. In this way, moments of supposed sisterhood and solidarity are invested with a suspenseful undercurrent of interpersonal unrest and volatile instability.
Masquerade's depiction of motherhood is compelling, too, precisely because it is unidealized. The mother-daughter relationship, often traditionally considered a source of warmth, is venomous between Òdòdó and Okόbí — Okόbí's parenting is at best authoritative tough love and at worst emotionally and physically abusive. Early on, when she catches Òdòdó speaking to a mysterious man who is only later disclosed to be Àrèmo, Okόbí slaps her daughter and berates her: "Evil child, is it not enough to cause me misery? Must you allow a man to make your own life miserable as well?" Yet the continued barrage ("Listen well—that sorry story does not need to be told twice") reveals a mother projecting her own traumatic relationship with men onto her child. Her violent and abrasive overprotectiveness, though deplorable, is an attempted correction to her experience of abuse. Simultaneously, Òdòdó remains steadfast about reuniting with her mother, repeatedly crossing the Alàáfin in his fervent desire to marry immediately, postponing the stability that their union would afford. Maternity is ambiguous and nuanced, collapsing the polarization of love and hate, resentment and gratitude, protectiveness and animosity.
Àrèmo's passion for Òdòdó launches Masquerade's plot and creates propulsive dramatic tension. Though Àrèmo is a charismatic man of charming words, bold displays of romance, and martial prowess, for Òdòdó, he is a growing source of frustration and rage. He falls for her trader's song and silver daffodils but remains condescending towards the profession that made these possible, valuing the fruits of blacksmiths' labor and metalcraft while denigrating them as "witches." Òdòdó finds herself constantly managing his mistrust — he takes her meeting with the royal city's blacksmiths as perfidious longing for her previous station. Learning that the guards assigned to protect her are also responsible for surveilling her and reporting back to Àrèmo, Òdòdó is forced to contrive moments of privacy. As the novel progresses, it leans into Òdòdó's suppressed fury arising from how her heroic contributions to Yorùbáland's wellbeing are attributed to Àrèmo.
Beyond these characters and their convoluted political and personal entanglements that are the core of Masquerade's thrill, the book's atmosphere and locale are immersive. The setting, filtered through Òdòdó's wonderment as she takes in the sights of her new surroundings in Ṣàngótè, is extravagant, comprised of lush and elaborate descriptions of tempestuous royal elephants, gold-encrusted architecture, expensive clothes, and religious fanfare centered on the fickle Òrìṣàs (see Beyond the Book). With these seductive displays of opulence, it's no wonder Òdòdó is magnetized towards Àrèmo. With his love tightly bound to these spectacular performances of power, it's no wonder she is gradually hungry to claim those performances in her own name, even at the cost of masking her true intentions and feelings with disingenuous smiles. And with its multifaceted characters within a vibrant but subtly dangerous Yorùbáland, it's no wonder Masquerade is spellbinding.
Reviewed by Isabella Zhou
Hannah Whitten, New York Times bestselling author
Jennifer Saint, New York Times bestselling author
Vaishnavi Patel, New York Times bestselling author
Masquerade by O.O. Sangoyomi repeatedly draws from mythology surrounding the Òrìṣà pantheon of deities from the Yorùbá religion, which is still practiced throughout southern Nigeria, other areas of West Africa, and the African diaspora. Ṣàngó, the bringer of thunder, is particularly highlighted: he is the namesake of capital city Ṣàngótè and a source of political legitimacy as the forefather of the Alàáfin (king). The novel depicts multiple Yorùbáland rituals starring Ṣàngó's storminess — after eating a chickpea during the first feast following her kidnapping by ruler Àrèmo, main character Òdòdó is only allowed to live because she is not subsequently met with Ṣàngó's lightning. This depiction of Ṣàngó is in line with how he represents wrath, fury, and masculinity, all of which are present in the patriarchal powers under the reign of Àrèmo. In another reference to Ṣàngó, Àrèmo's chosen battle weapons are dual double-sided axes; statues of Ṣàngó typically contain an oshe, a double-headed battle-ax, emerging from his head to signify his propensity for war and slaying his enemies.
According to Yorùbá oral tradition, Ṣàngó was originally a human king: the fourth (or third, in some renditions) of the Oyo Empire. In keeping with his later personification of the natural forces of storms, the human Ṣàngó purportedly had a voice like thunder and a mouth that spewed fire in speech. Despite these powers, a subordinate chief dared to challenge his rule through feats of magic. When the majority of Ṣàngó's subjects deserted him for the subordinate chief, Ṣàngó left Oyo to kill himself. But his followers believed that his death was actually a heavenly transformation into an Òrìṣà. The story of Ṣàngó appropriated several facets of Jakuta, a preexisting deity.
Another version of the story of Ṣàngó's death follows his discovery of a charm that supposedly could call lightning down from the heavens. When trying this charm on a hill, he succeeded in calling down a storm but also unintentionally brought lightning onto his palace. As a result, most of his family was killed, and a broken Ṣàngó hanged himself on an ayan tree (the wood of which was used to make axes).
Ṣàngó is depicted as having three wives: Oya, the goddess of the Niger River, who like Ṣàngó is associated with storms, as well as destruction and transformation; Oba, the goddess of the Oba River; and Òsun, the goddess of the Oshugbo River, associated with love and fertility. Oba was Ṣàngó's first wife, Òsun the second, and Oya, whom he crowned as queen, the third. Ṣàngó's favorite was Òsun because of her delicious cooking. According to a version of one story, when Oba asked for the secret behind her cooking, Òsun, out of jealousy, lied and claimed that she always cut off a part of her ear to put in Ṣàngó's meals. Following these false instructions, Oba prepared Ṣàngó's favorite dish with the inclusion of a slice of her ear. But when Ṣàngó saw the ear in his food, he became enraged. Believing this to be a poisoning attempt, he banished Oba from his house. As she ran out crying, she fell to the ground and transformed into a river. When Ṣàngó later discovered Òsun's deception, he called her out into the rain in anger, where she, in turn, became a waterfall.
Representation of Ṣàngó.
Collection of African and Afro-Brazilian ethnography of the National Museum of Brazil, Rio de Janeiro.
Photo by Dornicke (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Filed under Places, Cultures & Identities
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