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“It looks like her!”
“Princess Veronica, right?”
“Quick! Take a photo!”
Confusion swirled in my mind as I opened my eyes, blurring the line between sleep and wakefulness. Faces peered at me from the aisle, some trying to be discreet, others shamelessly raising their phones to capture the moment. I glanced down and saw the baseball cap that was supposed to be my incognito shield was now just a flattened accessory on my lap. My sunglasses had completely disappeared, nowhere to be found. This could not be happening to me. I was wide awake and utterly exposed.
Or was I?
“Ronnie—wake up,” Daphne said, her voice echoing in my mind as I felt a pressure on my arm. “Ronnie …”
My eyes shot open, and I looked around.
“That must have been some dream—you kicked me,” she said.
More like a nightmare …
“Sorry about that,” I said to Daphne, then glanced at the food tray in front of Ann. “Looks like we slept right through the second meal, too.”
Ann grimaced, a grey tinge around her mouth. “Count yourself lucky. It was a cold breakfast sandwich with some mystery meat that didn’t agree with me. And the tart juice practically gave me permanent fish lips.”
Daphne and I shared a smile, the stress of my nightmare easing away as we descended into the tranquility once again. Best of all, the passengers were uninterested in the royalty disguised among them.
Our landing was smooth, a soft touchdown into the world far removed from dramas, arranged marriages, and prying eyes. The connecting flight was brief, the smaller aircraft taking us to our final stop, the northern, more verdant section of the single most salubrious wildlife habitat on the planet, the Serengeti-Maasai Mara ecosystem. And best of all, I could dress normally and remove my hat.
Over fourteen hours after leaving Kastonia, we arrived at Sir Richard Branson’s Mahali Mzuri in Kenya’s Motorogi Conservancy. Normally, this place can book up months or even a year in advance, but a cancellation opened up two suites at the last minute. We were lucky enough to get one of them when Daphne called from the airport before our first flight.
This luxurious safari camp featured tented suites on a ridge, offering panoramic views of wildlife-rich plains. Its design was a tribute to exclusivity and eco-friendliness, with canvas canopies and wooden decks blending into the natural surroundings.
Daphne and I were thrilled as we approached the main lodge, breathing in the fresh, earthy scents of acacia and wild grass. Mahali Mzuri was not just a stunning resort, it was a sanctuary from Prince August, providing a much-needed escape and a deep connection with nature at the same time.
Upon arrival, a friendly employee greeted us with a warm smile. “Welcome to Mahali Mzuri! May I help with your bags?” He glanced around for more luggage.
He could keep looking all he wanted, but he would find nothing. Our escape from Kastonia had us scrambling with nothing but a few things in our carry-on bags. Time hadn’t allowed for packing; everything happened too quickly, too urgently.
“We traveled extremely light,” I said with a casual shrug, sharing a look with Daphne. “Just the essentials. We’ll need to pick up a few things while we’re here.”
“Outdoor gear, SPF moisturizers, industrial-grade insect spray, and enough malaria medication to sedate a herd of wildebeests,” Daphne said with a chuckle.
“And if we can buy locally, even better,” I added.
“Of course, many of our guests enjoy the local crafts and attire. I will point out where you can acquire everything you need,” he responded, leading us to our suite.
The tented suite itself was a haven of luxury (and more like the size of a studio apartment), decorated with vibrant African textiles and equipped with all the modern comforts disguised in rustic charm. It really was more like a high-tech tent on steroids since it was designed with three separate spaces: the bedroom (with our two double beds), a living room, and a full en-suite bathroom. There was even a deck right off the living room that overlooked the valley.
With the weight of our rapid departure from Kastonia momentarily lifted by the serene ambiance of our new surroundings, we changed out of our incognito attire into jeans and T-shirts and headed back out.
The main building was a grand pavilion under a tented roof, with open walls allowing a gentle breeze to drift through. Plush sofas and handcrafted furniture invited guests to relax and mingle. The deck outside offered an infinity pool that seemed to spill over into the savanna.
As we approached the bustling hub of activity, voices and laughter mingled with the sounds of the wilderness. The lodge was alive with guests from all corners of the globe, each enchanted by the beauty of the Kenyan plains.
“We made it without being discovered,” Daphne said, pointing to the bar. “I think a celebratory toast is in order.”
“I agree,” I said, walking with her to get a couple of drinks, with nothing covering my head or my eyes. I felt completely free.
We ordered two dawas, a popular local drink recommended by the bartender, a concoction of honey, brown sugar, and lime that he muddled with vodka. Right before we were about to toast, a voice cut through the cheerful noise, a voice achingly familiar and entirely unexpected.
“Princess Veronica, such a pleasure to see you.”
