It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of January, Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Laila Abdullah (born 1982) is an Omani writer, poet and critic living in the United Arab Emirates. She is known for her novel Farho's Notebooks, which deals with the lives of children in wartime.

Every evening, I hung out with my fellow mourners. We drank cheap drinks and gave each other funny nicknames inspired by our features. They called me the false king, because my features resembled those of a king, but my clothes and logic were quite different.
One evening, as I emptied my glass, a crazy idea crossed my mind, and I called out to them in a voice both hoarse and euphoric:
"Comrades in drunkenness and debauchery, when I'm king of this country, I'll invite you to drink from barrels of vintage wine! But in the meantime, bring your cheap drink; honour me, and I'll honour you."
The drunks burst out laughing, each with his own wish, mocking a king without a crown. A king dressed in rags, with torn pockets, who spends his days yelling at his wife, who herself curses the day she married him. That evening, a drinker as exalted as myself stammered in a voice thick with inebriation:
"You'll be king, and we'll drink! You'll be king, and we'll taste fine wine in your court every night."
The drunks went wild, applauding and whistling at their auspicious king.
I got up and staggered home. My wife, as always, was waiting for me at the door, hurling the same insults I heard every night. But this time, I answered her with annoyance:
"Oh miserable woman, your drunkard of a husband will become king, and he will marry a princess worthy of him."
She burst out laughing so loudly she almost woke the sleeping children, then declared mockingly:
"When that day comes, I'll dance in front of everyone, you insolent king. Go to sleep, you rascal; you've got to work tomorrow."
I woke up that morning and listened to our neighbour, who was telling my wife that her husband - a cook at the palace - had heard that the king was threatened with death by groups from other countries. She explained that the king had reinforced his guard and instituted strict controls on anyone entering the palace. He had even appointed an overseer to watch over the cooks who prepared the food and drinks, for fear that someone might slip poison into them.
I found my feet somehow leading me to the house of our neighbour, one of the palace cooks. I asked him to take me to the king's palace. Wary, he refused at first, as it was the first time I'd spoken to him. But I persuaded him that, if I trimmed my beard and lost weight, I could look like the king, which might be useful to him. I even added a threat: if you refuse, I'll spread word around town that you're stealing provisions and utensils from the palace kitchens to distribute to your relatives.
Reluctantly, he agreed. I accompanied him to the palace, where he arranged for me to meet the royal minister of food. When I met him, I confided that I had a solution to save the king from the enemy plots and ensure his protection.
The king examined my appearance - my broad face, deep-set eyes, prominent forehead and slender chin - intrigued by our resemblance. I stammered:
"Look at me, Majesty, I look like you. Even my companions call me the false king. I can take your place whenever you wish, to test your enemies and protect you, without anyone suspecting."
The idea appealed to the king, but he remained cautious and asked me:
"What interest do you have in risking your life? "
Hesitantly, I replied:
"We are your ransom, and your life is the life of all the people."
As for me, my mind was already wandering to the barrels of wine I dreamed of drinking every night if I became king, even a pretend king. I added fervently:

"What is my insignificant life worth in the face of yours, so precious to this country? My soul is yours, Oh Majesty."

He asked me to renounce my past life and settle here in his palace, unbeknownst to even his closest advisors. I went on a diet to lose weight, the royal barber trimmed my beard to the king's style, I put on royal clothes, and was installed into a private suite, located near the harem pavilions, out of eyesight of the court . On the occasions that the king wanted me to replace him, he stayed in the suite while I left with the guards. On my return, I would report to him what had happened at the meetings, which were often festive and required no formal speeches.

As the criticism intensified and the opposition became more virulent, the king, growing increasingly nervous, isolated himself in my suite. Months passed, and I grew more radiant every day, thanks to the vintage wine I drank every evening. I also sent barrels to my former comrades, for I was their false king. The ministers respected me, the guards looked after my safety, and the cooks did their utmost to satisfy my appetite. Nothing troubled my life, but I was haunted by a single fear: losing all these privileges and returning to poverty. God curse that miserable life!

For my part, I ensured the king's support by spreading false rumours about the plots of his enemies and their danger, thus prolonging my position for as long as possible.
One dark night, as I strolled through the palace gardens, slightly drunk, I was chasing a maid away from the guards when a masked man emerged from the shadows. He held a poisoned dagger and pointed it at me. Panic-stricken, I stepped back, shaking and covered in sweat, shouting:
‘No, I'm not the real king! I'm just a miserable impostor. Please don't kill me! Don't kill me! I'm not the king, I'm just his double! Believe me, the king is downstairs in the dark wing.’

The king is dead... The king is dead! This phrase echoed throughout the kingdom. When the king, hiding in the dark wing, heard it, he understood that his enemies had murdered me. He presented himself to his council, declaring that his enemies had killed his double and that the agreement he had made with him had saved their sovereign's life.
But the ministers refused to believe him. They accused him of pretending to be the king, especially as his appearance had changed: he had put on weight and his beard had grown longer. They ordered the guards to chase him out of the palace.
He shouted in despair:
"I am the king! I am the king of this country! Foolish ministers, I'll cut off all your heads! Leave me alone! I am the king, only I am the king! I am not dead! I'm still alive! This man was only a look-alike!"
The story goes that this man, who claimed to be king, was taken in by a group of drunkards. They bowed to him every time he entered the tavern.

A story taken from the collection entitled "Catalogue of Kings", published by Dar Al-Maraya, Kuwait - publishing and distribution, first edition.