Chapter 2: Palace Truths and New Yam Banquet

In front of the big council hall, the Crown Prince was already waiting.

The place was alive with the distant sounds of drums and the smell of burning palm oil from nearby stalls. His royal agbada glimmered under the sun, making him look even taller than usual. He smiled as I approached, the gap in his teeth showing—a smile so open, it almost made me forget my worries.

The chief wrote the marriage approval himself, right in front of us.

His hand moved slow and deliberate, dipping the nib into the inkwell, his beaded bracelet clinking softly. The town crier lingered at the edge, eyeing the paper as if it might sprout wings and fly away. The chief’s voice was gravelly with age, but steady. "This thing you ask for, no be small thing o. God go guide you."

But since the Lolo had travelled to the prayer mountain, the decree would have to wait a few days before it could be formally announced.

Everyone respected the Lolo’s prayers. They said when she climbed the prayer mountain, rain would fall within three days, and nothing would move in the palace until she returned. The anticipation of her return hung in the air, as sure as the scent of roasted corn after a storm.

As we were leaving, the Crown Prince pulled me aside, his eyes shining with happiness.

He touched my elbow gently, the gold in his wristwatch glinting as he leaned closer. The world seemed to hush for a moment, as if even the spirits of the ancestors were watching.

"Ifunanya, so you finally agreed to me."

There was a childlike wonder in his tone, as if he had just been told he could pluck the biggest mango from the tree. His voice was soft but eager, trembling with hope.

I frowned, thinking carefully before I spoke.

The words sat heavy on my tongue. I could feel all the years of waiting pressing at the back of my mind. "Oga, this one na serious matter," I thought, taking a deep breath to keep my emotions in check.

"Your Highness, abeg, which position you wan give Kamsi for future?"

I kept my voice low, not wanting to attract the ears of palace gossips. I watched his face for any flicker of guilt or hesitation.

He looked surprised.

His brow lifted, mouth parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected me to mention her name. The palace guards shuffled behind him, pretending not to listen, but their eyes were sharp.

"Kamsi? Why I go give her any special position?"

His words tumbled out, honest and unguarded. For a prince, sometimes he could be so simple.

I bit my lip.

The taste of old pepper soup lingered in my mouth, mingling with bitter regret. "If only things were so simple," I thought, remembering how Musa had once spoken of Kamsi as though she were the only light in a dark world.

Kamsiyochukwu—Musa Garba and the Crown Prince’s small junior sister from church.

Kamsi’s story floated through my mind: how she arrived from Jos with nothing but a threadbare bag, how she would sit in the last pew during Sunday service, humming along to praise songs. The village children loved her soft laugh and her habit of sharing groundnuts after choir practice.

According to Musa, the Crown Prince and their junior sister were very close. He didn’t care about her orphan background and was ready to face anything just to marry her as Queen. Musa too, said he’d support her, be her backbone.

Musa’s loyalty was legendary. People said he once trekked from the next town just to bring Kamsi medicine when she fell sick during Harmattan. In every gathering, he spoke of her like a precious egg nobody should crack.

Such deep affection—na wa o, e dey touch person.

The way Musa looked at Kamsi, eh, even a blind elder for the village square would notice. It was the kind of thing that made old women whisper and young girls sigh, wishing somebody would love them so fiercely.

But unfortunately, I no be Kamsi.

My reflection in a nearby window showed a girl tired from too much hoping, too much giving. I thought of all the times I’d sat in the shade, waiting for Musa to come back from his errands, believing that love was just a matter of patience.

I just be the childhood friend wey don love Musa for more than ten years. The fiancée he once promised to marry.

We grew up together, chasing grasshoppers behind the old mission school, sharing chin-chin during break. He once swore by his father’s grave that he would never leave me. But now, his words meant less than the dust on my feet.

I closed my eyes, fighting the bitterness in my chest.

The pain felt like palm kernel stuck in my throat, too hard to swallow, too stubborn to spit out. I dug my nails into my palm, willing the feeling to pass.

"If Your Highness truly like Kamsi, at least give her proper status. You no fit let her remain outsider."

The words were heavy, but I spoke them anyway, because someone needed to say the truth. In this land, position meant everything—a person without status was like soup without salt.

The Crown Prince looked anxious, straightening me up, worry written all over his face.

He grabbed my shoulders gently, his touch light but firm. His eyes darted from mine to the ground, his voice trembling a little. "Ifunanya, you dey misunderstand. I just see her as my younger sister—nothing more. Who talk otherwise?"

I opened my eyes and met his gaze—those clear, honest eyes no resemble person wey dey lie.

For a second, I searched his face for cracks, for a hidden meaning, but all I saw was truth—raw and unpolished. My heart softened, just a little.

The corner of my lips lifted in a faint smile.

A small, almost invisible relief washed over me, like a cool breeze after a long, hot day. Maybe I was wrong after all.

So na like that e be.

A quiet understanding settled between us. The world felt less heavy.

Na only me dey deceive myself.

I looked away, feeling foolish, but also free—at least now, I knew the truth from his own mouth.

---

Instead of going home, my keke turned to Palm Grove Estate.

The ride was silent except for the soft hum of the engine. I looked out the window as the city changed from dusty roadside stalls to big mansions painted in bold colours. Security men at the gate barely glanced at me—they knew who was expected today.

The Princess, the Crown Prince’s elder sister, was hosting a New Yam Banquet, and I’d been invited long ago.

The air smelled of roasted yam and ugba salad, and everywhere you looked, women in bright Ankara danced around laughing, their voices rising above the talking drums. The Princess herself wore coral beads and a wrapper that shimmered like water in dry season.

But as soon as I entered the garden, somebody shoot arrow pass my gele.

My feet barely touched the grass before I heard a sharp whizz and felt my gele shift on my head. All around, guests gasped, clutching their wrappers and fanning themselves in alarm. I stood frozen, the tip of the arrow quivering in a tree behind me.

Somebody shouted, "Blood of Jesus!" while another woman clutched her chest, eyes wide.

My hand flew to my head, braids now loose and wild, the gele hanging by a thread. Some women tsk-tsked in sympathy, one even muttering, "Na wah! This kain thing no dey happen for palace o!" I could feel eyes following me as a palace attendant rushed over, apologizing profusely.

They led me away to change clothes.

I followed quietly, my head bowed in embarrassment, wishing the ground would open and swallow me. The room they brought me to was cool, scented with lemongrass and old camphor blocks. A maid pressed a soft wrapper into my hand, murmuring words of comfort.

As I passed a veranda, I heard Kamsi, bow in hand, sneering:

The sound of Kamsi’s laughter carried through the open window. Her voice, sharp and clear, was impossible to ignore. She held the bow carelessly, as if she’d done nothing wrong.

"Second Big Brother, na your childhood friend be that? She no get anything special."

Her words dripped with disdain, making me pause just out of sight. I gripped the doorframe, nails digging in, heart pounding.

A familiar male voice answered quickly:

The voice that answered was unmistakable—Musa. There was a hint of defensiveness in his tone, as though he was trying to convince both Kamsi and himself.

"She just be ordinary family girl—quiet, dull. She no fit reach your level at all."

The words stung, each syllable like a slap. My breath caught in my throat, but I forced myself to listen, needing to know what was said when I was not in the room.

It was Musa.

His voice held a note of something I couldn’t name—guilt, perhaps, or regret. He sounded younger than I remembered.

The girl pouted, a bit proud.

Kamsi’s pride filled the air. She was never one to hide her feelings; her body language always spoke louder than words. She swung her feet beneath the table, head held high.

"Your childhood friend fit dull and boring, but at least she come from good family and like you. Just marry her make e easy. After all, I get Senior Brother already. I no wan make you dey lonely because of me."

The suggestion was so casual, as if marriage was a simple arrangement, a bargaining chip to be exchanged for comfort. The implication made my stomach twist.

Bitterness flashed in Musa’s eyes, his tone carrying small complaint and loneliness.

Even though I couldn’t see him, I could feel the tension in his words—resentment mixed with longing. Musa was never good at hiding his true feelings, especially around Kamsi.

"No worry, Kamsi. I go marry her. I no go give you wahala. But you—Senior Brother na Crown Prince. No dey quarrel with am."

There was a weight to his promise, a reluctant acceptance of his fate. His voice softened at the mention of the Crown Prince, as though he knew that rivalry would bring nothing but trouble.

The girl lay on the low table, pouting, shaking Musa’s arm playfully.

Kamsi’s laughter rang out again. She tugged at Musa’s sleeve, her voice teasing, eyes full of mischief. The air around them felt thick with secrets.

"Crown Prince brother too much. I don dey follow am since, no position, now he wan marry big man pikin for throne matter. If he no come beg me this time, I no go send am again..."

Her words trailed off into a sigh, a note of disappointment lingering. The games of palace life were never simple; everyone wanted to win, but nobody wanted to pay the price.

I no listen again. I turned and left.

I couldn’t bear to hear any more. My feet moved on their own, carrying me away from the laughter and the secrets, back toward the garden where nobody knew my name.

More than ten years of childhood friendship, but at last, I still no fit reach the small church sister wey just show.

The pain sat heavy in my chest—a dull ache that refused to fade. The world felt suddenly colder, the sun hidden behind gathering clouds. I wiped my eyes quickly, determined not to let anyone see me cry.