Chapter 1: Halima Enter Royal Compound

My cousin lost both her parents, and Mama Queen brought her into the royal compound.

The day Halima stepped into our lives, the whole royal compound buzzed with whispers. The courtyard smelled of fresh rain and frying akara. Aunties peeped from behind doorways, their voices low but eyes sharp. Elders say, “Family na family—even if na from far village.” In our compound, where kinship was as sacred as the morning call to prayer, bringing her in was both duty and pride. I remember Mama Queen’s face—her mouth stern, but her eyes soft as she led Halima inside. Palace women bustled around, fussing over Halima with new wrappers and steaming jollof rice, trying to make her feel at home. Halima only clung tighter to her old, frayed scarf, lips moving in a small whispered prayer: "Allah, protect me and guide me, like you did for Mama." I could almost see her mother’s face flicker in Halima’s eyes before she blinked the memory away.

From that moment, she started enjoying my parents’ favour, my elder brother’s protection, and my younger brother’s respect.

She was folded into our family like palm oil into stew—quick, but the taste remain forever. My mother, Mama Queen, began calling her “my daughter” everywhere, not just inside. Big Brother Prince would bring her roasted corn on market days. Suleiman, who no dey hear word, go just quiet any time she waka enter. Her laughter began to fill the corridors that once belonged only to us. With every kindness given to her, the bond inside our family redrew itself, and she was right at the centre.

Even my fiancé used to praise her as smart and outstanding.

Sometimes, his compliments stung me, though I tried not to show it. "Halima gets sense," he’d say, grinning as she quoted proverbs or solved riddles at dinner. Elders said she brought new light into the royal household. Even my own friends in Zaria whispered that the princess’s cousin had wit sharper than fresh pepper. I forced myself to clap and nod along, though sometimes jealousy tight my chest like when Mama dey tie gele for wedding—no space to breathe.

Only one person was different.

His heart and eyes only held me, never moved by outsiders.

Yusuf—his loyalty was like Harmattan breeze, clear and steady. No matter how many times Halima made everybody laugh, Yusuf go always dey look me, even when Halima dey shine for everybody. Sometimes, he go squeeze my hand under the table, just to remind me. Even when Mama Queen asked Halima to pour libation during prayers, Yusuf’s gaze would slip to me, searching for reassurance. It made my heart leap, and I held on to that certainty, like a keepsake hidden in the folds of my wrapper.

I married him, and for a while, our life was sweet and peaceful.

Our wedding was a festival—the drummers beat talking drums, women danced with calabash on their heads, children chased each other round the compound, and the smell of fried plantain and suya hung heavy in the air. Mama Queen herself led the women in singing, and Baba King prayed for our union, his voice trembling with age and emotion. I thought, finally, happiness had settled like dew over my life.

But later, he died—stabbed dozens of times, his body thrown off a cliff.

They brought his body back wrapped in Ankara, blood soaking through. The town crier beat his gong that night, and even the moon seemed to hide. My world, once vibrant and filled with laughter, cracked open and swallowed me whole.