Chapter 1: Harmattan Returns

Auwalu and I returned to this world together, same morning.

The air in Kano that harmattan morning was crisp, carrying the kind of stillness that only comes before destiny shifts. I could almost taste the dust on my tongue, like when harmattan dry your throat and you dey beg for cold water. The familiar weight of old memories thread into the bones of my new body.

In my last life, I was his favourite—Aunty Ronke—in the royal compound.

They used to call me that in the palace, my laughter ringing through the courtyards, my steps echoing past the Dala Hill courtyard and the old baobab trees. Even the palace guards would hail me, "Aunty Ronke, abeg, bring small akara come next time. You too dey make us chop belleful!" I was more than just a wife, I was cherished—na me be the heart of the household.

When I died, they buried me beside him inside the royal tomb.

The drummers played softly as they lowered us. Women ululated, elders poured libation—bitter kola and palm wine—whispered prayers in Hausa and Yoruba, calling on our ancestors to let us rest together as one. The cold earth covered us, but even in death, I felt the warmth of his promise.

But this time, after waiting three years for the selection list, the name I saw was my own younger sister’s.

The list was written on crisp, official paper, stamped with the royal seal. My hands shook as I read it over and over, hoping my eyes were deceiving me, but Zainab's name was the one chosen. The paper felt heavy, like it carried not just ink but the weight of a dream deferred.

My heart stop. E be like say thunder strike me, but na only my spirit hear am.

That was when it hit me: in this life, he chose to avoid me.

The realisation struck my chest as if a masquerade dancer had spun and slapped me without warning. I could almost hear the ancestors whispering: "Not everything lost in one world is found in another."

Later, I just followed my papa’s plans and got engaged.

I looked at his face—wrinkles deep from worry, eyes tired from protecting us alone. I wan talk, but my mouth no gree open. My papa, Chief Adeyemi, always said, "Pikin wey no hear word go hear am for body." But this time, I just nodded to every plan, keeping my feelings locked away where even my shadow couldn’t find them. I let myself be led, watching my fate unfold like market fabric—cut, measured, sewn by hands not my own.

After the palace banquet, Young General Tobi came to carry me, gently helping me into the keke so we could go together.

His touch was soft, his voice low—"Madam, abeg mind your leg." As the keke NAPEP rattled away, I smell roasted corn from roadside, hear hawkers shout “Fura de nunu!” through the window. The city lights blurred, and I caught my reflection in the window: half-girl, half-woman, heart full of stories nobody else would ever know.

Behind us, the proud, always calm king just squeeze him fist, knuckles white, but him leg dey tap for ground—silent anger only old men sabi hide.

He didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene, but the way his knuckles turned white and his leg dey tap for ground told me everything. Some pains are too royal for tears; they hide in gestures, in the way a king holds himself together in front of the world but falls apart alone.