Chapter 2: Palace Memories

In my last life, from the moment I entered the palace, Auwalu cherished me deeply.

The day I arrived, I wore yellow ankara with tiny red flowers, and Auwalu himself waited at the entrance—imagine! A whole prince standing in the sun for my sake. Everybody, from the palace cooks to the steward, knew say na me get him mind.

He used to make kites for me to play with, and anytime I fell sick, he would stay by my side, looking after me without even stopping to rest.

He’d sneak out with me during Sallah, whispering, “Ki zo, mu tashi tashi!” as we run behind the date palms. Sometimes, when fever catch me at night, he’d wipe my head with a cold cloth, murmuring sweet nothings in Hausa, calling me "Lafiya, my own."

Our life together was as close as any normal husband and wife.

We’d share suya under the mango tree, argue about who made better ogi, and laugh till the moon rose high. In private, he let down his guard, his laughter free and careless, as if the world outside the palace walls didn’t exist.

Before I died, I held his hand and smiled, satisfied. “Your Majesty, in our next life, I want to meet you before even the queen does.”

He pressed my palm to his cheek, and I could feel the stubble of his beard. Even with the pain, I found peace. I wanted to be first—before duty, before tradition, before any palace politics.

His eyes were full of tears as he hugged me tight and promised, “Ronke, in the next life, I go marry you as my wife.”

He said it with the gravity of a man who always kept his word. His voice trembled, but the words were firm. I could feel his heartbeat, strong and certain.

After I died, they buried me with him inside the royal mausoleum.

The tomb smelled of old incense and fresh clay, and even as the dirt rained down, I felt safe. The griots sang songs of our love, saying, "Let no storm divide what the gods have joined."

He gave me a love that was special and just for me.

Sometimes, in the quiet of midnight, I’d hear him pray for me in soft, broken Yoruba. He loved me like I was his secret, his joy and sorrow mixed together. Palace women envied, but none could break what we shared.

Looking back now, my only regret was that I never gave him a child.

My womb felt empty, my spirit restless—like farm without yam. I used to dream of a son with his eyes or a daughter with my laughter. In the end, only silence filled our chambers. If I could return, if the gods gave me another chance, that was all I’d ask for.