Chapter 1: Fate’s Red Dust

I want to change the fate of the pastor’s son who died a painful death a thousand years ago.

Even as I think am, my chest dey heavy—like rainy season humidity wey just press person down, no wan shift. E still dey strange, how spirit and memory fit drag person cross centuries because of love.

With the help of the strange spirit-system that dragged me across time, I trailed behind him for five years.

Five years wey be like five decades, with every footstep echoing for red dust, through harmattan haze and the scent of roasted maize. Sometimes, I go sit under mango tree, just to watch him pass, my heart doing kpam-kpam. There was never a day my shadow no follow his own, quietly, steadily, even when hope dey look like e wan finish.

Finally, after he accidentally broke his vows, he agreed to leave the ministry and marry me.

I remember that day, when the world just pause—like church bell refuse to sound. My heart jump, knowing say maybe, just maybe, door to new destiny dey open small, even if na crack.

But on the night before our wedding, inside the royal hunting ground, assassins strike.

The air thick with cries of palace guards, metallic scent of danger dey dance between trees. Bush lamps dey flicker as night dey tremble; fear sweep through the guests like dry leaf for harmattan breeze.

At the crucial moment, he push me out of harm’s way, but still shield the king’s favourite wife.

I still remember the weight of his hand for my back, the hurried gasp as I stumble to the side, confusion dey turn my belly. But his eyes, steady as ever, lock on Adeyemi. Not even a blink for me.

His hand grip the blade of the sword, blood dey soak his pure white agbada, slow-slow.

You know say that kind blood—deep red on crisp white—no dey ever wash off. People dey talk say stain stubborn like fate; that day, I believe am.

He never allowed the white moonlight hidden in his heart to be stained, not even small.

The way he carry himself, like say na burden only angels fit understand. Some men dey keep heart for God, but Ayotunde—his whole spirit be like pure, untouched by this world.

I press my hand against the wound on my shoulder, blood dey seep through.

Hot and sticky, the pain sharp like lizard bite. I try hold the cloth against am, thinking small-small if na so all stories dey end.

At last, I understand say this love wey last a thousand years suppose reach its end.

Sometimes, even stubborn hope get expiry date. The moon fit look close from rooftop, but e still far. Na that night my spirit begin pack load.

I called out to the long-lost system:

“I want to go home.”

For the first time, the words roll out my mouth like true prayer. Under the shade of old iroko, I let that ancient longing find voice.

“I no wan change am again, I no wan dey entangle myself with his white moonlight, I no wan face the fate of a thousand cuts or have my pastor’s bone removed.”

Even the wind seem to pause. This one no be just resignation; na freedom wey pain dey follow. I fit almost hear my own heartbeat—like drum after village festival, dey echo for my chest.