Chapter 4: Amara the Wild One

The first time I see crown prince, Tobi Adekunle, na when he get engaged to my elder sister, Amara. That moment, I know: even if I go use all trick for book, I must marry am. He be the stepping stone I choose for myself. I go climb higher and higher on his back, reach the top. From then, if Ijeoma talk one, na one; talk two, na two. Nobody go use me, enslave me, disgrace me, or match me again.

For the first time, I feel ambition burn inside me like kerosene for charcoal. As I watch Amara stand with Tobi—tall, bright-skinned, stubborn eye—I make secret vow to Olodumare: let me taste power, even if na small.

I thank God say mercy finally reach my side. Amara, pampered by first wife, wild and stubborn. She dey paddle canoe go fish market, come back with catfish still dey jump inside basket. She love strange stories, especially those about warriors, and she dey dream say she go fight like Queen Amina or Moremi one day. She dey wear man cloth, eat bushmeat with hand, drink palm wine by calabash, even dey chase after true love.

People dey whisper for every meeting: 'Chai! See as men dey run follow Amara!' or 'Na wah oh, this one pass story for tortoise.' When other girls dey plait hair and roast corn, Amara go dey chase goat up and down, or dey argue with market boys about old wars. She no fear anybody, even my papa cane.

At first, my papa vex—he lock her, punish her with Bible passage. Three koboko break, but her spirit no break. If she no dey climb roof, she dey sneak out window. My papa fall sick many times, just dey sigh.

Neighbours come greet, dey shake head, 'Chief, your daughter go put you for wahala.' But Amara just dey laugh, dey swing from mango tree, saying nothing fit cage her spirit. Even the servants dey fear am.

Me, I dey act perfect chief daughter—skilled for arts, good character, fine. My papa dey fear say if Amara marry Tobi Adekunle, she go bring disaster. So he discuss with Tobi about breaking engagement or swapping bride.

My days full of lesson—beading, cooking, libation, poetry. I no let mistake slip. My papa eye sharp like hunter, dey measure us, dey wait to see which pikin go carry name well.

When I hear, my heart beat like drum. I think say my chance don come. All those years of hard work no waste. I fit finally come out, get praise from my papa. When I look the callus for my hand, tears nearly fall.

That night, I sit by window, finger trace mark for palm—proof of work nobody see. E be like say gods finally dey look my side. I thank ancestors in silence.

But Tobi talk, stubborn and firm:

“I think Amara is wonderful, not like any other girl in Makurdi. The rest are lifeless, stiff like dying people—none as lively, lovely, straightforward, or innocent as Amara. I like her just as she is, and I’ll let her remain like that forever. Uncle, don’t worry; I’ll protect her true, rare nature.”

His words pour like new yam wine—sweet for those wey get am, bitter for who no get. He sound like old-time poet, but all I hear na door close.

So, when Amara ride me like horse, dem call am liveliness; when she make me fight dog for food, na cuteness; when she change my medicine and nearly kill me, na frankness; when she hold me under water to see how long I fit last, na innocence.

I dey reason am—if na me try half, na straight to village square for flogging. But because say na Amara, everybody just dey smile, call am ‘unique spirit’. God, you no try at all.

God, you no try at all.

After long silence, my papa, still no gree, say, “My second daughter, Ijeoma, is the model of chief’s daughters in Makurdi—skilled in every art. All the madams praise her, even the queen mother says she is dignified and proper, a perfect wife.”

My papa voice carry pride and pain—he want better thing, but fate no dey play.

Tobi reject me without mercy, deny everything about me.

“As for Second Miss, she’s no different from the stones in my compound. She may be a model chief’s daughter, but to me, she’s a stone without thought or will, meant to be controlled all her life. Women like that are as common as dry season dust. I only want the unique Amara.”

The words cut me like razor. Stone without thought, dry season dust—wetin remain for person pride? Even old housekeeper shake head, pity me.

That night, I sit before my mama picture for long, dey watch candle burn out, sky dey bright. I watch as lost courage flare up, burning like fire. Cicada life na eight days, born to die. But till last day, chance dey to change fate. I no fit admit defeat, no fit be first to give up.

Candle wax melt like old life, but as cock crow, I pick myself up. I swear, if this life na game, I go play am till last card.

I wore my obedience like wrapper—let her laugh now, one day my own turn go reach.