Chapter 2: Palace Games and Bitter Wounds

On the day the royal marriage decree land, Noble Wife beg His Majesty make she go her papa house for visit.

Chioma come with convoy, lace fine die, palace guards and women trail behind, dust rise reach heaven as she step down from palanquin. Compound dey buzz like market, one person even kill extra chicken because king wife dey visit. That kind visit na blessing and wahala together.

Just like when she be daughter, she hold Mama arm, face full of tears, and confess, “Papa, Mama, abeg, no vex. I swear, I no do am with bad mind. His Majesty ask if Nkem get person for mind, I talk say na young master for Okoye family from Umuola… I think say na only the third son never marry, so I no know say I go miss road, but who know say His Majesty go misunderstand…”

Her voice shook like generator wey dey about to off, but her eyes dey find sympathy, dey find way out. She hold Mama arm like say she dey find warmth wey palace no fit give her, but her words no match the sorrow for her voice. The whole thing remind me of when we small—she go break my clay doll, run meet Mama, always ready with excuse.

Papa and Mama face soften small.

Papa wey always dey talk say daughters suppose support each other, no frown like before as Chioma voice dey mellow. Mama, wey no fit refuse Chioma tears, use edge of wrapper wipe her own eyes. No matter the anger, na firstborn still dey carry their heart.

Chioma continue, “When I hear say His Majesty wan give Nkem to Okoye Chidi, royal decree don already comot. I try stop am, but you sabi say to vex king na wahala—blood fit flow like river. If I no fit stop am, e go bring trouble for Eze family.”

Her words hang for air like harmattan dust. Everybody for family sabi wetin blood fit flow mean—Uncle Ikenna own story still dey, the one wey try refuse chief order, we never see am again. Na true Chioma talk; king word na thunder—once e land, you no fit pack am back.

I understand am sharp sharp.

The way she talk, the way she choose words, e clear say Chioma no come beg. Na warning she bring. Her message cut like machete. For first time, I see her as somebody wey dey fight her own war, no be just my sister.

She no come apologise; she come threaten us.

Her lips dey shake, but her eyes hard like stone. Even Mama shift, dey roll wrapper for hand. House cold suddenly, like say curse just enter with Chioma.

This king, e mood dey change anyhow. Just last week, he chase him steward comot because pepper too much for him soup—palace wahala no dey ever finish. To deceive king or refuse decree? E no be small matter for Eze family o.

I know say Chioma do am on purpose.

Something harden inside me. I remember how she dey always compete—Papa praise, Mama best meat, even my friends. She dey always win, dey smile sweetly while e be say I dey one step behind.

Since we small, Chioma no dey let me win anything, even ayo game or who go carry palm-wine reach finish. When she find out say me and Ifenna dey gist for ogirisi tree, she begin find suitor wey pass am, like say my happiness dey pain her.

She fine and get talent, so to find good marriage no hard her.

For school, teachers dey praise her handwriting—neat like Lagos typist. Her udu playing dey make old men forget their wahala. Suitors dey pack kolanut, yam, schnapps come our gate, but she still dey find more.

But Okoye family of Umuola na the top family, and for all the young men, only Okoye Ifenna never marry. For this land, better pass Okoye Ifenna no too plenty.

Everybody know say to marry Okoye na to marry respect, power, history. But my own love for Ifenna na for him gentle heart, him laughter. Chioma own na just name and title she dey chase.

But Chioma still find one.

Na Musa Garba, young master from Garba family for Zaria.

Even Mama friend for next village dey gossip Musa Garba—northern prodigy, preacher voice, scholar brain. Him fame reach us like suya aroma. Even people wey no like book dey talk of am.

Garba family don fall before, but as Musa become best student for country, their house rise again. Newspapers begin talk about am, old women dey plan send their daughters north. Garba house dey busy again, all because Musa shine.

Papa investigate Musa Garba for Chioma, him satisfy. Musa sef happy with Chioma. But just as Musa wan propose, news of him death land.

Papa send letters, gifts to Zaria, make sure Musa worth am. When Musa ask after Chioma, we think say matter don settle. But good fortune dey turn dust sharp sharp.

One harmattan rain fall, Chioma cough refuse heal. Musa waka go Sacred Grove go pray for her, robbers jam am, mistake am for ordinary scholar, beat am too much, Musa Garba die for there. His mother wailed, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,” her cry travel across Zaria night.

For a month after that, Chioma dey look me like say she dey find who to blame. Her eyes dey cold, dey sharp, dey full of things wey she no talk. I feel like goat wey dem dey fatten for market—no know when knife go land.

She no fit find man better than Okoye Ifenna or Musa Garba again.

The shame dey show for her face—her pride wound, ambition cornered. She stop to sing, dey throw bangle for house girls anyhow.

After half month wey she dey dull, when king dey pick wives, Chioma kneel all night for Papa and Mama bedroom door.

She stubborn like rock, tears dey mix with cold breeze. House girls dey whisper, “No be ordinary tears o, this one dey from her belly.” All night, na her sobs fill compound.

Papa and Mama no get choice, dem send her palace.

Next morning, decision land. Mama pack her best wrappers, Papa pour libation, Chioma enter palace—not as lover, but as sacrifice to power. House empty without her, but I know she never drop her wahala for ground.

King get respect, but old reach sixty. For outside, Chioma entry dey shine; for inside, na just fine packaging.

Everybody dey whisper, king dey borrow time—hands dey shake, voice dey low. For Chioma, na pride and position, not love. Some talk say she be living widow, gold and lace trap her.

After all these years of fight, Chioma no fit give up just like that.

She never dey let fight finish until she talk last. Even for palace, I dey imagine her dey count her wins, dey plan next move, her heart no dey ever rest.

I tell Mama my fears, say make we rush arrange my marriage with Okoye Ifenna before wahala land.

I pull Mama go yam barn, voice dey shake as I beg her, “Mama, abeg make we do am quick before anything spoil.” I wan make my voice matter pass Chioma own for once.

Mama pat my hand, voice tired: “Blood no be water, Nkem. No matter how e be, Chioma no go carry your matter reach that side.” But her eyes no sure, like say she dey talk am to calm herself.

But truth be say, Chioma head no straight.

Family story na sometimes lie to help person sleep. I know Chioma—her envy too hot, ambition too sharp. Mama words no give me peace.

She no just wan wound me, she wan scatter Okoye family peace join.

Her plan big pass compound—she wan shake Okoye family root. Her anger na river wey fit sweep anybody, even me.

Okoye Chidi and him wife love each other true true. If I enter, na wedge I go be. I go turn thorn for Okoye Chidi and Ifenna, two brothers.

Everybody sabi say Okoye Chidi and Amaka na love story wey people dey envy. To enter their home na to break am, turn brothers to enemies. Na pain I dey carry every morning and night.

After Chioma waka go palace, Papa and Mama call me talk.

Their faces drawn, voices heavy. Dem talk like say I dey halfway go—caught between duty and sorrow, no road back.

“E don be like this already, she no do am with bad mind. Lucky say Okoye family people good; dem no go treat you bad.”

Papa talk am slow, like person wey dey talk to himself. Mama just nod, no fit look my eye. Dem wan make I believe say happiness still dey, but their own face show doubt.

“Everything na destiny. Maybe you and Okoye Ifenna no just dey meant to be.”

Mama sigh look ceiling, like she dey ask ancestors for answer. I swallow tears, knowing say destiny na word people use when dem tire to fight.

“Second madam for Okoye family dey easy to get along with. Support her for house, no fight, she go treat you well.”

Dem remind me to keep head down, accept my place, avoid wahala. Message clear: survive, no be to find happiness.

“Okoye Chidi character, looks, talent no less than Okoye Ifenna own.”

Papa dey try sell me hope like old stock for market, but my heart don already break. No sweetness for marriage wey dey build on another person pain.

“The lives and honour of all 187 Eze family members no fit just waste.”

Na there I understand the true load for my shoulder. I no be just Nkem; I be key to family survival. One wrong move, 187 lives go just wipe like chalk for board.

I hear that last part, I understand. Papa and Mama set to marry me to Okoye Chidi by royal decree.

Their voices drop, hands dey twist. Even house girls stop sweeping. All dey wait make I agree, make I save everybody from disaster.

Dem no fit defy decree, nor offend Noble Wife. Chioma shadow long pass all of us. Not even Papa with all him warrior stories fit comot for am.

I lower my head, look the butterfly-shaped scar for my hand, heart full of bitter irony.

That scar na hot palm oil cause am.

I remember the pain, sharp as ever, the way hot oil splash me as I sleep. Na memory wey no dey go—na mark of everything Chioma don do me.

When I be ten, music teacher praise my hand, say e fine for ogene.

My heart swell—‘Nkem, your hand dey dance for ogene like water for stone.’ For one moment, I believe say I fit do anything.

Chioma, out of jealousy, pour hot palm oil for my hand as I nap.

She wait till sun dey high, I dey sleep, then pour am. I wake with sting and her laughter, pain remind me say even joy no safe for her presence.

Blister burst, leave scar.

E heal bad, turn to mark wey dey follow me everywhere—reminder of Chioma wickedness and my own silence.

After dem scold her, Papa and Mama beg me: “Na just burn scar. If people hear, your sister name go spoil, and if her name spoil, all Eze girls marriage go spoil. If anybody ask, say na accident, ok?”

Dem beg me, urgent. ‘Protect your sister name, protect family. Small thing.’ Even then, I feel the load of carrying another person sin.

I no fit be the one wey go spoil Eze girls marriage, so I just nod.

I seal my lips, learn to carry pain quietly. Even when friends ask, I go smile say, ‘Na nothing—na my own carelessness.’

But the scar too ugly. Mama use silver needle drag the oil, make am big, turn am to butterfly like say e wan fly away.

That time, dem no care if I dey pain.

As needle press me, I bite wrapper, hold tears. Pain sharp, but sharper still be say I dey shape myself for others.

Now, dem no care whether I go suffer for Okoye Ifenna brother hand.

Their love always dey practical—measured by wetin no go bring shame. My own happiness no ever count.

My heart feel like say dem soak am for old sour palm wine—just too bitter.

Bitterness dey my tongue, every meal taste like regret. I learn to swallow am, day after day, until my stomach dey pain from secrets.

“The third son Okoye don arrive,” the maid announce.

Her voice break the heaviness like thunder. Everybody straighten, air thick with tension.

All the bitterness for my heart find road out. I no mind my parents call, I lift wrapper run out.

No care for protocol, no feel dust for leg as I run. Na only Ifenna matter. If hope dey, na with am. If world no go let me choose, at least my heart go know I try.