Chapter 7: A Name and a Promise

We stand for main hall taya.

Legs aching, back stiff, I dared not move. Mama’s hand held my shoulder, never letting go.

Hunger crept in, then queen came out, eyes swollen, voice hoarse, told mama to take us home.

Mama left us, hugged queen.

Queen didn’t resist, let mama’s arms hold her. For a moment, queen’s eyes closed, body sagging like she borrowed strength from my mother. That hug carried more comfort than words.

See am, if you sad, na my mama hug you need.

Mama’s hugs felt like Sunday morning—soft, warm, safe, with scent of Palmolive and roasted groundnut.

As we waka to palace gate, we jam papa and that uncle wey dey follow Oba everywhere.

Papa’s shoulders squared, but eyes tired. The uncle, tall and stern, wore red beads of a palace elder. Both looked heavy with worry.

Papa looked at me and Guanguan; I felt he still no sabi who be who.

He hesitated, scanning our faces. Guanguan squeezed my hand, sweaty.

I no wan give wahala. As I wan talk say I be Er’er, papa squat, face me.

His knees cracked, eyes level with mine, smile crooked, trying to make me laugh.

Papa asked, "You see that older brother?"

I thought. Today, na only one older brother—the one with Oba.

"Na the fine brother wey dey with Uncle Oba?"

Papa: "Yes, na the fine brother."

"I see am. He just dey sad."

Papa: "You fit go comfort am?"

His voice gentle, almost pleading. I knew grown-ups sometimes need children to do what they can’t.

I thought, didn’t want to go, but the boy really sad.

Palace air heavy, I remembered mama’s words about kindness.

I reason say if I hug am like mama dey hug me, e go better for am.

I pictured wrapping my arms round him, giving him mama’s magic.

I asked, "If I hug am like mama dey hug me, e go stop to dey do face like rain?"

Papa: "E go work."

He nodded, eyes bright, voice soldier-strong but soft for me.

"Then I go do am."

I lifted my chin, brave. Papa smiled, pride shining.

After I talk, papa eyes red. He and mama close, me and mama close too. I wan ask mama, saw she dey cry.

Mama dabbed her cheeks, pretending it be sweat. Papa held her hand.

I no know wetin dey do everybody, so I look Guanguan, she look me back, both of us lost.

Guanguan lips trembled, squeezed my hand. We huddled close, small and confused in a palace bigger than our world.

The uncle talk, "General Ifeanyi, Oba still dey wait for answer."

Voice deep, like thunder, reminding us palace business no dey wait for tears.

Papa ignored am, put big hand for my head, "Er’er, from today, your name na Ifeanyi Tangola, okay?"

His palm warm, words heavy like new wrapper on my shoulders. Guanguan looked at me, eyes wide.

I remembered queen always asking who be Ifeanyi Tangola—e dey tire me. I dey always say I be Er’er, she no dey remember.

I thought maybe now she go remember, maybe now I get name in this big palace.

But Oba dey remember every time. He sabi I be Er’er.

Oba always smiled, called me pet names, like he know my heart.

I answered papa, "So if queen ask again, I fit tell her say na me be Ifeanyi Tangola?"

Papa: "Yes, Er’er na sharp girl."

He winked, my heart soared.

"Okay, I go answer am. I be Ifeanyi Tangola."

The words strange in my mouth, but I said them, hoping they’d stick.

The uncle pressed, "General Ifeanyi, time dey go. Palace gate go soon lock."

Urgent, a reminder the world outside palace keeps moving.

Papa: "I know. Abeg, help me with my pikin, Baba Musa."

Baba Musa nodded, face gentle. He bent, offered his hand.

He took my hand, looked at papa, then mama, "Madam Ngozi, we suppose report back."

Voice like cool breeze, calming mama’s nerves. She nodded, swallowing tears.

Mama held my hand tight, pain sharp.

Her grip fierce, as if she could keep me safe just by holding tight. Her eyes filled again.

Papa: "Ngozi, abeg, leave am."

He said it soft, but final. Mama hesitated, then let go, hands shaking.

Mama let go, hugged me strong, apologising.

Her hug tight, her apology whispered again and again. I felt her tears, her love covering me.

I remembered any time mama dey go border, she carry me and Guanguan to grandpapa house, hug me tight, no wan let go.

I remembered smell of grandpapa’s radio, sound of his laughter, mama always lingering at the door.

But for grandpapa house, I no dey read, write, or learn rule. After we play tire and miss mama, she just appear, carry us home.

Those days felt endless, free, sand in my toes, laughter till moon rise.

I told mama, "No cry. If I miss you, you fit come carry me."

She nodded, voice thick. "I go always come for you, my pikin. Always."

Mama agreed.

Baba Musa led me to big hall, bigger than queen own.

Walls lined with gold and red, ceiling high like sky. My footsteps echoed on polished floor.

Big bed dey inside. Oba lay down, queen and that older brother by his side.

Oba’s breathing slow, skin pale. Queen held his hand, head bowed in prayer. The fine brother stood silent, eyes red, face set.

I saw the brother, ran, held his hand, scared he’d shake me off, so I held strong.

I squeezed tight, hoping my warmth enter him. He looked down, surprised, but didn’t pull away.

He still sad. As I wan talk, Oba called me.

His voice softer than ever, barely a whisper, full of stories.

Oba: "Er’er, come meet uncle."

I went bedside, Oba pat my head.

His hand light, frail, yet full of blessing. His eyes saw beyond today.

E hand no warm like papa own. When papa pat my head, I dey feel warm.

Oba’s hand felt like cool clay, soft, almost trembling. I closed my eyes, wishing to share my heat.

He pointed at the brother, "Er’er, that brother fine abi?"

His lips curled, weak smile. I nodded, afraid to say wrong thing.

He fine pass all the brothers for grandpapa house, so I nod, "E fine."

Oba’s faint laugh warmed the room. Queen glanced up, relief in her eyes for a moment.

He said, "That brother dey cry anyhow. You fit stay with am, comfort am?"

The request sounded simple, but I felt room waiting for answer. My chest tight, I wanted to be brave.

I remembered my promise to papa, "I go do am. Mama teach me how to comfort pikin wey dey cry."

I said it with all confidence, voice steady. Queen’s hand rested on my shoulder.

Brother said, "Papa, I no cry."

He tried to sound strong, but voice cracked. I squeezed his hand harder.

Oba: "Good child."

He smiled, pride shining in tired eyes. Queen dabbed his forehead, murmuring a prayer.

Later, queen took me back to other hall.

She held my hand gently, walking slow. I glanced back at Oba, wishing to stay.

She asked, "Er’er, you wan sleep?"

Her voice softer, using my nickname first time. I blinked, surprised.

Queen finally remember my name na Er’er.

That alone felt like miracle, sun peeking through harmattan haze.

I thought to tell her say my name na Ifeanyi Tangola, so next time, mama no go kneel.

I wanted her to know, once and for all, who I was. No more confusion.

I said, "Queen, my name na Ifeanyi Tangola."

I said it loud, proud, watching her face.

She patted my head, "I know."

Her hand lingered, soft. For first time, I felt seen.

"I dey hungry."

She smiled, her first real smile, and led me to tray of steaming rice and dodo. We ate together quietly. After, she stayed until my eyelids heavy.

She followed me chop, even stayed till I sleep. For days she stayed. Later, Iyawo Sade come, she no dey stay again.

Each night, queen faded, replaced by Iyawo Sade, who sang Yoruba lullabies, voice low, touch comforting, a new kind of safety.

Iyawo Sade na my wet nurse.

She came with soft smile, bowls of pap, calabash of water, always smelling of shea butter and cassava.

I asked when mama go come. Iyawo say soon.

Her eyes kind but distant, as if hiding something.

I asked if Guanguan dey miss me. I miss Guanguan like morning sun, and mama like other half of my breath. But if she no miss me, I no go miss her.

I tried to sound strong, but lips quivered. Iyawo stroked my head, fingers cool.

She assured me with a wink, "Twins always dey miss each other, no matter where dem dey."

Okay, I tell her say I miss Guanguan too.

Words heavy in my throat, but I let them out, hoping Guanguan could hear me.

Now, everyday na read, write, learn etiquette. I no fit beg Guanguan help me like for house.

Lessons from sunrise to sunset, my head buzzing. The walls of Ile-Ola echoed my lonely recitations.

Tola Shun no dey help, because him dey ignore me. So I no fit slack. E dey pain me.

He walked past, eyes on floor, never answering my greetings. His silence heavy as mid-day sun.

Oh, Tola Shun na Oba only son, that fine brother.

They called him the golden prince. Servants whispered about his destiny. I watched, wishing to make him smile.

Everyday, book and learning tire me, I no get energy think about home.

I dragged my feet, longing for home, but each day felt further. Dreams full of mama’s voice, Guanguan’s laughter.

One day, Tola Shun go stay with Oba, so teacher tell me story instead of lesson.

It was relief, like first rain after dry season. I leaned forward, eager.

Most important, I see my favourite coconut puff-puff for desk.

The scent hit me, sweet and nutty. My eyes lit up, stomach growled. I grinned at teacher.

As I dey chop, I hailed teacher, "Teacher, you be the best teacher for this world."

She laughed, cheeks dimpled. I felt a small piece of home find me in palace.

Teacher story sweet, normally I dey ask plenty question. But that day, my mind no dey, I no even know how story finish.

My thoughts drifted back to mama and Guanguan. I traced my finger round the plate, wishing I could share with them.

Later, Iyawo Sade come carry me. As I waka go room, I thought I see mama and Guanguan, but blink, dem vanish. I ask if she see them.

Iyawo hugged me, whispering, "Spirit of love dey follow you, my pikin." I closed my eyes, trying to remember their faces.

She say, "No, maybe na darkness dey deceive you."

I nodded, but ache in my chest grew. Her hand brushed my cheek, gentle as morning dew.

I think so too, but I miss mama small. I no know when she go come.

I lay awake, tracing patterns in darkness, hoping for sign.

That night, I get bad dream. I dream say Guanguan dey cry, dey ask why I never come house.

Her voice echoed, thin, shaky. Palace walls stretched, growing taller, trapping me.

Mama say palace gate too high, she no fit enter, then Guanguan cry, cry, come fall sick.

My heart squeezed, I woke up gasping. Tears wet my pillow.

Next day, I no fit focus, so I go meet queen, "I miss my mama. When she go come?"

Her eyes softened, mouth firm. She stroked my cheek.

Queen say, "Read your book, write well, learn etiquette, your mama go come soon."

Her words heavy, like yam in my stomach. I nodded, too tired to argue.

I said, "Queen, you fit send me go my mama?"

Queen: "I no fit. Palace wall too high. Once you be queen, you no fit commot."

Her words settled like dust, making me feel small and trapped. I swallowed tears, looking at my small hands.

Mama teach me make I no give wahala, so I go back to book.

I forced myself to copy letters, tears blurring ink. Mama’s voice echoed, urging me to be strong.

Tola Shun still no dey talk to me. Anytime he come back from Oba side, he just dey sad.

His sadness a shadow down palace halls. I wanted to help, but feared to try.

At first, I try keep promise to papa, comfort am, maybe hug am. But he dey push me away every time, so I tire.

Each rejection stung, like hot pepper for eye. I started keeping to myself, world growing smaller, lonelier.