Chapter 1: A Life in Hiding

In the fifteen years since I dropped into this side of the world, I’ve always been careful with my words and actions—never daring to greet with the wrong hand, or forget to kneel for elders, or even show a small difference from those around me.

Every day, I measured my tone, my gait, even the way I greeted elders, making sure not to raise any eyebrows. In the courtyard, I would copy the way my cousins knelt to greet, how they never looked adults directly in the eye, and how they folded their wrappers with care. Even my laughter—I learned to hide it behind my palm, as is proper here. Sometimes, at night, I would sigh and wonder if anyone else was wearing a mask like me.

But on the day of my coming-of-age ceremony, my mother brought out a small booklet and told me that a daughter must be even more sensible.

She called me to her side, in that quiet voice she used when she was about to share something important, and pressed the worn little book—its cover smelling faintly of camphor and palm oil—into my hand. Her eyes, deep and still, searched my face for understanding. The lantern flickered between us. Outside, I could hear the village women singing from the next compound—songs about daughters, about obedience and destiny.

She started talking about independent personalities, women’s liberation, about Chief Democracy and Chief Science. She spoke of Chief Democracy and Chief Science—not real chiefs, but the kind of spirits that bring change—like Sango and Ogun, but for the mind.

She spoke in measured tones, mixing English, Yoruba, and sometimes that clipped Queen’s English she used when she was vexed or serious. Her words sounded strange yet familiar, like songs half-remembered from childhood. I listened as she spoke about a world where women could stand tall, where these spirits guided people’s minds. The words danced before my eyes, both heavy and light.

The more I stared at those black words, the redder they started to look.

My heart pounded in my chest. The kerosene lamp threw shadows across the page, and the letters seemed to shift and burn, like embers. My fingers trembled slightly as I turned each page. All around me, the air felt hot and thick, as if the ancestors themselves were watching.

Ah, Mama—so you too, you be traveller?

For a moment, I looked at her through new eyes. Could it be that this woman, who seemed so deeply rooted in the soil of this land, was like me—carrying secrets, memories from somewhere far away?