Chapter 1: The Choice

My father, the Oba, called me to choose between Ifedike and Sulaiman as my future husband.

The throne room carried the sharp scent of burning camphor, with elders murmuring as they waited for my answer. The faint beat of bata drums drifted in from the courtyard, reminding me this decision wasn't just for the palace—it was for the whole kingdom. My heart raced, palms sweating inside my velvet wrapper, every gaze upon me heavy with tradition.

Just as I was about to speak, glowing lines of text appeared in the air.

A breeze, thick with the promise of rain, swept through the open windows. The words floated above the royal carpet, Pidgin accents lively like market gossip.

"Small princess, abeg no pick Sulaiman. That guy get too much ambition—if you marry am, you go just spoil am. E no go fit serve for council, nor go dey talk freely with all those fine babes."

The words shimmered, sharp and familiar, like my aunties gossiping in the kitchen. I felt exposed, my secrets displayed for ancestors and elders alike.

"No pick Ifedike either. If that young general become your husband, no be like say you dey cut eagle wing so?"

The elders exchanged looks; one old man coughed, as if the air was too thick. I remembered Ifedike at the palace gates, always upright, his uniform sharp and eyes even sharper.

"To be honest, this small princess dey tire me. She just dey add wahala. Better make dem send her go do marriage alliance for another kingdom."

Those words stung like pepper in a wound. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but the pressure of my family’s hopes weighed me down. Palace griots whispered behind cowrie-bedecked hats, nodding as if the voices spoke for them too.

I stood there, frozen, my finger raised but unable to choose.

Sweat gathered on my brow. Auntie Ireti, close to the throne, pursed her lips, wrapper rustling as she shifted. Nobody moved—all eyes on me.

Then another line glowed bright:

"Abeg, no choose for Ifedike, ehn? That guy suffer for border just to serve the princess. All these people wey no wan make she pick am, dem dey try destroy am, abi?"

My chest tightened. It was as if the ancestors themselves were arguing, not just palace talk. I pictured them peering down from the muraled walls, some nodding, some frowning—like a council too large for any palace.

My eyes locked on Ifedike, kneeling under the throne. All his focus and strength fixed on me.

Ifedike knelt with dignity, sweat shining on his forehead from his long journey at the northern border. There was hope and quiet strength in his eyes—the kind only a true son of the soil could carry.