Chapter 4: Palm Wine and New Beginnings

Wura Tower was where my brother and Sulaiman once took me.

The smell of pepper soup and fried plantain hung in the air. We used to laugh till tears came, eating with oily hands, dreaming about the future.

Those memories felt distant now. Today, the tower was silent except for a lone pigeon on the window.

This time, I came alone.

I wrapped my wrapper tight, loneliness heavy on me. The space felt too big, too empty.

The clay jar cold for my hand, palm wine sharp for my tongue—no amount fit wash away my wahala.

I coughed, tears pricking my eyes, but I drank again, desperate to forget.

They say if you drink well, you fit forget your sorrow.

The old women in the market always said so, but sorrow clung to me like wet cloth.

I hugged the jar and cried, not knowing how to drink away my pain.

Tears soaked my sleeve. I sniffled, wishing for my mother’s comfort.

I repeated to myself: Sulaiman no send me, I no go choose am.

The words were bitter, but I clung to them. I wouldn’t beg for love.

Just get drunk, maybe I go forget am.

But no matter how much I drank, his face haunted me.

I tried again, forcing down another sip.

"If princess no sabi drink, abeg make she no force am. To force love, e no dey end well."

The words vibrated in the air, judgment sharp. I focused on the cool jar in my hands.

"She no go pick Sulaiman again, abi? See our young general—after he leave palace, he run ten laps for training ground, dey smile like mumu. He sure say princess like am."

Even Ifedike’s happiness made my pain sharper. I envied his certainty.

"No be so. With princess style, she fit still force her love on Sulaiman. Whether na sweet melon or bitter one, once she pick, na her own."

The world seemed to conspire against me, every word a reminder of my failure.

Why dem dey talk about me like this?

I wanted to scream, to silence the voices, but I had no strength left.

"I no dey choose Sulaiman."

I choked out the words, small and broken. My heart thudded, hope dying for good.

The words for air paused, then scattered more.

For a moment, silence. Then, like market at dawn, the voices exploded again.

"She dey see our talk?"

I wiped my tears, staring at the words, defiant now. Yes, I could see, and I would not be shamed.

"She don drunk, dey talk anyhow."

Maybe I was, but pain demanded its own madness.

"Palace guards na for safety, dem no dey put mouth for their madam matter. Princess wan sleep outside palace?"

One guard hovered near the door, worry on his face.

"Ifedike soldiers drag am come chop. How we go make Ifedike see princess? Quick, quick!"

Their urgency was silly, but their words made me feel small.

Ifedike—wetin concern am with me? Why dem wan make he see me?

I thought of his steady eyes, his quiet strength. Was he really so loyal?

Anger rose. I closed my eyes, ignoring the voices.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door.

Sharp and steady, like rain on tin roof. My heart raced. Who could it be?

I ignored it. The knocking continued, insistent.

I threw my wine cup at the door. "Wetin be this noise?"

The cup shattered, palm wine splashing on the floor. My anger flared.

The cup broke. The door opened.

A familiar figure filled the doorway—tall, broad, commanding even in silence.

Ifedike, strong and sure, blocked the door, then dismissed the guards.

He knelt beside me. "Princess, you don drunk?"

His eyes, dark and honest, searched my face. I turned away, ashamed.

"No, na just two sips."

I wiped my nose, voice muffled.

"I go carry you go palace."

He reached out, hand gentle but steady. The world spun, but his presence anchored me.

He raised his hand, uncertain, then pulled out a plain handkerchief from his cloth, rubbing his neck and looking at the ground before stretching it out to me, voice low: "Abeg, take."

The cloth was plain but soft. I stared at it through tears.

He waited, patient, hand steady. My walls crumbled, bit by bit.

Sun and wind from the border had darkened his skin; he was strong, not fair like Sulaiman, but sturdy in a way that calmed me.

Ifedike smelled of sun-dried cloth and wild grass—a comforting, earthy scent. I breathed it in, letting it steady my nerves.

He just bathed; his hair was still wet. I pinched the tip. He froze, eyes wide.

I remembered all the words for air about Ifedike, many I didn’t even understand.

He strong, but wetin concern me?

I leaned closer, watching his face, not missing a single reaction. "You wan be my husband?"

His throat moved. He nodded quickly, sure: "I wan."

I smiled, eyes lowered. "Then you go escort me back to palace."

His grin was wide, genuine. For the first time that night, hope flickered in my chest.