Chapter 13: City Language and Traps

My city language no too good. Mama no teach me plenty, just small to take survive.

For our side, people dey mix language. Mama teach me only small, just enough to beg, ask for food, or call for help. The rest, I dey pick small small, like grain wey fall for ground.

So I no really know wetin ‘trap’ mean.

The word sound big, but my mind dey confused. I dey hope say if I pretend, nobody go notice say I no understand. My heart dey beat faster, as I dey wish say I fit disappear.

“Na just sheep pen.”

My voice small, almost lost for the hut. I dey try say the truth, but e get as e be—nobody dey believe poor pikin for strange land.

Fifth Prince just dey look me with deep eyes.

The way him eye dey burn, e dey like say e dey try read my soul. I dey wish say my heart fit hide my thoughts, but the fear dey show for my face.

“Hmph, you Fulani people sabi form mumu, but when e reach to kill, una wicked pass hyena. You think say I go fall for am? Behind me na millions of people. Even if she be my twin sister, if dem bring her come war front, na my own hand go throw first spear. I no fit let my people dey weak because of family.”

His words heavy, pain dey for inside. E dey use insult cover his own fear, maybe even sorrow. The pride of a prince dey inside, the duty of a son dey drag his heart. For our side, to lose soldier na shame, to lose sister na pain.