Chapter 2:

The day my elder brother’s coffin reached the capital, sister-in-law spent long hours dressing.

She take her time, brush her long hair till e shine like river water under sun. Even the smallest maid just stand watch, wrapper half-tied. Camwood and bitterleaf soap perfume fill the small room. Sister-in-law adjust her white mourning wrapper, knotting it as careful as if she dey tie her own destiny.

She catch me dey look am, then smile at me through brass mirror.

That smile—sharp, knowing—remind me of her first day for our compound, head high despite all the market gossip. She tap the rim of the mirror three times, small blessing for protection, and I feel cold enter my belly.

She already famous for her beauty, but in mourning attire, her slender shape just dey steal soul with one glance.

If not for the tears wey dey hide for my eye, I for beg her to teach me how to knot wrapper like that. The way her waist curve inside cloth—no man fit pass and no look back. Even house geese keep quiet as she waka pass.

Fear begin catch me. I quickly try hold sister-in-law’s wrapper.

I squeezed it tight, my small palm sweaty. I wanted to beg, but my mouth just dey do me strong thing, like person wey swallow dry garri. For inside my heart, wahala dey brew like ogiri.

But I too slow, only watch as she waka enter mourning hall without looking back.

Her steps measured, no single shake. Her wrapper sweep dust from floor as she disappear behind raffia curtain. For one moment, beads on her ankle jingle—then everywhere silent.

Inside, coffin wey come from war front still dey drip rainwater for cement floor.

Scent of earth and sorrow mix for air. The walls, black with years of palm oil smoke, close in. Thunder rumble from far. Coffin wood—imported from Benin—don crack for edge, story of rough journey show for body.

Sister-in-law kneel on mat, dey throw old naira notes into fire bowl like say she no even dey look.

Flames lick the money greedy. Notes curl and black, sharp scent fill air. Some elders dey mutter prayer, hands rub kola nut, eyes fixed on her. Fire cast shadow for her cheek, make her eyes hollow and fierce.

The fire from burning money throw light for king’s face, show all the wickedness, suspicion, and desire wey dey hide there.

His agbada shine gold for firelight, sweat for upper lip. Cap tilt small, but no fit hide the hunger wey dey his eye. Even palace guards dey shuffle, pretending to look shrine.

King come by himself to mourn my brother, but na pure acting. By then, impatience don full his body.

He tap staff for ground, jaw tight. Chiefs behind him keep distance, their eyes dey move between king and widow. Everybody sense wahala, but nobody talk.

The moment he see sister-in-law, impatience disappear, shameless excitement show for face.

His nostrils flare, lips open as if he wan chop the air around her. Some old women for corner cover face. My stomach turn as I watch.

"If you want to look fine, wear mourning clothes."

His words cut room, shameless and raw. Chiefs cough inside fist, pretend say dem no hear. Women mutter curses under breath. Sister-in-law eyes shine, but she keep quiet.

King’s eyes glue to her, ignore all palace guards and chiefs. The chiefs glanced at each other, unsure if to intervene or pretend blindness—palace wahala no dey finish. He just kicked the fire bowl aside and pounced on sister-in-law like wild animal.

Fire bowl roll, burning notes scatter for floor. Flame heat flicker on king face, make am look like person wey don lose mind. I bite my lip till blood show.

"Your Majesty..."

Sister-in-law’s soft, trembling voice—mixed with small charm—just make king craze more.

Her voice rise and fall like lullaby, sweet but dangerous. King grunt, lost inside her scent. Palace girls exchange look, lips tight. I look away, shame and helplessness full my chest.

Everybody know king like enjoyment, but to force himself on widow for front of her husband coffin—na real abomination. Palace attendants pick message quick, hustle everybody out of mourning hall.

Shoes shuffle on cement, some nearly fall in rush. Even chief priest spit for ground, mutter, "Abomination." Guards form wall for door, face blank like calabash.

Through thin door, I dey hear sister-in-law cry "Your Majesty" again and again.

Every cry twist my belly, like say hot pepper dey enter my ear. I press hand for ear, but sound still creep in, carried by night breeze and sadness.

Inside my sleeve, hand grip tighter and tighter.

My nails dig my palm till small blood stain my wrapper. I bite cloth, pray to ancestors for strength not to scream.

Na serious pain, like say needle dey pierce my heart.

Each word from inside na slap for my face. I think of my brother, cold for box, no fit protect wife. Shame wash over me, heavy and bitter.

I no even know how long I stand there. I just dey outside door like statue, till pain numb and rain wash everything away. Sound from inside finally stop.

Rain pound zinc roof, drown last of sister-in-law cry. Wrapper stick to my skin, soaked. I watch water run down steps, carry away footprint and ash.

E last almost all night.

By the time rooster crow, my feet don swell, cold. Still, I wait, hoping say world go turn back and bring my brother. But dawn come as always.

As I dey think, main hall door open from inside.

Door creak loud, pass thunder. Cold breeze rush pass as wood swing. My legs shake, but I stand firm, jaw locked.

King come out, carry frail, delicate sister-in-law for arm, give chief attendant satisfied look.

Her face pale like egusi soup wey don sour for sun, lips wey she don bite till blood show. King straighten agbada, bark one laugh, no send anybody.

"The king dey go."

Him voice loud like town crier, proud. Air for courtyard tense, as if everyone dey hold breath, waiting for something to break.

Chief attendant wave horsetail whisk, shout with high-pitched voice, then turn to me, sly smile for face.

He lean near, bitter kola smell for mouth. "Small madam, make you shine your eye o! Life dey change fast—no sleep on bicycle." He cackle as he waka, whisk toss like masquerade dancer.

"People dey progress for this life. For young madam to catch king’s eye, na big blessing for General’s compound. Whether you, young lady, go still enjoy good life now depend on her, so no go do any rubbish."

He cluck tongue, warning for eye. "No be everybody get this kind luck. If you wise, you go know say her table go still reach you—no carry last."

I just bow head quietly.

My mouth bitter like unripe pawpaw, and I hardly fit see through my lashes. The world don turn upside down, nobody send me.

My brother don go, General’s compound don lose all its strength.

Without am, even cock crow weak. Soldiers no march in line. Everything empty, like wind blow away our pride.

Me, small girl wey never reach age—wetin I fit do but accept fate?

My chest dey pain with helplessness. I grit teeth, swear never to forget this day, even if everybody forget am.

After palace people waka, everywhere just quiet.

Stillness press us down, heavy like mortuary slab. Even small children stop play, laughter die inside mourning air.

Before I fit react, servant girls and boys start to cry loud, like say their heart dey break.

Voice rise, one after another, till whole house shake with sorrow. Some roll ground, tear wrapper and shirt, beat chest like people wey craze. Tears mix with snot and dust, nobody send.

Old steward, who watch my brother grow, cry till body dey shake, then cough blood, kneel ground, wail at sky.

He hold my brother’s riding crop, press am to head, sobbing. Old man’s voice scatter compound, broken and desperate. Some women try hold am, he push them, body tremble like leaf for storm.

"Young master, open your eyes see am! Na this ashawo you marry despite your good name. Now, your body never cold, she don run meet another man!"

Words sharp, bitter, echo for wall. Even younger servants, face wet, nod in agreement. Somebody spit ground in anger.

"Tufiakwa! Ashawo no get heart, actor no dey grateful!"

Auntie Ngozi, never short of word, fold arm, shake head, hiss. "Na dem! I talk am before."

"How woman wey dey change like chameleon go fit match young master? She suppose comot for our family register sharp sharp!"

One guard, voice thick with tears, point main house. "Abeg, make una drive am commot before her wahala spoil all of us!"

"Na true talk!"

Their shout loud, thunder before rain. Everybody pour vex, curse mix with sound of morning bell.

Everybody begin curse her, like say they wan use all bad word for world on sister-in-law.

Insult rain—old, new, sharp as broken bottle. Some boys mimic her waka, twist waist. Old women curse her unborn pikin. The pain of loss need somewhere to land—she be only target.

It’s true—sister-in-law used to be runs girl.

The story well known, even palm wine tapper get own version. Some say she start with groundnut hawk, others say men dey follow her since market days. Anyhow, her past don paint her as wahala.

That time, her family suffer, parents die, uncles grab property, sell her to Madam Felicia brothel.

Those greedy men never look back, even when grave fresh. Elders shake head, blame bad luck. Neighbours whisper, do nothing.

Madam see her as gold, sell her first night for big money—city talk am.

Rich men come with cars, bring rice and live goat for just one night. Brothel grow famous, Morenike name turn legend before she reach sixteen rains.

Sister-in-law refuse give in, madam flog her feet till blood come, tie her to send to customer, but she break free, jump from third floor window.

Even with broken rib, she run barefoot for night. Some say na her mama spirit help am, others swear masquerade shield her. But that window jump change her story forever.

Downstairs, danfo horns and agberos’ shouts mixed with gospel songs from a far-off radio.