Chapter 2: Princess, Not Prince

I be the eldest princess.

Sometimes, the way people talk about me, e be like say I dey carry another person name. For palace, everything get weight—your word, your silence, even the way you waka. But trouble no dey fear anybody name.

After the elders sent supplies twice and food still dey finish for border, na so I volunteer myself as grain officer, to carry the rations reach the front lines.

I remember the day I decide: morning breeze cold, I wear my best slippers. Some elders say, "Princess, this one no be woman work," but I just laugh—if I no do am, who go do am? Hunger dey teach sense.

For convenience, I just pack men's clothes.

Even my personal maid look me one kain as I tuck the loose trousers into my travel sack. I reason am say, for road, wahala no dey care about wrapper.

But who go think say, when we still get like hundred kilometres to reach border, thick harmattan just waka come, and one by one, everybody collapse.

The air that morning dry, the kind wey dey crack lip and sting eye. As I look my men drop one after another, something cold grip my heart. For Naija road, na anything fit happen.

Somebody don put something for our food.

Suspicion creep for my mind. My nose smell pepper, but e get another thing—something bitter, strange.

I wake up with sharp pain for my palm and the horse dey jolt anyhow.

The horse leg dey shake, dust dey fly. My throat dry, my mouth bitter—like I lick bitter kola.

Before I faint, I try use knife cut my palm to keep myself awake, but after I don breathe in the drug too much, I still blackout.

The blade cold against my skin, the pain sharp, but my head still heavy. Everything come dey far—like radio station wey no dey tune well.