Chapter 5: Bitter Medicine

As soon as papa left, I went to my sister’s side.

She was humming a song, legs tucked under her, a beaded comb in her hand. The scent of camphor and pomade hung in the air.

She was sleeping on her beauty couch. When she saw me enter, surprise flash for her face.

She stretched, rubbing her eyes. "You? This one wey you just burst enter like breeze, hope no wahala?"

“Sister, wetin bring you come?”

She looked at me with half a smile, as if daring me to speak my mind. Our old sibling rivalry was always just beneath the surface.

I remembered how, in my last life, I just no like this my sister for reasons I no fit explain. But when wahala meet me inside palace, na she first run come help me.

Memories of her sneaking me fried plantain at midnight, whispering "You too stubborn, but na you be my person," flashed before me. Family ties deeper than the River Niger.

Later, she marry, but her husband no be good person. When she die, na only bone remain for her body.

Her laughter faded in her husband's house, her light dimmed. The day she died, I wept as if part of myself had been buried too.

“I just wan tell you, no rush go marry.”

My voice was gentle, carrying all the warnings my mother never got to give us. "Marriage no be by force, my sister. Look well before you leap."

Now, my sister was fifteen, just finish her coming-of-age ceremony, and plenty matchmakers don already come.

Her wrists sparkled with coral beads, her hair was braided in the latest style. Suitors' gifts—yam, kolanut, even a radio—filled the veranda.

She cover her mouth with handkerchief and laugh small.

She teased, "You sef, you dey worry too much. Na husband I go marry, no be ogbanje."

“Okay.”

She nodded, but I could see the uncertainty flicker in her eyes.

Before I enter palace, I must help her find better husband, so she go get peace for her life.

I made a silent promise—no way would I let history repeat itself. I would be the shield our mother never got to be.

“In few days, follow me go the flower hairpin party.”

I grinned, excitement bubbling in my voice. "You go see better people there. No be every man be goat."

That day, many fine young men go dey there, and I know say Auwalu must show face.

I imagined the crowd—colours, laughter, the sweet smell of agbalumo in the air. My mind counted every moment till then.

This time, I must win his heart early—even if na to enter the royal house first.

I wasn’t afraid of competition. This time, I would be smart, careful, never trusting in fate alone.

As I dey think am, smile just enter my face.

I caught my reflection in her brass mirror, my eyes shining with stubborn hope.

That evening, papa brought prescription for body strength and warned, “This medicine bitter well well. If you no fit drink am, leave am.”

He placed the packet on my lap, his fingers lingering, as if reluctant to let me grow up.

I shook my head. “I go drink am.”

I steeled myself, determined not to let fear win again.

My small maid boil the medicine and bring am for me.

She tiptoed in, balancing the cup with both hands, her eyes wide. "Aunty, make you close nose."

With papa’s eyes on me, I drank everything at once. The taste bitter reach bone. I nearly curse, but I swallow am sharp sharp.

It burned my tongue, made my eyes water, but I forced it down. The room seemed to spin for a moment.

I forced a tear out and swallowed again.

My face twisted, but I didn’t let myself cough. I wanted papa to see my strength.

“Papa, I finish am.”

I stuck out my tongue to show, trying to make him laugh.

But he just turned away, no fit look at me.

His shoulders were stiff. For a moment, he looked older, as if carrying the weight of both our lives on his back.

Since small, bitter things dey fear me, so papa always carry me go exercise, avoid giving me medicine if he fit.

He used to say, "Strong body, strong mind. No let small sickness keep you for bed."

His voice come choke small. “I dey go. Rest well.”

I watched him walk out, the sound of his slippers soft on the mat.

I watched him leave and told my maid to remind me to drink the medicine every time I chop.

I squeezed her hand, grateful for her care. "Na you go help me grow strong, my dear."