Chapter 1: The Day the Secret Began

The day I become the Omu of Umuola Kingdom, na that same day my first period show face.

As I see the red stain, my mama chest jump like NEPA wire shock am. She just slap her forehead with palm, mouth wide. Her eyes water, but she still dey smile small—pride and worry dey fight inside her. "Ah, see am, Amaka, you be real woman o." Her voice dey shake, but you go still hear that hidden pride wey only Naija mama sabi show—half fear, half joy, like person wey win bet but still dey owe.

That moment, everything clear for my eye. All the confusing feelings wey dey tangle my mind since I small—e be like say dem suddenly arrange themselves, form line for my head.

No wonder my mind dey always do like generator wey no get fuel—never balance.

So all this time, na only my body dey hide my truth? Na so life hard for woman for this palace.

All that jealousy, gossip, and even the way the elders for council dey look me with small small affection—e no be say I slack for discipline.

Na because dem all born with the wrong gender.

I just breathe out, relieved: Like air wey pass after heavy jollof rice. My chest loosen, I feel the ground steady under my leg. I still be wise ruler wey go enter history.

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When my mama born me, the whole old dynasty and palace dey hold their breath:

Half dey hope say I go be boy, half dey hope say I go be girl.

The rest—those yeye people—dem no even get human feeling; dem just dey pray make I waka.

I be my papa only hope. One day, as he dey play ayo under the mango tree, he injure himself—dem talk say e wound him manhood—so children matter don finish for am.

The elders begin dig up old, stubborn tradition, dey shout make he adopt my uncle pikin—one boy wey dull like goat. If you see the way dem dey argue for council, dem dey shake head like agbero wey miss last bus, hiss, say, "Only boy fit wear crown."

Just as my papa wan give up, news come say my mama don carry belle, save am like government amnesty.

Everybody eye land for my mama belle. Old women for village begin dey find small excuse to enter palace, bring soup, drop am, dey eye her tummy like e fit reveal gender through soup aroma.

Before, she just be small wife, but overnight, she turn main attraction.

Even the Omu’s main wife come dey take care of her, put guards for her room, dey check everything wey she chop, use, or who she see.

Eight months later, I land with one loud cry. As dem cut cord, na so thunder roll for sky—one sign say spirit world dey notice.

Inside the birth room, my mama, the midwife, and the Omu’s main wife just freeze.

Na the Omu’s main wife talk first: "I remember say the wet nurse son born just ten days ago." Her voice low, but her eye dey sharp, dey weigh everybody mind like beans for scale.

She talk the word "son" with force. E hang for room like heavy fufu.

My mama lift her teary eyes, dey shake: "Mama, my pikin life na life too." Her voice soft, but e carry fire, the kind wey village woman use chase spirit for bush.

The Omu’s main wife pause, then understand my mama fear. "Wetin dey worry you?" Her hand rest for my mama shoulder, the way only person wey see war fit hold another survivor.

She borrow the wet nurse son, carry am go show the elders and Omu. She wrap the baby with Ankara cloth, perfume of shea butter still dey body. Omu happy no be small; my uncle plan scatter, e nearly twist him mouth for anger.

Lucky say na men full everywhere.

Ten days old baby and new born, if na woman look, dem go sabi the difference, but men eye sometimes dey blind. True-true, some men no sabi difference between groundnut soup and egusi—so pikin face na small matter.

If only one woman elder dey council that year, all this wahala for no reach like this.

Then nobody for need to hide say I be woman. The lie for that day grow root for inside family, the way yam vine dey find ground.

But secret wey dey hide for palace, one day e go leak like leaking roof.

After everything, Omu’s main wife return the baby to wet nurse. The wet nurse look her son with new respect, as if he too be part of secret.

She carry me, look my mama strong. "Amara, from today, na only you, me, and your close girls go know the truth."

My mama never too reason am finish, but she understand say her life now join with Omu’s main wife own, so she nod well well. For this Nigeria, sometimes survival na sharp mind.

From then, I be Omu only son, Amaka. At three, I sabi read hundred words, at five, I dey write story, at eight, dem make me crown heir. My papa show me off for every festival, dey brag, "My son sabi pass any elder."

I sharp, I dey work hard, I no dey slack; my good behaviour help my papa forget say he no get another pikin.

Grand tutors dey praise me together; my respect for teacher and book dey give them joy. Dem go clap, "Dis one go bring good name come house." Even elders for council begin dey smile anytime dem see me pass.

Life just dey go smooth—till one day, some noble boys wey get my age come Omu’s palace. As dem waka in, I fit smell their fresh soap and see new slippers wey never touch sand.

The oga for the group na Musa Danladi, from General Musa family.

Dem greet finish, waka comot for hall. Dem do that waka wey only rich pikin fit do, chest high, voice low.

I sneak go back, come hear dem dey talk for corner:

"Palm Grove get plenty bird nest—make we go carry one!" The way dem dey yarn, you go think say na small thing. I stand back, my ear open, dey reason wetin next.