Chapter 8: The Exam and the Next Challenge

Three days later, the special exam decree drop like stone for hot oil.

Everywhere scatter with gist. Market women dey shout, scholar boys dey gather, trader girls dey peep from corner.

Dem call am special exam because people wey pass no go become chief straight—dem go enter Office of Steward first. For Naija, na small post dey train big man.

Office of Steward na small council for Omu’s palace, but crown heir still young, Omu still strong, e fit live long.

So, to write the exam no too sweet people.

Most people wey come, na young people. The hall full, sweat and dust mix, everybody dey fan face with exercise book, hope dey hang for air like harmattan haze.

Because na Omu’s palace exam, na me set question. I write am with care, make sure e no favour anybody.

I write with bold hand: "scholars, farmers, artisans, traders." I pause, look the faces, see hope for some, fear for others.

Okoro Chukwudi ask, "Na question be this?" He raise brow, dey smile.

I shake head. "No, na four."

Pick any one, talk your mind. I watch as dem begin whisper, dey reason wetin to write.

No restriction for background, age, or gender. For the first time, na real equality dey for palace.

Last last, Wen Zikora stand front for people wey pass. He bow, his eye shine with joy.

I smile give everybody. "Since una dey here, una be my Omu’s palace people." My voice full, strong—like say I dey swear oath.

I happy with the people wey pass. All of dem young, even if dem never get plenty experience, each one get energy. But palace wahala never finish—next test dey wait, sharp like fresh blade.