Chapter 1: From Ancestors’ Gate to Ibadan Streets

Both Tunde and I returned from the land of ancestors.

The news of our return would have made the market women at Oje clap their hands in shock—if only they knew. Mama Sikirat would have dropped her basket of tomatoes, mouth wide open—‘Ah, wonders shall never end!’ Our destinies, once knotted tight like iroko roots in Ibadan soil, have been untangled and tied anew by Olodumare’s will.

In our last life, we were the most admired couple in all of Ibadan.

People used to say we were a perfect match—brains and beauty, like bata drum and sekere—always in perfect rhythm.

Some would even tell the story at evening gatherings: "Ah-ah! See those two—when they waka enter, even the wind go hush just to hear their gist."

Looking back now, my life that time fit the word 'complete.'

My husband treated me with respect, always.

He never once let his words bruise my heart or his hand fall heavy with anger. For Ibadan, where tempers flare and tongues are sharp as pepper, that alone was a blessing.

Our first son rose to the highest government post; our daughter entered the palace and became the Queen.

Even the big men at Mapo Hall would boast, "Ah, that one is Zainab’s son. She raised him well."

The Oba even gave me the title of First-Rank Lady—a big honour, meant only for the most distinguished women in the land. I enjoyed wealth and respect that never seemed to finish.

My wrappers always shone like new, even after ten washings at Ogunpa stream, and people greeted me with low bows. My courtyard was never short of well-wishers, nor my kitchen short of steaming pots.

But now, in this new life, reborn again.

Tunde is still that same cold, distant man, like the full moon on Sango festival night—beautiful, but out of reach, the number one gentleman in the city.

But me? I’m no longer obsessed, no longer that girl who wanted to bring down the moon for herself.

No more will I wear myself out just to please him. I am not yam to be pounded for another person’s soup.

No more will I try to win his heart.

Tunde and I—

This life, we should never cross paths again. Let mountains and rivers separate us from now on.

Let our names never mix in the same sentence again. Let the wind carry away the scent of old love, and may my footsteps never echo in the corridors where his voice dwells. Even if our shadows cross, let them pass like strangers at Bodija market.