Chapter 1: The Betrayal

Before the young commander went off to war, he took my virginity in a drunken craze.

The scent of ogogoro still dey for him breath that night, mixing with the sweet aroma of dodo frying from the kitchen below. His hands dey shake, rough but desperate, like say he dey hold onto something wey fit slip from am any moment. Thunder dey rumble far away, but inside that small room, na him touch be the only wahala wey I feel.

For three wild days and nights, he dey bite my neck, make one strong promise:

"Give me pikin, I go make you my first wife."

The words heavy, raw, just fall from him mouth. I still remember as he press him palm for my cheek, eyes dey shine mad, like say he dey swear in front of the ancestors. The moon outside full, light dey scatter enter the thin curtain, and my mumu heart believe am.

But when he come back as hero, na my elder sister he carry—Halima, the same one wey run comot before their engagement.

People dey hail am as he enter city, drums dey beat, women dey ululate. My heart dey knock for chest as I see am with Halima, my own blood. Elders gather, the air thick with dust and secrets.

Halima lean into his arms, eyes red for corner:

"That night, commander only stay with my younger sister because of emergency... Engagement still be my own..."

Her voice dey shake, but I see the calculation for her eyes. She dab fake tears with fine handkerchief, and crowd begin murmur, sympathy just gather around her like wrapper for harmattan breeze—light, forgotten.

The young commander face twist, frown as he try console her:

"Just give her junior wife title, finish. Only you fit be my first wife."

He look Halima like say she be egg wey fit break if breeze blow am, his voice soft but the words sharp, cut my hope into two. Elders nod, some dey whisper about family honour and how things suppose be.

Na so e be like thunder strike me, my eye clear at once.

For one small moment, ground under my feet dey shake, like say e wan open swallow me. Even market women pause their hawking, the dust rise under afternoon sun, smell of fried akara dey mix with the air, and market women dey gossip low as I waka pass. My breath catch, world just dey spin as shame wash me.

Of course. Na me cause my own wahala, thinking say my hand fit reach where e no reach.

I remember my mama warning me say, "No dey climb tree wey fruit pass your head." My heart twist, I curse my own mumu. For this land, e dangerous to dey eye another person own—even if your spirit dey beg for am.

I lower my head, gently rub my small round belle, waka comot from city.

My hand dey shake over my stomach, feel the small life wey dey grow. I wrap my shawl tight, noise of city dey fade behind. As I dey waka, dust dey gather for my slippers, each step heavy, but I no look back.

Five years later, when we jam again, na small pikin I dey hold.

She resemble am well—sharp jaw, eyes like burning coal, stubbornness for every step. We don survive for small riverside village, where my name na just Zainab, not scandal.

The once stubborn and wild young commander, him eyes red, he no even fit move come near me.

He stand, hands dey shake, lips open like he wan talk but no words dey come. City noise fade, only awkward silence hang between us.

Abeg, make e no reason say my daughter na him own?

I grip my pikin hand tighter, whisper small prayer for my mind. "God, abeg, cover us from old trouble. Make e no remember, make peace rest."

At that moment, I hesitate. I remember the night Garba promise me marriage—his voice thick with gin, his hand warm on my cheek. Then, my mama warning flash for my mind: "Zainab, no let sweet mouth carry you enter fire." The taste of hope and betrayal choke me small, but I hold my pikin close and face front.