Chapter 1: The Day Palace Doors Closed

On the day Obinna ascended the throne as king, a group of people were sent out of the royal palace.

Everybody dey fear—who palace go call next? Even the goats for backyard quiet that morning. The palace compound that morning was heavy, like ground after first rain—everything full of tension, even the harmattan dust hanging lazily in the air seemed to wait. Every eye dey look for who dem go call next. Some people already dey whisper, their feet restless on the tiled floors that used to carry only laughter and the shuffle of royal slippers.

Among them were stubborn palace girls and old, worn-out servants.

The girls, their wrappers still neat from last night’s farewell, huddled together, faces pinched, some biting their lips. Old servants—faces carved by years of sun and duty—stood apart, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the palace gates as if counting the distance to freedom or exile. Some carried small bundles tied with Ankara cloth; others just clutch one faded photograph or bottle of holy water from the palace chapel.

I clear throat, shift leg, then face Chief Musa, my old friend. I looked at the chief steward, not sure what to do:

"Oga, abeg, I go still follow them commot?"

My voice trembled small, my fingers tracing the rim of my old bag. I hoped for small mercy, for maybe his own heart to remember how we share roasted corn and chew groundnut together behind the kitchen those years. Palace silence fit drown voice that day, but I still ask.

This steward, my old padi, looked troubled:

"His Majesty say others fit stay or go as dem like, but Mama Nnenna, you must leave."

His words heavy, like when fufu choke for chest. The wrinkles on his forehead deep as the lines old people read for story. He no even fit look me direct, just dey twist the key for his hand, the one wey open the back pantry.

I understood, nodded, and packed my small Ghana-Must-Go bag.

I no argue. Na so palace be: when order land, even the dust respect am. The bag itself don tire—zipper slack, handle dey dangle. I gather my wrapper, fold am well, make sure say my rosary, old Bible, and that small tin of Vaseline dey inside. The sound of the zip closing be like last prayer. For my mind, I dey count every year wey I use waka these palace corridors, every pikin wey I wipe tears for.

As I looked back at the palace walls through the fine harmattan dust, my mind flashed to Obinna when he was just nine, holding my wrapper tight:

"Aunty, abeg, abeg, no leave Obinna."

The memory sharp, sweet and bitter—like mango that never ripe finish. I remember his small hands, dust in his hair, eyes round like agbalumo. The way he hold me that day, voice thin with fear, made my heart squeeze. I blinked hard, not wanting anyone to see tears. Under my breath, I mutter small prayer: "God, carry me go where my leg go find rest."