Chapter 1: Tears for the King

I, the Oba, don kpai:

After I use all my strength dey run things for thirty years, na so wahala just finish me.

But e be like say my spirit never waka go far.

That same night, I wake up inside the Crown Prince body.

When I realise say na my own pikin body I dey inside, I just stand gidigba, dey wonder how e take happen:

As for the matter say I don turn my own son—till now e still dey shock me.

Na when the Queen pinch my thigh—serious one o—I come regain myself. Chai, wahala, I gats cry for my own burial!

As I stand there, my mind still dey turn, I feel the weight of ancestors for my shoulder, as if all the old Obas wey don waka before me dey look my side dey yarn, 'You never finish, better dey sharp.' I see Mama Kudi dey dab her eye, Baba Onome dey whisper for corner—my people, my land. The whole community dey there, their eyes full of story.

For the first time, I discover say my always gentle and soft Queen get serious power:

The way she twist and squeeze my thigh, e be like say water dey flow, but sharp and wicked—her eye sharp like pepper seller for market. Na so my tears just pour out like tap.

As she see am, she relax, breathe out. “Chima, no just stand there, abeg, go front…”

She dey talk dey push me front with all her power.

As I no dey look road—gbam!—I fall face down for ground. My cheek jam cold sand, the ground dey smell like yesterday’s rain.

The Queen shock.

All the chiefs wey near us shock too.

Me sef, I just sigh for my mind—after to dey live with person for over twenty years, I no even know say she get this kind hand. This Queen, ehn, na real master for hiding talent.

The silence wey come after the fall loud pass generator sound; only small cough from somewhere. Somebody for crowd even whisper, 'Na so?' The air tight, as if breeze no gree blow again.

As everywhere come dey awkward, I just sigh small, begin cry, “Oba Papa, your pikin no try for you o…”

I knock head for ground well, turn my fall to kneeling, then crawl go front reach the coffin.

Na so everywhere calm down again.

The elders eye come soft small, like ogbono wey dey melt for hot soup, like say they see sey I gree humble for ancestors. Women for back dey dab eye with wrapper, some dey sniff, one mama drop egusi from her mouth as she sob.

As expected, without me, this family for don scatter.

I even dey hear people for around dey breathe out, then start to dey cry and dey pet each other. Of course, the ones wey dey shout say the Crown Prince na correct pikin, their voice full everywhere.

'Kai! See correct pikin!'

To cry for Oba burial no be beans.

You no fit overdo am, but you no fit underdo am too.

If you no cry well, the village elders go talk say you dey rush to collect throne—you no get loyalty, you no get respect. But if you cry too much, dem go say you too soft, you no fit lead.

The elders for Umuola sabi weigh tears like yam for market; dem dey use body language dey judge.

Me, I sabi this work well.

When my great-grandpapa die, my grandpapa cry tire, dem elders no let am rest for years. Even when he dey do council later, some people go dey use style dey do anyhow because dem believe say him soft.

Later, when my grandpapa die, my papa learn lesson—he hold body, act like correct king, do everything sharp. Dem still talk say he cold, e no get respect for papa.

This life no balance at all, you do, wahala, you no do, still wahala.

As I dey see all these ones, I don plan my own style since.

When my papa die, I cry well, remember all our moments, dey recite his advice for my mind, show everybody say I be correct pikin and serious king.

For that burial ground, the way I handle cry, even the drummers dey respect.

Everything na about balance.

The old chiefs near me just dey knock head, dey show loyalty.

Na this be the first wahala for any new king.

But truth be say, me, I no even fit cry now.

After thirty years for throne, I don sabi how to show different emotions, but to dey look my own burial tablet—omo, e just dey somehow.

I dey remember the night wey I first sit for that same throne, sweat dey my body, fear mix with pride. Now na burial mat, yet, na my own eye dey look my corpse. Chai.

As the pain for my thigh finish, tears dry—na only small start be that, e no reach.

So I gats use my sleeve cover face, begin do fake cry.

Na the Queen first notice say something dey off. She drag my sleeve, then—sharp sharp—use her hand wipe my face.

Omo, pepper!

Burning!

My eye, my nose, my head—

Kai, this one pass normal!

Na so tears and catarrh just dey flow together.

The Queen nod with satisfaction, like say if e no do, she go try am again.

I look her with tears for eye:

Queen, I no know say you get sense reach like this o.

Inside me, I dey promise say I go dey respect her more; after all, na her trick help me maintain face for kingdom. E good make man marry woman wey sabi.