Chapter 1: The Dance of Rivalry and Regret

In my former life, my junior sister and I spent decades dragging each other like market women fighting over change—all because of senior brother.

Sometimes our quarrels started from the smallest thing—her wanting to borrow my earrings or shoes, or trying to copy my hand in sword forms. But deep down, it was always about senior brother, that shadow standing between us, dividing our laughter and multiplying our jealousy.

She was lazy, only cared about fine clothes, and acted that green leaf way—always pretending sweet, but sharp underneath.

Her wahala was plenty. If she wasn’t complaining about how hot the sun was, she was busy borrowing everyone’s scarf and refusing to return it. Every small chance she got, she’d roll her eyes and toss her braids, acting like she was the queen of the whole mountain, all that pretty pretending covering the sharpness inside.

But when senior brother teamed up with the masquerade clan and wiped out our sect, she ruined her own face and disguised herself as me, just to hold him off—giving our sect a small chance to survive.

That night was blacker than the bottom of Mama’s cooking pot. Thunder dey rumble, rain slap zinc roof, and the air thick with fear. She stood at the broken gate, blood on her cheek, sword in her hand, shouting in my voice so our people could escape. I never forget that scene, never ever.

She never backed down, even at the very end.

Now, reborn, junior sister looks at me with that her sugar-sweet voice wey always get pepper inside:

“Senior sister’s sword tassel is so fine, Morayo wants it too.”

Her eyes shine like she knows the wahala she’s about to start.

Without saying anything, I hand it over.

Junior sister: ...

1

Morayo eyed the sword tassel I offered with suspicion. She glanced at Kelechi, then back at the tassel, like she dey wonder if na trick or test because Kelechi dey there. The way her brow cocked, I could almost hear her mind spinning, trying to figure out if this was a setup. Her hand hovered, then she pinched her lips—her usual sign she was thinking deep.

Today was the day Kelechi and I returned from a masquerade-hunting mission down the mountain.

Dust clung to our wrappers, sweat on our necks. The village below was still mourning from last week’s attack—masquerade footprints all over the yam farm. Kelechi carried the trophy, but my eyes stayed on Morayo.

Morayo just noticed my sword tassel looked better than the one Kelechi gave her, so she wanted to cause wahala as usual.

She stood, hips out, arms crossed, the way a girl does when she wants everybody to look at her. As if she expected me to ignore her and walk past like before.

But she didn’t expect that me, who always ignored her, would give it to her so easily today.

The shock on her face, ehn? Like somebody just pour cold water on her.

“You really want to give me?”

I looked her dead in the eye: “I really dey give you.”

My tone carried no play, my eyes steady, like how Mama Ade looks when she’s about to beat sense into stubborn children.

Sharp light flashed in Morayo’s eyes. As if she feared I’d change my mind, she quickly snatched the tassel.

Her fingers trembled. She looked at the thread, then at me, then back at the tassel, like say she dey find the hidden trouble inside.

Seeing her so lively, my chest just dey pain me.

My throat tight. I remember that night—her eyes full of blood, face swollen, yet still alive in her stubbornness. I look at her now, so alive, and something inside me just squeeze.

“Anything junior sister wants, senior sister go give you.”

My voice low, almost like prayer.

Morayo looked at me, confused, her fine brows pinched together. Then she scoffed:

“You don dey craze? Where Amina dey? Don die?”

She no know say I really don die before.

The words sting, but I keep my face straight. I remember death too well—the coldness, the silence, the brokenness. I look at her and smile, pain and gratitude mixing in my chest.

Not only me—na the whole sect, at Kelechi’s hand.

Rain carried the screams away that day. Our home turned to ash. All our laughter and trouble, scattered. Only ashes and ghost memories remain.

And the one wey suffer pass na her, Morayo.

She paid with her face, her pride. Nobody see am, but I remember.