Chapter 3: Old Flames, New Fears

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My name na Morayo Adekunle, daughter of the present grand chief. I grow for border since small, only return Palm Grove when I be fourteen. I stubborn, no dey hear word.

People always called me ajebutter, but my Yoruba tongue always betrayed my real roots. My braids never sat quiet, and my laughter always too loud at village meetings. Even the chiefs said, "That Adekunle girl, she go do what she want."

When Obiora still dey as one prince wey nobody send, me and am get small affair.

We used to sneak behind the cassava barn, where no elder’s eyes could see. Sometimes, his hands would brush mine, and we’d both pretend it was accident. The sweetness of first love—bitter now.

—Na me seduce am, then dump am.

They say women should not chase men, but my mother always said, "If you see pepper, and you like am, why you no buy?"

No be say fight cause our break up; na just because he become king.

Obiora’s eyes changed when he wore the royal beads. Suddenly, the boy I knew became someone the whole world watched. I couldn’t bear it—the pressure, the stares, the wives lined up in the palace.

I no get interest to dey share husband with anybody, I no plan to grow old inside palace walls.

Once, an old chief’s wife whispered to me, "Palace life na sweet poison, my pikin."

So I drop letter, run comot without look back.

I left before dawn, only a small bag and the last piece of bread I could steal from the kitchen. The letter I left was short: “Obiora, forgive me.”

Na just recently I sneak return Palm Grove.

I returned covered in dust, with market traders squinting at me—"Na that Adekunle girl don come again?" I stayed hidden, only slipping out at dusk to buy akara and eko.

But I swear, I no believe say na like this me and Obiora go jam again.

If anybody tell me say I go enter palace by night to beg this same king, I for slap the person. Fate, na real wahala.

I hear rustle for outside the king’s chamber. Lanterns line up like festival, light just dey enter one by one.

The palace boys were finishing their rounds, laughing softly, their feet sweeping dust off the tiles. The festival glow made the courtyard look like a wedding, yet my own heart felt like a funeral.

Obiora don come.

I felt it in my bones—old lovers can sense each other from a mile away. My pulse hammered in my ears as I adjusted my scarf.

I quickly sit up, arrange my scatter hairpin.

My hands shook, but I forced my face to calm. The mirror on the wall reflected a stranger—eyes too bright, cheeks too hollow.

To hide, I dress like palace beauty this night, even use veil cover my face, thinking say I fit hide small.

The veil scratched my nose and smelt faintly of old hibiscus, but at least it hid my trembling lips. I smeared red powder on my cheeks to hide the fear. My mother always said, "If you wan fight spirit, look like person wey don win before."

Time don change, my mind just dey turn.

The clock hands moved too fast. My thoughts scattered like beans spilled on the floor. I prayed under my breath, asking God to make the king soft.

I no sure how Obiora go react if he see me.

What if he shouts? What if he laughs? What if he sends me to rot with Tunde? My breath caught as I tried to plan for every outcome.

To meet old flame, sometimes worse pass to meet enemy.

Nobody teaches you how to beg the boy who once carried your slippers on his head. I wished for the ground to open.

Maybe he go vex, order make dem chase me, or even throw me for cell join my brother.

Old palace laws could be harsh—sometimes, just entering king’s chamber without reason meant public flogging. I shivered at the thought.

Or maybe he go tie me up, disgrace and punish me well…

I pictured myself paraded through the market, women pointing and whispering, my family name in tatters. Shame prickled my neck.

My body shake, I no even wan think am reach that side.

My knees went weak, and I steadied myself on the bedpost. Still, fear was a small price to pay for family.

For here, na only one chance I get.

My father’s voice echoed—"Real Adekunle no dey back down." That thought gave me strength, at least enough for one more breath.

For my family, na only me fit try save my brother.

If I fail, our house go empty. My mother’s sobs, my father’s shame—no, I couldn’t let it happen.

The small voices stop for outside the chamber door. I hear that cold voice wey I know well: "Withdraw."

Obiora’s voice still sharp as ever, no shaking. The servants’ feet shuffled, silk slippers whispering against marble. My chest seized.

I shock small.

I pressed a hand to my heart, steadying my breathing. The taste of bitter leaf on my tongue, remnants from the soup I ate to calm my nerves.

Even as king, Obiora still no like people dey around am.

He always preferred quiet. Even when we were young, he would leave a crowded room just to sit under the mango tree alone. Some things never change.

The servants answer quietly, begin go. The chamber door open with one small creak.

The hinges squeaked, just like in childhood when we used to sneak into the storeroom for sugar. Now, every sound felt like thunder in my ears.

Footsteps dey come. My heart just shrink, like say I dey hold stone inside my chest.

Each footfall closer, my head swam. I clenched my fists till my nails dug into my palm.

Obiora stop.

He paused, as if listening for danger. The lantern flame flickered, throwing strange shadows on his face.

Through the plenty Ankara curtains, he sense say person dey, look my side.

His gaze cut through the curtain. My breath caught. I could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and camphor oil—always Obiora’s scent.

"Who dey there?"

His tone carried both command and curiosity. My stomach clenched, and I knew hiding no fit save me.