Chapter 1: Born of Sorrow

My mother na the Oba’s daughter for Garba Kingdom. Garba Kingdom dey for border of Hausa and Yoruba land, where dust dey fight rain every year.

For our land, to be princess no be small thing at all. Your voice strong, your name fit open palace gate, and your face dey inside story wey mama dem dey tell pikin for moonlight. But for my mama own, na only sorrow and tears follow the title, as if the gods dey test her strength. If you see my mama back then, you go know say royalty no dey shield person from wahala when trouble knock gate.

During the wahala of war, the Fulani raiders capture her, carry her go their grassland, lock her inside sheep pen. The pen smell like wet goat skin and old fura, the ground rough with broken calabash.

The day dem carry her commot, I hear our people dey shout, some dey pray, some dey curse the raiders. E shock me how war dey turn even the mighty to prisoner. The grassland where dem carry her be land of dust and plenty breeze, where stranger no fit last unless your spirit strong.

Every day, different men dey scatter her pride anyhow, like market woman dey scatter pepper for ground.

Dem dey treat her like say she be animal, as if royalty don turn ordinary sand because she dey outside her palace. Each day, I watch from corner, eyes red, small chest dey pain me as dem dey use her anyhow, like say na punishment she dey serve for another person crime.

They torment her until she begin craze, always dey call, “Baba King, abeg save me...” But all she get na more wicked humiliation from the Fulani raiders.

Sometimes her voice dey weak, sometimes e loud like woman wey dey labour, but nobody ever answer. Instead, dem go laugh, make jest, throw sand for her hair. I remember as children for our side dey talk say if you call your papa three times, e go answer you, but for mama, na only wind dey reply am.

Until I turn eight, when she use all her strength throw me out of the sheep pen.

“Go! Get out!”