Chapter 2: Sorrow and Betrayal Inside Palace Walls

I wore my black mourning cloth, tied my hair with ash scarf. For palace, no food, no music—just silence and prayers. I knelt for three days and nights, begging Baba King to investigate my husband’s murder well.

Rain fell without stopping, washing my tears down the palace steps. My knees ached, but I didn’t care. In the courtyard, even the guards looked away in pity. Old women muttered prayers for me, some dropping coins at my feet, as if money could buy justice for the dead. My voice grew hoarse, but I repeated my plea until dawn turned to dusk and back again.

After three days, I waited for news from Baba King’s own steward, Baba Musa.

The way Baba Musa shuffled towards me said it all—he had bad news. His cap sat crooked on his head, face drawn as he bowed with the respect due to a princess but a heart heavy with palace secrets. I gripped my wrapper tight, waiting for his verdict, hope trembling on a thin thread.

“Your Highness, na so we see am. Police dey try, but Zaria big, wahala full everywhere. Make you take heart. The case don check well. Na just bad luck meet armed robbers for Prince Yusuf. Those robbers don run. Zaria police dey find them everywhere. The matter don reach like this, abeg, try hold your sorrow. His Majesty dey busy with government work; Your Highness suppose go back.”

His words fell like stones in my chest. He spoke in the careful, measured tone of someone used to carrying bad news—never too harsh, never too soft. I noticed the other servants stealing glances, their faces a mixture of sympathy and fear. The rain drummed harder, drowning his last words.

“It no be robbers. He get over thirty stab wounds—this one na clear revenge.”

I said it quietly, but my voice carried across the courtyard. For a moment, the whole courtyard go quiet—only the rain tap for ground, and distant thunder clap somewhere. A few palace women gasped, covering their mouths. Baba Musa shook his head, lips pressed tight like someone refusing to taste bitter kola. The old men by the gate muttered prayers, asking God to expose hidden enemies.

“Your Highness, His Majesty say na robbers.”

Baba Musa talk am with confidence, no shaking.

His posture was like iron—he would not be moved. I saw the warning in his eyes: this matter was bigger than me, bigger than grief. The air was thick with the unsaid. In the palace, sometimes silence speaks the loudest.

My throat blocked. Tears mix with rain, run from my lips enter my heart. I bite my lower lip, my hands dey shake for where I hold my wrapper.

Each drop felt heavy, as if sorrow itself had become rain. My lips trembled, but I would not beg again. If I cried out loud, the whole palace would hear, and they would say, "Royal women don't show weakness." So I swallowed my grief, tasting salt and loss.

After a long time, I talk softly, “Baba King dey right. I too stubborn, I disturb Baba King.”

Even my voice sounded strange, hollow. It was the voice of someone who had finally learned the lesson: in the palace, stubbornness could be mistaken for pride, and pride was a dangerous thing.

I knelt and bowed towards King’s Palace, then stood up gently and left.

My bones ached with every movement. The palace floor felt colder than usual, as if rejecting my presence. A few palace guards averted their eyes; even the birds in the courtyard seemed to quieten as I walked away.

Back at the Princess’s quarters, I collapsed.

Lami and the maids rushed to catch me, their voices urgent but gentle. My body felt weightless, adrift. The world faded into darkness, and even dreams did not come to visit.

When I woke up, three days had passed.

Lami’s eyes red small, but she still force smile: “Mama Queen dey worried about you, she send plenty tonic. Your Highness, abeg, try hold your sorrow. Prince Yusuf love you pass everybody. If you spoil your health, his spirit no go rest.”

Lami’s hand was cool on my forehead. She pressed bitter herbs to my lips, whispering prayers under her breath. The palace women hovered at the doorway, offering their own remedies—some said alligator pepper for strength, others suggested anointing oil. In those moments, I saw their care, but also their helplessness; grief, like malaria, runs its own course.

“Oh.”

My voice was little more than a sigh. I wanted to tell her that sorrow lived in my bones, that no tonic could cure this ache. But I stayed silent, letting the sadness wash over me like the endless rains.

Outside, I dey hear drums and gongs—everywhere dey lively.

The music sounded wrong, jarring against my mourning. It was as if the world outside had no respect for grief. The laughter and singing floated through my window, mocking my pain.

“Wetin dey happen outside?”

“It’s nothing, Your Highness. You’re not well. Abeg, rest more.”

Lami’s voice was too quick, too bright. I caught the way her hands shook as she arranged my wrappers. She avoided my gaze, a sure sign that something was being hidden.

I dress up and stand, wan go door.

As I wrapped my gele, determination hardened inside me. A princess does not hide from the world, no matter how broken her heart. My feet were unsteady, but my will was strong.

“Your Highness, abeg no go.”

Lami rush follow me, but scatter something for ground.

Her slippers slid on the smooth palace floor, sending a wooden comb skittering away. I saw panic on her face—a rare thing, for Lami was known for her calm. Whatever was happening outside, it was big enough to shake even her.

She no dey ever panic, but today she dey shake.

Something big must dey happen.

I open main gate, guards block me.

I try pass, but their spears cross for front of me. "Abeg, Your Highness, no vex," one whisper. The guards stood tall, eyes averted but hands firm on their spears. Their uniforms were pressed, their faces blank. They were Mama Queen’s men—loyal, unyielding.

“Your Highness, Mama Queen say make you stay inside, no go anywhere.”

So, na house arrest dem put me.

It was a gentle prison, but a prison all the same. The palace walls that once protected now closed in, suffocating.

“Wetin dey happen outside?”

“Today na County Princess Halima and Prince Yusuf’s wedding.”

So dem finally dey marry. Why today?

The words hit me like cold water. My breath caught in my throat. I remembered the way Yusuf once held my hand, promising forever. Now, forever belonged to someone else.

“See as dem do am grand—almost like princess own.”

The guard’s voice was soft, almost apologetic. He could not meet my eyes, shame written all over his face. I saw pity in his stance, a heaviness that said he wished things could be different.

I see pity for the guard’s eyes. He just lower head, no talk again.

Pity from palace guards was a bitter thing. It tasted of lost dignity. I bit my lip, refusing to let the tears come.

Lami pull my sleeve.

“Your Highness, abeg, let’s go back.”

Lami press my hand, whisper, “No let sorrow finish you, Your Highness. If you fall, who go wear all these fine wrappers?” Her touch was gentle, but urgent. She tried to steer me away from the sounds of celebration—the gangan drums, the ululation of the women, the laughter floating through the palace air. My heart clenched. Even here, even now, I could not escape Halima’s shadow. The drums outside beat louder, but inside me, only silence remain.