Chapter 1: Crown Prince Wahala

In the seventh year after I land inside this book, na so I help the cold, stubborn Musa Garuba reclaim him Crown Prince title.

Those years no be beans, I swear! Palace wahala, market gossip—everywhere you turn, my name and Musa own dey enter people's gist. I still remember the day Musa collect the beaded staff, palace elders line up like yam sellers for Ketu market. E no easy, but my shoulder dey always behind am—like say na my own wahala.

Everybody dey laugh: “You don follow His Highness suffer reach this level—abeg, that Crown Princess position na your own.”

Even mama put aunties no gree rest. Anytime dem see me for street, dem go nudge each other, dey throw wink. Some people dey drop wrapper for my door, dey hope say I go dash them better gist. For palace, e be like say I dey wear signboard: 'Next Crown Princess.'

But before I fit even talk, Musa Garuba, wey everybody dey call gentle, just bone face.

E shock the whole hall. Musa no dey quick vex, but that day, him face harden, voice deep pass river Niger for rainy season. Everywhere just cold.

The corridor dey smell of fresh suya spice and old camphor, guards dey tap boot for marble floor. Musa just waka eye pass the heroine wey dey stand under mango tree. “The matter of Crown Princess na royal dignity matter. Palace matter no be play. Make una respect royal dignity, abeg.”

People shift leg, others hiss. Even the mango tree wey dey shade us for palace yard look like e dey reason matter join. Fatima Bello, the heroine, purse mouth, dey chew finger nail softly. Only God know wetin dey run for her mind that time.

Later, before him big wedding with the heroine, he dash me one reward, as if say he wan calm me down.

E resemble when pikin dey cry, you give am chin-chin so e go keep quiet. Everybody dey wait to see if I go use the chance drag body for Musa side, maybe ask for land or gold. But wetin Musa give me? Na rare silk scarf, say na special token. I just look am, dey wonder if this one go cook soup.

Everybody think say I go hold body for him side.

Some dey whisper, 'Ayo go soon tie wrapper, enter inner chamber.' Others dey count days, dey measure my movement like dem dey calculate beans price for market.

But as he dey look me, nervous but still dey form sure guy, I just whistle one sweet, long tune.

The whistle echo for palace corridor. Even the goats for backyard pause, ear stand. My voice loud, carry the gist go far.

“Anything at all? Oya, Your Highness, gimme three thousand fine bobo make I choose. Let’s see if palace fit handle that one.”

For palace history, dem never hear this kind request. The old maiguard for back gate nearly drop him stick. Musa open mouth small, but him pride no let am talk. Na so small breeze just blow, carry everybody surprise go far.