Chapter 1: Return with Empty Hands

In the third year after the marriage alliance, Musa Bello finally came to carry me home.

The sun that day no get pity—dry harmattan breeze dey scatter leaves for palace ground, blowing sand into everybody eye. People wey gather for gate dey whisper, their eyes sharp like needle, some even dey peep from under scarf. You for think na burial, not a welcome, but I just dey look them, my heart empty. My throat dry, like say I swallow sand since morning.

He looked at my swollen belly, his face twisted with hatred, teeth grinding together.

His jaw tight, like say he dey bite stone. Musa Bello own never change—his pride dey strong like northern rock, but pain dey hide for back of his eye, that kind sorrow wey no wan beg for pity.

"Who carry this belle give you?"

His voice be like stone wey drop for dry well. E echo for the small tent. Even the guards wey dey outside, their body stiff. Nobody fit cough. The question dey hang for air, heavy.

"Too many men dey. I no fit remember."

I talk am with cold voice, my face strong like person wey dey drag market price. I look am straight—no shame, no fear, even though my inside dey shake. My hand dey shake small for inside my wrapper, but I no let am show. I see as the small vein for him forehead dey jump.

As soon as I talk am, he just vex.

E be like say thunder blow inside his chest. He shift leg, fingers dey shake, but him no gree show me weak side. Small hiss comot for him mouth, but he just turn face.

Outside the hall, everywhere dey restless. Noise full ground, and Garba Kingdom army don already burst enter Zaria royal court.

Goats wey them never tie well dey run up and down, women dey pack their children hide for back yard. The air thick with fear, and for distance, some people dey cry, others dey shout command for Hausa. Everywhere dey like market when fight wan start.

Maybe tonight, I no go need lie down under any strange man again to please am.

I rest my hand for my belly, rub small. My spirit dey pray silently—if na tonight my suffering go end, make God just carry me go gently. My eye heavy, but I force am open, dey wait for wetin go happen next.

"Your servant, Musa Bello, dey welcome Princess Adaugo back to the court."

He stand for there, white agbada, sword for hand.

His agbada white, but the hem don stain with red dust. The sword for him hand dey shine small, catching dying sunlight. As he bend small to salute, the whole court hush, like everybody dey wait for sign.

Like harmattan dust wey dey blow for border, like moon wey cloud cover.

His presence cold, distant. Musa Bello shadow long for ground. Some palace maids dey peep from corner, their whispers dey sharp like blade: "Na so war man dey be. No joy for him eye."

Desert sand don blow so tey, I almost forget how my old friend face be.

My heart catch small when I remember when we dey play for palace garden that year, before all this wahala. I remember when we go thief mango together for palace backyard, him laugh dey ring like bell that time. E be like say na two different people dey stand for there now.

I stand up small small.

The silk wrapper for my waist dey shift as I rise. My joints dey pain me, but I no let anybody see. Even my slippers dey scratch sand for ground—reminder say I never reach home.

Musa Bello eyes no comot from my small swollen belle.

People wey stand for tent corner dey shift leg, some dey avoid my eyes, others dey pinch each other to hush. I fit hear my own breath, like say the whole world don quiet.

He talk with teeth tight: "Who own am?"

Even the air feel like e freeze. Musa Bello voice low but heavy, his hands still dey grip the sword like say na person neck he wan cut.

As I hear am, na only disgust I feel. "Old emir, young emir, maybe some minister—I no remember again."

I let my voice dey sharp, almost like insult, even though my chest dey burn. My words dey hang for air, scatter small laughter for the guards wey no get manners.

He no fit believe say after three years for Zaria, I still pure.

I see as his eyes flash—shock mix with pain, mix with doubt. For Musa Bello mind, all the things wey people don talk about me for market square dey play like drum.

Musa Bello face change as I talk am.

He drag in breath, jaw tight. E be like say him dey swallow hot yam. No words, just cold silence as him dey measure my face like say him dey search for lie.

Him eyes cold like ice. He stand and waka comot from the tent.

As he waka go, his shadow follow am like loyal dog. I watch am step outside, the door curtain wave, scatter sunlight inside.

Men dey shout die for outside. Heads dey roll, blood smell full everywhere.

I hear one old soldier dey beg for him life before him voice cut. Blood smell dey mix with burning cloth and sweat—na true war aroma be that.

Soon, he come back, now wear ordinary cloth, give me one bowl medicine.

His agbada don change—now na simple kaftan, but you go still see streaks of blood for sleeve. He hold the bowl steady, his face no show any pity.

Blood still dey for him face.

One dry cut dey his cheek, blood dey drip small. He no even try clean am. For Musa Bello mind, duty pass body.

"Princess carry something wey she no suppose carry come. I dey fear say people fit misunderstand."

His voice dey soft, but the warning for him words no be play. His eye dey search my face, like say he dey beg me make I understand without shouting.

I collect the medicine, drink am sharp sharp.

The drink bitter like ogogoro wey dem spoil with herbs, but I swallow am, no talk anything. My mind dey drift, head dey heavy.

"As long as Oga Musa no misunderstand, na so others no go get wahala."

I talk am slow, almost like prayer. I look am for eye—make he see say na him own opinion dey important pass any gossip.

Pain and heaviness catch my belle. Dem bring hot water basin, one after another.

I grip the mat tight as the pain dey bite my belly, sweat dey run my back. The old nurse wey dey help me dey murmur small Hausa prayer as she press my leg with warm towel.

But I no fit cry. My tears don finish since.

I just dey look ceiling, mouth no even fit move. For this life, how many tears person go get? Dem say tears no dey finish for woman eye, but my own don dry like harmattan river.