Chapter 2: Festival of Secrets

Half month later, I carry small sand from my homeland go back capital.

I put the sand for small calabash, tie am for wrapper. Na memory of Zaria, of everything I lose and everything I still dey find. I hold am close as we dey return.

Both sides of the long road, crowd full everywhere reach as far as eye fit see.

The city don turn festival ground. People dey wave cloth, children dey jump for roadside, old women dey pray aloud for my journey. Hawkers dey push suya and akara through the crowd, hoping to sell joy for cheap.

"Welcome Princess Adaugo back to her home, back to the capital!"

Na trumpet sound dey follow the shout. Even local drummers dey beat gangan, their rhythm sharp like heart wey dey glad.

The soldiers wey escort us stand well, chest out as people dey hail.

Their green and gold uniform clean, their boots dey shine, and them no gree smile but you go see pride for their face.

For the high platform, my papa the king rush come greet me, dey touch my head and hair.

His wrapper fine, red beads for neck. As he stretch hand touch my head, I remember when I be small pikin, e go use that same hand carry me up. But now, na only heavy responsibility dey press him shoulder.

By him side, Queen Halima—no, na Empress Halima now—wear the most serious ceremonial dress.

Her gele big, her lace gold, every earring dey shake as she move. She look me with face wey try smile but sadness dey hide under. Her hand dey her chest like say she dey pray for me quietly.

People dey talk say to send princess go another land for marriage na big achievement for the country.

Every old chief dey nod head, dey toast kola nut, dey discuss for corner. "No be small thing o! We send princess, we gain peace, we get respect!"

Three years for desert, but after, life go dey sweet and full of glory.

The minstrels don already dey compose song for me, say my suffering na seed wey grow peace tree for Garba Kingdom. But the truth, only me and God sabi.

I still be papa favorite daughter.

He hold my hand tighter, whisper for my ear: "My pikin, you try."

Tears prick my eye, but I hide am—royal pikin no dey cry for public.