Chapter 1: Return to Oyo

When Musa Garuba’s spirit crossed over into the old Oyo kingdom and he heard his chiefs talking about making peace, he bone face, vex reach bone—everybody for council just feel am:

"So una want make I give up land, pay compensation, even go dey humble myself for front of ordinary messenger—abeg, I still be king? Or na beggar I don turn, dey crawl dey beg for leftovers?"

He just forget any talk of peace, join body with the old warrior Baba Ojo, and start to take back all the lands wey dem lose.

But suddenly, something flash for him mind: this time no be just the second year of the Oyo war.

Na also the first year of Sarki Danjuma.

Na the same year wey Garba the Conqueror unite all the northern tribes and become the great Emir.

With that kind pressure, instead of fear, Musa Garuba just dey ginger more. If anybody for this world fit stop Garba from swallowing everywhere, or even replace the Great Emir and rule all the nations—

Who else if no be me?

The spirit realm felt like harmattan mist swirling around Musa Garuba’s head, everything distant yet sharp. Musa rub arm, cold dey bite small—spirit world nor dey give body rest. The ancient voices of ancestors rumbled like thunder from the old days, their praise-singing mixing with his own stubborn heartbeat. Somewhere far off, a talking drum beat in defiance, echoing Musa's words. Even in this shadow-world, his pride as king blazed like the noon sun over the savannah. From the city walls, the muezzin’s call to prayer drifted in, blending with the spirits’ song and grounding him in the heart of West Africa.

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Thirty-one years for Musa’s reign don pass. Musa Garuba close him eye, open am again, na so he find himself for inside palace wey shine like gold.

The floor cold like early morning dew for Jos plateau, the walls dey glow with carved calabashes and ancient bronze, fit only for royal lineage. Gecko dey run for ceiling, tail wagging as if e dey listen to palace secrets. The scent of shea butter and burning camwood drifted in the air, mixing with the low hum of palace life outside his chamber, where servants' slippers shuffled over the polished stone. Na true royal palace, the kind wey poets dey use talk about for festival grounds.

All the memories just rush enter him head: the endless war for the era of many kingdoms, how the Oyo ancestors dey value scholars pass warriors, the shame wey happen years ago—everything just dey flood him heart.

His chest felt heavy, the weight of old wounds pressing down like the heady beat of bata drums at midnight. Musa could almost hear the echoes of council quarrels, the whispers of betrayal, the laughter of lost friends under baobab trees, and the bitter cry of warriors dying under the flag of Oyo. Every joy and pain, every dust and rain—e no hide from his mind.

Musa Garuba murmur, "Chai, so na old Oyo I land like this."

The words came out rough, as if sandpaper dey rub his throat. He spat gently on the floor—old habit—then wiped the sweat from his brow. Even now, his tongue carried the dust of long journeys and the weight of royal oaths.

Before he fit arrange all the memory for him head finish, soft body just lean on top am—flesh full but still get shape, body dey entice but face still pure. Her voice cold and royal, but the way she talk soft and sweet.

The woman’s wrapper rustled softly, the smell of fresh hibiscus filling the air. When she spoke, it was like early rain tapping on zinc—soft, promising, but with something hidden beneath. She knelt by his side, eyes lowered in that respectful, almost shy way of palace wives.

"My King..."

Old Musa body just shake small.

His heart skipped, not from desire, but from the sudden rush of memory—palace secrets, old rivalries, women plotting behind beaded curtains. He steadied himself, swallowing old suspicions.

But the next thing wey the woman talk, na so e just kill any ginger wey remain for am.

"My King, if we still dey fight the Nupe like this, you dey sure say we go fit win this fight so?"

As her question floated through the air, it felt like cold water splash on his face. The room suddenly became colder, as if the ancestors themselves dey wait for his answer.

Musa Garuba turn him head slow, look this fine woman for eye. Him face just squeeze, like say wahala wan blow.

His gaze grew sharp, the lines on his forehead deepening. If looks fit wound, her skin for scratch. He let silence hang between them, the tension thick like ogbono soup left overnight.

Chai, queen don dey put mouth for politics?

He almost laughed out loud. He remembered how in his own world, palace women dey run things from the shadows, but never so bold. He resisted the urge to scoff, remembering the elders’ warnings—"No let woman wey no sabi war dictate council for you."

Who you be sef? If na Mama Zainab, maybe I for respect you, but you no be Mama Zainab, and you get mind dey talk government matter?

He sized her up—beautiful, yes, but no strong family backing. She dey stand on only her cleverness and small, sharp tongue. He knew the type: sweet on the outside, fire under the gele.

All of una suppose collect.

A dangerous smile threatened his lips, but he forced it down. He remembered how in his youth, disrespect led to ruined families. Palace matters no be for small play.

All this yarn just waka pass for Musa Garuba mind, and the kind killing spirit wey only person wey don waka inside dead body and blood dey get, just show for him eye.

He let the old, cold fire rise behind his eyes—a look that had sent many enemies and fake friends to their early grave. His jaw tightened, and even the air seemed to draw back from him.

The fine woman body just stiff, as if the man wey dey her front no be the king wey dey pamper her before, but na lion wey fit chop person any time.

Her hand trembled as she tried to adjust her wrapper, eyes darting around the room, searching for escape. The scent of fear mixed with the sweetness of her perfume.

She no fit hold herself, just shrink back, kneel for bed, tears dey shine for her eye. She talk, "My King, na because I dey pity you. Day and night you no dey rest, you dey tire yourself. If anything happen to you, wetin go come be the fate of Oyo?"

Her voice cracked, the words falling heavy like mango from tree. In that moment, she looked more like a young girl lost in the market than a queen with power. Her tears glistened, catching the candlelight, each one a small plea for mercy.

That "My King" wey she repeat match the one for him memory.

It rang familiar, like the echo of a song his mother once hummed while weaving mats under the moon.

Queen Morayo.

No strong family dey her back. Na only her book sense and beauty carry her reach queen.

He remembered how, even among the council women, some whispered jealousy—how did a girl without name or title become queen? Only by cleverness and the luck of her smile.

Musa Garuba raise eyebrow think: No need worry again; your king don already die for overwork.

He sighed inwardly, letting go of old grudges. "No be your fault," he thought, "palace wahala na for who dey survive."

So na Queen Morayo be him wife for here.

He studied her again—small, gentle hands, quick eyes, the kind of woman who could sway a king with a few kind words and a pot of sweet egusi soup. But her ambition was the real spice.