Chapter 2: Shadows and Bloodlines

1

When Ifeoma cut her wrist, she didn't even hesitate.

It was as if she was tired of fighting, tired of holding the world together for everybody else. The knife was swift, the blood flowed freely, and she didn’t cry out. The wound was deep, deep enough to let the pain inside her body out into the world. There are some hurts that words cannot explain – hers was that kind.

The nurse at the local clinic who treated her said the wound was so deep that, unless she truly wanted to die, no normal person could have been so ruthless to herself.

That nurse, Mama Anuli, who had seen many cases in her time, shook her head in disbelief. “This one no be ordinary wound,” she said, her voice low, wiping the blood with practiced hands. “Na only pesin wey don tire for this life fit do this kain thing.” Her words echoed through the hallways, a warning and a mourning.

Even more so for Ifeoma, who had always been afraid of pain.

Ah, Ifeoma who used to jump and cry if pepper entered her eye. Small scratch, she would turn the whole compound upside down. It pained me, remembering all those times she would run to me, clutching her arm, demanding sympathy for a mosquito bite. Now, she had bled herself dry in silence.

Usually, if she so much as scraped her skin, she would wrap it up and cry, just to trick me into buying her puff-puff.

She was clever, that one. She knew my soft spot and milked it well. “Aunty Fola, see my wound o!” she would wail, and before long, we would both be sharing hot puff-puff and Fanta under the mango tree, her laughter floating through the air. I never thought I would see the day when she would harm herself without even seeking comfort.

I looked at Ifeoma in the white casket. Apart from her face being a bit pale, everything else looked as if she were still alive.

They had laid her out carefully, smoothing her hair, pressing her dress, painting her lips a soft pink. But there was no breath in her chest, no warmth in her hands. I touched her cheek, willing her to wake up and call me stubborn again, just one more time. But the silence between us was heavy, final.

Her beloved husband stood beside the casket, a girl in pink at his side, holding the hand of a young boy who looked seventy percent like Ifeoma.

The sight stabbed me anew. The girl, Sade, looked delicate, her eyes too big for her face, her movements precise. The boy, Musa Yinuo, clung to her, confused, caught between childhood and grief. Their father stared at the casket, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white. This was a broken family, pretending at unity.

I looked the girl up and down, and finally understood why Ifeoma no longer wanted to stay in this world.

This Sade, with her sweet words and gentle ways, had wormed her way into places that should have been Ifeoma’s. She moved like someone who had been practicing for this role all her life. I could see it now – the reason why Ifeoma’s laughter had become rarer, her silences longer.

That girl came up to me and gave a graceful curtsy.

She lowered herself with studied grace, as if she had been watching palace women all her life. The hem of her pink lace fluttered, her ankles neat together. It was a performance, and she wanted everyone to see it.

"Peace to the Queen Mother."

Her voice was soft, obedient, every syllable dripping with respect. But I was not fooled. There was calculation behind those doe eyes. I kept my gaze on her, letting the silence stretch.

I let her kneel till her legs shook, just to remind her whose palace this was.

The tension in the room thickened. The girl started to tremble, but I refused to let her off easy. My silence was a slap, sharper than any rebuke.

A maid behind me quickly stepped forward and tapped the back of her knees. With a sharp thud, my brows finally relaxed a bit.

The maid, loyal as always, understood without a word. She pressed down, and Sade’s knees hit the floor with a soft thud. I allowed myself a tiny, inward smile. Sometimes, you have to teach people their place.

"Aunty Rose."

Two voices called out. Musa Yinuo wanted to step forward to help her up, but seeing my attitude, he didn't dare move. Musa Danjuma, on the other hand, only stared at the white casket, as if he didn't notice anything happening around him.

But Sade kept quiet, bowing deeply.

Her humility was theatrical, deliberate. She folded herself even lower, her forehead almost touching the floor. Some of the women in the room looked at each other, unsure whether to pity her or applaud her.

"Long life to the Queen Mother, may you live for many, many years. This humble woman has overstepped her place, I beg your forgiveness."

Her voice was trembling, but her words were perfect—flattery and apology wrapped together like moin-moin in leaf. Sade was a dangerous one; she knew which drum to beat.

I narrowed my eyes; Sade was really sharp.

She was playing a deep game. She knew how to use humility as a shield, how to disarm anger with submission. Not even Musa Danjuma, with all his bravado, could manage that. But I was not fooled, and neither would Ifeoma have been, not truly.

She knew I was angry, and nobody could calm me down—especially not the Musa father and son. They would only annoy me more. Admitting fault, on the other hand, might catch me off guard.

It was a clever strategy, but it would not work today. Today, my anger was a fire that would not die, not until the truth was laid bare and every debt was paid.

Ifeoma could never outsmart her.

Poor Ifeoma, too honest for palace games. She believed in kindness, in the goodness of people. It was her weakness and her strength. In a world of snakes, she tried to be a dove.

I took two steps forward, my bright aso-oke slippers stepping on her delicate lace. Someone quickly brought a chair behind me.

My steps rang out, hard and deliberate. The beads on my ankles jingled. The rich, gold-threaded slippers pressed down on the fragile pink lace, a warning. My people, trained well, made sure I did not need to stand for long.

I lifted Sade’s wrist. On it was a bright green bangle.

I paused, holding her thin wrist up for all to see. The bangle shone, catching the light. It was bright, almost garish against her skin. A small crowd gathered, their eyes darting between us.

The bangle itself was not especially valuable, but I recognized it as the prize Musa Yinuo—Ify’s seven-year-old child—had won at the school quiz. In front of all the other children, he had said he wanted to win this bangle for his mother.

I remembered that day clearly. Musa Yinuo, grinning from ear to ear, had lifted the bangle high, declaring to the whole school that it was for his mummy. Ifeoma’s eyes had shone brighter than the sun, pride and love mingling on her face.

I had told the teacher to give the bangle to Musa Yinuo.

I paid extra, just to make sure nobody else would try and take that prize away from him. I wanted Ifeoma to have something that was hers alone, a small victory in a world that took too much from her.

I never expected to see it on Sade’s wrist.

Seeing it now, on Sade’s wrist, was like tasting bitter kola. I could not breathe for a moment. The insult was deliberate—a thief wearing a crown that does not belong to her.

I grabbed the bangle and yanked it off her hand.

The snap of the bangle echoed in the room. Sade gasped, her skin reddening instantly where the bangle had bitten in. My fingers trembled with anger, but my face remained stone.

"My hand slipped. Please don’t blame me, Miss."

My words were cool, but everyone knew it was a warning, sharp as the edge of a blade. Let her dare to complain—let her try.

Two angry red marks immediately appeared on Sade’s fair skin.

The marks stood out, raw and ugly. Sade flinched, trying not to cry out. Her pride would not allow it, not in front of all these eyes.

"I dare not."

Sade bit her lip tightly, looking as pitiful as her name. Ifeoma could never resist this act.

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. In that moment, she looked every inch the victim. The room held its breath, waiting to see what I would do next.

Every time she was angry at me, as long as I made this face, no matter how annoyed she was, she would end up smiling, and in that moment, I could get anything I wanted from her.

It was a trick I had used myself, long ago. But with Ifeoma, there was always forgiveness in the end. She was too soft, too easily swayed by a trembling chin and watery eyes.

But what is Sade compared to her?

Not a shadow. Not a whisper. Not even a drop of rain compared to a river. Ifeoma was the sun; Sade is just a flickering candle, easily snuffed out.

I reached out and touched her earlobe, where a pair of big coral beads dangled.

My hand moved swiftly, twisting the heavy beads. They looked too grand for Sade, weighing her down. Her face turned pale, but she did not dare pull away.

They were a wedding gift I had given Ifeoma when she got married.

Those beads held memory and meaning. I remembered Ifeoma’s smile, the way her fingers had traced the coral, the way she had promised never to take them off except for me.

I removed them without the slightest mercy. Blood trickled from Sade’s ears. Musa Yinuo could no longer hold himself back and knelt beside her.

The beads came off with a jerk. A small rivulet of blood slid down Sade’s neck, staining her lace. The room gasped. Musa Yinuo, unable to bear it, rushed to her side, his small hands trembling.

"The coral beads were given by me to Aunty Sade, and Mother agreed too. Please, Queen Mother, don’t blame Aunty Sade."

His voice was high, desperate, pleading for peace. The other children in the room pressed closer, some wide-eyed with fear, others already whispering about the scene they would carry back to their mothers.

I played with the bloodstained beads, my face expressionless.

I rolled them in my palm, feeling their weight. They felt heavier now, soaked in old memories and fresh blood. I stared at the beads as if they could speak, as if they could explain how everything had gone so wrong.

"What if I insist on blaming her?"

My voice was soft, but the threat beneath it was clear. In this place, my word was law. Ifeoma was gone, and nothing tied my hands anymore.

Without Ifeoma, Musa Yinuo was nothing but a lump of rotten meat in my eyes.

His innocence meant nothing to me now. My love had died with Ifeoma, and all that remained was duty, and perhaps a hunger for vengeance.

I rarely spoke to him so coldly. He stepped forward, trying to tug at my wrapper as he used to do to act cute.

His hand reached out, trembling. He was still a child, seeking comfort from the one person who had always given it. But my heart was made of stone now. I let him feel the chill.

I glared at him. The guard behind me immediately raised his machete, about to chop off Musa Yinuo’s arm.

The room exploded into panic. Women screamed, men jumped to their feet. The guard’s blade flashed in the light, eager for blood.

"What kind of lowly thing dares touch the Queen Mother?"

The guard’s voice rang out, rough and booming. The old rules were back in force—no one touches the queen mother uninvited. The children shrank back, frightened.

I ignored Musa Yinuo, whose face had turned pale with fear, and waved for them to carry away Ifeoma’s white casket. Musa Danjuma seemed to wake up suddenly, drawing his cutlass to block the way.

It was chaos, a tangle of shouts and gasps. But I did not care. All I wanted was for this pain to end, for Ifeoma’s body to be treated with the respect she deserved. Musa Danjuma, finally shaken from his stupor, stepped forward to defend what he had already lost.

"I will not allow anyone to take Ify away!"

His voice cracked, full of pain and fury. It was the first real thing he had said all day. The room fell silent, waiting for the next explosion.

Musa Danjuma was, after all, a community leader and closely connected to Chief Garba. The guards didn't dare touch him.

His reputation, his connections, protected him for now. The guards looked to me, uncertain, their hands tightening on their weapons.

No wahala. I will do it myself.

If no one else had the courage, then I would be the one to finish this. My hands have always been the ones to settle scores.

I stabbed at Musa Danjuma without hesitation. The moment my knife touched him, something heavy struck my neck, and darkness swallowed me.

The pain was sudden, shocking. A blow to the back of my neck, hard as a pestle. My knife clattered to the floor. I fell, heavy, into darkness, memories and regrets chasing me into the void.