Chapter 4: Begging the King

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I lower my voice, kneel small.

My knees touched the rug. I adjusted my wrapper, letting humility sit on me like an old friend. I steadied my voice, hoping it wouldn’t shake.

"...This maid dey under order to serve His Majesty."

My words floated, as careful as a courtier’s bow. I dropped my gaze, hoping he wouldn’t see my fear.

He sigh, rub him forehead, talk with tired, vexed voice: "Na mama send you come, abi?"

He sounded so weary, the voice of a king who never rested. I could almost see the lines etching deeper into his forehead with every sigh. His mother, the dowager queen, was famous for her matchmaking.

I no deny.

I squeezed my fingers tight, the truth sitting heavy between us. My silence said more than words.

Na him talk am, no be me lie.

He read me like old newspaper, his eyes sharp as razor blade. I wished I could disappear into the floor.

As I keep quiet, Obiora take it as yes.

I nodded, barely, my head low. The curtain between us felt like thin air now.

"I don talk before, no need to waste time again."

He sounded fed up. The words dropped like stones. My heart sank.

I bow lower, no talk anything.

My forehead nearly touched the ground. My grandmother always said, "Pride go kill you, Morayo." Tonight, I left pride at home.

Obiora stand small, maybe think say to talk to me no get sense, then turn go.

He stood, his shadow looming tall, and for a second, I thought he would walk out. The silence was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the lamp.

"Forget it."

His words whipped the air. Pain flared in my chest. Was this all for nothing?

He sigh, walk go sit alone for the writing desk.

The chair scraped on the tiled floor. Obiora’s head dropped to his hands. I saw the exhaustion in the curve of his shoulders.

Candle dey flicker, give everywhere warm light.

The golden light softened the room, making the royal blue of the walls glow like the evening sky. Shadows danced on the ceiling—silent witnesses to our old love.

Obiora just dey inside that light. I look am from behind curtain, my heart dey do one kind, like homesickness.

That feeling—a longing for something lost, something maybe never to return. The room felt both too big and too small for the two of us.

After I wait, I still waka go meet am.

I forced my legs to move, every step an act of will. My breath slowed, gathering courage from the spirits of my ancestors.

Obiora no look back.

His pen scratched paper, but I knew he felt me behind him. His shoulders tensed, his head cocked just slightly.

Him dey write, council papers dey pile like small mountain by him side.

I saw the signatures, the wax seals. The affairs of the kingdom on his desk, but my brother’s fate on my tongue.

Dem dey talk say he wise king, God bless am, get both soft and strong hand.

Even my father grudgingly admired Obiora—"That boy sabi manage both sugar and pepper," he once said.

If he get wahala, na just say he no get many children.

The elders gossiped, but I knew the truth. Obiora’s legacy was not in sons, but in his stubborn heart.

Obiora wey I dey look now, him back straight, even look thinner than before.

He looked tired, stretched thin by duty. My heart squeezed—was this my fault?

I dey look am, my mind just dey wander, na so Obiora suddenly talk: "Why you dey stand there?"

His voice startled me from my thoughts. I blinked, gathering my courage for the next move.

I compose myself, remember why I dey here.

I straightened my back, recalling my mother’s words—"If you wan beg, beg with full chest."

I must seduce am, make him remember old feelings, free my brother.

I tried to remember every trick—every smile, every touch—that used to work on Obiora. I swallowed fear, determined.

Na only way for my brother to survive.

Tunde’s laughter, his teasing, his stubbornness—he depended on me now. I could not fail.

I gently touch Obiora for temple.

My hand trembled as I reached out, fingers brushing the fine hairs at his temple, just like I used to do when he had headaches after studying too long.

The ink under his pen just scatter.

His hand jerked, black ink splattering across the paper. The mistake looked like a small thundercloud on the white sheet.

"Wetin happen?"

His eyes flashed, but I saw a glimmer of confusion. Had he guessed already?

"Your Majesty, you dey busy with work," I answer soft, "this maid sabi small massage, fit help Your Majesty relax."

My voice took on a lilt, the way old palace women taught us. I let my fingers trail from his temple down his neck, gentle but sure.

Obiora no even refuse.

He let me, and for a heartbeat, his eyes closed. I recognized that surrender, even if his pride would never allow him say it.

See this guy.

He always liked to pretend he was immune to pleasure. I had to hide my smile.

He dey form pure, but nobody holy reach am.

Not even the king. His skin shivered under my touch—truth hiding beneath royal robes.

As I press the points, my hand strong pass normal.

I remembered the pressure points, the ones his mother showed me years ago. My fingers dug in, easing out the tension in his muscles.

Obiora just hiss.

His breath came sharp, but he tried to cover it with a cough. My lips twitched.

I quick remove my hand.

I pulled away, giving him space, feigning innocence. The trick always worked before.

Obiora turn, grab my wrist, eyes sharp.

His grip was iron, eyes boring into mine. My pulse fluttered.

"These your eyes... I feel say I don see am before."

His words were soft, suspicion blooming. I tried to hide the tremble in my voice, but my heart was beating fast—like ogene drum at festival time.