Chapter 5: The Mask Slips

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Cold harmattan breeze slap window, frame just dey shake.

A sudden gust rattled the glass, dust swirling around the lamp flame. My hair prickled at my neck as the cold seeped in.

Obiora look me with cold, red eyes.

I could see the old hurt in his gaze—pain sharp as broken glass. The hurt I put there.

As I dey look am, I dey think of plan.

My mind raced, searching for a way to turn the tide. Maybe if I make him remember old times, he go soften.

Before I fit talk, Obiora loose me.

His hand dropped, the space between us suddenly wide. I almost stumbled from the force of letting go.

He just free my hand, face calm like nothing happen.

He schooled his face into royal calm, but I saw his jaw clench.

"Nothing."

His voice was too quiet. I caught the ghost of old laughter dying in his eyes.

My hand still dey midair before I drop am gently. "Which old friend Your Majesty think say I be?"

I lowered my hand slowly, voice light, but my heart in my throat. I prayed he would not see through my mask.

Na overstep I dey do.

I knew the line between daring and foolish was thin, but desperation pushed me forward.

Obiora pause, then laugh small, cold.

The laugh chilled the air more than the harmattan. It was not laughter for joy, but for wounded pride.

"Old friend?" He scoff. "More like ungrateful goat."

His words stabbed. Shame burned my cheeks. I could only swallow and wait.

I turn my face away, shame dey catch me.

I bit my lip, fighting the tears gathering at my lashes. Old wounds reopened.

Obiora look me: "Wetin do you, you dey sick?"

His tone shifted, just a notch, concern peeking through the cracks of his pride.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," I cough small, still dey hide my voice, "this maid just no sleep well, head dey pain me."

I forced a cough, lowering my eyes. Old palace tricks—sometimes, weakness made people drop their guard.

He no ask again, voice cold like night breeze: "Then you no need serve here."

His dismissal stung. The door behind me felt like a cliff. But I steeled myself—leaving was not an option.

I stand.

I straightened my wrapper, squared my shoulders. My grandmother’s spirit pushed me on.

No way.

No retreat, no surrender. I refused to back down.

I no fit just go like that.

Tunde’s face flashed in my mind, and I felt a surge of boldness.

As I need something from am, I gats humble myself.

I took a shaky breath, lowering my head, letting humility lead where pride failed.

I raise small part of my veil, move near am, put hand for his shoulder, bend over.

My fingers brushed his shoulder. My veil slipped, and for the first time, he saw my eyes clear.

His eyes wide, shock catch am. Next thing, my lips (through the veil) brush his cheek.

The veil muffled the touch, but I felt the heat of his skin. My heart leaped into my throat.

Just quick touch.

It was over in a breath, but something electric passed between us.

I call him name.

I whispered it, letting the years fall away.

This time, I no hide my voice.

The old Morayo returned—bold, reckless.

I call am: "Obi."

Obiora froze, the old nickname hanging in the air like thunder before rain. His jaw worked, but no words came.