Chapter 7: No More Mercy

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Before, na this kind play dey catch Obiora.

We used to laugh under the moon, daring each other to acts of mischief. He pretended to be shy, but I knew how to light the fire.

He gentle, but once you wake am, he fit wild. When he dey moved, he no dey talk, but body go hot, face go red like say generator dey overheat.

He always pretended to be composed, but a touch—just so—could set him ablaze. The village girls used to say, “That one, if he love you, e go burn like bush fire.”

I sabi say his face fit deceive, but body no dey lie.

His eyes could say no, but his hands, his lips—never.

Before I come, I dey tell myself say me and Obiora no get big beef. Maybe if he see me, old love go still dey.

Hope fluttered in my chest. Maybe I could remind him of our old laughter, our stolen kisses behind the yam barn.

But I miss road.

Reality bit. Obiora’s face was all ice now. I had underestimated how deep old wounds could run.

Obiora look me, no be with joy of seeing old flame, but with cold, dead eyes.

His stare pierced me, colder than river water at dawn. I felt stripped bare.

Everywhere quiet, only the wind dey pass.

Outside, the harmattan wind howled, as if echoing the silence between us. I shivered.

After long silence, he ask, "You dey enjoy this thing?"

His voice cut sharp, accusing. My heart thudded painfully.

My body just cold, I weak, confuse.

A chill ran down my spine. For the first time, I doubted myself.

Obiora just stand up, turn his back.

He stood, shoulders tense, and walked to the window. The moonlight painted silver lines on his back.

"When you come back?"

His voice was low, almost lost to the wind. He didn’t turn to face me.

I no sure wetin he mean, so I answer, "One month ago."

My words sounded small in the big room. The truth hung between us.

"One month," he scoff, like say something dey his mind, "very good."

He spoke as if spitting out bitter kola. His anger brewed deep.

I no understand wetin he dey talk.

His meaning tangled, lost in old pain. My mind scrambled for understanding.

I ask, "Obiora, wetin dey do you?"

I reached for him, desperate for a glimpse of the boy I knew.

He no look me, just correct me coldly: "Now you suppose dey call me Your Majesty."

The old rules pressed down. I swallowed, remembering my place.

I shock.

It stung, the distance between us suddenly miles wide. I clenched my fists, searching for courage.

He sit for desk, voice flat: "Why you come meet me?"

His question was simple, but the answer complicated. My lips trembled.

I wait small, then talk.

My voice barely above a whisper, I forced out the words.

"My brother…"

The plea in my voice was naked, raw. Everything else fell away.

"You come beg for Tunde?" he sneer, lip twist, "You get any right?"

He spat the words, bitterness sharp. The mention of my brother brought out old grievances.

My throat dry. I no fit answer.

I bit my lip till I tasted blood. My whole body trembled, but I would not cry.

After small time, I harden my mind: "…If Your Majesty go free my brother, this your chief’s daughter ready do anything."

My voice found its backbone. I looked him in the eye, letting him see the Adekunle stubbornness in my bones.

"Anything?"

His eyes lit up with challenge. I knew the game had changed.

Obiora suddenly turn, carry me, press me for pillar.

My breath whooshed out. His hands gripped my waist, pinning me to the cold marble pillar. The world narrowed to the space between our faces.

My back cold die. Window near me never close well, I fit see the royal garden—guinea fowl scratching under the moon, wet stones shining from the evening rain.

Goosebumps rose on my skin as I glanced out. The stones, arranged in old tribal patterns, glimmered in moonlight.

Water dey flow, everywhere wet, moss dey ground.

The fountain burbled, the smell of wet earth filling the air. My senses sharpened, every detail etched into memory.

Before, we close, now he be stranger.

This was not the Obiora I once knew. He had grown, hardened by power and loneliness.

His face, did e always get this kind shadow? His lips, did e always pale? His eyes, did e always get this kind hate?

I searched his face for the boy I loved, but only found the shadow of a king.

Looks like I miss plenty things.

Three years apart had turned us into strangers wearing old skins.

As I no look, Obiora don grow like big iroko, him shadow fit lock me inside.

He stood over me, presence heavy, a king in every sense. I felt small—unusual for me.

Next thing, Obiora lean close, I close eyes, dodge.

My breath caught, waiting for the touch that never came. My lips tingled with anticipation and fear.

Long time, only wind dey pass, even air freeze.

The world paused, only the wind whispering secrets through the cracks.

No warmth for my lips.

Instead, the cold lingered, sharp as broken glass.

Only small mocking breath touch my face.

He exhaled, a hint of laughter in his breath, the air heavy with things unsaid.

I open eyes, think say I see pain flash for Obiora cold face.

Just for a moment, I glimpsed the hurt—old, deep, bleeding.

"Na this kind thing join?"

His voice broke, pain and pride fighting for space. Outside, the wind howled—inside, only our old wounds answered.