stiny?
—I did not, Auntie. I ran away because I was afraid.
—Afraid? Ronke hissed. You should have been afraid long ago.
The pot had been heating for garri water. Ronke lifted it while Biola stood by the doorway, smiling with wet eyes full of hatred.
—Let me see how the prince will look for you again.
Amina staggered backward. The hot splash caught her cheek, neck, and shoulder. She fell to the floor, choking on her own scream.
That night, Ronke wrapped the burns with rough cloth and locked Amina in the storeroom. In the morning, while drums called the maidens to the royal field, Amina waited until the house emptied. Painfully, she covered her face with a long black veil and slipped out, wanting only to see the ceremony from the crowd.
But when Crown Prince Adewale scanned the field, ignored Biola’s practiced smile, and walked straight toward the veiled girl at the back, Amina knew the disaster had followed her.
Part 2
The whole royal field fell silent as Adewale stopped before the girl hiding behind the neem tree. Biola froze with her painted lips half open, her curtsy unfinished, while Ronke gripped the edge of her expensive wrapper as if the ground had moved beneath her. Amina lowered her head, wishing the red earth would swallow her before anyone recognized her.
—Please, my prince, return to the other maidens.
—You are the girl from the farm road.
—I am not fit to stand here.
—Who decided that?
The question cut through her. Adewale did not sound amused or disgusted. He sounded angry for her. When he reached for the veil, he paused and waited for permission. That small kindness broke something inside Amina. With trembling fingers, she loosened the cloth. Gasps rose like wind. The left side of her face was swollen and blistered, her neck badly marked, her shoulder stiff beneath the borrowed wrapper. Biola quickly cried out.
—She did it to herself! She wanted pity from you!
Ronke joined at once, falling to her knees with fake tears.
—My prince, this girl has always been stubborn. I warned her not to cook carelessly. She is blaming my family because she wants to disgrace us.
Adewale did not look away from Amina.
—Tell me the truth.
Amina’s lips shook. For years, silence had kept her alive. But silence had also fed Ronke’s power.
—Auntie Ronke poured hot water on me last night because you asked my name. Biola watched.
The crowd erupted. Ronke screamed that Amina was possessed by jealousy. Biola rushed forward and slapped Amina so hard the veil fell completely.
—Liar! You orphan rat!
Before the palace guards could move, an old pepper seller named Mama Ireti pushed through the crowd with 2 village women behind her.
—She is not lying. We have seen this child carrying water at midnight. We have seen her sleeping beside the kitchen. We kept quiet because Madam Ronke feeds the church elders.
Ronke turned pale. Adewale ordered the guards to hold both mother and daughter. Then his father’s chief adviser, Chief Balogun, stepped forward with a sealed brown envelope.
—My prince, there is another matter. This was sent to the palace this morning by the late Mr. Bello’s lawyer in Ilorin. It concerns the orphan girl.
Ronke screamed before the envelope was even opened.
—That paper is fake!
Her panic betrayed her. Chief Balogun read aloud that Amina’s father had left her 3 plots of land, a small palm oil mill, and savings kept in trust until she turned 18. The guardian named to protect it was Ronke. Instead, Ronke had sold 1 plot, seized the mill, and used the money to build the very house where Amina had been treated like a slave. Amina swayed as if struck a second time. She had not been poor by fate alone. She had been made poor by family. Adewale’s voice became cold enough to quiet the field.
—Take them to the palace court.
Ronke began begging, crawling toward Amina.
—My child, forgive me. I was only trying to raise you.
But Amina looked at her burned hands, then at the prince who had chosen to hear her, and whispered the sentence that turned the whole village against Ronke forever.
—You did not raise me. You buried me and called it care.
