Here I am, taking a deep breath as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. Being born pretty might be both a curse and a blessing, but for me, it has always been the former. Since the day I was born, I've been paraded around like a trophy, exploited by my father, and today, I will be sold off to King Shakale Apara.
The stories I've heard about King Apara are chilling. The maids whisper when they think no one is listening, and the women compare his power to that of their husbands, often in hushed tones of fear and awe. He lives up to his fearsome reputation. All his past wives have not lasted more than three days before being declared dead. I am to be his fifth wife, another addition to his macabre collection of the doomed
As I turn to look at my personal maids, Yinka and Shola, I see the pity and fear etched in their eyes. They've heard the stories too—tales of how the personal maids of the late queens met their fates, either thrown to feed the lions, hanged, or handed over to the lowest scum among his guards.
Yinka, the chubbier and more outspoken one, steps forward. "Princess Orode, it is time. The people from your soon-to-be husband's family are here to pick you up," she says, her voice laced with trepidation.
I'm not surprised. Who in their right mind would personally come to collect their bride, who is practically a bride-to-be? Especially for someone like King Apara, whose very name instills fear in souls, whose wealth is immeasurable, and whose presence makes even the bravest shudder.
I glance around, noticing that most of my belongings have already been claimed by my half-siblings and the concubines. They couldn't even wait for my departure, seizing their share of my possessions, as if I were already gone.
As I step out of my room, my maids trailing three steps behind me, I make up my mind. If I am to face this fate, I will do so with my head held high. I hear the voice of my father, or rather the man who contributed to my existence, echoing down the hallway. King Adesanya Akin, a man who would not hesitate to sell his wives and children for profit. I spit on the ground in disgust. He is worse than the beggars on the street, a man with no backbone, who calls himself a king.
My grandfather, the former king, would surely turn in his grave if he knew what his precious son had done to our kingdom. As I approach the door leading to my future, I hear the laughter and chatter of those who have come to bid me farewell, though it feels more like a celebration of my impending demise.
Determined, I decide that I will not go quietly. If I am to be a pawn in this twisted game, I will at least speak my mind, a last act of defiance before I am led to my fate.