ADEBIMPE (Episode 2)

I did not sleep well that night.

The servants’ quarters were quiet, but my mind was not. Every sound the rustle of cloth, the cough of an old woman, the distant footsteps of guards felt louder than fear. By dawn, my eyes burned, yet sleep refused to return. When the first rooster crowed, I was already sitting upright, my back against the wall, waiting for whatever the palace would demand of me next.

It was Iya Morounkeji who called my name.

“Adebimpe,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Get up. You will serve the prince this morning.”

My heart skipped. The prince. I had heard the servants whisper his name like a prayer and a warning in the same breath. I scrambled to my feet, washed my face with cold water, and tied my wrapper tighter around my waist. My hands shook as I lifted the tray—fine china cup, steaming coffee, a small silver spoon placed just so.

As we walked down the corridor toward his chambers, Iya Morounkeji did not look at me.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “You will knock. You will bow. You will not speak unless spoken to. And whatever you see or hear in that room, you will carry it like a stone in your stomach. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Iya,” I whispered.

She stopped in front of a tall wooden door carved with symbols I did not understand. For a moment, she placed her hand lightly on my arm. It was brief, but it carried weight.

“May the ancestors steady your feet,” she murmured, then stepped away.

I swallowed hard and knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said from inside calm, deep, unhurried.

I pushed the door open and entered.

The prince’s chamber was nothing like the servants’ quarters. The air smelled of sandalwood and quiet power. Light filtered in through wide windows, falling softly across carved furniture and woven mats. The prince stood near a table, dressed simply, his back straight, his presence filling the room without effort.

I bowed low, just as I had been taught, my eyes fixed on the floor.

“Your morning coffee, my prince,” I said, my voice barely holding together.

As I stepped forward to place the cup before him, I felt it that heavy awareness, like heat on skin. He was looking at me. Not the quick glance servants usually received, but a steady, searching stare that made my chest tighten.

I straightened slowly, careful not to meet his eyes too quickly. But when I did, our gazes locked.

For a moment, the room felt smaller.

“Are you new?” he asked.

“Yes, my prince,” I replied. “I arrived yesterday.”

He did not immediately turn away. His eyes traced my face not with hunger, not with cruelty, but with curiosity that unsettled me more than either would have. I felt exposed, as though my past, my village, my mother’s voice were written plainly on my skin.

“What is your name?” he asked.

I hesitated. Names mattered here. Names could be taken, reshaped, erased.

“Adebimpe, my prince.”

“Adebimpe,” he repeated softly, tasting the word. “It means ‘the one born to be complete,’ does it not?”

I blinked, surprised. “Yes, my prince.”

A faint smile touched his lips, then disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You may go,” he said.

I bowed again, deeper this time, and turned to leave. My legs felt weak as I reached the door, but before my hand touched the wood, his voice stopped me.

“Look at me.”

I froze, then slowly turned.

“Serve well,” he said. “The palace can be unkind to those who lose themselves too quickly.”

“I will, my prince,” I answered, though I was not sure what part of myself I still possessed to lose.

When I stepped back into the corridor, my breath came out in a rush I had not realized I was holding. Iya Morounkeji waited for me at the far end. She studied my face carefully.

“You are still whole,” she said quietly. “That is good.”

As I followed her away, I knew something had shifted. The prince had looked at me not as furniture, not as dust beneath his feet, but as a person he chose to remember.

And in a palace built on power and silence, being remembered was both a gift and a danger.

Continue reading Episode 3