They say I was born on the night the moon swallowed the sun.
An eclipse. A rare one.
A sign of power to the priests. A warning to the scholars.
But to my father?
Just another daughter.
"Another girl?" he muttered, adjusting his ceremonial beads with the expression of a man who'd just bitten into unripe mango. "At this rate, we'll soon be marrying off the palace guards too."
Not exactly a warm welcome into the royal house of Adeyemo the Fifth, ruler of Oyo-Moba, Descendant of Oranyan, Protector of the Western Winds—and father of five now six girls.
But then the midwife—Mama Durojaiye, known for surviving a lightning strike, two palace coups, and a particularly disrespectful goat—looked down at me, frowned, and whispered something only the gods heard.
She pressed a kola nut to my lips and muttered,
"She's returned."
"Twice-touched."
"This one… is not just born. She came back."
My mother named me Yetunde—"Mother has returned." A name usually given to a child believed to carry the soul of an ancestor.
Problem was—no one knew which ancestor.
Which, to be fair, tracks. My whole life has been full of unanswered questions and dramatic entrances.
---
How to Raise an Omoaanre (Without Losing Your Mind)
Being Omoaanre—a "kept girl"—sounds romantic until you live it.
No sunlight.
No shoes on earth.
No male contact.
No male voices above a whisper.
You are dressed, cleaned, guarded, and displayed like a royal artifact in a museum no one is allowed to touch.
By age three, I had learned how to sit like a queen, breathe like a dove, and cry without making sound.
By age six, I was already used to hearing:
"No, Yetunde, girls like you don't ask questions."
"Sit with your ankles crossed. No one wants a wife who walks like a goat."
"A woman's silence is her gold."
Newsflash: Gold is heavy. And silence? Even heavier.
---
Palace Life and Early Warnings
By ten, I had read more scrolls on "How to Be a Worthy Wife" than I had ever seen live birds. I knew how to serve tea, flirt without flirting, and dress for six different types of royal events—including "mourning while still looking available."
But something in me was restless.
Some girls wanted romance. Some wanted freedom.
I wanted both—and maybe a bit of revenge. For… something. I didn't know what yet.
Then came the visions.
Flickers of a forest I'd never walked in.
The feeling of cold snow on my feet.
A name—Valerian—echoing in my sleep.
And then… they came.
---
Enter the Foreigners
They arrived one morning with dust on their boots and stiff coats that looked uncomfortable in any weather. Men from the Empire of Saint Liora, pale like chalk, tall like trees, and way too serious to be visiting an African kingdom.
They bowed. They smiled. They presented a scroll.
"His Grace, Lord Marcus Valerian, seeks a wife. A princess of noble blood. One untouched. One kept. One... pure."
I blinked.
"Is he at least cute?"
They hesitated.
"He is… noble."
Ah. So that's a no.
---
And just like that, I was betrothed to a man I'd never met, in a land I'd never seen, for a future I didn't choose.
But something about that name—Marcus Valerian—sent a shiver down my spine.
Not fear.
Recognition.
---
And So It Begins...
As the palace prepared for my departure, I stared out the window—the one I wasn't supposed to look through—and wondered:
What would it feel like to walk on the earth with bare feet?
What if Marcus was the face from my dreams?
What if my death was not the end, but the beginning?
"Yetunde, stop daydreaming!"
"Yes, iya…"
But I didn't stop.
I never do.
Because deep down, even then, I knew:
I was never meant to live one life.
I was born to die…
And rise again.
They said I should feel honored.
That I was chosen.
That to be the first Yoruba princess married to a Lioran noble was "a sign of greatness."
They said my name would be remembered for generations.
No one asked how I felt.
Which was fair, I suppose—since no one had asked for eighteen years.
---
Seven Days Before Departure
"Try not to breathe too hard," the tailor said as she yanked the corset string. "Your husband is foreign. They like their women upright and… snatched."
"So I should look like a tied bundle of yam?" I wheezed.
She didn't laugh. Nobody ever did when I cracked jokes. It's hard to be funny when people expect you to be the nation's virtue in human form.
My chambers buzzed with the chaos of farewell preparations. I had never seen so many gele wrappers, boxes of kola nut, perfume bottles, enchanted beads, and golden bangles in one room.
"You're going to represent all of us," Iya Ewe, my etiquette teacher, reminded me. "Remember: no frowning. No crying. And for the love of Sango, no sarcasm."
"I'll leave my sense of humor at the border," I said, dry as pap left out in the sun.
---
Three Days Before
My sisters gathered in the courtyard with fake smiles and over-polished skin.
They bathed me in omi àdúrà—sacred water infused with herbs and prayers. They sang songs of goodbye and blessing. It was a beautiful moment.
Until my third sister whispered,
"Imagine being married to a man who doesn't even understand Egusi soup. Tragic."
I tried to smile.
But something inside me had already begun to unravel.
It wasn't just fear.
It was… grief.
Not for my family, not even for myself.
But for the girl I was leaving behind.
The quiet one. The obedient one. The untouched one.
She had no idea what was coming.
---
The Night Before I Left
Mama called me into her chambers.
No servants. No formality. Just us. The room smelled of camphor and hibiscus oil.
"You've always been different," she said, smoothing my hair like I was still a baby wrapped in white cloth.
"You hear things no one hears. Dream things no one dreams."
"I named you Yetunde because I knew… someone had returned inside you. And soon, you will remember who."
I opened my mouth to ask—Remember what? Who?
But she just kissed my forehead and whispered:
"There are two lives in you. Live both, daughter. And don't be afraid when one ends."
---
The Morning of Departure
The palace gates opened. Trumpets blared. The people cheered.
I was carried in a gilded litter through the city I had never touched with my feet. My veil was heavy, but not as heavy as my silence.
Beside me, the Lioran envoy rode tall on his pale horse, sweating under the Nigerian sun like a lost ghost.
"Princess Yetunde of Oyo-Moba," he announced, "you will be escorted with honor to the House of Valerian."
"Will I get to eat on the way?" I asked.
He blinked.
"We… have dried fish and spiced bread."
"So prison food. Got it."
I glanced back one last time.
At the towering gates.
At the sacred walls.
At the girl I had been.
And then I faced forward. Toward my death.
And my rebirth.