"In the lands between the Niger and the Kaduna, thrones were never inherited without blood. The Nupe crown passed through warriors and kings, some remembered as saviors, others as tyrants. The old tales speak of Tsoede — the great uniter — but centuries later, another would rise to shape the fate of the kingdom.
His name was Muhammadu Manko. Through battle, cunning, and the will of iron, he seized the crown and forged a new royal line — one that would endure wars, colonial shadows, and the turning of generations.
From his bloodline came princes and Etsus, and among them stands Etsu Bubakar — heir to Manko's throne, master of the lion's courage and the serpent's guile."
___
Bida Palace. Early morning.
Drums boom in slow rhythm across the courtyard. Not the drums of war, nor of festival, but the drums of punishment.
Four palace guards carry Bubakar, wrists bound, his shirt torn away so his bare back faces the rising sun. He is sixteen, perhaps seventeen — his body lean with youth, his eyes sharp with defiance.
The courtyard is full: nobles, soldiers, servants. All watching. All whispering.
The boy-prince is no stranger to trouble.
They drop him to his knees at the center.
A leather whip cracks the air. The first blow lands across his back.
Gasps ripple through the crowd — but Bubakar doesn't flinch. His jaw tightens, and his lips curl, not in pain, but in something like a smirk.
Another blow. The skin breaks. Blood trickles. Still, his eyes stay fixed — not on the ground, but on the high dais, where the Etsu sits in judgment.
The third blow. He breathes sharply, but instead of crying out, he speaks through gritted teeth:
Bubakar (prideful, defiant):
"Is this the measure of a prince? To be whipped like a goat in the market?"
A murmur spreads through the crowd. The guards hesitate.
The Etsu raises a hand. Silence falls. His gaze is cold, but behind it burns calculation.
Etsu:
"You think yourself a man, Bubakar. Yet you fight in alleys, you gamble with commoners, you spit on the discipline of this palace. A lion cub that bares its teeth too early is soon hunted and eaten."
Bubakar raises his head, blood trailing down his back, eyes burning with fierce pride.
Bubakar (smirking):
"Better a lion cub with teeth… than a fat dog that waits for scraps."
Gasps. Some nobles avert their eyes. A few soldiers suppress smiles.
The Etsu leans forward, voice low and deadly.
Etsu:
"Then let us see your teeth."
He stands, raising his staff for all to hear.
Etsu (commanding):
"By dawn, you will ride to the western border. You will serve under your uncle against the Hausa. If you are truly a lion, the battlefield will prove it. If not… the vultures will feed well."
The crowd erupts — shock, murmurs, fear.
The guards release Bubakar. He does not bow, he does not plead.
Instead, he rises to his feet slowly, painfully, the blood streaking his back. He locks eyes with the Etsu, and a fierce, prideful grin spreads across his face.
Bubakar (calm, defiant):
"Then let the vultures come. They will starve."
The drums resume — this time faster, harsher. The boy-prince walks away, his back bleeding, his pride unbroken. The shadow of war awaits.
Western Border — Late Afternoon.
The battlefield churns with chaos — dust clouds, war cries, clashing steel. Spears glint in the sun, horses scream, the air thick with gunpowder and sweat.
Bubakar charges forward with the Nupe warriors, spear in hand. His back still aches from the lashes, but his pride drives him on.
A Hausa foot soldier emerges from the melee — older, broader, eyes cold as iron. Their weapons meet with a ringing crack. Bubakar feels the force jolt up his arms.
They shove, twist, and Bubakar's boots slip in the churned mud. He falls hard to one knee.
The Hausa soldier grins — a predator's grin — and raises his blade for the killing strike.
---
FLASHBACK — The Day Before.
Bubakar's mother sits in her quarters, the oil lamp casting soft shadows. She cups his face in her hands, eyes brimming.
Mother (voice trembling):
"You are my son, but you are also the son of this land. The palace hides you from hunger, from the cold… but out there…"
Her voice falters. She forces herself to go on.
Mother:
"…out there, the earth drinks blood, and the wind carries the names of the dead. I do not want your name among them."
Bubakar tries to smirk, but her hands grip tighter.
Mother:
"Promise me you will fight to return."
Bubakar (quiet, after a pause):
"I promise."
---
FLASHBACK — Arrival at the Border.
The Nupe war camp is a sea of spears and tents under a fading sun. Bubakar rides beside his uncle, a man carved from battle and years of command.
They dismount. Bubakar's eyes dart to the distant hills where smoke curls skyward.
Uncle (without looking at him):
"War is not about killing, Bubakar. It is about deciding who will be remembered tomorrow. Some fight for glory, some for land… the wise fight so their people have a tomorrow at all."
Boy… steel is not forged by fire alone. It must endure the hammer, again and again. Today, the hammer is the Hausa. Stand, and let them shape you… or break you."
He turns, locking eyes with him.
Uncle:
"A fool thinks the battlefield is a place to prove himself. A wise man knows it is a place to survive."
Bubakar's grip on his spear tightens.
---
CUT BACK TO BATTLEFIELD — Present.
The Hausa soldier steps in, blade swinging down.
Uncle (off-screen, shouting above the chaos):
"BUBAKAR!"
The voice jolts him. His uncle's words echo in his mind: A wise man knows it is a place to survive.
Bubakar twists, the blade grazing past his cheek. His promise to his mother roars in his head.
Bubakar (snarling under his breath):
"I said I'd return."
He surges upward, driving his spear into the soldier's side. The man stumbles back, shock in his eyes.
Bubakar rises, blood and dust streaking his face, his grin fierce and prideful — the grin of a cub tasting his first kill.
He throws back his head and roars:
"MI LA TSUA NYA" (I will not die before I am finished!)
The words strike the Nupe warriors like a drumbeat from the gods. Swords lift higher, shields slam forward, and men who moments ago faltered now push into the Hausa lines with renewed fury.
Some shout his cry back into the fray.
---
From his horse, the uncle watches — a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Uncle (to himself, low):
"Hmm… this boy has the fire. Not bad… pretty good for your first match, boy."
He spurs his mount forward, disappearing into the chaos — but in his mind, the image of Bubakar standing bloodied and unbowed lingers.