RINCESS ADJOA
The palace was no longer safe.
Princess Adjoa felt it in her bones the moment she stepped out of her mother's chamber. The air itself felt different—thicker, heavier, as though secrets now had weight. The walls that once felt protective seemed to lean closer, listening, remembering.
Every corridor stretched longer than usual.
Every servant's greeting sounded forced.
Every bowed head felt like judgment waiting for permission to rise.
Time was no longer on their side.
Her mother's fear had soaked into her skin like dye. Queen Owusu was unraveling, thread by careful thread, and Adjoa knew how such stories ended. When a queen began to crack, vultures circled. Elders whispered behind folded hands. Councils sharpened their tongues and called it tradition.
If she delayed, her mother would fall.
And when her mother fell, she would not fall alone.
Adjoa would be dragged down with her—stripped of dignity, stripped of power, stripped of a future she had been groomed for since birth. The crown she had been raised to protect would become the blade that cut her.
That was why she chose to go alone.
No guards.
No attendants.
No royal carriage.
She dressed like a woman without a name. Her royal beads were hidden beneath a simple cloth. Her wrists were bare. Her ears undecorated. She wrapped her hair in plain fabric, the kind market women used, and deliberately avoided mirrors. She did not want to see the princess in herself. Not today.
The palace must not know where she went.
If anyone followed her, if anyone suspected, the truth would rise faster than fire during harmattan—uncontrollable, unforgiving, leaving nothing untouched.
The hired vehicle dropped her far from the palace grounds. She walked the remaining distance alone, dust clinging to her sandals, sweat gathering at her spine. Each step felt like rebellion. Each breath felt stolen.
The motherless baby home stood beyond the noise of the city, tucked between tired buildings and neglected land—a place the powerful remembered only when guilt demanded charity.
Nyame Nhyira Motherless Babies Home.
God's blessing.
Adjoa paused at the gate, staring at the faded sign. The paint was peeling. Rust clung stubbornly to the metal bars. Inside, children's voices rose and fell—laughter, crying, arguments, songs sung without rhythm but filled with life.
The sound pierced her chest.
These children had nothing.
No crowns.
No palaces.
No protection.
Yet they lived.
She inhaled slowly and stepped inside.
A young caregiver led her through the compound. Children ran past her, barefoot, their clothes mismatched but clean. One small girl bumped into her and quickly apologized, eyes wide. Adjoa smiled gently, her chest tightening.
If only life were this simple, she thought. If only innocence could protect itself.
The founder's office was small and poorly ventilated. The walls were lined with children's drawings—stick figures holding hands, crooked suns, houses with no doors. Certificates hung unevenly, some yellowed with age, their frames cracked but carefully dusted.
The founder stood the moment she entered.
Mr. Kwame Bediako.
He was in his late fifties, tall but slightly bent, his face marked by years of sacrifice. His eyes carried the tired patience of a man who had learned to beg without pride, to hope without expectation.
He had not expected royalty.
When Adjoa removed her head covering, his breath caught.
"My… my lady?" he stammered, scrambling to his feet. "Princess Adjoa?"
She raised her hand gently. "Please, sit. I am not here as a princess today."
That alone unsettled him more than her presence. He obeyed slowly, his hands shaking as he adjusted his chair.
They sat across from each other, a small wooden desk between them.
Adjoa studied him before speaking. She needed to understand the man before she trusted him with her mother's life. His eyes were honest. Tired, but honest.
"Tell me," she said calmly, "what are the needs of this home?"
Kwame released a long breath, relief washing over his face. This was familiar ground. This was suffering he could explain without fear.
"My lady," he began, rubbing his palms together, "food alone costs us millions every year. Sometimes the children eat twice a day instead of three. The roof leaks when the rain comes, and some nights we must move the children to avoid water falling on them. The dormitories are crowded. Medicine is never enough. We owe suppliers. Teachers threaten to leave because they have families too."
His voice softened. "We need at least twenty million cedis to stabilize things properly."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "And even that will only buy us time."
Adjoa nodded slowly, absorbing every word. Each sentence felt like an accusation against her world of gold and excess.
"Is that all?" she asked.
Kwame blinked. "My lady?"
She leaned back slightly, folding her hands. "I will double it."
The room went silent.
Kwame's mouth opened, then closed. His chair scraped loudly as he stood abruptly.
"Ancestors!" he exclaimed, tears filling his eyes. "Princess, may the gods bless you! May your womb—"
She raised her hand.
"Sit," she said.
Her voice was calm, but something had shifted.
The warmth drained from the room, replaced by something colder, sharper. Kwame felt it immediately and sat down slowly, confusion creasing his brow.
"My lady…" he said carefully. "Did I offend you?"
Adjoa leaned forward, her eyes sharp now, her posture deliberate. "I did not come here only for charity."
Silence fell like a curtain.
Kwame swallowed hard.
"There is something I need from you," she continued. "Something buried twenty years ago."
The air changed.
Kwame's face lost color. His fingers tightened around the arm of his chair as though it were the only thing holding him upright.
Adjoa watched him closely. "I want to talk about Madam Esi Nyarko."
His breath hitched sharply.
"The matron," she added softly.
Kwame sat slowly, as though his legs could no longer support him.
"My lady…" he whispered. "That name… that name is dangerous."
Adjoa's heart pounded violently, but her face remained still. "Why?"
Kwame wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. "Because she left this place in fear. Deep fear. She said the truth would kill her. She said powerful people do not forgive."
Adjoa leaned closer. "Is she alive?"
He hesitated, his eyes darting to the door, then back to her. Finally, he nodded. "Yes. But she is far. Very far. A country where names disappear and memories are buried."
Relief rushed through Adjoa so sharply she had to steady her breathing. She had not realized how tightly she had been holding her breath until that moment.
Kwame continued, his voice trembling. "She told me… if this secret ever surfaced, I should say she died long ago. She begged me to erase her records. To protect myself. To protect the children here."
Adjoa exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of destiny settle on her shoulders.
"That will not be a lie," she said quietly. "It will become history."
Kwame stared at her. "Princess… what exactly are you asking of me?"
"She is dead," Adjoa said firmly. "Fifteen years ago. That is what will be remembered."
Kwame stood abruptly, fear blazing in his eyes. "My lady, this is dangerous. If the palace—if the king—if the elders dig—"
She stood too, matching his height, her voice unshaking.
"They will not touch you," she said. "And if they try, they will face me."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice until it was barely above a whisper. "My mother made a mistake twenty years ago. A terrible one. But she does not deserve disgrace. She does not deserve to be paraded before the council like a criminal while her enemies feast on her shame."
Kwame's hands shook. "You want me to help bury the past."
"Yes," Adjoa replied quietly. "I want you to help me protect my mother."
He shook his head slowly. "This kind of silence costs lives."
She reached into her bag.
Pulled out a cheque.
Placed it gently on the table.
Kwame's breath stopped.
The amount written there made his knees weak.
"My lady…" he whispered. "This… this can change everything."
"It already has," she said softly.
She pushed the cheque closer. "Take it."
He stepped back. "I cannot. Money cannot protect me from kings."
"You are already unprotected," Adjoa replied. "This only gives you a shield."
Silence pressed in around them.
Outside, a child laughed. Another cried. Life continued, indifferent to the fate of queens and secrets.
Kwame's voice cracked. "If I take this… there is no turning back."
Adjoa met his gaze without blinking. "There has never been a turning back."
She turned toward the door.
"Think carefully," she said over her shoulder. "Because if you refuse… others will be approached."
The door closed behind her.
Kwame stood alone, staring at the cheque, his hands trembling.
Outside, Princess Adjoa walked away, her heart pounding, her face calm.
Behind her, a man stood at the edge of a decision that could destroy kingdoms.
And somewhere in the palace, Akosua lived unaware—
that her existence had just been negotiated.
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