The first rays of dawn had barely touched the clay rooftops when the palace women entered my chamber. They carried clay bowls of water scented with nard and leaves of jatropha, their faces solemn, their steps deliberate.
Today, there could be no delay.
They bathed me in silence, rubbing my skin with camwood until it glowed bronze, until there was nothing left of the girl who had wept for twenty-nine days. When I was dry, an old woman entered, her face lined with more years than I could count. I had seen her only once before — on the day my father was crowned.
Without a word, she took her seat on the floor and opened a small calabash of dye. Its smell was sharp, bitter, a mix of ash and herbs.
"This is the ink of kings, you must sit still," she murmured without looking at me. "The markings of a royal must never waver."
The room was enveloped in silence
once again, until her voice like dried palm leaves in the wind filled the room once more
"I drew it on the skin of the Askia
Ishaq who took the throne in a season of famine and made the grain stores overflow. My mother marked the brow of Askia Ishaq the first, before he prevailed over Kastina. Your line has never broken, child. Not once."
Her fingers were steady as she painted the markings — spirals, lines, the small crescent that signified royal blood — across my arms, my brow, the curve of my collarbone.
"Your great great grand-uncle, Sarki Jarmah," she went on, dipping her brush
again, "had no son, no daughter, yet he ruled twenty-seven rains and never once lost a battle. They called him MaiKarfi, the Mighty One, for he crushed the rebellion in the western hills with only a hundred men."
I closed my eyes as she spoke, imagining them all: my father, my grandfather, MaiKarfi — each of them walking the passage I would soon take, each of them facing the council with the weight of Uzazzu on their shoulders.
What would be said of me once I take the throne? What will my people remember me for?
When she was finished, they dressed me.
The wrapper they bound about me was black silk shot through with threads of
gold, heavy as if it carried the grief of every woman who had ever lost a king. A beaded girdle was tied around my waist, its weight a reminder that today was no ordinary day. My hair was oiled and twisted into a high knot, pinned with a single carved ivory comb.
When they stepped back, I no longer recognized myself.
~~~
Outside, the air was cool. The sound of drums floated through the still-misty morning — slow, steady, heartbeat-like.
"Will you eat something, Gimbiya?" Nala asked softly.
I shook my head. "I have not eaten since the twenty-first day. Let it be so."
Her face tightened but she said nothing. She knew me too well to argue.
I stood for a moment, letting the air fill my lungs. "Today is early," I said. "The council will not gather until the sun climbs high, yet I will go before them. I will be the first to step into the day."
Nala nodded but did not follow as I turned toward the narrow entrance at the end of the hall. She did not have to be told — the passage was not for her.
I placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently. "Wait for me here."
Her eyes shone with pride and worry as she nodded.
The passage swallowed me in darkness.
Here, the air was colder, carrying the smell of stone and ancient dust. My barefoot struck the ground like it remembered the earth which it was formed from, every step echoed like a drumbeat in my ears. Its walls cool under my fingertips as I trailed them along the clay. It had always felt like stepping into another world — a world that only blood of the royal house could enter.
There they were — every king before me, etched onto the carved walls.
My father, Askia Ishaq II, his likeness still fresh, his face proud, lips set in that way I remembered from childhood. Beside him, my grandfather, his features harsher, his crown carved with three spikes. And further back,MaiKarfi himself, sword raised, his eyes staring straight into mine as though
asking whether I was worthy to walk here.
I slowed, my fingers brushing the cold carvings.
"They say no king h ever turned back once he walked this passage," I whispered. "Not one."
To be crowned king of Uzazzu one must first pass through certain rituals and meet the expectations of the council, before being presented to the people.
The oil poured on the king's brow, the goat sacrificed at the altar, the first three steps he must take barefoot on hot stones while carrying one himself before the council before they proclaimed him rightful ruler and he was presented to the people at the town square.
I wondered if I would be able to overcome these trials like my anscestors once did.
Could I lift up that stone and take my first three steps in confidence?
A strange shiver ran down my spine.
I reached the end of the passage, my pulse thundering. I could already hear the muffled sound of voices in the throne room. It seems even the council had gathered much earlier than I had expected.
I took a breath, pushed the door open, and stepped into the hall.
The light hit me first — brilliant, golden, flooding the throne room.
The room was not empty.
At first, I thought I was mistaken — the figure seated on the great throne was too familiar. His shoulders, broad but slumped with weariness. His hands, scarred from battle, gripping the armrests as though holding himself in place.
My breath caught.
He did not look at me.
The hall was too quiet. Even the courtiers who stood nearby did not speak. The Madawaki and Waziri stood at the foot of the dais, their faces grave.
Only Idris moved — and when he did, it was to lift his head and meet my gaze with eyes that seemed older than the war itself.
The throne — our father's throne — framed him like a crown he had not asked for, but one he had taken nonetheless.
"Idris?" I heard myself finally say