Akosua
I sat alone in my chamber, wrapped in a silence heavier than sound itself. It was the kind of silence that did not rest—it watched. The night did not merely surround the palace; it pressed against it, thick, patient, and full of judgment, like an elder who had come to listen but had refused to speak.
The lamps flickered softly, their flames bending as though even fire felt the weight of what lay ahead. Shadows stretched across the walls, crawling slowly like memories that refused to die. In that quiet, my heart became loud. Too loud. Each beat echoed in my chest, heavy with years of pain I had never truly allowed myself to feel.
Before me, laid carefully on a folded white cloth, rested the only thing my mother ever left behind.
Gold.
Not common gold.
Not market gold weighed with dirty fingers and hurried bargains.
Not the type hunger could shame into being sold.
This was royal gold.
Ancient.
Intentional.
Heavy with meaning.
It was crafted with precision and authority, marked with symbols that spoke of lineage, power, and bloodlines older than memory itself. Even beneath the weak glow of a single candle, it shimmered—not loudly, not arrogantly, but with a quiet confidence, as though it knew exactly what it was.
I lifted the necklace slowly, almost fearfully, as if it might speak once touched. My fingers traced the delicate carvings, each line etched with mastery only palace craftsmen possessed. This was not gold made only to be admired. This was gold made to announce identity.
"This is all I know of you," I whispered, my voice trembling as my throat tightened.
"All I have."
Growing up, I did not understand its weight. I only understood Maame Abena Owusu voice—firm, fearful, and heavy with warning. That voice followed me from childhood into womanhood, never loosening its grip.
"Never sell this, Akosua," she had said one evening when hunger had driven tears down my face. She pressed the necklace into my small palm as though placing a destiny there.
"Even if your stomach cries. Even if the world closes its doors against you. This is not for survival. This is for who you are."
Years later, when I learned its true value, my breath had left me.
Over seven million, six hundred thousand Ghana cedis.
I had laughed then.
A hollow laugh.
The kind that comes from disbelief.
The kind that breaks instead of heals.
Can a poor woman leave this behind?
Can a nobody give what only royalty wears?
My chest tightened as I pressed the necklace against my heart. The metal felt cool, yet alive.
If my mother owned this…
Then she was not ordinary.
She was not poor.
She was not nameless.
She was royal.
Maame Abena raised me with cracked palms and tired bones. She sold fish at the market near the Abrem Coast, returning home each day with the smell of smoke, salt, and sacrifice clinging to her wrapper. Her hands were rough, her back bent, yet her spirit never bowed. She fed me with sweat, prayer, and stubborn hope.
When I was old enough to ask questions—questions that burned holes in my chest—she finally told me the truth.
"A woman came in the middle of the night," she said quietly, avoiding my eyes.
"No moon. No drums. No witness. She brought you to the motherless babies' home."
My throat had tightened then, just as it did now.
"She said nothing to anyone," Maame Abena continued. "She placed you in the matron's arms, gave her this necklace, and begged her to protect you. When the home could no longer keep you, I took you in. This gold… this was all your mother left."
No name.
No clan.
No family history.
Only gold.
I never sold it—even when hunger gnawed at my bones and poverty mocked me openly. Even when sickness came and money was needed. Even when life stripped me bare and asked me to choose between memory and survival. This necklace was my mother. Selling it would have meant erasing her completely.
Yet the kingdom still called me orphan.
Nobody.
Cursed blood.
Pain piled upon pain.
I remembered building Kofi's empire with my bare hands. The sleepless nights. The ledgers that cut my fingers. The deals I saved. The risks I took. The loyalty I gave without bargaining.
Only to be thrown out.
Insulted.
Mocked before servants.
Erased like a mistake.
Still… I loved him.
Love is strange. It grows even in soil watered with pain.
"Will staying in this kingdom ever bring peace?" I whispered into the silence.
"Or will it only bring chains?"
The question shattered something inside me.
A cry tore from my chest.
"No!"
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Formal. Final.
"Akosua," a voice announced, "by order of Nana Osei Aduro, Supreme King of Asanteman Aduro, you are summoned."
My hands moved without thought.
The necklace.
The royal bracelets Maame Efua gave me.
Wear it.
The moment the gold touched my skin, warmth spread through me—steady, grounding, ancient. My shoulders squared. My spine straightened.
If I must stand before kings, I will not kneel as a lie.
The guards escorted me into the Supreme Palace, their footsteps echoing like judgment drums.
Silence ruled the hall like law.
At the center sat Nana Osei Aduro, Supreme King of Asanteman Aduro, his presence heavy with authority and years of wisdom. Beside him sat Nana Afia Aduro, the Supreme Queen, calm, watchful, and unreadable.
To one side stood Queen Mother Nana Yaa Agyeman, Kofi mother, her eyes sharp as a blade.
Across the chamber stood King Owusu and Queen Owusu, Princess Adjoa's Parents, dignified and composed—yet the moment Queen Owusu's eyes fell on my neck, something broke.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
Her hands trembled slightly before she clenched them together. Slowly, almost unconsciously, she bent her head, her gaze lowering as though staring at a grave she herself had buried too carefully.
I stepped forward.
The gold caught the torchlight.
A ripple moved through the elders.
"My King. My Queen," I bowed deeply. "I greet the stool."
Nana Afia Aduro studied me for a long moment.
"You speak with palace tongue."
"I was raised with dignity, Your Majesty," I replied.
The Supreme King leaned forward.
"Why do you love what tradition has already claimed?"
"My King," I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside me, "love came to me uninvited."
"And your blood?" he asked. "Your lineage?"
"I was left at the motherless babies' home in the dead of night," I answered. "I know no clan. I know only the woman who raised me—Maame Abena of Abrem Coast."
Silence swallowed the hall.
Then King Owusu stepped forward.
"You speak well," he said calmly. "But the gold you wear—this is not common."
His eyes rested on the necklace longer than necessary.
"Tell this court," he continued, "how did such royal gold come into your possession?"
"My King," I answered, "I was told this was given to the matron of the motherless babies' home by my biological mother the night she left me. It was all she left behind."
King Owusu's face remained still—but something shifted deep within him.
A memory stirred.
A night sealed away.
Across the hall, Nana Osei Aduro noticed.
The Supreme King's gaze moved from the gold… to King Owusu's silence… then to Queen Owusu's bowed head.
Then he spoke.
"Akosua," Nana Osei Aduro said gravely, "do you understand the price of this path?"
"Yes, my King."
"Those who broke tradition before you died," he said. "Some by madness. Some by war. Some by the gods' silence."
"I know," I whispered.
"Yet you stand."
"I stand," I said, tears shining, "because I have nothing else to lose."
The Supreme King raised his staff.
"Guards," he commanded, "summon Maame Abena the woman who raised this girl."
My breath caught.
"I will go with them, my King," I said quickly. "She will not come unless I lead them."
He studied me long and hard.
"Go."
As I turned, one truth thundered in my chest—
I was no longer just an orphan.
I was a child left at a motherless babies' home with royal gold.
And destiny had finally begun to speak.