QUEEN OWUSU
The walls of the chamber seemed to close in on Queen Owusu.
Her heart beat like a talking drum—loud, restless, accusing—echoing through her chest and into her ears. She had searched everywhere. She had overturned wooden chests, scattered silk cloths, pushed aside old royal documents and heirlooms. Jewels lay carelessly on the floor, gold chains tangled like snakes.
But the leather pouch was gone.
The pouch.
The one thing she never touched unless her spirit was restless.
Her hands trembled violently as she stood in the middle of the chamber, breath shallow, chest tight. Twenty years. Twenty long years of secrets buried with blood, gold, and silence—now slipping through her fingers like sand.
"No… no… not now," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Ancestors, not now…"
The gold had surfaced.
Akosua.
Alive.
Walking into the palace with her head held high. Wearing that gold. The royal gold that only one man in this kingdom had the right to give.
Alive. Breathing. Looking at her with innocent eyes that carried no idea of the storm she had awakened.
The past had not stayed buried.
And now the proof—the pictures—were gone.
Queen Owusu slammed her palm against the storage chest. Cloths spilled to the floor.
"Where are they?" she hissed. "Where did they go?"
Her knees buckled. She sank heavily onto the floor, clutching her head as sweat gathered along her temples. She could see it clearly in her mind—the pouch had been there. She had checked it that very morning.
But now… nothing.
Fear crept into her bones.
Not the refined fear she had mastered as queen. Not the controlled fear that came with power.
This was raw fear.
Someone had touched her secret.
Someone knew.
The chamber door creaked.
A soft knock followed.
Queen Owusu froze.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart leapt violently, pounding so hard she feared it would betray her. No servant had been summoned. No guard announced. No daughter expected.
The knock came again, louder.
"No…" she whispered, shaking. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her skin.
The door opened slowly.
Princess Adjoa stood at the entrance.
"Mother?" her daughter asked gently, her eyes scanning the room. "What is wrong? Why are you like this?"
Queen Owusu rose too quickly, her movements stiff. Her gaze darted to the scattered cloths, the overturned chest, the empty space where the pouch should have been.
She tried to speak.
Her voice failed her.
Adjoa stepped in fully now. Her eyes followed the disorder in the room, then stopped at the disturbed shelf—the place where something important had once been hidden.
And then—
A memory struck her.
Sharp.
Clear.
She remembered being much younger, standing beside her mother during preparations for a palace celebration. Gold had been spread across a mat—chains, bangles, pendants—each one glowing under the oil lamps. Her small hands had helped lift and compare them, her excitement innocent.
That was when she had noticed it.
A small leather pouch.
Hidden too carefully.
Each time she reached toward it, her mother had gently—but firmly—moved her hand away.
"Not that one," Queen Owusu had said then, too quickly. "Leave it."
The moment had stayed with her.
Children noticed what adults tried to bury.
That same day, the king had summoned Queen Owusu unexpectedly. She had risen in haste, adjusting her wrapper, worry flickering across her face.
"Stay here," she had told Adjoa before leaving.
Curiosity had taken over.
Adjoa had waited.
Then she had reached for the pouch.
She had opened it.
And her world had shifted.
Pictures.
A woman.
Blood.
Two tiny bodies.
Death frozen on parchment.
Fear had wrapped around her chest that day, even as a child. She had not screamed. She had not cried.
She had understood one thing clearly—
If anyone saw this, her mother would fall.
So she had taken the pouch.
Hidden it in her own chamber.
And waited.
Now, standing in the present, Adjoa watched her mother crumble under fear.
Queen Owusu turned suddenly. "I must step out," she said quickly. "The king—"
But Adjoa stepped forward.
"Mother," she said softly. "There is no need."
Queen Owusu stared at her.
Adjoa hesitated, then turned and walked out briefly.
Moments later, she returned.
With the pouch.
Queen Owusu's breath left her body.
Their eyes locked.
Time stopped.
Adjoa opened the pouch.
The pictures slid into her palm.
"Mother…" her voice trembled. "These… are these the ones you are looking for?"
Queen Owusu staggered backward as if struck. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Adjoa lifted her eyes slowly.
"Mother," she whispered, "did you… did you kill them?"
Silence.
Then Queen Owusu nodded.
Once.
Slowly.
"If the job had been done well," she said hoarsely, "Akosua would not be standing in this palace today."
Her voice broke.
"But the men… the men failed me."
Adjoa swallowed hard. "Or they lied."
Queen Owusu froze.
Adjoa held up the pictures. "Mother… what if these were not real? What if they sent you lies and took your gold?"
The room went still.
Queen Owusu's breathing grew uneven.
"The twins," Adjoa whispered. "The gold… all this time…"
Queen Owusu sank onto the bed, suddenly looking older, smaller. She gestured weakly for Adjoa to sit.
"You must hear everything," she said. "All of it."
She swallowed hard.
"I was six months pregnant with you," she began, tears gathering. "Six months. My womb was heavy with you when the news reached me."
Adjoa stiffened.
"The elders—Kofi Mensah and Yaw Boateng—came to me," Queen Owusu continued. "They were the ones who heard it first. They told me the king had laid with a dancer before our marriage. That she gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl."
Her voice dropped.
"That news broke me."
"I wanted to scream. I wanted to run to your father," she sobbed. "But they stopped me. They said royal blood cannot live outside the palace. If your father knew, he would go for them. And once that happens… destiny cannot be stopped."
Adjoa clenched the pouch.
"They told me the twins would always stand before you," Queen Owusu whispered. "That even if you became queen, their blood would still speak. That the boy would one day sit on the stool."
Her shoulders shook.
"I was afraid. Afraid for you. Afraid of losing everything."
She wiped her face roughly.
"They arranged everything. The killers. The payment. Ten million cedis. I never met them. Those elders handled it all."
Her hands trembled.
"They are dead now. Both of them. I don't even know how to reach the men they used."
"And after?" Adjoa whispered.
Queen Owusu closed her eyes.
"My womb closed," she said brokenly. "Since that day, I never conceived again. Perhaps the gods judged me."
Tears streamed freely.
"And now," she whispered, "the child I believed dead stands in this palace. Wearing the gold."
Adjoa's voice shook. "Mother… if the twin boy is alive…"
Queen Owusu nodded slowly.
"Then everything I sacrificed was for nothing."
Her chest heaved.
"The council may strip me. Replace me. Call another woman queen."
"I cannot survive that shame."
Adjoa rose.
"Then we cannot wait."
Queen Owusu looked up. "What do we do?"
Adjoa's eyes hardened.
"We act fast."
She leaned closer, voice low and dangerous.
"We seal it with the motherless baby."
The words fell like a curse.
The candle flickered.
Shadows danced like restless spirits.
The past was no longer asleep.
And both mother and daughter knew—
the next move would decide everything.