Footsteps...
647 Words
The moonlight wrapped them in silver, as if the heavens themselves leaned closer to watch.
Ifé’s tears glistened on her cheeks. She turned her face away, ashamed. “You risk too much,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “A prince should not lower himself for me.”
Adewale reached gently, his thumb brushing the wetness from her cheek. His touch was tender, steady, and full of unspoken strength. “And yet,” he said softly, “I would rather be lowered beside you than lifted above you.”
Her heart stumbled. She looked into his eyes, and for the first time, she saw no prince, no conqueror—only a man whose gaze held her as though she were the only soul left in the world.
The silence between them deepened. The breeze stirred, carrying the scent of palm wine and wood smoke. Ifé’s lips trembled as though caught between fear and longing.
Adewale leaned closer, his voice almost a breath. “Ifé.”
She did not move away.
The space between them closed. Slowly, carefully, his lips touched hers. It was not fierce, not hurried—just a gentle meeting, a promise sealed in quietness.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her heart beating so loudly she thought the whole palace might hear it. For the first time since chains bound her wrists, she felt free.
When the kiss broke, tears slipped down again, but these were not only of sorrow. Adewale wiped them once more, his fingers tender against her skin. “No laughter, no scorn, no chain can take this from us,” he whispered.
Ifé swallowed hard, her voice shaking. “They will kill me if they know. They will destroy you.”
“Then let them,” he said, “but let them never say I left you in the dark.”
The words sank deep into her. For a moment, the world itself seemed to pause.
But then—footsteps.
Both stiffened, their hearts leaping.
The sound was steady, firm, but lighter than a guard’s patrol. From the shadows emerged a tall figure, broad-shouldered, his face half-hidden by the night.
Ifé gasped and pulled back. But Adewale stood, his hand raised.
“Do not fear,” Adewale said, his voice low. “He is mine.”
The figure stepped closer, bowing his head. His voice was deep, respectful. “My prince.”
It was Kànbí, one of Adewale’s secret warriors. Unlike the palace guards, these were men he had chosen himself—loyal friends trained in secret, bound to him, not to the chiefs or even the king. Few knew they existed.
Kànbí’s eyes flickered to Ifé, then back to Adewale. He said nothing of what he had seen.
Adewale met his gaze steadily. “You will speak of this to no one.”
Kànbí bowed again. “My prince, my tongue is tied by loyalty. What I see dies with me.”
Adewale’s shoulders eased, but he knew this moment was a dangerous thread. Even with trust, secrets always carried weight.
When Kànbí disappeared back into the shadows, silence returned, but it was no longer gentle. It carried the taste of risk.
Ifé trembled. “He saw us.”
“Yes,” Adewale said, sitting again beside her, his hand finding hers. “But he is mine. He will not betray me.”
Her eyes searched his. “Can you trust even your own men in such a thing?”
His hand tightened around hers. “With my life.”
For a long time they sat in silence, their fingers entwined. The night no longer felt like a safe hiding place; it felt like the edge of a cliff. Yet they remained there, together, unwilling to let go.
And though the moon would soon sink behind the hills, one truth remained:
They had kissed, and nothing would ever be the same.
- Writer
