Enough!
951 Words
The music tried to rise again after Adewale’s words, but its rhythm faltered. The drummers beat their drums, the flutists blew into their pipes, but the cheer of the night had been cut. The laughter of mockery had turned into whispers.
Some chiefs leaned close to one another, whispering behind their palms. “The prince defends a slave? Is this wisdom? Or weakness?”
Others nodded quietly, saying, “At least he spoke truth. A leader should be just.”
But though tongues wagged, no one dared to speak too loudly. The king was still seated, and his silence weighed heavy on them all.
The king’s face was calm, yet unreadable. He did not scold his son, nor did he praise him. His eyes, deep and steady, lingered on Adewale for a moment, then shifted back to the meat on his plate.
That silence was worse than anger.
Adewale returned to his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. He had spoken without thinking, guided only by a fire inside him. Now, as the quiet murmurs spread, he wondered if he had done right, or if he had just invited trouble on himself.
He forced his face to remain calm, but inside his thoughts wrestled. Did I dishonor my father? Did I make myself a fool before the chiefs? Yet another voice answered him: No. You could not let them tear her down. You could not sit still while her spirit was crushed.
His hands still trembled under the table.
In the shadows of the courtyard, Ifé stood still, her tray now empty. The mockery still echoed in her ears. Princess of slaves. Queen of chains. Each word clung to her, heavy like stones.
She wanted to vanish, to melt into the ground and never be seen again. But then, above the shame, another sound echoed in her heart—the prince’s voice.
“Enough.”
The word had stopped the laughter. It had lifted her, even if only for a moment, out of the dust.
Her eyes stung with tears, but she refused to let them fall where anyone might see. She swallowed hard, straightened her back, and carried the empty tray toward the servants’ quarters.
Still, inside, a strange warmth burned in her chest. She could not understand it. Why would he speak for me? Why would a prince care for one like me?
Olumide’s smirk had not left his face, but inside he burned with rage. Before the whole court, the prince had shamed him, made him look like a bully, a fool. He drained the last of his wine, his eyes fixed on Adewale with cold fire.
So… the great prince has a soft heart for slaves, he thought bitterly. Then let us see how far this heart will carry him. One day, he will pay for this.
As the night deepened, the feast wound down. The king rose, and the chiefs followed. Warriors staggered out, singing drunken songs of bravery. Women gathered their wrappers, still humming as they left the palace.
The fires burned lower. Only the guards, the servants, and the restless remained.
Adewale slipped away from the high stool of honor, his steps carrying him toward the quieter corners of the palace. He did not know where he was going, only that his heart pulled him away from the noise.
He found himself near the servants’ quarters, where the last of the captives cleaned up after the feast. The air smelled of spilled wine and ash. Torches burned low, their flames flickering weakly in the night breeze.
And there, sitting quietly by a wall, was Ifé.
She had set down her tray and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her head bent forward. The laughter of mockery still clung to her, though the courtyard was now silent.
Adewale’s chest tightened at the sight.
He stepped closer. “Are you well?” he asked softly.
Ifé startled, quickly lowering her eyes. “You should not be here, Prince.”
“Answer me,” he pressed gently. “Are you well?”
Her lips trembled. “Why did you defend me? Now they will turn their anger against you. I am only a servant. My shame should not be yours.”
“You are not shame,” Adewale said firmly.
She shook her head. “To them, I am nothing. Less than nothing. A joke to laugh at. Do not tie yourself to my disgrace.”
Adewale crouched slightly, trying to catch her eyes. “Listen to me. You are not what they call you. I see you, Ifé.”
Her breath caught. She dared to look up, just for a heartbeat. And in his gaze, she saw no mockery, no pity, but something deeper, something that frightened and warmed her at the same time.
Neither spoke for a long while. The night air was heavy with silence, broken only by the crackle of the dying torches.
Finally, Ifé whispered, her voice almost breaking, “You should leave, Prince. If they find you here, they will speak more.”
Reluctantly, Adewale nodded. “Very well. But remember this, Ifé—you are not alone.”
He turned and walked away, his heart pounding with every step.
Ifé watched him go, her eyes shining in the dim light. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart race as though it no longer belonged to her.
But the night was not empty.
Unseen by them, a palace guard lingered near the corner, his eyes sharp. He had seen the prince step close to the maiden. He had heard their low voices.
The guard’s lips curled in a thin smile. Tomorrow, the whispers would begin.
- Writer
