HER MAJESTY’S SECRET SON

The first light of dawn spilled gently over the Indian Ocean, casting golden hues across the sleepy town of Bagamoyo. Fishermen readied their dhows at the shore, their laughter and song drifting softly in the sea breeze. Coconut palms swayed in rhythm, and the call of morning birds echoed across the red earth paths. In a modest, sun-washed house tucked behind the old mission church, Zahra Bakari stood at the doorway, sipping ginger tea. She wore a loose kitenge dress, her hair tied in a simple scarf, her gaze soft but steady. Her life was small, simple—but filled with a quiet strength. From inside the house came a sudden clatter, followed by giggles. “Careful with your socks, Ayaan!” Zahra called, not needing to look. “I am careful,” came the voice of a boy—bright, amused, and utterly unapologetic. Seven-year-old Ayaan emerged seconds later, his schoolbag nearly twice his size, socks mismatched, and his shirt halfway tucked. But nothing distracted from his eyes—deep, almond-shaped, and golden-brown. There was something magnetic in the way they observed the world: curious, wise beyond his years, and undeniably royal. “Let me fix your collar,” Zahra said, kneeling before him. Ayaan grinned, his front teeth slightly crooked, his smile full of mischief and charm. “I have a good feeling about today,” he whispered. “You always do,” Zahra said with a chuckle, brushing her hand against his cheek. “But today is special.” It was. After months of preparation, Ayaan was to be honored at a national children’s competition in Dar es Salaam. He had won the Young Innovator’s Award for a science project that combined local herbs and basic chemistry to purify water. Zahra had always known he was different—not just smart, but intuitive. As if his soul carried something... ancient. The ceremony was modest but well-covered by media. Cameras clicked as Ayaan stepped up in his white shirt and blue tie, accepting the award with practiced humility. Later, a journalist asked Zahra, “Is his father a scientist too?” Zahra’s smile faded for half a second. “No,” she said softly. “His father is... not in the picture.” But the photo was. It appeared on the front page of a national paper two days later: "Tanzanian Boy Wins Heart of the Nation." Ayaan stood with his medal, smiling against a backdrop of flags, his gaze piercing through the lens. From Bagamoyo, that photo traveled. First through social media, then w******p groups, then international blogs. It was one of those rare images that sparked conversation—about African excellence, potential, and beauty. And far, far away—in a palace carved from white stone and gold domes under the burning desert sun of Zahrania—an elderly woman sat in her private garden, holding a tablet in her manicured hands. The jasmine in bloom around her could not distract from the storm rising behind her eyes. Queen Layla zoomed in on the boy’s face. She stared at those eyes. Her fingers trembled slightly. She did not need a name. She already knew. The past had returned, and it wore the face of a child.