📖Chapter Three – Ashes and Thrones
977 Words
The ride felt longer than the road itself.
Dami sat stiffly in the back of the black jeep, wedged between two silent men in suits whose faces looked carved from wood. He couldn’t lean left or right without bumping into their broad shoulders. The scent of their cologne stung his nostrils—too clean, too expensive, too foreign for a boy who still sometimes smelled of smoke and fried oil.
He pressed his forehead to the tinted glass, trying to see outside, but all he saw was Lagos fading behind him.
The noise of okadas, the shouting traders, the laughter of children—all swallowed by the hum of the convoy.
His fork.
His fire.
His yam stand.
Gone.
His chest tightened, but his mouth—faithful as ever—refused silence.
“Omo, I dey warn una o,” he muttered, voice trembling. “If na ritual package this one be, make una drop me now-now. My blood no sweet. Na garri and groundnut don dilute am finish.”
One of the men turned slowly. No smile. No frown. Just silence.
Dami swallowed hard and faced the window again.
Taju’s tear-streaked face flashed in his mind—the only friend who never left him. “Guy, na joke dey keep us alive,” Taju always said.
But right now, no joke could save him.
The convoy tore through the city, leaving behind skyscrapers, markets, potholes, and everything Dami knew. The road grew smoother. The air quieter. The silence heavier.
After what felt like hours, they arrived at an enormous gate carved with symbols that glowed faintly under the moonlight. Two guards in white flowing agbadas stood like carved spirits, gripping staffs that shimmered gold.
Dami blinked rapidly. “Abeg,” he blurted. “Una sure say this no be Nollywood audition? Because this gate don pass Netflix budget.”
Still, no one laughed.
The gates groaned open, ancient and alive, and the convoy rolled in.
Inside, the Palace of Aiyetoro towered like something out of a forgotten legend. Tall pillars coiled with gold, courtyards lit by fire bowls, air thick with incense. Every shadow seemed to whisper power.
Dami’s heart somersaulted. His jaw dropped.
“Omo… if dem see my slippers for here, dem go deport am.”
The jeeps stopped in the courtyard. The suited men stepped out first. Then the man in the brown kaftan—the same stranger from Agege—opened Dami’s door.
“Come,” he said again. Calm. Commanding.
Dami hesitated. His legs felt like overcooked yam flour, but somehow, they moved.
They led him through halls lined with portraits of kings who watched from the walls with cold, painted eyes. Drums echoed faintly in the distance, not of joy—but of destiny.
Then the great doors opened before him.
The Throne Room.
The ceiling soared high, glimmering with firelight. The marble floor shone so bright Dami could see his reflection trembling in it. And at the far end sat Kabiyesi, the King of Aiyetoro—crowned in gold and power.
The queen sat beside him, beautiful yet shadowed with worry. Elders stood around, beads clinking, mouths whispering judgment.
Dami froze. His yam fork, his jokes, his life—all useless here.
The man in kaftan bowed. “Kabiyesi, the boy stands before you.”
The King’s voice rolled like thunder. “Step closer.”
Dami’s lips cracked into a shaky grin. “Good… evening, sir. I mean—Kabiyesi. I greet everybody. Elders, queens, palace… um… staff.”
He bowed awkwardly, almost tripping.
An elder hissed. Another scoffed, “This one? This clown?”
Heat crawled up Dami’s neck. His instinct screamed: say something funny! But his mother’s words whispered through him instead—
One day, your path will call you. Don’t run from it.
The King studied him, eyes deep and sharp. “You are Damilola, son of Adenike?”
The name hit him like thunder.
His mother’s name.
“Yes,” he whispered. “That… that was my mother.”
Gasps rippled through the elders.
“It is true, then,” one murmured. “The bloodline survives.”
“Which bloodline?” Dami frowned. “The only one I know na the one wey dey chase me for rent.”
The queen leaned forward gently. “You do not yet understand, child. But you will.”
The King raised a hand and silence fell like a curtain.
“You were hidden in the ashes of Lagos,” he said. “But fire cannot stay buried. You carry the blood of kings—the weight of a throne—the destiny of Aiyetoro itself. From this day, you belong to the palace.”
The hall erupted. Elders argued.
One spat, “Kabiyesi, this boy is a jester, not a prince!”
Another replied, “Yet destiny does not choose the polished. It chooses the willing.”
Dami stumbled back, dizzy. “Abeg, maybe na another Damilola. I no even fit balance life, talk less of kingdom. Throne ke?”
The King leaned forward, his voice cutting deep.
“You can deny a crown, but you cannot outrun it. You can joke about your pain, but you cannot silence your fire. You are called—and you will answer.”
The words hit Dami’s soul like drums.
He trembled. Tears threatened.
And yet—somewhere deep inside—the spark flickered again.
Maybe this was it.
The miracle he prayed for.
The storm his mother promised.
The King’s final words sealed the moment like prophecy:
> “The ashes of yesterday have delivered fire today.
And this fire shall decide whether Aiyetoro rises… or burns.”
The drums thundered.
The queen watched.
The elders murmured.
And Dami, yam-roaster of Agege, stood trembling—on the edge of a destiny he never asked for but could no longer escape.
- Writer
