BLOOD BEFORE CROWN

BLOOD BEFORE CROWN - EPISODE 1: THE KING IS DEAD* The drum did not beat the way it used to beat. In Kafin-Birni Emirate, when Sarki Alhaji Musa Danladi beat his chest and coughed, the whole palace would shake. His cough was law. His laughter was holiday. For thirty-four years, he sat on the stool his father left, and no man, no soldier, no politician dared to tell him to shift. Now he lay on white sheets in Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital, oxygen mask fogging with his last breaths, and his two sons stood on opposite sides of his bed like two countries that had never agreed on border. Yusuf stood on the right. First son. Forty-one years. Tall like his father, beard trimmed low, eyes always red like he was either praying or not sleeping. He wore simple white kaftan even in palace. He was the one who followed Sarki to mosque every Friday since he was seven. He was the one who knew every district head's name, every farmer's complaint, every Quran verse Sarki liked to quote when judging cases. The people called him Yarima Mai Sallah - The Prince Who Prays. Khalid stood on the left. Second son. Thirty-three. Same father, different mother. Yusuf's mother was Hajiya Maryam, the first wife, quiet, Hausa, from royal house of Zaria. Khalid's mother was Hajiya Laila, Lebanese, second wife, who brought perfume and marble and foreign accent to the palace in 1989 and never left. Khalid wore black kaftan with gold embroidery, watch that cost a district head's one year salary, and perfume that made nurses turn. He studied in London, MBA, spoke English like BBC. He came home twice a year with ideas: "We need palace website, Baba. We need palace investment fund." Sarki would laugh, "You and your London grammar." The youth called him Yarima Mai Bounce - The Prince Who Bounces. Two sons. One stool. The monitor beeped. Slow. Slower. Sarki removed the oxygen mask with shaking hand. His voice was leaf. "Yusuf... Khalid... come closer." They both leaned. "When I die tonight... don't let my house divide. Kafin-Birni is bigger than my wives... bigger than your mothers..." Yusuf held his father's hand. Khalid held the other. Sarki looked at Yusuf. "You know the people." He looked at Khalid. "You know the world." He tried to smile. "If you both hold the stool together... it will not break." Then he coughed. A cough that started as law and ended as wind. The monitor went straight. Beep. Beeeeeeeeep. Hajiya Maryam screamed from corridor before they even called her. Mothers know. By Fajr prayer, town crier was out. Sarki Alhaji Musa Danladi is dead. The 14th Emir of Kafin-Birni has returned to his maker. By 7am, the palace courtyard was full of white kaftans. Kingmakers sitting. Politicians standing. The Waziri, old man with cap that never straight, raised his hand. "According to tradition, we have 7 days to mourn. On the 8th day, after janazah rites, the council of kingmakers will enter the chamber to choose new Sarki. Only blood of Danladi can sit. That is Yusuf or Khalid." Yusuf nodded, tears still on beard. He said, "We will honor my father's wish. We will not divide." Khalid also nodded. But his eyes were not on Waziri. His eyes were on his elder brother. For first time in his life, he saw Yusuf not as brother who taught him how to ride horse, but as obstacle. At home, in the big house behind palace, Hajiya Maryam did not cry loud. She sat on prayer mat, tasbih moving fast. She called Yusuf. "Your father said you know the people. The kingmakers know the people love you. But love is not stool. You need to visit each kingmaker tonight. Take kolanut. Take envelope. Don't be too holy." Yusuf said, "Mama, I will not buy throne." Maryam hissed, "You think stool is dash? Your father did not buy? He gave lands! Your grandfather gave cows! This is not London church. This is Kafin-Birni." In other wing, Hajiya Laila locked door. She poured wine into tea cup - only time she could drink after 30 years hiding. She told Khalid. "Habibi, your father loved you more. You know that. He told you many times - this boy will take us to future. Yusuf will keep us in dust. But your brother has people. You have money. I have brothers in Beirut who can send money. That old Waziri? His son wants contract for new market. Give him." Khalid said, "Mama, I don't want to fight my brother. I want us to rule together like Baba said." Laila laughed, a short Lebanese laugh. "Together? Have you ever seen two lions share one meat? No, habibi. One eats, one watches. You decide which lion you are." Night one. The palace was mourning. But in two houses, two campaigns started. Yusuf went to malam's house, sat on floor, ate tuwo with district heads. He listened to farmers complain about dam. He promised water. Khalid went to Government House, sat with Governor, who was his friend from London Business School. Governor said, "Kafin-Birni needs young face. Investors fear old emirs. If you are Emir, I will bring Chinese to build road. I will support." Then Khalid went to Waziri's house with envelope. Waziri's son opened door, smiled. By day three, town was divided without knowing. Old women said, "Yusuf must sit, he is first son, he knows Quran." Young boys at tea joint said, "Khalid must sit, he knows computer, he will bring work." Yusuf heard it and his heart sank. He went to Khalid's room. Brothers had not spoken since burial. "Khalid, are you hearing what town is saying? They are dividing us. Let's go together to Waziri tomorrow, tell him we want peace. Let one of us step down. If you want it, take it. I will support you." Khalid was surprised. For a second, he wanted to hug his brother. Then his phone rang. Laila. "What did I tell you? He wants you to step down! Don't be fool!" Khalid looked at Yusuf. Yusuf's eyes were honest. Too honest. Khalid said, "Yaya Yusuf, if I step down today, tomorrow your mother will say I was never son of this house. If you step down, my mother will say same. So stepping down is not peace. It's death." Yusuf said, "So what do you want?" Khalid said, "I want what is mine. Half." Yusuf shook head. "Stool cannot be half." The two brothers stared. Same nose. Same father's forehead. Different mothers' eyes. That night, Waziri called both princes. "Tomorrow, kingmakers will start private interviews. Come with your mother's blessing." Yusuf came with Quran in hand. Khalid came with file of palace development plan, printed in colour. And outside palace gate, a black Prado with no plate number parked. Inside, a man in cap, who was not from Kafin-Birni, was counting money and saying, "Make sure Khalid sits. Governor wants Khalid. And Governor wants second term." Another car, old Peugeot, also parked. Inside, an old farmer said, "Make sure Yusuf sits. If Lebanese boy sits, our farmlands will become hotel." The king was dead. The throne was empty. And the blood that was supposed to hold stool together had started to boil. The drum that did not beat well that morning would soon beat war drum.