Silver
1298 Words
The sun barely kissed the edges of the horizon when Sa’adatu stirred. The early light filtered softly through the narrow windows, painting warm streaks across the floor. Outside, Kawuri began to hum awake—the coo of morning doves, the shuffle of sandals on sand, the rhythmic splash of water from the communal well.
But Sa’adatu wasn’t listening.
She sat cross-legged on the woven mat, replaying yesterday’s words like a haunting lullaby. “Girls don’t fight.” “You must be ready for marriage.” The heat of it still burned in her belly.
But this morning, something had shifted.
She stood, wrapped her faded wrapper tighter around her waist, and stepped outside.
By the well, two elder women muttered softly while fetching water. Children with wide eyes darted past, chasing a rubber ball. But Sa’adatu’s gaze was locked on the figure by the merchant’s cart—a stranger, tall, robed in silver-threaded fabric, his face half-covered in a fine scarf. He moved like someone who didn’t belong here.
He moved like the city.
The man offered dates to a little girl nearby, his voice quiet. Then he turned, and Sa’adatu saw it—eyes the color of dark honey, scanning the town like it was a map he’d already memorized.
She had no idea who he was.
But something about him made the air shift.
That evening, when Bello returned from the city, his words stirred the embers already glowing inside her.
“A royal scout,” Bello whispered once they were alone. “From the palace. Said to be choosing girls for something called The Selection. Whatever that means.”
Sa’adatu blinked. “Girls? What kind of choosing?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But it has to do with the King’s council. They say there’s a search going on—for girls of... potential.”
Potential.
She didn’t know whether to be intrigued or afraid.
By the next morning, Kawuri no longer felt like Kawuri. Women lingered longer at market stalls, their voices hushed. Town elders stood in tense clusters, their canes tapping like ticking clocks. The royal scout’s presence had spread like fire on dry grass.
“They say he’s from the palace,” a girl whispered near the millet seller. “Come to choose girls for something... important.”
“Maybe the King finally wants a wife,” another said, giggling behind her veil.
Sa’adatu heard it all. But while the others gossiped, her thoughts swirled like a desert storm.
That evening, her father sat beneath the baobab tree with Musa and Bello. The men spoke in hushed tones, unaware that the girl with the sharp ears crouched behind the water jar.
“They want girls with strength and sense,” her father said. “Not just beauty. The palace sent a message—they’ll choose only five from all the surrounding towns.”
“Are you considering Sa’adatu?” Bello asked.
A pause.
“She is spirited,” their father admitted. “But marriage is what she needs. Not politics. Not danger.”
“Let her decide,” Musa murmured. Then he rose and walked off, leaving his words behind like a challenge.
That night, under the cover of stars, Sa’adatu crept to the square again. The scent of smoke and groundnut oil clung to the air. A group of drummers played near the market, drawing a small crowd around the scout.
She lingered on the edge, heart thumping.
And then she saw him again.
The scout’s eyes found hers. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a puzzle piece he hadn’t expected to find.
A chill ran down her spine.
She turned quickly and fled, the bangles on her wrist clinking with each step.
Back at home, Sa’adatu sat on her mat in silence. Her mother entered quietly and placed a folded cloth beside her.
“What’s this?” Sa’adatu asked.
“For when they call for the girls. If you go,” her mother said, not meeting her gaze. “It’s my finest wrapper.”
Sa’adatu blinked. “So... you think I should go?”
“I think your fire will burn either way,” her mother whispered, brushing her daughter’s hair back gently. “Better it burns where people can see it.”
Sa’adatu didn’t sleep that night.
At dawn, a bell rang through the town.
The Selection had begun.
The crier’s bell rang before first prayer. It wasn’t the usual metallic clang but a hollow, wooden thud—the kind saved for messages carved in bone.
“All maidens of noble character and unmarred body,” he bellowed, “between fifteen and twenty springs... present yourselves by midday at Madaki’s Field. The King of Danjuma seeks a bride.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “But not just any bride. One worthy of his throne.”
Silence swept over Kawuri like a desert storm.
Girls blinked. Mothers dropped pots. Grandmothers whispered prayers.
And Sa’adatu... froze.
“A bride?” she repeated that afternoon, sitting under the shade of the tamarind tree.
“Yes,” Bello confirmed, breathless from the swirl of rumors. “They say the King has sent scouts across the northern lands. He seeks someone young, fertile, wise. There will be a series of tests—mind, strength, poise, heritage.”
Sa’adatu scoffed. “Let the others scramble for lace and lip stain. I wasn’t born to kneel beside a king’s feet.”
“But,” Musa said, raising an eyebrow, “what if his court is your way in?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You want power, yes? To rule? What better place to start than within the palace itself? Even Prime ministers and army generals have influence—sometimes more than the king.”
Something flickered in her eyes.
Still, that night, she didn’t sleep. She sat by the oil lamp, staring at the flame like it held a prophecy.
---
By midday, Madaki’s Field bloomed with color.
Not the wild, clashing chaos of a market day. This was deliberate. Symbolic. Prideful.
Velvet wrappers hugged waists. Henna bloomed on fingers and ankles. Rows of coral beads crowned hopeful foreheads. But not Sa’adatu.
She wore no beads.
Her wrapper was simple—a deep indigo, the color of Kawuri’s soil. Her eyes, almond-shaped and sharp, scanned the field like a hawk. Her skin, the color of roasted groundnut shells, glowed with quiet defiance. Her hair was braided in the Hausa style—elegant, without vanity.
She didn’t smile.
Not like Zahra from Birnin Kudu, who fluttered her lashes at every guard. Or Bilkisu of Maru, whose golden veil barely masked her ambition. They stood together already, forming circles of giggles and sharpened stares.
Sa’adatu stood alone.
Until Dada Zainabu appeared, flanked by two palace guards—and the scout in silver-threaded robes.
The elder’s voice sliced through the air.
“You are here to be judged. Not for beauty, but for bearing. The King seeks a partner, not a pet. There will be trials. Some of you will break.”
A murmur ran through the field.
“Do not cry foul. You came. No one dragged you.”
Sa’adatu almost turned to leave.
Almost.
Then Zahra’s voice rose too loudly: “We all know who’ll be eliminated first. Some don’t even look royal.”
Sa’adatu’s spine straightened.
She stepped forward.
“My name is Sa’adatu, daughter of Hassan of Kawuri. I came not to be chosen... but to prove I could be. And if I stay, it will be by fire, not flattery.”
Zahra blinked. A few girls stifled their smiles.
Dada Zainabu chuckled low. “Good,” she said. “Let the furnace begin.”
And just like that, the veil of ceremony fell away.
- Writer
