The Chosen ones
1196 Words
By the third day of trials, alliances had begun to form—not of vanity, but survival. Some girls had minds sharp as daggers. Others had laughter that disarmed. One girl from Bichi made even the elders chuckle with her clever wordplay.
When asked to decode a puzzle involving trade routes and salt weights, Sa’adatu faltered.
Before the silence thickened, a girl named Awele from the southern coast stepped in, voice calm.
“The answer is eight men. Two camels. The trick is in the weights—not the distance.”
Sa’adatu grinned. “Awele, you’re a hawk.”
Awele winked. “You’re the wind, Sa’adatu. We need both.”
That night, while braiding Halima’s hair under moonlight, Sa’adatu said quietly, “Maybe I came to prove I could be chosen. But now... I want to see you chosen too. And Ife. And even Awele.”
Halima turned, eyes warm. “Even Zahra?”
Sa’adatu smirked. “She’ll have to earn it.”
The real trials hadn’t just tested fire. They had tested grace. Humility. The ability to stand aside without shrinking.
And Sa’adatu—once the girl who stepped forward in defiance—was now learning to listen. To let others shine. To lead without always standing in front.
The kingdom was watching.
And it was not unimpressed.
They had not started within palace walls but we're going to the Palace.
When the summons went out, eighty girls answered—from across the northern region and beyond. Not just Kawuri, but Zuru, Katsina, Ilorin, Bichi, Kano, Enugu, Maiduguri. From the River Clans. From desert tribes. From towns whispered about in songs, and others barely traced on maps.
Some came in silk. Others in dust. All came with the same burning question behind their eyes:
Could it be me?
But not all stayed.
Some failed the tasks.
Some failed themselves.
A few walked away with dignity—lips pressed shut, eyes steady, knowing the palace was never theirs to enter.
Others broke under quieter burdens.
Some left for love—hearts still tethered to boys they’d kissed beneath market tents or sworn to in secret. They had joined because parents insisted, but when the choice sharpened, they could not betray what they already had.
Some couldn’t bear the weight of expectation. They froze during the simplest of trials. Words left them. Hands trembled. They had been brave enough to come—but not enough to stay.
And some—perhaps the saddest of all—never tried. Not really. They stood behind others, letting their dreams die quietly, untouched by effort.
Now, only twenty-two remained.
Barefoot in a line, as the early sun sharpened the edge of everything, they stood on stone that had seen centuries.
Dada Zainabu paced before them, staff tapping like a ticking clock.
“Names will be called,” she said. “Not because you are perfect. But because you showed promise. Resilience. And something no task can measure: sense.”
The scribe stepped forward.
He began to read:
“Sa’adatu Hassan of Kawuri.”
She stepped forward.
“Halima Adamu of Zuru.”
The girl who remembered stories like they were scripture.
“Ife Olori of the River Clan.”
All poise and pride.
“Awele Osondu of Bichi.”
A quick thinker with quicker tongue.
“Zahra Ibrahim of Katsina.”
Sharp-tongued and stubborn—but unbroken.
“Lami Dikko of Marafa.”
With a strategist’s gaze.
“Rukaiya Musa of Kano.”
Quiet. Focused. A healer’s steadiness.
“Folasade Temi of Ilorin.”
Brilliant with patterns. Solved the map trial first.
“Chinwe Agu of Enugu.”
Never loud. Never late. Never wrong.
“Fatima Bello of Maiduguri.”
She stumbled early—but refused to leave.
Twelve others followed, from towns and clans that still held their breath.
Twenty-two.
Dada Zainabu studied their faces.
“You are no longer many. But the trials are not over.”
She turned, her staff beating the rhythm of judgment.
“This time, it is not your wit or memory that will be tested.”
A pause.
“It will be your heart.”
And then she led them—not into glory, but into the place where real crowns are forged:
the palace itself.
The names had been called. The others dismissed.
The chosen twenty-two were to remain for that night, during which they would rest, recover, and prepare for palace entry. After that, the final phase would begin—where the trials would be quieter, crueler, more refined.
That night, they were allowed to gather freely. No guards. No observers. Just firelight, mats, and the shared breath of girls who had seen too much and not enough.
They talked.
Even Zahra.
“I still think I was the only one who knew that second riddle,” she said, reclining with half a smile. “The others just got lucky.”
Lami scoffed. “Is that what you told the judges too? That we got lucky?”
Zahra rolled her eyes but not unkindly. “I’m just saying. Some of us were made for this.”
To everyone’s surprise, Sa’adatu laughed. “If you were made for this, why did your voice tremble during the debate?”
A ripple of laughter passed between them. Even Zahra chuckled, waving her hand.
“Fine. I trembled. But I still stood.”
And that, none could deny.
For a moment, the air softened between them—less competition, more camaraderie. No titles. No destinies. Just girls on the edge of something big.
---
Back Home in Kawuri
When Sa’adatu returned to her family for the short reprieve, the sun seemed to shine differently.
Her mother’s arms wrapped around her, near crushing. “Ah! Sa’adatu! You made it! Your father will not sleep tonight, I swear—he will boast to every man in Kawuri!”
And truly, Hassan of Kawuri could barely speak without pride leaking from his every word.
“You said it, didn't you?” he kept saying. “You said, ‘I came not to be chosen, but to prove I could be.’ That’s my daughter!”
Sa’adatu relished the warmth. She sat in their compound, retelling every moment—the logic puzzles, the strength tests, the girls who cried, the one who ran, Zahra’s drama, Halima’s clever answers, Rukaiya’s quiet eyes.
“Do you think you’ll win?” her younger cousin asked.
Sa’adatu smiled. “I think I’ve already won something.”
---
Her Nineteenth Birthday
The day before she was to leave again, Sa’adatu turned nineteen.
There was no grand feast. Just food, music, and people who loved her. Dates wrapped in honey, her favourite. Spiced rice and goat meat. Her mother braided her hair while women sang praise songs her father had begged them to compose.
“You will enter the palace as a woman,” her aunt whispered. “But do not lose the girl in you. That’s where the fire is.”
That night, under a sky brimming with stars, Sa’adatu sat alone in the courtyard, whispering a prayer into the wind.
Let me not forget who I am.
Let me not trade soul for silk.
- Writer
