Where I Come From, Purity Is a Palace.
In Oyo Moba, the walls were high, the floors polished like moonlight, and the rules were older than our family name.
I was Princess Yétùndé, an Omoaanre.
A "kept girl."
The one born under the oracle's whisper. The one promised to the gods.
I never stepped on soil. Not once. Not ever.
When I was born, my feet were swaddled in white velvet, and ever since then, I have walked only on imported rugs and sandalwood floors. If I so much as peered past my palace veranda, the priestess would throw kolanut into the wind and cry.
"Don't tempt fate, Yétùndé! You were born for something higher than dust!"
But what no one told me is that a cage lined with gold is still a cage.
---
My older sisters were married off like royal merchandise.
By the time I was ten, Princess Amoke had been sent to a northern prince with camel milk skin and suspicious wealth.
Princess Folake married into a Lagos dynasty of business moguls who believed in God, oil, and second wives.
They visited sometimes—drenched in perfume, gossip, and envy.
"I wish I didn't have to leave," Amoke would say, fanning herself. Eyeing my legs.
"No screaming children. No grumpy in-laws."
"Just silence and velvet," Folake added, eyeing my silk wrapper.
They didn't understand.
I would have traded every silken cloth in my wardrobe for one barefoot run in the rain.
Maybe they love being one but am tired of it.
---
By age thirteen, I had twelve tutors.
Each more dramatic than the last.
Iya Ebun, my diction coach, would tap my mouth with a golden stick if I mispronounced a Yoruba proverb.
"You are a royal tongue! Not an okada rider!"
Mama Akanni, my music master, insisted I master the talking drum, the flute, and the praise songs of queens past.
Sister Imole, the etiquette mistress, taught me how to kneel like a saint and smile like I was born to be sold.
But the most powerful of all was Olóyè Adegemo, the chief priestess.
Tall. Dark. Always smelling like hot charcoal and incantations.
She taught me mythology, prophecy, and the names of gods we weren't allowed to say out loud after sunset.
"Your womb is sacred, Yétùndé," she told me once.
"One day, a man not born in this land will claim it—and the skies will tremble."
I was fifteen.
I didn't even know what wombs did, let alone why mine was giving the atmosphere panic attacks.
---
My mother, the Olori, was not like other mothers.
She didn't hug, when others where there.
She's like fire and water.
She says "I love you." when am asleep at night.
And "Don't disgrace me." when am awake.
Every time she walked into my chamber, smelling of rose water and incense, my maids would scatter like seeds in wind.
"You're blooming," she'd say, scanning my skin like it was parchment.
"Soon, the suitors will come."
I wanted to scream. I don't want suitors. I want to dance on mud.
But I'd just curtsy, lips pressed together, voice tight:
"Yes, Mother."
My father, The Aláàfin, was a mountain dressed in white agbada.
He did not speak unless he must. And when he did, the whole compound went quiet.
He never called me "daughter or Yetunde."
He called me "Promise."
"Promise," he'd rumble, "the people await your marriage to the unknown king."
"Your name was spoken before you were conceived. Don't make us question it."
And then he'd leave.
He loved me, I think. But in the way thunder loves a tree—loudly, distantly, and without warning.
---
But I Had One Joy…
Tani. My handmaid, best friend, chaos partner.
She was born in the palace kitchen, had legs for days and a mouth that never stopped.
She was the only person who could make me laugh, and laughed to my jokes.
_ _ _
TWO DAYS BEFORE LEAVING
"Yétùndé, abeg, this your hair is doing Beyoncé today oh," she'd giggle as she braided my curls.
"Fine girl like you go give that white prince hypertension."
"He's not a prince, he's a political alliance," I'd reply, rolling my eyes.
"Same difference. All of them dey fall for chocolate beauty."
She taught me pidgin, snuck me roasted corn, and once hid a radio under my pillow so I could secretly listen to Afrobeats late at night, after my mom leaves, checking if I have slept.
"Tani, do you think he's a good man?"
She frowns, then smiles " The gods are with you, they won't let you suffer"
I didn't know who he was.
I know his name.
He wasn't of our land, our blood, or our traditions.
But somehow… he was mine.
And my palace of rituals, rules, and rose water? It would soon be a memory.
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