All the maidens of the village flooded into the palace courtyard at once. Some held their wrappers tightly around their waists. Some pressed their hands against their stomachs as if the babies inside them might fall out from all the shouting. They cried, argued, swore before the guards and elders that they were carrying the Crown Prince’s child.
Some looked proud. Some looked frightened. Some were simply desperate for what a crown could bring.
The palace courtyard, once a place of dignity and silence, became a marketplace of tears, lies, and ambition.
That was how the trouble began.
In the mystical Igbo village of Umuno, tradition ruled everything. The people lived by farming, market days, festivals, moonlight tales, and the words of elders. Above the village stood the palace on a hill, looking down over red-earth paths and thatched roofs. Beyond it stretched a sacred forest where people walked carefully, because deep inside that forest flowed a river many believed carried miracles in its water.
And in Umuno, people said one thing often:
Truth always returns, even if it must walk through blood.
King Akenna ruled the village with quiet authority. He was not a noisy king. He did not shout carelessly. Even when he was angry, his voice remained calm, and that calm frightened people more than rage ever could.
But the true pride of the village was his only son, Prince Chidi.
Chidi was the kind of handsome that made heads turn without him trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, and graceful, he carried himself like a prince but spoke like an ordinary man. He greeted farmers with respect. He joked with children. He smiled with warmth. Even the toughest women in the market softened when he passed.
Girls admired him openly. Mothers whispered prayers that one day he might look in their daughter’s direction. Older women laughed and said, “This one will one day make maidens scatter the ground.”
No one knew then how true that would become.
For all his beauty and status, Chidi hated feeling trapped behind palace walls. He loved the people of Umuno too much to live like a decorated statue. Whenever he could, he slipped out of the palace dressed simply and walked among the villagers.
He greeted old farmers in the fields. If a man struggled to lift a basket of yams, Chidi would help him carry it. If children ran after him, he crouched down, laughed with them, and let them climb on his back. He bought them roasted corn, listened to their tiny worries, and spoke to them as if they mattered.
The maidens, of course, watched him like he was a blessing that might one day land in their lap. Whenever he passed, wrappers were adjusted, headscarves retied, greetings suddenly became louder.
“My prince, you are looking fine today,” they would say.
Chidi would smile politely and answer, “Thank you. How is your mother?”
That was his way. He was friendly but careful. He did not flirt carelessly. He did not make promises with his mouth. If a girl tried to follow him too boldly, he would simply smile and say, “Sister, walk well. The road is not your enemy.”
