And somehow, even that made them like him more.
But there was one path he took more often than others.
It was not the road to the market, nor the shrine, nor any of the grandest farms. It led instead to a quieter part of the village, where the farmland was modest and the people survived by stubborn hard work.
That was where Adana lived.
Adana was poor, but she carried herself like poverty had never succeeded in reducing her. She was beautiful in a quiet way—dark smooth skin, calm eyes, soft lips, neat wrappers, and a face that stayed dignified even under hardship. She worked with her hands every day in the fields alongside her mother, Ngozi, whose body had begun to fail under sickness and years of labor.
Ngozi coughed often, deep and painful coughs that seemed to rise from the bottom of her chest. She would insist she was strong, but Adana knew better. So Adana did most of the hard work herself—clearing weeds, digging ridges, carrying water, and helping her mother sit in the shade when the cough became too much.
She never complained.
That was why people respected her.
She was not a gossip. She did not carry secrets from one house to another. If she saw someone’s shame, she covered it with silence. If she had little food and saw someone weaker, she still shared what she could. Men noticed her too, especially the rich boys who liked the idea of marrying a poor, beautiful girl they could later brag about.
One of them, Chukwuma, used to stand at the edge of her farm with his friends and call out, “Adana, if you marry me, you will stop suffering. I can save you.”
Adana would usually ignore him. But one day she finally looked up and asked, “Save me from what?”
“From poverty, of course,” he said proudly.
Adana nodded slowly, then returned to her work and said, “Go and save yourself first. Your mouth is too proud.”
That was who she was. She did not hate marriage. She hated mockery disguised as kindness.
Then one day, while she was bent over her farm ridge and her mother sat coughing under a tree, she felt eyes on her.
She looked up.
Prince Chidi stood on the path, partly hidden by tall grass, watching her.
He did not wave. He did not speak. He simply looked at her for a long moment, as if he had finally found something he had been searching for, and then he turned and walked away.
From then on, Adana began noticing him more. Sometimes he passed the farm path. Sometimes she felt him watching her from a distance. He never approached rudely. He never behaved like a prince collecting admiration. He waited.
His chance came during a season of poor harvest.
That year the rains failed the farmers. The soil cracked, the crops came out thin, and by harvest time it was clear that hunger would visit many homes. Adana and her mother stood in their field staring at the weak yield with the kind of silence that only hunger brings.
That was when Chidi came.
This time he did not hide. He walked directly into the farm in simple clothes, greeted them gently, and studied the failing crops.
Then he reached into his pocket and brought out money.
“Take this,” he said. “Use it for food until things improve.”
Adana stiffened and pushed it back.
“No.”
Chidi looked surprised. “Why?”
