drums, dancers and flowers filling the palace grounds. Chinedu adopted Ifeoma officially in front of the royal council. He lifted her in his arms and said, —From today, you are my daughter by law, but you were already my daughter by heart. Ifeoma touched his cheeks. —So I am a princess now? —Yes, Princess Ifeoma. She thought seriously. —Can princesses still eat mangoes with their hands? The whole council laughed, and Chinedu kissed her forehead. —Especially princesses. Years later, people still told the story of the child who stopped the prince’s car. Servants’ children were allowed to attend the palace school. Workers received fair wages. Poor farmers regained land stolen from their grandparents. Nneka became loved not because she wore jewels, but because she remembered every woman who had once bent her back in silence beside her. One evening, older and wiser, Ifeoma asked her mother why she had seen the danger. Nneka held her close and answered, —Maybe because God knew the powerful had stopped listening to each other, so He used the voice of a child. Ifeoma looked toward the palace driveway where the black car had once waited. She never forgot the cold stone under her knees, the terror in her chest or the moment a prince chose to believe a servant’s daughter. And Aruoma never forgot that greatness was not born in blood, money or titles. Sometimes it arrived barefoot, crying, and brave enough to shout the truth before death opened the door.
