Anatse gave the greeting and entered a large hall they called Shakallo, a chamber so private that only the chosen could enter. The design resembled a museum with its vastness and grandeur, decorated with golden ornaments and covered entirely by a massive carpet. Cushions embroidered with royal designs were scattered across the carpet.
Five people sat inside—four men and one elderly woman. The woman, called Mai Babban Daki, was about seventy-six, with sharp eyes. She wore a flowing cloak (alkyabba), holding a tissue and rosary, occasionally wiping her tears. Alongside her sat Waziri, Wambai, Makama, and Sarkin Dawaki. Soon, two more elderly men, resembling Mai Babban Daki, entered and sat.
Anatse’s heart pounded at the weight of their presence; aside from the King himself, these were the kingdom’s decision-makers. He walked to the center, sat, and faced Mai Babban Daki.
“Grandmother, were you the one who sent for me?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, wiped her tears, and replied, “It was your father’s friends who sent for you, as the first son of Prince Kabeer.”
Surprised, Anatse raised his head to see the elders watching him. He simply responded, “Tooh.”
Makama, the most senior among them, asked, “Have all your brothers arrived? At four o’clock, we will enthrone the King’s successor.”
Calmly, Anatse replied, “Prince Halilu and Ibrahima are already here. Munir just called; his flight landed in Abuja. Umaru’s plane just departed Lagos. As for…” He paused briefly.
Together, the others asked, “What about Prince Riyad?”
Anatse sighed and said, “I’ve called endlessly; I can’t reach him.”
Mai Babban Daki exclaimed, “I have never seen such a reckless child like Riyad! Today he’s in Egypt, tomorrow Cyprus, then Oman, Zanzibar, China, even Iceland. Just yesterday, France. Try calling his French number! If you don’t have it, go to Fulani, she must know.”
Anatse replied softly, “Grandmother, you also know he has never stayed a full month in one place. Even his mother Fulani doesn’t know his whereabouts; she also tries calling him without response. I don’t know Riyad’s problem—why he prefers roaming the world instead of staying in his homeland.”
Wambai raised his hand and cut him short. “Enough. Because of him, we won’t delay what is due to the throne. Wherever he is, he’ll hear the news of his father’s death. Now go.”
Anatse sighed again, rose, and left the hall reluctantly.
One elder, angry, muttered, “I’ve told His Majesty many times to call Riyad to order. Among all the princes, none is as reckless as him. He refuses to learn our customs. What will people say when they hear he’s absent?”
Another elder, Usmanu, defended him: “No, Prince Riyad is calm. His businesses take him abroad, and His Majesty approved it because the boy is passionate about commerce. He’s kind and compassionate, as we all know.”
But Hambali snapped back, “Are you answering me, Usmanu?”
They were about to argue when Mai Babban Daki silenced them: “Enough! Do you not know your brother is gone, and you want to fight over his death?” The hall fell silent.
The Secret Conversation with His Mother
Anatse went straight to his mother’s flat. She was the chief wife and lived in a mansion so large it seemed like a separate district. He passed wailing women, entered her quarters, and found her crying among her attendants. She gestured for him to come up.
Rising, the woman—about forty-eight years old—followed him into her room. He shut the door and locked it. Suddenly, in a hushed voice, unlike her public weeping, she asked, “So what did they tell you?”
With a faint smile, Anatse replied, “They still haven’t reached Riyad, Mama. That makes me happy.”
Her eyes lit up. She clenched her fist and exclaimed, “Alhamdulillah! Riyad is my only problem. You surpass all the princes in wealth, education, and connections. You are from the noblest lineage, and the people know you better. Only Riyad can challenge you, with his riches and PhD. But apart from that, he has no wife—rumors even say he is unwell. People prefer you. Even your uncle Hambali cannot stand against you. You are the eldest son; it is your right to inherit the throne!”
She leaned closer and whispered, “Once the King is buried, I’ll go to Mai Babban Daki myself. Apart from Riyad, only Hambali stands in your way, and I’ll remove him. For now, go out, embrace your brothers, show them love. Make yourself the center of attention, the pillar of the family. That way, your popularity will rise.”
She continued fiercely, “His Majesty is gone. But before he’s even laid to rest, I will already begin moving the throne toward you. You are my firstborn, my heir.”
Anatse smiled, chuckled, and said, “Mama, you’ve lived well.”
She quickly stroked his face. “Hide your joy! Put on a sad face as though you’re the only one mourning.”
He nodded, adjusted his expression, and walked out with a heavy heart while she resumed loud crying.
The Burial and the Absent Prince
Outside, crowds filled the palace grounds. All his brothers—Halilu, Ibrahim, Shu’ibu—had arrived with their families. Munir was the last to come. He immediately asked, “Anatse, did you reach Riyad?”
Anatse shook his head solemnly. “No. Since you’re all here, we won’t delay Baba’s burial for him. Even if he’s on his way, we won’t let Baba remain unburied overnight.”
Munir said nothing but quietly stepped aside. Remembering their late-night chat with Riyad, he tried calling again, but the number still didn’t go through. He sent an email, then returned.
They performed ablution, prayed over the late King, and buried him in the palace grounds.
Rumors spread quickly across the kingdom: all the princes attended their father’s burial—except Prince Riyad, the fifth son. Whispers painted Anatse in a brighter light, as people began to speculate about the succession.
Later, Anatse and his brothers entered a grand hall where the late King’s widows sat, veiled and weeping. They first greeted Fulani, Riyad’s mother, who responded calmly. They then greeted the other wives in turn, each answering in sorrow. Prayers were offered, tears shed, then the princes left for the men’s gathering, where top politicians and dignitaries from across the world were being received.
Description
The Gathering in the Secret Chamber
Anatse gave the greeting and entered a large hall they called Shakallo, a chamber so private that only the chosen could enter. The design resembled a museum with its vastness and grandeur, decorated with golden ornaments and covered entirely by a massive carpet. Cushions embroidered with royal designs were scattered across the carpet.
Five people sat inside—four men and one elderly woman. The woman, called Mai Babban Daki, was about seventy-six, with sharp eyes. She wore a flowing cloak (alkyabba), holding a tissue and rosary, occasionally wiping her tears. Alongside her sat Waziri, Wambai, Makama, and Sarkin Dawaki. Soon, two more elderly men, resembling Mai Babban Daki, entered and sat.
Anatse’s heart pounded at the weight of their presence; aside from the King himself, these were the kingdom’s decision-makers. He walked to the center, sat, and faced Mai Babban Daki.
“Grandmother, were you the one who sent for me?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, wiped her tears, and replied, “It was your father’s friends who sent for you, as the first son of Prince Kabeer.”
Surprised, Anatse raised his head to see the elders watching him. He simply responded, “Tooh.”
Makama, the most senior among them, asked, “Have all your brothers arrived? At four o’clock, we will enthrone the King’s successor.”
Calmly, Anatse replied, “Prince Halilu and Ibrahima are already here. Munir just called; his flight landed in Abuja. Umaru’s plane just departed Lagos. As for…” He paused briefly.
Together, the others asked, “What about Prince Riyad?”
Anatse sighed and said, “I’ve called endlessly; I can’t reach him.”
Mai Babban Daki exclaimed, “I have never seen such a reckless child like Riyad! Today he’s in Egypt, tomorrow Cyprus, then Oman, Zanzibar, China, even Iceland. Just yesterday, France. Try calling his French number! If you don’t have it, go to Fulani, she must know.”
Anatse replied softly, “Grandmother, you also know he has never stayed a full month in one place. Even his mother Fulani doesn’t know his whereabouts; she also tries calling him without response. I don’t know Riyad’s problem—why he prefers roaming the world instead of staying in his homeland.”
Wambai raised his hand and cut him short. “Enough. Because of him, we won’t delay what is due to the throne. Wherever he is, he’ll hear the news of his father’s death. Now go.”
Anatse sighed again, rose, and left the hall reluctantly.
One elder, angry, muttered, “I’ve told His Majesty many times to call Riyad to order. Among all the princes, none is as reckless as him. He refuses to learn our customs. What will people say when they hear he’s absent?”
Another elder, Usmanu, defended him: “No, Prince Riyad is calm. His businesses take him abroad, and His Majesty approved it because the boy is passionate about commerce. He’s kind and compassionate, as we all know.”
But Hambali snapped back, “Are you answering me, Usmanu?”
They were about to argue when Mai Babban Daki silenced them: “Enough! Do you not know your brother is gone, and you want to fight over his death?” The hall fell silent.
The Secret Conversation with His Mother
Anatse went straight to his mother’s flat. She was the chief wife and lived in a mansion so large it seemed like a separate district. He passed wailing women, entered her quarters, and found her crying among her attendants. She gestured for him to come up.
Rising, the woman—about forty-eight years old—followed him into her room. He shut the door and locked it. Suddenly, in a hushed voice, unlike her public weeping, she asked, “So what did they tell you?”
With a faint smile, Anatse replied, “They still haven’t reached Riyad, Mama. That makes me happy.”
Her eyes lit up. She clenched her fist and exclaimed, “Alhamdulillah! Riyad is my only problem. You surpass all the princes in wealth, education, and connections. You are from the noblest lineage, and the people know you better. Only Riyad can challenge you, with his riches and PhD. But apart from that, he has no wife—rumors even say he is unwell. People prefer you. Even your uncle Hambali cannot stand against you. You are the eldest son; it is your right to inherit the throne!”
She leaned closer and whispered, “Once the King is buried, I’ll go to Mai Babban Daki myself. Apart from Riyad, only Hambali stands in your way, and I’ll remove him. For now, go out, embrace your brothers, show them love. Make yourself the center of attention, the pillar of the family. That way, your popularity will rise.”
She continued fiercely, “His Majesty is gone. But before he’s even laid to rest, I will already begin moving the throne toward you. You are my firstborn, my heir.”
Anatse smiled, chuckled, and said, “Mama, you’ve lived well.”
She quickly stroked his face. “Hide your joy! Put on a sad face as though you’re the only one mourning.”
He nodded, adjusted his expression, and walked out with a heavy heart while she resumed loud crying.
The Burial and the Absent Prince
Outside, crowds filled the palace grounds. All his brothers—Halilu, Ibrahim, Shu’ibu—had arrived with their families. Munir was the last to come. He immediately asked, “Anatse, did you reach Riyad?”
Anatse shook his head solemnly. “No. Since you’re all here, we won’t delay Baba’s burial for him. Even if he’s on his way, we won’t let Baba remain unburied overnight.”
Munir said nothing but quietly stepped aside. Remembering their late-night chat with Riyad, he tried calling again, but the number still didn’t go through. He sent an email, then returned.
They performed ablution, prayed over the late King, and buried him in the palace grounds.
Rumors spread quickly across the kingdom: all the princes attended their father’s burial—except Prince Riyad, the fifth son. Whispers painted Anatse in a brighter light, as people began to speculate about the succession.
Later, Anatse and his brothers entered a grand hall where the late King’s widows sat, veiled and weeping. They first greeted Fulani, Riyad’s mother, who responded calmly. They then greeted the other wives in turn, each answering in sorrow. Prayers were offered, tears shed, then the princes left for the men’s gathering, where top politicians and dignitaries from across the world were being received.