Akosua
Silence can be louder than war.
I learned that truth the morning the palace bells rang—not in celebration, not in blessing, but in warning. Their sound rolled across the city in slow, deliberate waves, heavy and measured, like something ancient had been disturbed from its rest and was deeply displeased to be awake.
The bells did not rush.
They did not shout.
They announced judgment.
Each toll felt intentional, as though the palace itself was breathing—slow, controlled, and watchful. It was the kind of sound that did not ask for attention. It demanded it.
I stood by the window of my small apartment, dressed in plain linen, watching the streets below move as if nothing had changed.
Women balanced trays of fruit on their heads, hips swaying with practiced ease, laughter rising freely from their lips. Men argued loudly over transport fares, hands waving, voices careless. Children chased one another through narrow paths, feet slapping the dusty ground, their laughter bright and untouched by power or politics.
Life continued.
But mine had paused.
I had not been summoned.
Not yet.
And that alone told me how serious this had become.
When royalty feels threatened, it does not strike immediately. It watches. It measures. It allows silence to stretch long enough for fear to grow roots in the heart. It studies how much damage absence can cause before a single word is spoken.
They erase first.
Quietly.
They remove the woman at the center of the storm and hope the wind calms on its own.
Not with chains.
Not with guards.
But with absence.
My phone lay untouched on the table, its screen dark. No missed calls. No messages. No warnings wrapped in kindness. No gentle advice delivered in secret.
Only rumors drifting through the city like smoke that refused to clear.
"Kofi has rejected tradition."
"The chosen princess collapsed during the council meeting."
"The elders are divided."
"The future king is being tested."
Each sentence arrived softly.
And then stayed.
They clung to me like dust—settling in corners of my thoughts, refusing to be brushed away.
I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the glass, its coolness grounding me.
This was never what I wanted.
I had never chased the crown.
Never asked for a title.
Never imagined myself standing between history and power.
I had loved him quietly. Carefully. Without demand or expectation. I had loved him the way women are taught to love—by giving, by waiting, by believing patience could soften even stone.
I had believed love was something gentle. Something private. Something that could exist without disturbing the world.
I was wrong.
Because somehow, that love—simple and unguarded—had become the greatest crime of all.
A knock sounded at my door.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Official.
My heart stilled, but my body did not panic. I had prepared myself for this moment long before it arrived—long before the palace bells ever rang.
When I opened the door, a palace messenger stood there, dressed in black and gold. His posture was rigid. His face carefully empty, trained not to reveal thought or sympathy.
"Akosua Mensah," he said. "You are requested at the palace."
Requested.
Not invited.
Not welcomed.
Requested—like a matter to be examined, weighed, and possibly discarded.
"When?" I asked.
"Now."
I nodded once.
Inside, I picked up my shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders. My hands did not shake. My breathing remained steady. Only my chest carried the weight of what awaited me.
Before stepping out, I whispered a quiet prayer—not for protection, not for escape, but for grace.
Grace to speak gently.
Grace to listen fully.
Grace to leave without bitterness, if leaving became my duty.
The drive to the palace felt longer than usual. The city thinned as the walls rose ahead of us—tall, ancient, unforgiving. Their beauty was sharpened by authority, polished by centuries of obedience.
I had passed through those gates before—not as a rival, not as a threat, but as a woman who believed love could exist without challenging power.
I understood now how naïve that belief had been.
Inside the palace, the air felt heavier, as though judgment itself had taken physical form. Servants bowed as I passed, but their eyes followed me. Some held sympathy they dared not express. Some held curiosity sharpened by gossip. Others avoided me entirely, as if guilt or punishment might spread by contact.
I was not taken to the council chamber.
Instead, I was led into a quiet waiting room.
Wait.
That was how women were reminded of their place. Not accused. Not condemned. Just delayed—until patience itself became a trial.
I sat with my hands folded neatly in my lap, my back straight, my gaze lowered. I did not rehearse speeches. I did not prepare defenses. Whatever would be decided today would not be changed by clever words or tears.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The silence pressed in, thick and watchful. I listened to my own breathing, to the faint echo of footsteps beyond the walls, to the sound of my heart reminding me I was still standing.
When footsteps finally approached, I rose to my feet.
The Queen entered.
Queen Mother Nana Yaa .
She did not greet me.
She did not offer a seat.
She looked at me the way one looks at something fragile and dangerous at the same time—something that could break easily, yet still cause damage.
"You are calm," she said.
"I was raised to be," I replied softly.
Her eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in careful examination.
"You know why you are here."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"You have caused unrest."
I lowered my head slightly. "I regret that deeply."
She studied me. I could feel it. She had expected denial. Or justification. Or fear.
"Do you deny your role in this?" she asked.
"No," I said gently. "I only wish it had never brought pain."
Silence stretched between us, thick but not hostile.
"Tradition does not bend easily," she said at last.
"I know," I replied. "And I do not ask it to."
Her brow furrowed. "Then what do you want?"
I paused, choosing my words as if they were glass—fragile, capable of cutting if mishandled.
"I want peace," I said. "For him. For the kingdom. For everyone affected."
She watched me closely, as though searching for ambition hidden beneath humility.
"You were never chosen."
"I know," I said. No bitterness. No defense.
"That matters."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And yet you remain."
I nodded once. "Because I was not raised to abandon what I did not steal."
Something shifted then.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But I felt it.
"You have been accused of ambition," she said.
"I have none," I replied. "I never asked to stand where I am standing."
"You are aware some believe you enjoy this attention."
My chest tightened, but my voice stayed calm. "If I could disappear without causing more harm, I would have done so already."
She exhaled slowly.
"You love him," she said.
"Yes."
"Enough to destroy his future?"
I lifted my head and met her gaze—not with defiance, not with pride, but with honesty.
"I love him enough to step aside if that is what protects his crown."
The room went still.
"You would leave?" she asked quietly.
"If wisdom demands it," I said. "Yes."
"And if he follows you?"
My throat tightened, but I did not falter. "Then I would ask him to return."
She studied my face for a long moment, searching for deception—and finding none.
"You do not argue like other women," she said.
"I was taught to listen," I replied. "And to endure."
That was when the doors opened again.
Queen Nana Afia Aduro entered.
Princess Adjoa's mother.
The air changed immediately.
Her presence was sharp—controlled, cold, heavy with restrained fury. Her gaze swept the room, measured the Queen, and then settled on me with unmistakable judgment.
"So," she said softly, dangerously. "This is her."
I bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."
She circled me slowly, her footsteps deliberate, like someone inspecting a wound to decide how deep the damage ran.
"She looks harmless," she said. "Danger often does."
I kept my eyes lowered. "I mean no harm."
She laughed once—short, bitter. "Meaning does not matter. Consequence does."
She stopped in front of me. "Do you know what happens to women who weaken thrones?"
My hands tightened in my lap, but I remained silent.
"They disappear," she continued calmly. "Sometimes quietly. Sometimes permanently."
The Queen stiffened. "This is enough."
"It is not," Adjoa's mother replied. "My daughter nearly died."
I bowed my head further. "I am sorry for her pain."
Her lips curled. "Sorry does not heal poison."
"I never wished her harm," I whispered.
"But harm followed you," she snapped. "And where harm walks, death is never far behind."
The words were deliberate.
Measured.
A threat wrapped in tradition.
"You should leave this city," she said coldly. "Before the ancestors decide you are the price required to cleanse this unrest."
Something trembled inside me—not fear, but sorrow.
"If my leaving restores peace," I said softly, "I will not resist it."
The room fell silent.
Even the Queen looked at me then—with something close to pain.
Adjoa's mother studied me, her expression unreadable. "Be careful," she said quietly. "Mercy is not the same as safety."
Then she turned and left.
The Queen remained.
"You are in danger," she said.
"I know," I replied.
"Why are you not afraid?"
I hesitated, then spoke truth.
"Because fear would make me selfish," I said. "And I cannot afford to be that."
Her eyes shimmered—just briefly.
The sun was setting when I left the palace, staining the sky red, like a warning written across the heavens.
Behind those walls, decisions were sharpening.
Because tradition was bleeding.
And when tradition bleeds—
It always demands blood.
And this time…
It might be mine.