Back in a cramped, two-room flat in the heart of Port Harcourt, the boy who was once 'Number 42' sat on a wooden stool, staring at a plate of jollof rice as if it were a trap. The air in the room was thick with the smell of kerosene and the sound of the city's evening traffic—a roar of horns and shouting vendors that never seemed to sleep.
Edna stood over him, a comb in one hand and a basin of water in the other. She hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but she moved with a frantic, buzzing energy.
"Eat," she commanded. "You need to fill out. You look like a skeleton. No one will believe a Prince of the Gbaka-gbaka was allowed to wither like a salted fish."
The boy took a tentative bite. He looked at Dave, who was sitting in the corner, nursing a bottle of beer and staring at the floor with a look of profound shame.
"What is my name again?" the boy whispered.
Edna grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. Her grip was firm, not quite hurting, but leaving no room for escape. "Your name is Graham Amadi. Say it."
"Graham... Amadi."
"Again. Say it like you own the ground you walk on."
"Graham Amadi," the boy said, a little louder.
"Good. Your father is Richard Amadi. He is a great man studying in the land of the Queen. He loves you, but he cannot be here. Your grandfather is the King. He is waiting for you. He is going to give you everything you ever wanted. But if you tell anyone about the camp... if you mention the mango tree or the other boys... the bad men will come and take you back. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded vigorously, tears welling in his eyes. The threat of the camp was more effective than any promise of a palace.
"Edna, this is madness," Dave said, his voice muffled by the beer. "He's ten years old. He's going to slip. He's going to say something to a servant or a guard, and they'll hang us both from the bridge."
Edna turned on her brother, the comb clattering onto the table. "Then we make sure he doesn't talk to servants. We make sure he is never alone. I've already burned the clothes he was wearing. I've scrubbed the camp dirt off his skin until he bled. Tomorrow, I am taking him to the mission hospital to get a clean bill of health. I've already spoken to the nurse—a few Naira goes a long way when people are hungry."
"You're building a house on sand," Dave warned.
"I'm building it on the only thing that matters in this city: a convincing lie," Edna retorted. She turned back to the boy, her expression softening into something that looked terrifyingly like a mother's love, though it was fueled by a different fire. "Don't listen to your uncle, Graham. He's a small man with small dreams. You and I? We are going to live in the big house. You just have to remember who you are."
For the next week, the flat became a school of deception. Edna taught the boy the history of the Amadi family, reciting names of ancestors as if they were holy verses. She showed him a crumpled photograph of Richard—a tall, handsome man with a brilliant smile—and made the boy study it until he could describe every feature from memory.
She taught him how to sit, how to use a fork, and how to look people in the eye without flinching. She was erasing 'Number 42' and carving a Prince out of the raw material of a nameless refugee.
The boy was a quick study, fueled by a primal need for survival. He watched Edna's every move, learning to anticipate her moods and the sharp pinches she used as silent corrections. He began to believe the story. He had to. The alternative was a world where he belonged to no one, sitting under a mango tree waiting for a death that never came.
Finally, the summons arrived. A black Mercedes-Benz, flying the small crimson pennant of the royalty, pulled up to the curb of their crumbling apartment block. The neighbors peered through their curtains, whispering as Edna emerged, dressed in her finest lace, leading a quiet, well-dressed boy by the hand.
As they climbed into the air-conditioned interior of the car, the boy looked at Edna.
"Am I doing it right, Mother?" he whispered.
Edna looked at the boy—her creation, her gamble—and felt a surge of cold triumph. "You're doing perfectly, Graham. Just remember: once we cross those palace gates, there is no turning back. The lie is our life now."
The car pulled away, leaving the dust of the slums behind, heading toward the limestone walls that held either their salvation or their execution.
The gates of the Gbaka-gbaka Palace didn't just open; they groaned, a heavy, metallic sound that signaled the crossing from the chaotic survival of Port Harcourt's streets into a world of stagnant, high-walled tradition. As the black Mercedes glided over the crushed gravel of the driveway, the boy—now Graham—pressed his palm against the cool leather of the seat. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
Edna reached over and gripped his wrist. Her nails dug slightly into his skin, a silent command for composure. "Look straight ahead," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "You are not a guest. You are the owner who has been away. Remember that."