‘Sons are a good thing, my child, but a daughter!’ Nne’s deep, low, beloved voice, husky with age, dropped a conspiratorial note. ‘I would not let your brothers hear me, child, but a daughter brings her father wealth, and in old age she is worth five sons to her that bore her.’

The little girl at her knee looked wonderingly up at her, the large, brown luminous eyes almost a mirror image of her own, although they had yet to acquire the wisdom of near on eight decades.

‘Was I then born in the harmattan, Nne?’

Her grandmother, her ‘big mother,’ smiled.

‘Indeed. And a harsh dry season it was that year, with the dust devils as high as the old iroko tree in Igbo-Ora market square.

‘That was the year the great witch Amuosu-diegwu died. It was said she was two hundred years old, and that she battled against a thousand demons until they overcame her. Those that lived nearby said the screams were loud enough to wake the dead. And that night lightning split the two palm trees outside her shrine.’

As this piece of village lore had been repeated to Aku time without number, it was not greeted with the breathless awe with which it had been in the past. Instead, she flashed a glance at the little shaven-headed maid who sat beside her grandmother’s stool with a bowl of coloured beads. Nne was braiding Aku’s hair for the marriage ceremony of one of the king’s nephews the next day.

‘Orie says I am the re-incarnation of Amuosu-diegwu,’ Aku said, indignantly. ‘That is not possible, my child. You were born a month before she died,’ her grandmother replied, and added with a wicked sparkle in her eye, ‘Orie, on the other hand, was born three months afterwards.’

Aku shouted with laughter. Orie’s little mouth opened in protest, but although she was the princess’ playmate and constant companion, she would not have dared utter a word of complaint in the presence of the elderly mother of the Eze, the king, of Igbo-Ora.

The shadows were rapidly lengthening outside, and the chirping of the crickets was soon heard as the sun dipped in a dying red glow behind the distant hills.

Nne asked Orie to light a lamp, then spoke to Aku.

‘Turn around now, my child, and I shall braid the back of your hair.’

Aku obeyed. A cosy silence descended again. Nne’s skilful fingers, unhindered by age, flew almost in a blur as she made the tiny plaits, occasionally reaching out to Orie for a coloured bead to decorate them with.

Obi, Aku’s eleven-year-old brother, wandered in, idly curious about what they were doing. From the ongoing culinary preparations for the next day’s feast, he had managed to get hold of a bowl of peppery ukpaka, sliced oil beans prepared with red palm oil. After a heated discussion, he was persuaded to share it with the girls, and seated himself alongside them on Nne’s large, multicoloured, intricately woven raffia mat. Into the centre of it had been worked the picture of a gold and emerald scarab beetle, the symbol of the ruling household of Igbo-Ora.

At length, Aku spoke again.

‘Am I indeed a daughter of many kings, Nne?’

‘Yes, my little one. Your fathers have been kings here in Igbo-Ora near the banks of the mighty River Niger for many generations now. But long before the Ezes of Igbo-Ora, my children, long, long ago, countless centuries ago, your fathers were Nubian kings in the valley of another great river, rulers descended from the ancient kingdom of Kush. It is said that the kingdom of Kush was the oldest Black kingdom in Africa.’

‘And where was this kingdom, Nne?’ Aku asked.

‘Thousands of miles to the North-East, my daughter. Stretching from the first cataract of the River Nile in the land of Egypt, to its end in a great lake in a land called Ethiopia.’

‘What is a cataract, Nne?’ Obi asked respectfully.

‘ Rapids or a waterfall, my son.’

‘Tell us about those kings, grandmother,’ pleaded Aku, excitedly. ‘How did they come to leave that ancient kingdom, and live here?’

‘Yes, tell us,’ echoed Obi, and little Orie.

Nne smiled. ‘It is a long story, my little ones, and it is late already.’

‘Not that late, grandmother, please!’ Aku exclaimed. ‘There is a long way yet till my hair is done.’

In the end, Nne relented. ‘Very well, then,’ she said, but before she could start, two servant girls entered, bearing a large gourd of palm wine. The fermentation had just been completed and the approval of the king’s mother was sought.

The servant girls poured out the milky wine into a smaller gourd, and Nne raised it to her lips. She smiled and smacked her lips. It was perfect.

The girls smiled their delight, bowed and left, their ankle beads clinking as they walked. They had been rehearsing a group dance for the feast the next day. All the unmarried maidens in the king’s household would take part in it.

The children watched Nne pour out another gourd of wine, anxious to hear the story but not wanting to hurry her. At length, her tongue loosened by the good, strong brew, she began her tale as her hands took up the braiding once more.

‘The kings of Nubia were great kings,’ she said. The kingdom of Kush had fallen generations ago to the kings of Egypt, but the descendants of Kush set up the kingdom of Nubia, and ruled themselves independently from a city called Napata on the third cataract of the Nile.

‘Under King Piankhy, Egypt was conquered by the Nubians. Later, however, another army, from a land called Assyria, defeated his descendants, and despite their brave resistance, drove them out of the Egyptian capital, forcing them back to Napata.

‘Over a hundred years after their return, twin princes were born to the royal household. The elder was born deformed, with a clubfoot on the left. It was feared that this would not only displease the king, but be seen as a curse from the gods, and therefore the king was told that his favourite wife had borne him one son.

The queen was beloved of all in the royal household, and the midwives kept her secret. Her cousin brought up the older child, and gave him his name - Ramai.

‘Despite his deformity he was a beautiful child. It was often idly remarked upon how strongly the son of the queen’s cousin resembled the royal children, but no-one thought too much of it - that is, not until the arrival in the household of the evil eunuch Jabal, fifteen years after the birth of the twins.

Jabal was placed in charge of the king’s harem, and almost immediately became intensely jealous of the queen, for she had the ear of the king.

‘He made it his business to find out everything he possibly could about her, in the hope that he would find something he could use against her. Being extremely cunning, he eventually unearthed the truth.’

‘What happened then, grandmother?’

‘You may well ask. No sooner did the eunuch know the story than half the kingdom did as well, and then he personally brought it to the attention of the king.

As expected, the king was enraged. Enraged at the deceit of his favourite wife and the connivance of her servants. He summoned the queen, her cousin and the boy Ramai into his presence. The eunuch accused them again to their faces, but he need not have troubled, for the king had only to look upon the mirror image of the crown prince to know he had spoken the truth.

‘The king spared the life of his favourite wife, but although she clung to his feet and wept and pleaded until she was hoarse, he punished her by banishing her fifteen-year-old son from the kingdom of Nubia forever. The cousin he put to death.

‘Ramai wept in the queen’s chambers, wept for the loss of both mothers, for the loss of his home, for the loss of a kingdom to which he should have been rightful heir. And the queen his mother wept with him. But before she released him to begin his exile, she dismissed her servant girls and opened an ornately carved chest in her room.

‘There was unlimited treasure in the Nubian kingdom in those days, my children, for throughout upper Egypt could be found many precious stones. Emeralds, amethysts, and much gold. The queen had priceless jewels in her keeping, and she gave to her son as many as he could carry, instructing him to hide them under his robes, and thus ensure that he and his children would never want for money. The jewels included a huge emerald forming the heart of a golden scarab beetle worn on a heavy gold chain.’

This description rang a bell in Aku’s mind. ‘Is that the chain my father wears on state occasions?’

‘The self-same one, my daughter, that the Nubian queen gave to her son Ramai so many centuries ago.’

‘What happened to him after that, Nne?’ Obi prompted.

‘The jewels were not all his mother gave him. Even then our ancestors were skilled workers with metals. On a scroll of papyrus, a kind of paper made from reeds, had been inscribed the secrets of successful iron smelting. These were known only to the royal household and the smiths in their employ, and were a source of great wealth to them, for they had mastered the quickest and most effective means of purifying iron from its ore.

‘No sooner had Ramai placed the scroll in the leather pouch around his waist than Jabal’s hired thugs burst into the queen’s chamber. Seizing him roughly, they dragged him from his weeping mother before she could embrace him for the last time.

‘Outside the city walls, they beat him up severely, and abandoning him to his fate, they rode off on their horses, jeering, in clouds of dust.’

Nne’s voice broke off. The chamber was very quiet.

In the distance could be heard the laughter of the village girls, intermingled with the rhythmic rolls of the talking drums and the rattle of beaded gourds. Nightfall notwithstanding, the preparations for the feast continued.

As the flame of the lamp flickered, then sprang back to life, long shadows danced eerily in the corners. The children were oblivious to them.

‘Did he die, Nne?’ asked Obi breathlessly, almost fearfully, as if he dreaded the answer.

‘Of course he didn’t,’ Aku responded at once. ‘We would not have been here if he did, would we, Nne?’

‘You are a clever child,’ her grandmother said approvingly, her fingers never pausing for a moment in their intricate task. ‘No, the story did not end there. There is more.’

Their aunt Amara entered their grandmother’s chamber at this point.

‘So this is where you are,’ she said to the children. Amara was their father’s youngest sister. Over her arm she carried two richly embroidered lengths of fabric, and had come to seek her mother’s opinion on which to wear to the feast.

‘Wear the red,’ Aku cried, unasked.

‘No, the blue!’ Obi said, just as firmly. ‘I shall not confuse you further, Amara,’her mother said fondly. ‘You find it too difficult to make up your mind. That is why you are still not married.’

The children laughed. Rolling her eyes toward the ceiling out of her mother’s view, Amara left the chamber hastily before the subject could develop further.

‘There is more,’ repeated Nne, as she resumed her story.

‘Despite his injuries, Ramai managed to drag himself a few miles away from the city walls, limping slowly over the dry, rocky desert terrain. He carried a king’s ransom in jewels that Jabal’s thugs had not thought to look for, but would have given every last one just for the chance to step back a few days into his past.

‘Finally, he flung himself down by a large rock. Staring up into the clear blue sky, from which the sun blazed mercilessly down on hundreds of miles of sand dunes, he saw three vultures circling expectantly. He closed his eyes, too weak and tired to care.

‘What seemed like hours later, he was woken by a cool, gentle touch on his forehead. He opened his eyes to find himself looking up into the dark eyes of a slender young woman, veiled and swathed in white robes which contrasted becomingly with her smooth, dusky skin.

‘She called sharply for her companion, a young girl, who brought across a goatskin of water which the young woman held to his parched lips. Never had anything felt so good!

‘At first, Ramai thought he had died, and that the girls were supernatural beings, but the young woman told him, in a dialect not dissimilar to his own, that they belonged to a nomadic tribe which was camping for a few days at an oasis not far away. Her name was Nerisa and she was the daughter of the nomadic chieftain. She had been born in Abu Simbel, north of Napata.

‘Nerisa and her young companion cleaned Ramai’s wounds, helped him mount their camel, and took him down to the oasis where the nomads had pitched their tents.

‘Oman, Nerisa’s father, received him into his tent and commanded that food be brought for him. He asked him about his family, and how he had come to be in his present state. On hearing that he was a member of the Nubian royal house, and how he had come to be driven out, he pronounced himself honoured, and offered him a place with them if he desired it.

‘While in Abu Simbel, he told him, they had heard of certain lands, several miles to the southwest, where there were constant rains and where the vegetation was green and lush. They sought a new home in these lands, if not for themselves, then for their children and children’s children.

‘Ramai, having nothing to lose, was happy to join them. The news of his identity spread quickly through the camp, and he was treated with a reverence that was new to him.

‘The caravan moved on after a few days, travelling southwest. Oman treated Ramai as his own son, having a tent pitched for him beside his own whenever they camped. Oman had many daughters, but his only son had died in early childhood. As the years went by, the nomadic tribe came to see Ramai as a sort of honorary crown prince.

‘He shared the secrets of iron smelting with them, selecting a few of the tribe’s capable young men to become blacksmiths. They were able to sell their wares of iron and bronze to the cities they passed through, but did not sell the secrets of their craft. The wealth of the tribe increased, and with it Ramai’s esteem.

‘After Nerisa had rescued Ramai and brought him to the tribe, she kept a respectful distance. The custom of the tribe demanded it. But she had saved his life, and there could not but be a bond between them, unspoken though it might be. One day, when Ramai was about eighteen years old, he was told that Nerisa was to marry. After they had camped for the night, he went in search of her.

He found her near a campfire with some of her sisters and their maidens, and quietly, uninvited, sat down beside her. The laughter and conversation continued around them.

‘ “They tell me you are to marry,” he said in low tones.

‘She looked amused. “They tell you the truth,” she replied.

‘ “Who is he?”

‘ “Jovan. My father’s cousin.”

‘ “He has two wives already.”

‘ “ No doubt he can afford a third.”

‘ “You would be happier married to a man for whom you were the only one.”

‘She laughed. “You speak with such conviction on this matter, and yet you are but a boy.”

‘ “I am not!” he replied, quite stung. And indeed he was not, for by this time he had grown into a tall, strong, handsome young man.

‘ “Yes, you are,” she insisted laughingly. For you are fully twelve months younger than I. You are a boy.”

‘ “And you would rather have an old man than a boy,” he said angrily, unheeding of his words.

‘She turned her dark gaze full upon him. The firelight enhanced the loveliness of her long-lashed eyes. He had never seen eyes so beautiful.

‘ “Am I then being offered the choice?” she said in her low, husky voice, a teasing note in it that she had never used with him before.

‘ He felt the heat rush to his face, and was speechless.

‘She smiled, and he fancied that the fire in her eyes was not a reflection alone.

‘ “You would have to speak to my father,” she said simply, and turned to face the flames again.

‘ His heart pounded in his breast. “ I will,” he promised.

“ She has been betrothed to Jovan since her childhood. I could not offend my kinsman in this manner.”

‘ “ Then I shall speak to him myself.”

‘ “ If she was free, my son, there would be no one I would rather see her marry than yourself. But she is not. Her younger sister Haima is not yet betrothed, however….”

‘ Ramai bowed respectfully but shook his head. “ Thank-you, my father. But I will marry Nerisa, or no-one at all.”

‘He left the tent.

‘He found Jovan at another campfire with several of his friends and kinsmen, roasting skewers of meat over the open flame and laughing uproariously. Several of the men, including Jovan himself, were somewhat the worse for drink, having purchased several skins of a highly potent brew from the inhabitants of the last city they had passed through.

‘Jovan looked up as he approached the fire. He had never made any secret of the fact that he disliked Ramai and resented his closeness to the chieftain of the tribe. His tongue loosened by alcohol, he jeered loudly as Ramai drew near.

‘ “ Here comes the chieftain’s little lame dog! What spectacular deed of note, brethren, could have qualified us for this tremendous honour?”

Guffaws of drunken laughter followed this witticism. Ramai’s face hardened.

‘ “ I want to speak to you alone,” he said to Jovan.

‘Jovan spat contemptuously into the fire. “ Is that so indeed? What a pity I am too tired to rise to my feet. Speak your errand before my friends and kinsmen, for I have no secrets from them.”

‘ “ Very well,” Ramai said resolutely. “ I wish to marry Oman’s daughter, Nerisa, whom I understand is your betrothed. I will pay whatever price you ask.”

‘ The smile died from Jovan’s face as he rose slowly to his feet. A hush descended on his party as he hurled the long skewer of sizzling meat, spear-like, into the ground inches from Ramai’s feet. He walked slowly, menacingly, towards the younger man, until his ferocious, bearded countenance was only inches from Ramai’s. His eyes blazed.

‘ “ How dare you?” he growled, in deep, rumbling tones. “ That girl was promised to me by her father when she was but six years old. And you, a mere stripling, a deformed outcast, you dare to challenge me for her hand? No price will suffice to erase this unspeakable insult! Indeed, may I die a thousand deaths if I do not rip you open with my sword tonight and feed your carcass to the carrion birds at dawn.”

‘ If Ramai was disturbed by these words, he did not show it, as he responded coldly.

‘ “ If there is any challenge, it is yours, and I accept. If it is your wish that I fight you for Nerisa’s hand, so be it.”

‘ Jovan gave a dreadful laugh, completely devoid of mirth. The hatred in his eyes was awful to behold.

‘ “ There will be no fight,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. “ Die like the dog you are!” And a split second later, a long, sharp sword gleamed coldly in his hand, whipped from within his flowing robes.

‘ It flashed once in the firelight, and in one deft motion its deadly sharp point plunged straight at Ramai’s heart.’