Prologue

  I’ve always envied Yemíké, I mean what is there not to envy?

  Everyone in the village and even those beyond it went to bed in awe of Yemíké's beauty. Her skin held the softness of moonlit water, and her eyes reflected gold, like the palace halls at dusk.

  Yemoja had blessed her waist, and it showed. It swayed like the sea’s answered prayer. Even the little ones would gather at her feet beneath the old palm tree, not for the stories she read, I knew this, because they never remembered the tales only the way her words curled like smoke around their ears. They listened, not for meaning, but for her.

  They wanted her,

  like Adéwálé did.

  My name is Tánim?lú and I am Yemíké's envious older sister.

  I was born under the dry breath of "?j?? Méjì Oòrùn" (The Day of Two Suns). My Mama once described my birth as the day the sky burned hotter than the sea could cool and winds cursed the corn farm with terrifying flames. A day that had started with festivities ended with the cry of the villagers as they mourned their crops while a child wailed her path into their world.

  "Only the heart knows what it hides" - Tánim?lú. Mama would resonate the meaning of my name with a sort of .. unfondness. She would tilt her head toward the sky, eyes tracing the clouds as if they might remember too. And then, as if the weight of that memory pressed against her chest all over again, she would sigh, like she had finally let go of her grief.

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  But it was not so for Yemíké. Yemíké's birth story would pull the corner of my mama’s mouth to her ears. She narrated it with more vigor than Baba Adeshina, the King’s àr?? (court historian and storyteller). She smiled, not sighed. Occasionally showering her listeners with child-like giggles as she talked. Yes, Yemíké birth story rallied a host of listeners. They would listen to Yemíké story like a ritual.

  Yemíké, short for Yemoja tí f?? mí ké (Yemoja has chosen to pamper me) was born on the day of soft rain. In Mama’s words, “Fertility chose Yemíké as its vessel. Her wail beseeched the sky to release rain, it lured out so many fish that the fishermen ran out of baskets and drums to put them in. During the nine months she carried her, the corn and plantain field flourished more than ever before”.

  Yemíké this. Yemíké that.

  “Why can’t you be more like Yemíké?”

  “Can you let Yemíké know I asked about her?”

  “What’s Yemíké’s favorite dish?”

  “Is Yemíké seeing anyone?”

  “You’re so different from Yemíké.”

  “Are you sure you’re Yemíké’s sister?”

  “Aren’t you that disaster child?”

  So yes, I am Yemíké’s older sister.

  Yes, I carry envy in my chest like an heirloom.

  I want what she has.

  I want to be adored, the way people adore her.

  I want my Mama’s face to brighten when she calls my name.

  I want to walk through the village and hear only whispers of admiration.

  I want the air to hold me as gently as it holds her.

  But most of all...

  I want the one thing I fear Yemíké will take from me.

  Adéwálé.