You say to him in rising anger, "But the law of the land says the king must leave after ruling for four years!" Your husband says to you, "there is no law in this land. "A royal decree has been promulgated saying the king can rule for all eternity If the people so wishes. And delegations of chiefs all across the land are falling at the king's feet begging him in the name of the people to please stay on..." You ask your husband, And the king, what does he says?" He gives them some bags of rice and bars of soap and says nothing" "He says nothing?" `Yes', your husband replies, 'he says nothing..."

A prison warder comes in and taps your husband on the shoulder. "Time up" he barks... Your husband hands to the warder a plastic bag containing four bars of medicated soap, three cartons of fruit juice, some biscuits, a jar of body cream, a little tub of butter, two packets of sugar, two tins of Ovaltine and some money. You know you will only get half of it, the prison warder will steal the other half and take it home to his family as booty.

Your husband stands from the stool he has been sitting on and walks out backwards, keeping you within his still love-struck eyes and blowing you kisses as he melts out of sight. Your daughter question looms before you: "mummy, when are you coming home?' ...I don't know honey, I don't know...' Your anger wants to curse the warder's children, you know they are out under the trees playing with their own mother while your daughter is curled up in front of a television set, comforting herself with kiddies cartoons until daddy comes back from visiting mummy in prison. Curses begin to bubble from your mouth. They float vigorously, forming a circle, travelling towards the prison warder; may his children become orphaned,, may an east wind blight his harvest, may he sow a hundred-fold and reap emptiness. The circle begins to close in on him. Closer. Closer. But you draw them back, you break up the circle of curses and burn them in a heap of fire. Why orphan his children with curses whe n the guardians of the nation have mortgaged the lives of the people for bags of rice and bars of soap? Why soak the bloodied land with more blood?

As the warder opens the door of the little cubicle to lead you back to your cell, you know the plastic bag is already lighter. He has stolen your property in a pico-second. He hands over the bag to you. His hand lingers on your hand, his thumb caresses your palm. You snarl at him and hurry your footsteps into your cell. The door clangs shut. You sit on your cot and tear open with your teeth, a pack of biscuits and a carton of fruit juice. You laugh softly to yourself, as you begin to munch, at how redundant knives, spoons, plates and cups can be when a woman has the full gift of thirty-two sharp teeth in her mouth.

Between the fourth and fifth chocolate coated biscuit, your husband has smuggled a note. You open it and read, 'I love you very much. I wish I could take you in my arms right now. It's really hard on me at night..." The sinews of fear grapple for a stangle-hold on your heart. What is he trying to say to you? You try to unravel his words because you know the power of words. You do business with words. It was your words that get you into jail. Your screaming cover story that sold out your weekly news magazine in one day- KING BREAKS HIS PROMISE. HE SHALL NOT LEAVE ON THE 12TH OF JUNE!

You had heard rumours of a plot ochestrated by the king to ensure his eternity in power. The news hound you are tracked the reports travelling round the country researching reliable sources and conducting interviews with palace aides who were willing to talk in anonymity. And then you crafted the story in prose worthy of the pulitzer prize. The news hit the four winds. The winds ran with the news like motorcycle outriders to the centres and outposts of the country. The people were dazed. The king they hailed as a patriot and a genuine lover of the people had promised them in a lyrical moment- "I do not need riots to make me leave. I shall leave on the 12th of June and hand over power to a democratically elected government."

Your carefully researched story had spilled the state secret and his hounds had come calling. They hauled you before a court hastily convened at night. The bleary-eyed judge dressed in judicial wig and his bedroom slippers kept dozing off through the proceedings. He woke up in time to sentence you to twenty-five years imprisonment for intent to cause a revolt against the king... And eight months into twenty-five years, you are chewing your husband's words- `It's really hard on me at night', your daughter's 'mummy, when are you coming home?'. The bitter words are crunching in the chocolate biscuits under your molars. Bitter chocolate. What is your husband saying to you? Who has he started sleeping with?. Will his love-struck eyes last the years in the distance? Will your daughter love another mummy? You chew your biscuits. You gulp the fruit juice in the carton. You cling to the present. Who knows? Perhaps today, they will walk you into the final night at three in the afternoon.

© Toyin Adewale-Gabriel