Sometimes, in the quiet of the early morning, before the mansion stirred and the servants began their gentle rustling. I would sit by the wide windowsill in my chamber and stare at the sunrise bleeding across the horizon. And guilt would find me.
Because deep down, I knew.
I wasn't the heir.
Not truly.
Not the way they believed I was.
There was no memory in me of royal lullabies or golden cribs. Just an ancient seal that grew on my back. A seal that was more like a scar.
It was all they had, and I let them believe it.
I told myself it was for Taji. So he could live without hunger gnawing at his ribs. So he wouldn't have to dodge guards and sleep in alleyways anymore. But if I peeled back my excuses, I knew part of me wanted it too. The warmth, the ease and the chance to belong.
So, I smiled. I nodded. I practiced sitting straight and speaking in clipped, regal tones. I faked the lineage, I faked everything, the bloodline and the history.
And the whole empire of Zazu welcomed me as its long-lost daughter.
Taji was thrilled. He had been given a suite fit for a minor noble, all polished floors and silver basins. His laughter echoed through the halls now, bright and reckless, like it belonged there. He loved the food, the shoes, the warm water baths, the books stacked on marble shelves with his name etched into the spine plates.
"This is it Zu." he whispered one night as we watched the stars from the balcony. "We made it."
I nodded, and for a moment, I almost believed we had.
Mornings became a ritual. I would rise before dawn, soak in rose-scented water, and allow maids to plait my hair while I memorized the names of my supposed ancestors. Then came etiquette classes, posture drills, royal history, and diplomatic speech. The tutors were sharp-eyed and merciless.
"Again," snapped Madame Nyota, when I dipped too low in a bow. "A royal bows like a tree in the wind, not a reed drowning in the river."
By midday, my spine ached and my brain buzzed.
Taji often met me after my lessons, dragging me along for long walks around the estate. He'd point out interesting things: the twisted ivory tree, the hidden koi pond, the stained-glass mosaics in the southern corridor. I'd pretend to listen, trying not to collapse from exhaustion.
That day, the air was particularly thick with sun and silence. I lagged behind, distracted by the scent of blooming hibiscus. Taji was already turning a corner ahead, humming to himself.
Then I heard voices, low and very familiar. I crept closer, my footsteps feathered against the stone tiles. It was Prince Jabari and his mother.
"She's back, that shameless girl," she was saying. "And the council wants her to take the throne."
Jabari's voice was strained. "But I was raised to rule. You told me, mother I can't loose the throne."
"She was gone, Jabari! We had to protect the lineage. Your father and I gave birth to you, gave you everything. You are royal. But now, we must adjust."
"I can't marry her," he said tightly. "She is my cousin."
A pause. Then her voice, steely and cold: "We would say you are not my blood, Jabari. That would be our new truth. I'd claim your father and I kept it hidden. We told no one. You were an orphan, just like her but we chose you."
My breath caught.
Chosen? Not born?
"Then tell them," Jabari said.
She stepped closer. "Not yet, you must win her heart. Make her choose you. That way, no one questions it. You'll rule beside her and the empire will remain ours."
I stumbled back, my fingers digging into the pillar I'd hidden behind. My heart thudded against my ribs. Just then, Taji appeared from another corner. I watched him slow, heard his breath hitch ever so slightly.
He had heard too.
But he kept walking, his face was unreadable, and his steps were casual.
I pressed myself deeper into the shadows and waited until both of them were gone.
Later that evening, Taji came to my room with roasted fish in a silver dish and a wide grin on his face.
"Tomorrow's your day off," he said. "We're spending it by the southern garden. You need fresh air."
He didn't mention what we'd heard. Neither did I.
Taji kept talking about how our lives had changed and how we were far better than when we roamed the streets, but I was lost in thought.
Something shifted after that day.
Jabari started joining my lessons.
At first, he sat quietly at the back, arms crossed, pretending disinterest. But slowly, he edged forward, he started offering corrections, helping me decipher the empire's ancient trade laws, even showing me how to draw the royal family tree in perfect calligraphy.
"You hold your brush like it's a weapon," he chuckled one afternoon.
"Maybe it is," I replied coolly, though I couldn't help but smirk.
Taji watched from a distance, lounging by the garden wall, flipping through an old poetry book. Every so often, he'd glance at us and nod approvingly.
And then he started dropping little comments.
"He's actually kind of funny when he's not brooding."
"Did you see the way he explained the treaty clause? That was smooth."
"Maybe you two make a good team…"
I knew what he was doing.
I wanted to ask why he hadn't spoken to me about the Jabari's plot. Why he acted like it had never happened. Why he pushed me toward someone who was supposed to be using me.
But every time I opened my mouth, the words died on my tongue.
I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself Jabari wasn't as cold as he seemed. That maybe... just maybe, this wasn't a game for him.
Still, at night, when the mansion slept and my chamber fell silent, I would press a hand against my chest, feel my heart beat against my skin, and whisper to the dark:
"Who am I, really?"
And somewhere deep inside, I feared the answer.
I often went with the Empress to places, outreach and events...today we went to the streets and other towns in Kigali.
I had never seen so many hungry eyes before.
We stood in the heart of a dusty courtyard near the edge of the city, where the we distributed food, clothing, and medicine every week. It was my first time leaving the golden gates of the Imperial Mansion since our arrival, and though the world outside was familiar in sound and scent, rustling gowns,crying infants, the smell of dried fish and rice. It felt strange now through the lens of silk gowns and palace perfume.
Beside me, Empress Imani, my mother. She smiled with that diplomatic grace she wore like a veil. She handed out parcels of rice and beans, nodding at elders and touching children's heads with practised affection.
I mimicked her as best I could.
"Always lower your gaze slightly," she had whispered in the Jeep. "It makes you appear humble yet strong. A mother to the people."
But it wasn't her whisper that anchored me that day. It was Jabari's hand.
Strong, warm, and sure.
He stood beside me, his other hand helping balance a tray of water bottles we passed out to the sick and elderly. Our fingers brushed now and then, not accidentally, not intentionally either, but somewhere in between. A silent rhythm formed between us as we moved through the crowd like a dance.
"You're doing well," he murmured as I handed a small girl a bowl of fresh apples.
"She reminds me of me," I said softly, watching the girl's dirt-smeared face break into a smile.
He leaned closer. "You've always belonged here, Zuri. Not just in the empire but in the heart of the people."
I didn't answer. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't know how to respond to someone who saw more in me than I saw in myself. Someone who I knew was faking those words to get to my heart, someone I knew hated me so much.
We finished serving late into the afternoon. The sun had softened to a warm bronze, and the guards were already preparing our return. The Empress excused herself to speak with the coordinator of the centre, and Jabari and I found shade under an old neem tree nearby.
He sat close, cross-legged like a village boy, not a prince. He offered me water and peeled a banana for himself.
"Do you know," he began, I was already tired of Jabari being around me. It was exhausting. He looked with a playful glint in his eyes, "I once tried to escape the mansion to live among the people."
I blinked. "You? Prince Jabari the First?"
He grinned. "I was ten. I packed fresh mangoes, a slingshot, and a book of war strategy. I got as far as the market before the guards dragged me back like a goat."
I laughed, loud and unexpected. "What made you run?"
His smile softened. "I was lonely. And I thought… maybe I'd find someone out there who understood me. Someone who didn't just see the crown on my head."
Our eyes met.
He didn't look away.
"Do you feel seen now?" I asked, voice quiet.
There was a pause. His smile faded into something gentler. "Yes. When I'm with you."
A slow breeze passed between us, I knew that was a big lie, Jabari who wanted me out of the mansion. I should have pulled away. I should have remembered what I overheard. That this was all a strategy. A plan. A political chess move, not a real connection.
But my hearts just felt numb.
Before I could speak, I caught sight of movement near the far fence, Taji. He was always looking at us from a distance.
He stood half-hidden by a fruit cart, arms crossed, lips curved into a smile.
But it didn't reach his eyes. Not the way it used to. His smile used to be wide, carefree, full of mischief. Now, it looked… forced and polished. Like something worn for effect. And the way he stared at us, me and Jabari. It wasn't just brotherly pride. It was… calculation.
Why was he watching?
Why hadn't he said anything about the plot we both heard?
Why did he act like nothing had changed, even though everything had? My stomach tightened. Was I losing him? Or had I already lost him to whatever game he'd chosen to play?
The conversations with Jabari continued, day after day.
He visited my reading sessions, occasionally corrected my posture during dance training, and even taught me sword handling in the practice courtyard.
And each time, Taji seemed to pull further away.
We barely shared words these days. When we passed in the hallway, his nods were brief. When I asked if he wanted to walk in the gardens like before, he claimed to be "busy resting" or "needed time alone."
Once, I opened his door without knocking, something we used to do all the time and found him scribbling furiously on parchment, only to hide it the moment he saw me.
"What was that?" I asked.
"Just… nothing. Go get ready for your lessons," he said with a tone that made my chest tighten.
He was keeping something from me.
Something big.
Jabari he came with so much gentleness. Or his habit of listening. Or the way he never pushed, just waited, offering comfort in quiet doses.
That night, after another long evening of walking through garden fountains and laughing about empire politics, I found myself in his chambers.
"I shouldn't be here," I said as I sat on the edge of his couch. "People will talk."
"Let them," he said, pouring us tea. "This mansion feeds on gossip. At least this one will be about something pleasant."
I chuckled, taking the cup.
We talked for hours, about his late father, about my memories of Kigali's alleys, about whether loyalty is something earned or inherited. His presence soothed my nerves, or maybe I just decided to play along and see where the game ends.
But even in his comfort, my thoughts returned to Taji.
Why had he changed?
Why did he keep looking at me like I was a piece in some hidden puzzle?
Why wasn't he warning me anymore?
I stared into Jabari's fireplace, too tired to ask more questions.
And without meaning to, I fell asleep, my head resting against Jabari's shoulder, breath even, eyes fluttering closed, while shadows danced against the walls.