Graham stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private study, overlooking the manicured palace gardens. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit that cost more than most families in Diobu earned in a decade. In his hand, he swirled a glass of aged whiskey, the ice clinking against the crystal with a hollow, rhythmic sound.
He looked at his reflection. He saw the "Amadi jaw" the old King had praised. He saw the regal tilt of the head. But when he looked into his own eyes, he still saw the flickering shadows of the refugee camp. He was a masterpiece painted on a canvas of lies, and the paint was starting to crack.
The door opened without a knock. Edna Mark walked in, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood. At fifty-five, she was a woman of formidable presence. Her neck was draped in heavy, authentic coral beads, and her lace wrapper was stiff with gold embroidery. She had spent seventeen years playing the role of the devoted mother and the power behind the throne, but the stress of the secret had sharpened her features into a permanent mask of suspicion.
"He's asked for it again," Edna said, her voice tight. "Your 'grandfather' is fading, Graham. The doctors say his heart is giving out. He wants the succession finalized before the end of the month."
Graham didn't turn around. "It's not the King I'm worried about, Mother. It's Egeonu. He's stopped whispering in the shadows. He's speaking openly in the council now. He says the 'Amadi blood' must be verified by science, not just by sight."
Edna's face contorted. "Science. That snake. He's waited nearly two decades for this moment. He thinks a needle and a glass slide can undo everything I've built."
"It can," Graham said, turning to face her. His voice was flat, devoid of the warmth a son should show a mother. Their relationship was not one of affection, but of mutual survival—a pact signed in blood and dust. "A DNA test is not a memory, Mother. You can't lie to a laboratory. If Richard provides a sample from London and I provide one here, the match will be zero. And then? They won't just take the beads. They'll take our heads."
Edna stepped closer, her eyes flashing with the same predatory light he remembered from the day under the mango tree. "You are the Prince! You have the support of the youth and the local chiefs. You tell them that a DNA test is an insult to the ancestors. You tell them that the white man's medicine has no place in the palace of the Gbaka-gbaka!"
"The youth want transparency, Mother," Graham countered, setting his glass down. "And the council is divided. Egeonu has been funding the education of several junior chiefs. They are calling for the 'Modernization of the Stool.' They want the test."
"Then we must ensure the test never happens," Edna hissed. "Or, if it does, the results must be... favorable."
Graham looked at her, a slow, dark realization dawning on him. "You've already tried to bribe the doctors, haven't you?"
"They are too scared," Edna spat. "Egeonu has his own guards watching the lab in Lagos. We are cornered, Graham. For seventeen years, I have protected you. I have coached you. I have killed the girl I used to be so you could be a King. Do not fail me now."
Graham looked away. He felt the phantom weight of the mango tree pressing against his back. He was tired of the performance. But he knew Edna was right. There was no path back to being 'Number 42.' There was only the throne, or the grave.