Chapter One: The Impossible Love

In the bustling city of Olorunla, Damilola was a princess by birth, the 25-year-old daughter of Oba Adeyemi, a revered and wealthy Yoruba king. The kingdom was an epitome of prosperity, with vast estates, a glittering palace, and a lineage that spanned centuries. Her life had been carefully scripted for her, each step defined by royal duty and the weight of tradition. Damilola was educated at one of the best universities in the country, fluent in several languages, and adept in the art of diplomacy. But none of these accomplishments could fill the void that had grown in her heart, a yearning for something she couldn’t name.

Her world was one of opulence, of silk and gold, of ceremonies and celebrations. Yet, despite the adoration of her people and the high expectations placed upon her, Damilola felt trapped. Her family had already arranged for her to marry a prince from a neighbouring kingdom, a union meant to strengthen political ties and fortify her father’s reign. But Damilola couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was missing, that life had more to offer her than the life of a dutiful royal.

On the other side of Olorunla, in a forgotten corner of the city where the poor eked out a living, lived Chike. Chike was an illiterate Igbo shoe-shiner, a young man of about 28. His life was a stark contrast to Damilola’s. He lived in a cramped, dilapidated apartment in a ghetto called Iru-Oba, a part of the city known for its abysmal conditions. Chike’s family had been part of a long line of Igbo people who had come to Lagos in search of better opportunities, only to find themselves scraping by in a life filled with hardship.

Despite his lack of education, Chike was a man of quiet resilience. He could fix anything with his hands—shoes, machines, even hearts. His customers, mostly workers and traders, came from all walks of life. But beyond his work, Chike’s dreams were big. He often imagined himself living beyond the confines of the ghetto, far from the noise and poverty, but it was just a dream, one he kept locked away in the corners of his mind.

It was during one of Damilola’s infrequent trips to the city’s bustling market that their paths crossed. Her father, as part of his plan to integrate the royal family more deeply into the local culture, had sent her to observe the state of the city, to see how the common folk lived. It was on a sunny afternoon that Damilola found herself wandering the busy streets, her escort at a distance, when her gaze fell upon Chike.

He was sitting by the side of the road, carefully polishing a pair of leather shoes, his dark hands moving with practiced precision. There was something in the way he worked, an ease in his movements that caught her attention. She was used to seeing men of wealth and influence, but this man, though poor and rough around the edges, carried an aura of quiet strength and dignity. For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Chike, sensing someone watching him, looked up, his eyes meeting hers. There was no trace of recognition in his expression—he had no idea who she was. But Damilola felt an inexplicable connection. She nodded politely and walked away, but her heart was racing. She couldn’t shake the image of Chike from her mind.

The next few weeks were a blur. Damilola found herself returning to the market under the guise of taking a break from her royal duties. She would wander the streets, often seeking out Chike, though she never spoke to him directly. She watched him work, sometimes sitting nearby, just watching. Slowly, they became familiar with each other’s presence, exchanging brief glances and smiles.

Then, one day, Damilola gathered the courage to speak.

“Your work is remarkable,” she said, standing in front of him.

Chike looked up, surprised. His lips parted to speak, but he quickly regained his composure. “Thank you, madam. I try my best.”

Damilola, in her expensive attire, felt like an alien in the ghetto. “You must have learned this skill over many years.”

Chike nodded, his face softening. “Yes, but there’s not much else to learn in a place like this.”

There was something in his voice, a subtle bitterness that Damilola understood all too well. In her world, there were expectations she couldn’t escape, just as he seemed to carry the burden of his circumstances.

From that day, they began to talk. Little by little, their interactions grew deeper, though Damilola kept her identity hidden. She told Chike that she worked for a government agency, but never revealed that she was the daughter of the king. Chike, for his part, never asked too many questions. He enjoyed the simplicity of their conversations and the connection they shared.

Their bond grew stronger over time. Damilola, torn between her royal life and the pull she felt toward Chike, found herself falling in love. She began to question everything—her engagement to the prince, her father’s expectations, the very life that had been laid out for her.

But the world they came from was never meant to coexist. Damilola’s family would never accept a union with someone like Chike. And Chike, who had always known the divides between the rich and poor, knew the complexities that would arise from their relationship.

One evening, as they sat by the old bridge near the market, Damilola’s heart beat with uncertainty. The sun was setting, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink.

“I can’t keep pretending,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m not who I said I am.”

Chike turned to her, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not from a government agency, Chike. I am Damilola, the daughter of Oba Adeyemi, the king of this city. I’m… a princess.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Chike stood up abruptly, his face tight with emotion.

“I knew you were different,” he said softly, almost to himself. “But this… this is too much.”

Damilola reached for his hand, but he pulled away, his eyes distant. “You don’t belong here, Dami. You’re a princess. I’m just a shoe-shiner. How could this ever work?”

Tears welled up in Damilola’s eyes. “I love you, Chike.”

Before he could respond, a car screeched to a halt behind them. A group of royal guards jumped out, their eyes scanning the area. Damilola’s heart skipped a beat. Her father had found out. They were here for her.

Chike turned, his face filled with panic. “You have to go, Damilola. They’ll never let us be together.”

But it was too late. The guards were closing in.

With one final, desperate look at each other, Damilola turned and ran, her heart pounding. Chike called after her, but she couldn’t stop. The weight of the world was closing in around her.

Was this the end of their love? Could they ever be together?

The question hung in the air as the car sped off into the night, carrying Damilola away from the only love she had ever known.

The Princess And The Shoemaker (Chapter 2: The Price of Love)

(Written by AI With Big input from Femi Soewu)