Chapter 24: THE WEIGHT THAT RETURNS

The second time did not come with confusion but with recognition.

Abena knew the signs before her body fully showed them. The slight heaviness in her steps, the way her strength dipped at certain hours, the quiet pull in her lower body that she could not ignore no matter how much she tried to continue as usual.

She said nothing at first.

There was no need to.

The palace did not change for a woman who was carrying. Work did not pause. Instructions did not soften. The only thing that shifted was how long one could endure before the body forced acknowledgment.

Abena chose to continue.

Each morning, she rose before the others, adjusting her sack cloth tightly around her waist, as though control over that small detail could hold everything else in place. Ama stayed close to her now, more than before, as if sensing that something in her mother had changed again.

One afternoon, as they worked near the grinding stones, Ama looked up at her.

“Mama,” she said, “why do you sit more these days?”

Abena glanced down at her.

“I am resting when I can,” she replied.

Ama frowned slightly. “You did not rest like this before.”

Abena wiped her hands on her cloth. “Before is not now.”

Ama thought about that, then asked, “Are you sick?”

The question lingered.

Abena looked at her child for a moment longer than usual.

“No,” she said finally. “I am not sick.”

Ama nodded, accepting the answer even if she did not fully understand it.

Adwoa, however, understood.

That evening, she approached Abena as they prepared to settle for the night.

“You have not said it again,” Adwoa said quietly.

Abena did not look at her. “I already said it once.”

Adwoa lowered her voice. “And it is still true?”

Abena nodded.

“Yes.”

Adwoa exhaled slowly, sitting beside her.

“This time will be harder.”

Abena adjusted the cloth beneath her.

“They are all hard.”

Adwoa shook her head slightly. “No. This time you already have a child to protect while carrying another.”

Abena’s gaze moved to where Ama slept, curled into herself, one arm tucked beneath her head.

“I know,” she said.

There was no fear in her voice.

Only acknowledgment.

Days passed, and the changes became visible to others.

Not loudly.

Not openly.

But enough.

One of the older women noticed first as they worked.

“You are carrying again,” she said, not as a question.

Abena did not deny it.

“Yes.”

The woman clicked her tongue softly. “He does not tire of returning to the same place.”

Abena said nothing.

The woman looked at her more closely. “You should slow down.”

Abena replied, “If I slow down, someone else will decide how fast I move.”

The woman shook her head. “You speak as if strength will change your condition.”

Abena met her gaze. “Strength changes how long I remain standing in it.”

The woman did not argue further.

Word spread quietly.

It always did.

Not as gossip.

As observation.

“The king’s woman is carrying again.”

“The same one.”

“She still works like the rest.”

Abena heard it all.

She allowed it to pass through her without reaction.

What mattered was not what they said.

What mattered was what she was becoming.

Ama noticed more as time went on.

Her small hands would rest on Abena’s stomach sometimes, curious, thoughtful.

“One is inside again,” she said one evening.

Abena looked down at her.

“Yes.”

Ama tilted her head. “Will it come out like me?”

A faint softness touched Abena’s expression.

“Yes.”

Ama seemed pleased with that answer.

“Then I will teach it things,” she said.

Abena almost smiled.

“What will you teach?”

Ama thought seriously.

“How to run fast. And how not to make noise when guards are near.”

The words were simple.

But they carried truth.

Abena reached out and adjusted Ama’s hair.

“That is good teaching,” she said.

As the weeks stretched into months, Abena’s body grew heavier again, her movements slower but still controlled. She refused to give the appearance of weakness, even when her body demanded rest.

But something else had changed too.

Her eyes.

They watched more sharply now.

Not just people.

Paths.

Openings.

Distances.

She remembered every route she had begun marking before.

Every tree.

Every turn.

Every place that could hide or reveal.

Adwoa noticed this as well.

“You are not just carrying a child,” she said one evening.

Abena looked at her.

“No.”

Adwoa frowned slightly. “Then what else are you carrying?”

Abena’s voice lowered.

“A way out.”

Adwoa went still.

“That is not something you say lightly.”

Abena nodded.

“I am not saying it lightly.”

Adwoa leaned closer. “You have a child already. Another one is coming. You think you can move through all this and escape?”

Abena held her gaze.

“I think I must.”

A long silence followed.

Adwoa looked away first.

“They will kill you if they catch you.”

Abena answered calmly.

“They will still kill me if I stay long enough.”

That truth sat between them, heavy and undeniable.

Later that night, as Ama slept beside her, Abena lay awake again.

Her hand rested lightly over her stomach.

Not with wonder.

Not with fear.

With awareness.

She could feel the life inside her beginning again, small, quiet, unaware of the world it was being brought into.

Abena’s eyes moved toward the dark opening of the sleeping quarters.

Beyond it lay the paths she had studied.

The routes she had memorized.

The distances she had measured in silence.

This time, she was not just surviving the palace.

She was preparing to leave it.

And everything that was happening to her now—every burden, every change, every loss of control—

was becoming part of that preparation.

Because Abena Korsi no longer intended to remain where she had been placed.

And when the time came—

she would not hesitate.