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Summary
Your job was to tell tales of her victory, recite prose in melody when she returned from war and met with emissaries, and regale a banquet crowd with sagas of her exploits. You'd been trained for this since your youth, dutifully studying the gángan and honing your voice to carry each melodic tone of praise without fault. And through your talents, you found yourself in the service of the Medardas.
It wasn't hard to sing General Ambessa Medarda's praises. Arrayed in armor that struck fear in her enemies' hearts but inspired loyalty and devotion to all allied to her, she commanded her troops the same way she charmed ballrooms. So your praise names for her sang of this. Àdìgún and Àdùbí. The perfect one, the one competed over. Ambessa, the lioness, who finished wars with one lash of her claws.
The flowery titles and praise said what everyone knew. The general was a woman to be revered and feared. What they didn't know were the praises you sang to her when no audience was present to hear. Àlàkẹ́, Àpèkẹ́, Àdùnní. Meant to be pampered, for her life was hard. Called to be cherished, she was deserving. Sweet to have, and as far as you knew, no one had tasted sweeter.