Èṣù II

Just as Baba Oluwo predicted the day before as he pushed his index and middle fingers into the sand on his ọpọ́n Ifá, the skies are clear. Oyá has accepted his request to hold back her thunderstorms.

I stop at the threshold of my father’s compound and squint at the blazing sun, wondering if it was just as hot on the outskirts of our village. I shield my eyes with my right hand and cast my mind back to the man who held my hand only a fortnight ago. I close my eyes and remember how his hand ran down my bareback and the firm grip that pulled down my ìró. I wondered if the sun had dried his corpse or if he were still rotting.

My hand leaves my face and comes to rest on my narrow waist as I stare at the two bush paths that lay before me. The one to my left is strewn with dried leaves and winds down the village like a spotted snake but my stare burns at the path to my right. This one, freshly swept, runs straight ahead as though it never ends.

The sound of shrill laughter disrupts my thoughts and my eyes search for the source. A group of young women, dressed in matching àdìrẹ, come sauntering past our yard. Like me, each one had a fairly complicated hairdo with intertwined braids moving across their heads and beaded earrings dangle from each earlobe. Their wrappers intentionally stop above their knees and they hold baskets to their sides, shaking their buttocks as they walk past me. From their egotistical walk, it was clear they had picked out their best attires but their fabric still pales in comparison to mine. While their àdìrẹ hang limp, my glimmering aso-oke stands stiff, oozing affluence.

The women notice my kojusoko hairstyle and rush down the windy path, whispering to themselves. A wooden door slams behind me and I slowly turn to find my father rushing out of his hut, flailing his arms. His buba has come off and I can see how his protruding tummy stands out and shines like a pregnant goat. He balances his buba on one shoulder with his left hand while his palm oil-stained right hand cradles a ball of amala.

“Follow them!”, he finally shouts out to me, licking the residue of Iya Kolade’s stew from his fat fingers. “You must bring me a suitor, today!”, he continues to lick like a hungry goat.

I groan and let my disgust show, wondering why none of his litany of wives hadn’t yet poisoned him. My father looks back at Iya Agba searching for answers to why I would not follow the women, but Iya Agba pays him no mind. Her gaze stays on me.

I turn and head down the windy path. 

Behind me, my father lets out a hearty laugh and calls out for his palm wine. I make a mental note to empty his gourds of palm wine while he sleeps tonight.

I begin my slow walk to the market square letting the sole of my feet enjoy crushing the freshly-toasted leaves. The sun shines against the trees that line up the bush path, casting a shadow I am grateful for. When I reach the turtle-shaped rock, I sit and braid blades of leaves while I wait.

I heard it before I saw it. Ajiun’s panegyric. 

I stand and gently smooth out my aso-oke. Delicately cushioning my head with my oshuka, I place my empty basket on my head before I start my walk towards the voices.

As it gets louder, my walk gets more sultry and when they finally turn the corner putting me in their full view, I see him. Ajiun, the one whose plantain plantation spread out farther than eyes could see. He walks with his chest puffed and behind him, two tall guards sing his praise. 

Ajiun is a lanky man but wrapped in pompous aso-oke, he looks bigger. His cheeks are lined with tribal marks, each one stretching from his ears to his mouth. Ajiun swears Ògún himself gave him those marks. His wrists, ankles and neck are adorned with beads worth my weight in cowries and other than his plantains, Ajiun is well known for his sharp eyes that never miss a thing. He is not a man one plays with but I like a challenge.

I study the ground as I inch closer to the praises, only stopping to let Ajuin and his guards pass but like I knew he would, Ajuin stops.

“Are you not Adufe, the daughter of Ajala?”, at his voice, his guards automatically cease to sing.

I nod and stare at his earth-stained toenails. Ajiun looks at me with the same hunger a lion looks at its game before he bursts into a deep throaty laugh. 

“I hear your father is desperately finding you a suitor.”

Those nails needed to be cleaned.

“Ajabata, put some plantains in her basket!”, he commands and the guard on his left drops a bunch of green and yellow plantains in my basket.

“My Iya Agba will be very grateful”, I curtsy.

“They are not for your Iya Agba”, he tells me as he delicately traces a braid from the side of my head until his coarse hand comes to rest on my smooth cheek.

“I think it is time I come to see your father”, he suggests but I quickly respond, “My father is on a hunting expedition”.

My father was probably grunting over Iya Kolade who had spent her entire morning chopping ila and beating a pot of amala to the finest consistency. 

“Then you should come to see me”, he cups my chin and pulls my face up to meet his “tonight”.

I nod and let my face go back to his toenails.

Ajiun looks at me once more as though deciding if I was worth his time before he breezes past. His guards resume his panegyric and I bring down my basket to check the plantains. They would do. I continue my walk to the market and as Ajiun’s panegyric grows fainter, my plans only become clearer.

I had the plantains. Now, I needed firewood and fire.

To be continued next week, please subscribe to my newsletter here.