CHAPTER 1
Àjọkẹ́ stirred from sleep and opened her eyes. Darkness shrouded the space around her like a thick cloak and she could barely make out anything in the room even after blinking away the gritty feeling of drowsiness.
She yawned and sat up, careful not to wake Aganjú, who was snoring softly beside her. She peered down at him but her husband was just another figure in the gloom, his dark skin making it hard to tell how his body was positioned on their sleeping mat.
Àjọkẹ́ shifted, resting her back on the wall. There was no crowing rooster to tell how young the morning was, but she sensed that she was up earlier than usual. Her heartbeat sped up as the thought of the important journey that awaited them at sunrise crept into her mind. She let out a gentle sigh, the warm air leaving her mouth speaking volumes.
Six years had passed since the birth of Àjọkẹ́’s first child, Dàda. His birth brought untold joy to her household, and many trooped into their hut to welcome the mystery child who was born with three locs on his head. The rumours of the good and rare omen had spread far and wide almost before the new baby’s head crowned between her thighs.
For days, the young couple welcomed throngs of villagers who came bearing gifts for the new born. Aganjú’s joy was palpable because the birth of his son provided him an heir to carry on his family name and appease his father. His family was greatly respected—the Ọbayans had produced a line of skilful warriors and were also of royal stock. Even though his family could one day be in line for the revered throne of Bánirẹ́ once their aged king crossed into the realm of their ancestors in death, Aganjú was a simple man with simpler dreams. He had no aspirations to royalty or fame as a warrior, and preferred to just live a good life, tilling his farm with great success and taking care of his young family.
Aganjú had been expected to carry on the family traditions that came with their elite status. And although the young man was a proficient warrior, skilled in the use of several weapons and especially the axe, strong as an apádò tree, and towered over his peers, he had chosen the simpler life of the common-folk, much to his father’s chagrin. But because Aganjú’s stubbornness was legendary, no one dared his quick temper. The great Ọbayan family had no choice but to accept his decision. So, Dàda’s arrival was the answer to their prayers, a precious heir who would carry on the family’s lineage, and, even more auspicious, one who had come into the world with evidence of greatness on his head.
Àjọkẹ́ nursed their son with a motherly love that made some of the villagers scrunch up their noses in envy. Some chuckled at her fervour and predicted that the novelty would wear off in time, just as it had for many new mothers before her. But they were proved wrong; the blaze that was Àjọkẹ́’s affection showed no signs of waning as months passed. Àjọkẹ́ fiercely protected her baby from prying eyes and all the curious hands that wanted to have a feel of his hair. It was such pure delight to watch Dàda grow before her eyes. The love for her son overwhelmed her so much that everything else around her seemed trifling. She would watch him sleep at night, gazing at his beautiful face lovingly and gently stroking his locs.
Sometimes she watched him for too long and it would often take a mild reprimand from Aganjú to nudge her to sleep. Nothing else mattered more to her than this bundle of joy that was a wonder to the village. Children born with locs were considered àkàndá, revered children who were the favourites of the gods and not mere mortals. So, she treated her child with surplus care and reverence. She was truly envied as one of the luckiest women in the village of Bánirẹ́.
The joy of the new parents was soon cut short, as Dàda fell ill five months after his birth. Panic gripped the young couple as they watched their lively son shrivel away despite the varying treatments administered to him. They tried every herb suggested by their well-meaning relatives and friends, but rather than seeing an improvement in the child’s health, his body shrunk like a dry twig exposed to merciless harmattan winds. Lines of bone adorned the infant’s chest and his eyes sunk into his skull to the horror of his parents.
One evening, after weeks of watching her son waste away, Àjọkẹ́ could not contain her emotions. She collapsed and wept. Her cries of anguish petrified Aganjú. He was outside their hut, breaking down the bark of a mango tree to prepare a potion with some herbs and roots he got from the village healer, in a bid to cook up another cure for Dàda’s ailment.
He froze mid-swing, his heart racing as his wife’s wails of anguish filled the air and reached his ears. He dropped the cutlass and dashed into the hut to see Àjọkẹ́ rolling on the ground. Frightened, and fearing the worst, he cast a glance at Dàda who was lying on the bed but the infant’s weak movements assured him that he still breathed.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Àjọkẹ́?” he asked with a frown, displeased by her loud display of sorrow. “You will attract unwanted attention to this household and I don’t want that.”
Rather than respond to his outburst, Àjọkẹ́ sat up, clutched her heavy breasts and wailed even louder.
“This child is not dead, Àjọkẹ́. Why are you mourning like a bereaved mother?”
“He is not dead but he looks dead to me!” she retorted, wiping away the tears that blurred her vision. “He has refused to suck since dawn. What am I supposed to do?”
Aganjú’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. He sat beside his wife and cradled her head on his chest until her wailing subsided, though her body still trembled with soft sobs.
“Why would the gods give us a child only to make him a source of pain to us?” Àjọkẹ́ lamented.
Aganjú sighed and raked his fingers through her beautiful cornrows, causing her to shiver. He was almost at a loss for words, but he knew that he needed to calm the situation and put up a strong demeanour.
“We have to keep trying, aya mi. We cannot give up and watch our son die before our very eyes.”
Àjọkẹ́ loosened her wrapper, using the edge of it to blow her nose before wiping away the wetness that had pooled above her mouth. “I am just tired. I feel helpless watching my only child getting worse while there is nothing I can do about it.”
“Don’t say that. However long it takes, the stammerer will one day say ‘father’. We will continue to try every option we have. Cheer up, please. Once I get enough bark from the mango tree, I will boil it with the other roots I got from the healer.”
Àjọkẹ́ broke free of Aganjú’s embrace to look at his face. “But the last herbs he gave us didn’t work. How are you sure that these ones will make any difference?”
“Ìyàwó mi. Don’t say that. We just have to keep hope alive and continue nursing him till he recovers,” Aganjú replied in a bleak tone that betrayed his exasperation. “What choice do we really have?”
Then there was a profound and sad silence as they stared at the space before them, each lost in their own sullen thoughts. Nursing a sick child that had defied every form of treatment was beginning to take its toll. Deep in their hearts, unspoken between them, the fear of losing the son that once brought joy to them lay buried. Losing Dàda would be a terrible blow they knew they might never recover from.
The couple’s moment of introspection was interrupted by a weak cry from Dàda. They jumped up and rushed to his side. Àjọkẹ́ scooped her son in her arms and rocked him, the lightness of his body making her heart ache. It was hard to imagine that not too long ago, she had complained about how heavy he was becoming.
“He is burning up again,” she announced, feeling Dàda’s forehead. She looked up at her husband with misty eyes that evoked pity in Aganjú’s heart.
“I’ll be back,” Aganjú said, and rushed out of the room to hastily prepare the herbal potion. He focused all his attention on cutting up the herbs and steeping them in the water he had ordered Àjọkẹ́’s handmaiden to set to boil earlier. As the young girl squatted before the hearth, blowing on the firewood when its glow dimmed, Aganjú watched, scowling down at the pot of swirling liquid. When his mind wandered, his thoughts would return to fears that he was trying to suppress. But he had to stay strong for Àjọkẹ́, who was approaching her breaking limit with each passing day. And who could blame her? Their marriage was barely two years old and their situation already seemed like an unending loop of sadness.
Inside the hut, Àjọkẹ́ raised her bùbá and pressed her swollen nipple against Dàda’s mouth again. The child resisted weakly and turned his mouth away from his mother’s bosom.
“Please, ọmọ mi. Don’t refuse your mother’s milk. Please,” she pleaded softly, rocking the child and tapping her feet in a bid to ease his discomfort. But the infant wasn’t interested; he resisted every effort to make him suckle. After several failed attempts, Àjọkẹ́ placed him on the mat and lay beside him. Silently, she watched his chest rise and fall, hoping and praying that each breath wouldn’t be his last.
A few hours later, Aganjú entered the hut with a calabash. The bowl was balanced delicately in his hands, and steam from the hot liquid within it spiralled into the air as he placed it on a wooden stool. Àjọkẹ́ had fallen asleep beside Dàda, exhaustion apparent in her sprawled limbs, and her mouth hung open. Aganjú paused, saddened afresh to see what had become of the beautiful woman he married. Sorrow and worry had dimmed the lustre of her skin and her clavicles were ringed by hollow wells, a marked contrast to how plump she was only months ago.
He had met her at the village square during the New Yam festival. In a fleeting moment after his gaze fell on her, Aganjú knew he’d make Àjọkẹ́ his bride. Like a peacock in a garden of hens, her beauty stood out among that of the maidens that attended the event. Her skin, glistening with the sheen of palm kernel oil, radiated in the sunlight. The cornrows on her head were thick, lustrous and full, and their curly ends twined sensuously around her nape. Aganjú couldn’t look away from her striking face, the way her hips moved when she walked, and the bouncing strings of beads that lined her small waist. Even while he talked with other young men, his eyes followed her around, drawn to her beauty.
Àjọkẹ́, on the other hand, had first marvelled at the large tubers of yam that Aganjú presented for the yams display contest. Year after year, Aganjú stole the show at the festival. It was little surprise that he once again bagged the prize as it was said that his hands were blessed by the gods. At that time, Aganjú was just beginning to come into his own, gaining a reputation as one of the most successful farmers in Bánirẹ́, with a gift for coaxing the best out of the earth. His crops always yielded massive harvests and the lands his family bequeathed to him had become farms that were always lush with greenery and luscious fruit. Many villagers who bought a tuber of yam that was unfailingly sweet, white, and melted in the mouth, would often declare it to be from Aganjú’s farm. Traders hustled to buy and sell his produce and the fruit of his hand work was always in high demand.
When Àjọkẹ́ eventually noticed that the handsome winner had eyes only for her, she was too shy to meet his gaze. As a trader herself, she knew all about the great farmer called Aganjú, and had often giggled with other young ladies over how handsome he was when they visited his farms to buy his produce. But their paths never crossed before that day, and he had definitely paid her no notice.
For whatever reason, that day, whenever their eyes met across the crowded village square, Àjọkẹ́’s stomach would flutter and Aganjú’s heart would race. It was almost as though everyone else at the New Yam festival ceased to exist. While the dancers danced, the children played, and palm wine flowed, they remained keenly aware of each other. It was a love-at-first-sight experience and Aganjú didn’t hesitate to trail Àjọkẹ́ after the festivities were over.
After several visits to her home and many endearing roadside conversations, he professed his intentions to marry her at the Olókun stream, and she accepted his proposal without hesitation. It marked the beginning of a love story that became the subject of village gossip because like a tortoise and its shell, they had become inseparable. They were seen almost everywhere together, holding hands, talking about everything under the sun and what they imagined was beyond it. Àjọkẹ́ became the envy of other maidens in the village, most of whom had silently hoped to be chosen as Aganjú’s bride.
He was the man that every woman in Bánirẹ́ wanted to marry. He had uncommon good looks—a chiselled jawline, expressive, sultry eyes and a delectable mouth. That he also happened to be prosperous and of royal stock made him one-of-a-kind. The village maidens had long drooled over his skin that gleamed like a starry night, his sturdy chest and muscular frame. His smile made them giggle like excited teenagers and they would constantly try to outdo one another to get his attention, but he never again gave them a second glance after he met Àjọkẹ́.
As their love deepened, so did the envy. Àjọkẹ́’s rivals could not hide their disdain whenever she showed up at the village stream to do her laundry. They would sing scornful songs and let out long hisses to express their disgust at Aganjú’s choice. But she would ignore them, secure in the cocoon that was her lover’s affection.
Unlike Aganjú’s, Àjọkẹ́’s family was a humble one. She was the daughter of late Àkàndé, a common blacksmith of no known pedigree. Her rivals and Aganjú’s family were distressed that he would stoop so low. Why would Aganjú choose the daughter of a pauper? After all, he was liked by many other beautiful maidens born of titled chiefs, any of whom would make a good mate for someone with his pedigree. It was a question no one could answer, no one except Aganjú, who seemed captivated by Àjọkẹ́’s beauty and charm.
Despite the hate and disapproval, their love endured, and two months after their first meeting, Àjọkẹ́ became Aganjú’s wife. Though his family would have preferred a daughter-in-law from an elite family, Aganjú’s fervour for his beloved brooked no disagreement. Besides, Àjọkẹ́ soon enchanted them too. Not only was she beautiful, she was gracious and kind. Their families gladly gave their seal of approval and the union was blessed by all, with many prayers, and an abundance of joy. The young couple received numerous gifts: clothes, cookware and finely-crafted furniture. Aganjú’s family also provided a young handmaiden called Abíóyè to help Àjọkẹ́ take care of her home, as befitting her new status as the wife to a man of pedigree.
They began their marital journey with a love intense enough to last an eternity. Their household was happy, and they basked in the afterglow of their unusual love story; a union that defied caste. There was some conflict with Aganjú’s family in the beginning when he finally decided to set his training as a warrior aside and fully commit to his new career as a farmer, so that he could enjoy a simpler and more fulfilling life with his new bride. After a few heated meetings, they grudgingly accepted his decision, and the young man was allowed to settle into his new life of marital bliss.
Àjọkẹ́ blossomed under his loving affection, and he never tired of whispering endearments into the curve of her ears whenever they were alone. Their happiness quadrupled when Àjọkẹ́ showed signs of pregnancy in their third month of marriage. She sang praises to the gods who had been benevolent to her new family, and her journey to motherhood began.
Aganjú cared for his bride like she was a cache of hard-mined gold. He refused to let her do any strenuous work and insisted that she let her handmaiden, Abíóyè, do most of the heavy lifting. This did not sit well with Àjọkẹ́ who considered herself strong enough to handle most chores despite her condition. But her complaints did not change anything; rather, they made Aganjú more tender and loving towards her. She became robust as her pregnancy progressed and her skin glowed like precious ornaments exposed to the sun. Every day, Aganjú would lovingly rub oil onto the calabash of her growing stomach and then, her feet, when she couldn’t bend over as easily as before.
Months passed and finally, labour pangs hit Àjọkẹ́ one fateful evening. It started after she had just downed a sumptuous meal that Aganjú prepared for her; pounded yam and vegetable soup, garnished with huge chunks of bush meat. He was massaging her feet and serenading her when her water broke. They stared at each other in astonishment as the water made its way down her thighs and onto the ground. When they got over the initial shock, Aganjú immediately called out to Abíóyè to watch her mistress while he rushed down to fetch Ọṣumare, the chief midwife of Bánirẹ́.
Ọṣumare was in charge of overseeing childbirth for every expectant woman in the village, as well as training other women in midwifery. The position had been conferred on her by the King of Bánirẹ́ after the demise of her mother, who was also the village chief midwife in her time. It was a title that had been long passed down their family lineage. Ọṣumare’s family was revered and slightly feared for the mysterious circumstances that surrounded the midwives. As far back as memory served, each generation of Ọṣumare’s family birthed only one female, who would bear that name and the title of chief midwife, after years of training. Even the males had the gift of healing, and often served as personal healers to kings and chiefs because their skill was unparalleled in the land. According to myth, the family was directly descended from the Òrìṣàs.
After her mother’s passing, Ọṣumare was deemed qualified to carry on her legacy, and serve the community. Since then, she had supervised over twenty deliveries across the village and all of the babies and their mothers remained healthy after birth.
When Ọṣumare arrived at Aganjú’s household in the company of her assistant to perform her duties, she was directed to the birthing hut where Àjọkẹ́ had been transferred to. For centuries, the birthing hut was considered a sacred place in every household. It was usually prepared by the women of a household, and every child born into a family was welcomed into the world in such a birthing hut. Àjọkẹ́ had prepared hers with the help of other women in the village during the early stages of her pregnancy, and after it was completed, she and Aganjú often joked about birthing a total of eleven children in it.
Several hours in, all thoughts of the jokes had now disappeared as Àjọkẹ́’s shrill cries of labour filtered into the ears of Aganjú who was waiting impatiently outside the birthing hut. He was not waiting alone. Other men in the village had come to provide moral support, and also witness the birth of Aganjú’s firstborn.
The men greeted Ọṣumare as she hurried past them for what seemed like the hundredth time. She entered the birthing hut and greeted the women with Àjọkẹ́; older women who had come to observe, and offer support. They paid obeisance to the midwife and backed away to allow her take charge of the situation. After another brief examination of the young woman, Ọṣumare declared that it was almost time. Modúpẹ́, her assistant, had already set the birthing materials close to Àjọkẹ́. She then handed a special calabash to Ọṣumare so she could proceed with the customary rites.
The midwife started by sprinkling sacred water on Àjọkẹ́’s body from her special calabash. Modúpẹ́ and Abíóyè knelt by Àjọkẹ́’s side, using pieces of white cloth to tenderly dab at the beads of sweat which dotted her face. Àjọkẹ́ flinched as the drops of water hit her face, but the coolness brought relief. It was only a temporary respite, as another pang of agony ripped through her again. She screamed as Modúpẹ́ cooed.
“Goddess of ease and fruitfulness, we seek your help again at this crucial time. Let your daughter pass through this birthing phase unscathed,” Ọṣumare intoned.
“Aṣẹ!” The other women in the hut chorused.
“May we hear the cries of the mother and that of the child.”
“Aṣẹ!”
Ọṣumare set the calabash aside and knelt before Àjọkẹ́, who was writhing in pain. She held Àjọkẹ́’s knees apart and urged her to push with all her might.
Àjọkẹ́’s screams of labour sent shivers down Aganjú’s spine. He longed to be by his wife’s side, to hold her hands and assure her that everything would be alright. But his wish could only remain that—a wish, as it was a taboo for men to enter the birthing hut. Only women were permitted to witness the sacredness of childbirth.
Minutes after the midwife announced the child’s imminent arrival, the loud cries of a baby filled the birthing hut.
“It’s a boy!” Ọṣumare announced to the waiting men outside the hut. Shouts of joy filled the air as the men jumped in glee and congregated around Aganjú to congratulate him on being the newest father in the village. Inside the birthing hut, after the baby was cleaned and positioned to enjoy his first suckle, the women congratulated Àjọkẹ́ with joyful songs to commend her strength and bravery, welcoming her to the world of motherhood.
On the eighth day, the child was named Dàda to the hearing of excited guests and well-wishers. The ceremony lasted the whole day, with plenty of food to eat and enough palm wine to go round.
Aganjú sighed as he recalled the happiness of that time. Indeed, it seemed like the gods had blessed his household, until sickness ravaged his son’s body and Dàda’s failing health became the talk of the village. The stream of happy visitors lessened to a trickle of curious busybodies, and happiness quickly departed from their home. Careless tongues wagged and restless hands clapped as some of the villagers wondered if the mystery child was truly a gift from the gods. Perhaps, they speculated cruelly, the child with the locs would return to where he had come from.
“Àjọkẹ́,” Aganjú called, rousing his wife from sleep reluctantly. He wished he could let his wife rest, as their son’s illness had robbed her of such unguarded moments of slumber. But he could not let the newly-brewed potion go cold, and he would need her help to administer it to Dàda.
Àjọkẹ́ jerked awake and rubbed her eyes.
“The potion is ready,” he announced, pointing at the steaming liquid in the calabash. Àjọkẹ́ looked dejectedly at the calabash. Her doubts were glaring but she bit her lips to hold back the words brimming in her mouth.
“No harm will come to this child. We will nurse him to health,” he assured her.
Àjọkẹ́ nodded and slid off the mat to take a closer look at the potion. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell that wafted from the calabash and felt a wave of pity for her baby. The potion would probably taste as bad as it smelled. She could only hope that he wouldn’t spit it up.
When her husband noticed her expression, he sighed in understanding. She always found it distressing to force the unpleasant medicines down Dàda’s throat.
“Bring him,” Aganjú instructed, sitting on the edge of the mat.
Àjọkẹ́ sat beside her husband, and then carried Dàda gingerly, setting him on her lap. With a small wooden spoon, Aganjú scooped small quantities of the brown liquid and cooled it down by blowing on it. Then, as Àjọkẹ́ pressed the sides of Dàda’s cheeks with her thumb and index finger to open his mouth, Aganjú tipped the warm liquid into his mouth. The child was too weak to reject the medicine and only sputtered as the potion went down his throat.
“Gods of our land, please be merciful to us and heal our child. Do not take away our hope. Restore health to our child and make us smile again,” Àjọkẹ́ prayed with her eyes raised upwards.
“Aṣẹ!” Aganjú responded, as he scooped more of the liquid into his son’s mouth.
They lay Dàda on the bed and sat by his side, watching him closely till he fell asleep. Seeing him rest from his discomfort was a huge relief to them. They left the room, careful to be quiet, to prepare dinner before retiring to bed.
Dàda’s cries roused them from sleep a few hours later that night. Aganjú watched in concern as Àjọkẹ́ sat upright and lifted their baby. Instinctively, she shifted her ṣimi aside and pressed her nipple against his mouth. A wave of relief swept over her as Dàda latched onto it like he was starved.
“The gods be praised!” Àjọkẹ́ shouted in delight as tears of joy ran down her cheeks. “He’s sucking!”
Aganjú rubbed his wife’s back, beaming as he watched his son sucking with enough zest to make up for the hours that he had been unable to.
By morning, Àjọkẹ́ had breastfed Dàda three times with joy and enthusiasm. Life returned to the boy and, weeks later, he was once more the bright and bubbly child that everyone knew, only a little less chubby.
The couple paid the healer a visit, bearing gifts to show immense gratitude for the herbs that rescued their son from the jaws of a sickness that had threatened to steal his life away.
Everything went back to normal and life settled back into familiar routines, grateful that the storm had finally passed. Dàda’s restored health silenced the stinging village gossip about his inevitable demise. Once again, their hut welcomed villagers who came to rejoice with the couple for not losing their son to the sickness that shook every fibre of his being. Songs of gratitude were offered to the gods and celebratory dance steps were performed to express their joy for Dàda’s miraculous recovery.
Unfortunately, their newfound happiness was not to last.
Things took a turn seven months later when, again, Dàda fell terribly ill. Àjọkẹ́ plunged into a state of despair and panic as the second time seemed even more severe than the first. She knew that it would take tougher measures to nurse Dàda back to good health again, if at all. So, she conveyed her fears to Aganjú and together, they began to plan for Àjọkẹ́ to conceive again. Fortune smiled on the young couple as Àjọkẹ́ conceived two months later while nursing Dàda, who had begun to show noticeable signs of improvement.
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Àjọkẹ́ exhaled deeply and cradled her bump. A few hours had passed since she woke and she could tell that dawn was approaching. The darkness had lightened and she could make out Aganjú’s chest, rising and falling in the gloom. When she tapped him, he stirred and then turned slowly to look at her.
“It’s time,” she whispered.
Aganjú understood what she meant and stood up. He yawned loudly and stretched his limbs before reaching for his dansiki. He helped her up and they left the hut quietly to avoid being seen by early risers in the village, pausing to check on Dàda and inform Abíóyè of their departure.
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Sanya, by Oyin Olugbile is available from leading bookshops across Nigeria. You can also order from Masobe Bookstore by clicking here.