We kick off our new segment (Short Story Fridays) with this short-story titled Onitemi. 

You became a snail and I its shell on one sunny afternoon when the sun sat in the sky with a radiant smile that seemed to say that Eledumare was happy with all His creatures. I had come to your compound to call on Anike, your sister and my friend, so that we could walk to the river together – to fetch water for our mothers, and share the latest gossips. You Odedele, was seated on a log of wood in a corner of the compound.

“E’kasan o,” I had greeted, but you did not respond. Your attention was riveted on the gun which you held on the ground between your bare thighs, its barrel pointed upwards. You were singing an ijala-ode at the top of your voice while preparing for your nightly hunting expedition. I stood with the huge clay pot on my head waiting patiently as Anike dashed from hut to hut. Suddenly, the ijala-ode ceased. I turned and found that your striking eyes were now far busier than your hands, painting gentle tiro patterns all over my luscious body.

“Anike, I will go o,” I had screamed in mock exasperation when the patterns around my breasts had begun to take on a more intricate design than those on my arms and legs. I did not look back as your sister and I chattered out of the compound, yet I could feel the blossoming patterns on my buttocks; they were of a hue far darker than aro! Later in the evening, Maami found it strange that it was you, and not Anike who had brought the morsel of iru she had begged of your mother.

“Meet me in the grove.” You had whispered to me as you left.

“Why?” I had asked, my heart thumping wildly, my eyes darting around fearfully, but only the walls had heard us.

I stole out and met you at the place where you eventually stole my heart.

It was on a winding path lined with palm trees, a path which you told me was the same as that which your heart was leading you through.

“… Paths I never knew existed,” you had confided.

“Why would your heart do such?” I had queried, faking concern into my voice. “Do our people not say that it is he who owns the bata drum that also decides the beats to be played? You own your heart; you should tell it what to do.”

You had stopped under a palm tree and shaken your head from side to side in mirth. You said you could not control your heart since your head had also joined in the winding journey.

“And, Asabi, you know well who ori is – our head is our creator. Anyone who fights ori does so to his own detriment. Wherever the head directs, that is where the feet goes. Mine has directed me to you, and here I am, Asabi,” you had said with a pleading air of finality.

I had burst into laughter, clapping my hands delightfully.

That laughter was as genuine as the village madman’s prophecy which held that a brood of white skinned men would one day make their way over thousands of hills and valleys to our land, to hold us captive.

Then, I felt your hand on my lap; it sent shivers down my back like sour pap did when it hit the palates. I pushed it away, suddenly angry with you. 

“Let me go, Odedele. My feet will go wherever ori leads it.”

I sang as I traced my way back home. I did not need the full moon sitting in the sky. The light that shone through my eyes lightened the path.

The anger was gone. In its place were memories of your warmth and sweet words.

***

We met under our palm tree at a time when darkness had begun to wrestle daylight to the ground.

You placed your arms on my shoulder and sat me down on a boulder while you squatted on the balls of your feet, agilely, like a cat.

“Is this where ori has led your feet?” you asked, chin in palm, warm smile on your face.

“Odedele, my heart sings a song but I do not understand it,” I replied, anxiously glancing at the rumbling skies.

“Then tell me the words of the song Asabi, I have a practiced ear. I understand such things,” you had rasped.

“You won’t make the best interpreter Odedele. The ears have a habit of hearing only that which it wants to hear.”

“And the mind, would it also deceive?” you asked.

“It interprets only its master’s bid!” I insisted.

“Well, that may be true, but it never leaves the master in the dark about reality.”

So I told you that it was a song with shrouded meaning, an untamed rhythm that threatened to tear in half.

“It says we are like two palm trees, the branches woven together… ” I began, my toe drawing circles in the sand.

“Then, it is the beat of love Asabi!” you screamed with joy.

I laughed out loud and long. Ensconced in your embrace that was as warm as it was strong, I realised that the song was of emotions even more intense…

“Asabi!”

I jerked awake. The lines of laughter still creased my mouth when I met the astonished eyes of Maami.

“What did you dream about my child?” she asked, gently.

“It was nothing, Maami.” I lied.

In our land, when a dream of good tidings is shared too early, it hinders its fruition. So, I kept the warmth of our sunshine to myself as I balanced the basket on my head, glowing to the farm.

At twilight you and I sat under our palm tree waiting for the moon to appear from behind the hills.

It came with a promise in its halo.

On a night like this, two moons to come, you onitemi, shall become my crown

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Oluwafunminiyi Omojola is a writer. Follow him on twitter @ooluwafunminiyi

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