But on Romoke’s wedding day, some malevolent force, some spirit, some anjonnu, saw her dream door flapping, waiting.  Then the evil being seized the door from its rusty hinges - and wrenched it free.  A terrible storm tore through Karele that instant, and swept the bridge away.  Teniloju and the rest of the welcoming band scurried for safety.  But the groom’s party was not so lucky, caught in the raging eye of the storm.  When they eventually picked their tattered selves from the debris of the river into which they had been blown, they discovered that the only fatality - was Ijilaiye.

         “Ijilaiye - life is stormy - a portentous name for a blown away suitor, surely?” noted Yeye Oja’s husband, Babaloja, on a visit to Akonila, days later.

         “Of all the names in the world, he had to have that one.”  The priest nodded knowingly.

         “Truly, as they say, there is much in a name,” Babaloja added, between gulps of palm wine.

         “Well, Teniloju will have to reconsider and marry his daughter off to a Karele man now.”

         “Yes, he will have to tap his palm-wine with the humble gourd; Romoke can no longer have her pick of men.”

         When Teniloju died two months after the storm, Romoke had him buried in front of their house, then shut herself away.  She was now sitting on the biggest fortune in Karele.  And her farm must have been as fertile as ever, because once every fortnight, she came out for Karele’s big market day, and hired alaarus to carry her produce to the trading ground where she sold wholesale to all comers from near and far.

         “You are the true child of your father,” Yeye Oja said, approaching Romoke at the end of one market day.  “You are just as shrewd in matters of money, worse even.”

         “Why do you say that, ma?” Romoke asked, paying the alaarus for their services before turning to face Yeye Oja.  “I merely ask for what my goods are worth, as you know.”

         “You should sell to Karele traders at discounted prices,” the older woman urged, fiddling with a top edge of her batik wrapper as she spoke.  She tied the day’s takings into the tip of the cloth, forming a knot, then she tucked the ball of money into the folds of fabric around her waist.  “We cannot compete with traders from other towns for your produce,” she continued, “you should sell to us at cheaper rates.  After all, we are one in this town.”

         “We may be one as you say, but business is business.”

         “Even for your townspeople?”

         “Even for my townspeople.  They should pay the asking price for my quality produce; if they will not, there are others who will.”

         Acting on behalf of the market women, Yeye Oja took the matter to the elders.

         “Something has to be done about that child o,” she reported with great agitation, “all the women are complaining.  Romoke is too money conscious.  What will she do with all that money anyway, a woman with no husband and no children?”

         The elders went to Akonila who prescribed the cure - a man.  But since Romoke had shown no interest in any Karele man whatsoever, getting her married off would be difficult.  Besides, no man was bold enough to bring himself to her presence for such a matter, since she was believed to be as cantankerous as her father.  She would need some persuasive enchantment and so Akonila convened the first rite of man held in the town for decades.

         “I will perform rituals for seven days over a bottled potion placed at Akoni’s altar,” he explained to the men.  They listened raptly, seeing at last a chance to tame Romoke and acquire a beautiful wife into the bargain.  “On the seventh day, those men who desire to marry Romoke will congregate here in the grove, and then the invocation will begin.”

         “Those of us who are married nko, what shall we tell our wives?” Babaloja asked. 

         “That is between you and your wives.  But if you come to the invocation, your secret will be safe.  No woman is allowed anywhere near the grove of Akoni, as you know, and men can be trusted to keep their mouths in check," the priest replied.

         “A convenient taboo,” Babaloja observed, pleased with himself.  “I only need to keep the invocation secret until I know the outcome o,” he added quickly, to save face among the men.  “If I am chosen to be Romoke’s husband, I will gladly tell my wife then.  Who cares what she does after that?”

         Many men nodded in agreement with this reasoning, indicating that they too would be at the invocation, wife or no wife. 

         Akonila gave more details of the proceedings.   “We will all be dressed in women’s clothing.  It is the essence of manhood showered on the chosen one during the ritual that will proclaim him the man for Romoke.  He will then discard his buba and iro, and put on manly attire.  With Akoni’s blessing, the man shall take the magic bottle and go up the mound the next morning to seek Romoke’s face.  She, seeing the chosen one, will fall in love with him.”

         As well as conducting the ceremony, would Akonila himself be a candidate for Romoke’s heart? someone wanted to know. 

         “Naturally,” came the reply, “the Akoni priesthood is no bar to such ambition.  About time I found myself a wife anyway.”  Akonila went into a hidden place in the shrine and emerged minutes later with a bottle in his hand.  Incanting softly, he walked to the altar and placed the bottle on a bed of palm fronds.  With a stern face, the priest turned to face the men, raising a finger in warning.  “Remember, the bottle of potion is manhood contained,” he cautioned.  “Romoke must not lay eyes on the bottle.  It is to be handled with great care and responsibility.”