Lunch is ready. Feyikemi and I ladle Efo Riro into bowls. Adebisi dishes out fufu. It’s piping hot.
She turns it and scoops, and hot fumes shoot straight into her eyes. She cusses.
I feel for her: it isn’t easy to scoop and slop fufu onto plates with a single stirrer to shake off sticky clumps. You’ve got to be careful not to miss the plate. I use two stirrers: one scrapes clumps off the other. Poor Adebisi. She looks like a blacksmith at a forge. She screams again and I laugh.
“Tinu, it’s not funny,” she yells, squeezing her eyes shut.
Well, it is, if you’re watching.
We always serve the elderly and the very young first. For now, they’ll be the only ones. My father, Baba Dayo, is still at the palace. The rest of us must wait until he returns.
I’m done. Nothing else to do but wait for his return—or go back to plaiting my hair if Dara is ready. I lower the cooking fire, leaving it with just enough life to keep the soup simmering. I must not forget to put it out: better to let the soup sour than to let it burn. If I leave my post, I might forget. I turn a mortar upside down and sit on it.
Mothers have gathered away from those eating, heads bent together as they talk. Their voices drift towards me, and I lean in to listen.
They’re not looking forward to Market Day in a few days, when sellers from five chiefdoms will come together to trade. Most have heard of our army’s failed mission, so Mother and her mates are devising a lie that explains why our warriors fled the forest.
Children come to me and ask for more soup. I pour soup into their bowls, still listening to the mothers, hoping to hear new gossip about what happened to our warriors, why they’re not saying much, why they walk with their heads low when they claim that they were not defeated by an enemy. Nightmares woke our bravest men in the middle of the night and sent them packing. Can you believe that? All of them had the same dream at the same time. I have to keep myself from smirking when I picture the likelier scenario: one coward broke rank, and they all fluttered out like cave bats.
Father hasn’t complained once since he returned. He’s too accommodating; he may have forgotten how to put his foot down.
Iya Yetunde is speaking.
“We’ll say they chased bandits and unwittingly chased them back home.”
I quench the fire and crack the cauldron lid. My stomach growls as I pad to the awning, where my mother and her mates are gathered. Feyikemi is already there, wedged between them, head tilted as she concentrates.
“The whole army chasing a few bandits?” Iya Bolanle asks. “What will we say they stole? Their minds?”
They laugh.
“Strange nightmares caused it,” Feyikemi says. “We should mention that.”
Mother nods. “True. And until we know their root, they’re just nightmares, and our men are scared little boys.”
“Shh. Not so loud,” Iya Kemi warns.
They laugh again.
“On a serious note,” Iya Bolanle says, “let’s say the early rains were revealed to them in a dream—that’s why they rushed home. Everyone knows the Yoruba don’t fight when they ought to farm.”
Iya Kemi grins. “Did you just think of that, Bolanle? Even Orunmila would be impressed.”
Iya Bolanle gloats as they praise her craft—in lying. With that settled, they discuss what prices their crops are likely to fetch early in the wet season.
Bored, I slip away.
I find Dara outside her family’s hut, elbow-deep in a basin of murky dishwater. Her family has just lunched. I’m tempted to beg for scraps, but Mother would be cross. Again, Dara can’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut.
“Ready?” I ask.
She rinses her fingers, wipes her mouth with a light stroke, and dries her hands on her wrapper. “Ready.”
I help carry a basin of dirty dishwater; together we throw it on her grandmother’s vegetable garden. On our way to Mother’s backyard, we cross the gate, and just then, Sister Ola prances into the hamlet, a big smile on her face. She must have seen my starved look because she says, “This is no time for long faces,” in the affected manner of a public address.
“I have come from the palace, and I bring good news.”
What?
She waits, enjoying the attention.
“The Maiden Carnival will still hold,” she chants like a town crier.
She pulls me into a hug—no particular: I’m standing in front of her. Dara and others shriek and do victory struts. Hugs go round. I smile for Sister Ola, for Dara, for Kikelomo, for Jalade. I smile for a few others too.
They’re forgetting something: with no war heroes, what determines the bidding order?
I hate to be a killjoy, but I have to ask: “What will decide who chooses first, if no warrior made us proud?”
“Oh, yes. I almost forgot,” Sister Ola says. “A wrestling contest, open only to unmarried warriors, will precede the carnival.”
Iya Folashade cheers. “Good, good! No new mates—my husband must make do with me.”
We laugh. She’s my favourite grandma. She’s been a widow for longer than I’ve been alive.
I’ve watched the carnival since I was a child. It’s always colourful and crowded. Spectators holler and boo and goad you into accepting whichever warrior picks you. It’s easy to forget you have a say—the final one—and your happiness, not theirs, depends on it.
“If you don’t find a husband the first time,” Iya Bolanle likes to say, “you can come back a second—a third. As long as you like. Until your body gets too old for shaking, or what’s left to shake is no longer there.”
She finishes with a laugh. Why? What’s funny about that?
Women saunter to their huts. Children chase each other in circles and wrestle.
Dara tugs my wrapper. “Come,” she says. “I promised your mother.”
****
In Mother’s backyard, Dara settles on her stool, and I drop onto the bare floor, my back against her thighs. She picks up a section of my hair, but she pauses, distracted—I think she’s still replaying Sister Ola’s news. Slowly, her fingers find rhythm, parting and pulling.
Mother joins us, settling on a mat with her smooth rock and knife.
“So,” she says, “the carnival.”
“The next phase of our lives,” Dara says.
They talk excitedly about how the mud and marsh would make it more difficult to dance. I try to look the part. I tell them Oba Balogun is too kind not to cancel it. But one person isn’t fooled.
“Tinu, what’s wrong?” Mother asks.
“I think the carnival should be scrapped this season. Let warriors approach us one-on-one.”
“What?” Dara shouts. “Are you serious?”
“It’s been cancelled for the older, married ones,” Mother says, “not for you young ones. You did nothing wrong. That’s fair.”
“Iya, why do boys pick whom they want to marry and we don’t?” I ask. “All we do is wait to be picked—and risk boos when we refuse.”
Mother stops fidgeting. She peers at me, musing.
Dara shoves me in the head. “Because it is the way it is!”
“Well, Tinu,” Mother begins, “since men are expected to protect us, isn’t it fair to let them decide whom they’ll die for?”
“Ask her-o!” Dara rasps in my ear.
“Must they do it with the whole world watching?” I ask. “They seem more sincere when they don’t make a show of it.”
Dara sighs. “Ewele, sorry. If you have something against the carnival, say it.”
“Sounds like you have a boy in mind,” Mother says.
“Wande,” Dara says, slapping me on the ribs with her thigh.
“Please,” I huff. “Wande is like my brother.”
“But he’s not your brother,” Dara retorts.
I know she didn’t call me stupid, but it was in there somewhere.
“If you ask me,” Mother says, “Wande will make a fine husband—a little too reserved for me, but he has a good heart.”
The moment Dara’s fingers stop moving, I know she’s about to weigh the odds.
“Well, if he wants Tinu,” she says, “he’ll have to finish high in the contest. Everyone knows Tinu will be a top pick—Ow! My chin. Tinu, stop shifting your head.”
“True,” Mother says. “But let us know, Tinu, if you have a private arrangement with him or any other boy.”
I scowl at her. She chuckles.
“Aren’t you girls lucky that only single men will compete? You’ll be first wives and marry men nearer your age. In my time, my age mates never stood a chance with me. You should be pleased.”
“Iya Adeola, tell her-o,” Dara harps, pinning my head straight.
“What’s wrong with them approaching us, one-on-one?” I ask.
“Which man will approach Sister Ola one-on-one after what happened last time? Or have you forgotten?”
I haven’t. Sister Ola rejected two warriors, and in the end, no one picked her. Still, the courage boys need to select is nothing compared to the courage we need to reject. The men do nothing wrong on carnival night—crowds cheer their choices. That’s unfair.
Dara laughs. “If Wande can’t fight,” she says, “it’s Tinu’s fault—she’s always making him do girlish things, like dancing or cooking.”
Mother laughs again. “Dara, do you have any boy in mind?” she asks.
Dara giggles, hesitating.
“It’s Laye,” I say.
Dara squeals.
“Who’s Laye?” Mother asks.
“He’s from Sowemimo—the Awonuga clan,” I say.
“Oh. That clan has great warriors. He will be highly sought after.”
“He is.” Dara sighs. “I have no chance. Let’s forget him.”
“Don’t say that,” Mother says. “Depending on how he places, you may be his choice.”
“He’s one of the favourites.”
“Don’t worry. The carnival will announce you. He’ll see you like never before.”
“Or won’t see me at all,” Dara says bleakly.
“Didn’t they say he got Funmi pregnant?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dara says. “But he doesn’t want to marry her.”
“Oh, Dara. What do you think, Mother?”
“It’s fine. An illegitimate first child is not the same as a legitimate first wife.”
“I think he should betroth Funmi privately.”
“Are you not listening?” Dara snaps. “He doesn’t want her.”
“Think of Funmi. She’s pregnant. She won’t dance on Carnival Night.”
“Times are changing,” Mother says. “Girls used to drink potions to get rid of babies rather than have them ruin their big night.”
“She wants to keep it,” Dara says. “She’s desperate for a child from his lineage. Desperate to marry him without competing. She’s a cheat. Don’t pity her, Tinu.”
“Funmi won’t be there,” I say, “because she’s pregnant with his child. Is it fair to her? If she won’t be there, then he shouldn’t either.”
“She chose to keep it,” Dara says. “She wanted to trap him, but it didn’t work.”
Mother picks up her smooth rock and pares her toenails. “Her physical condition is why she won’t be there. Why shouldn’t he? To punish him? Relegate him? Come on, Tinu. Private proposals are reserved for warriors—or in this case, wrestlers—who fail to distinguish themselves—”
“Losers!” Dara spits.
“What do you call warriors who run home scared?” I shout back.
“That’s not fair, Tinu,” Mother says, her voice low. “We shouldn’t blame them for their nightmares. We shouldn’t humiliate them like that.”
“What humiliation?”
Dara tilts my head back with a sharp tug, bringing her lips close. “The carnival is everything. Do you like leftovers? No one does. Yet we eat them. But we hide when we do.” She slackens her grip when Mother raises her head. “Please ignore Tinu—she’s just being modest; I know she doesn’t want to be picked like a leftover.”
I wriggle my head free, turn, and glare at Dara. “You don’t know me. So stop saying that.”
“You’re the loser, not me.”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up! Your Wande can’t fight. Want to marry him privately? Go ahead. Don’t—”
I clamp my hand over her mouth, squeezing her cheeks together, and shoving her head back.
She slaps me. I release her. My cheek burns where she struck.
“Stop it!” Mother snaps.
We sit statue-still as she leers, eyeballing us, daring us to defy her.
I return to my position; Dara’s hands resume work.
Dara is so annoying—she’s brash and aweless with me, yet she toadies to my friends, Remi and Eniola. If she weren’t my cousin…
“Now you’ve both ruined my mood,” Mother says. “Tinu, I’ve told you to keep your hands to yourself. This is your second fight in barely three moons. Now, both of you—say sorry. Tinu, you first.”
We apologize to each other. Neither of us means it. Dara’s pulls my hair harder than she needs to.
A shriek.
It sounded like a child, and it came from beyond the compound wall.
Another shriek. Not fear—play. Laughter. And drums. Distant, but growing.
Dun-dun-dun.
Drums.
Dara’s hands freeze mid-plait. “What’s that noise?”
She’s on her feet before her question sinks, dashing toward the gate. I scramble after her, hair half-done, heart racing. Can’t wait for Mother. She’ll slow us down.
A horde of children rushing back into the hamlet clatters into us.
We join the mothers standing outside the gate. Down the footpath, four—no, five—men in towering masquerade costumes strut toward us: Sleepy-eyed Goat Face, Monkey-ear Face, Bucktooth Sheep Face, Lion-mane Face, Big-lips Fish Face. They dance like drunks—a few steps forward, a few back. Children sidle close to touch, jittery, ready to flee. Sleepy-eyed Face turns sharply, scares them—they scatter.
Further down, a procession of warriors with spectators buzzing.
Why all this ceremony? Is Baba Dayo returning? Has he been named Kakanfo? I crane my neck, but the procession bends past Eniola’s hamlet, and I can’t see who’s at the end.
“I’ve seen masquerades get drunk and smash things,” I say. “I hope they’re not here for trouble.”
“You worry too much, child,” Sister Alero says. “It’s just a parade.”
Passing? It’s coming straight for ours—Sleepy-eyed Face chased children into our hamlet, and they haven’t come out. I recognize a few boys despite war paints; they’re from Inumidun. I want to stop one and ask, but don’t know them well.
When it’s clear we have visitors, the neighbouring clans troop to our hamlet. Dara, Sister Alero, and some mothers go back inside. Iya Pelumi and I remain rooted—I want to see who’s at the end; I’ve a hunch it’s my father, the war deputy. With the army’s disgrace, a promotion isn’t out of the question.
The parade flows past. Unbearable—the loud drumming. The oohs and aahs coming from my hamlet make me want to dash in and back out. I decide to go back in.
Drummers, faces painted, din their music into the crowd. Lion Face charges at children while warriors grab ropes attached to his costume. Now he seems like a wild animal.
Percussionists and hornists hurt ears, summoning ancestral spirits of war. No one minds—they seem thrilled. Even bed-ridden elders like Baba Adeshina shuffle out.
So much happening. But who is all this for?
The drumming grows unbearable, rattling my skull. I nudge my way through packed bodies, gasping free into a pocket of air near Iya Pelumi. She hasn’t moved from her spot, her eyes fixed on the parade’s tail end.
“Something’s up,” I say, catching my breath. “A great honour—I can feel it.”
“I think they’ve made your father the new Kakanfo,” she says. “I hope for the sake of your mother and her mates, they haven’t given him a new wife.”
I laugh, but my eyes stay on the procession. The main body has passed, drummers and masquerades swallowed by our hamlet’s gates. What remains is a trickle—spectators, stragglers, and then…
A figure. Swaggering uphill like a warrior king. Two heralds dance ahead, cutting bamboo strips and throwing them at his feet in an old gesture of triumph.
I lean forward, straining.
Not Baba Dayo.
Oluwalayefesi. Or Laye, for short—Dara’s crush and almost every girl’s. Tall, dark, thickly muscled. Seventeen or so. The girls talk about him constantly. Even the ones who say they hate him can’t stop mentioning his name.
I’ve seen better-looking warriors, but if size matters, I can’t argue. At the market square, where we usually meet, he never says hello; he eats me with his eyes. He never makes overtures in person—his gang does it for him. And if she accepts, he’ll choose her company for her, a snub who carries himself with airs. Some dislike him, but not me; I don’t see why all the fuss.
He shuffles along, a drunken strut. He sees me and ogles—like at the market, stares. Even when gone past, he cranes his neck. He’s on paraga or some other intoxicant. Fool. You don’t have that effect on me.
The late crowd surges into our hamlet; I’m carried along.
The drumming ends. Relief. I push past bodies with the aplomb of a host—if asked where I think I’m going, I’ll say I’m heading to my hut.
Laye and his entourage prostrate themselves before Egbon Ademola and Baba Folarin, our baale. They rise. I want to hear what’s being said, so I push forward. The crowd resists—too tightly packed.
The murmuring dies down. Everyone leans in to hear.
“What is all this grandstanding for?” Egbon Ademola asks. “The whole kingdom knows you returned without conquering.”
No response. Laye stutters.
“Laye, speak. What is the meaning of this?”
Laye steps forward.
“I have come to declare my love for the most beautiful girl in Modekun. She is a member of your clan, and I wish to wrestle my way to her heart. Ogun is my strength.”
His clan cheers.
“Tell them,” someone yells.
Egbon Ademola glances behind him. “And who might this be?—this person who has already won your heart?”
“Her name is Atinuke.”
Drums sound.
My name.
I hear my name, but it takes a moment for it to make sense. My mind goes blank. I don’t know what to do. Shouts explode; Mother squeals, leading a second round of cheers.
I think of Wande. The crowd pushes me forward, and I search for him in the faces around. Maybe he’s not here.
“Where is Tinu?” Mother shouts. “Tinu!”
Kikelomo spots me. Her eyes widen, her lips curl. I signal her to hush.
“Here she is,” she screams.
All eyes fall on me.
My hair is a mess—half-braided on one side, the other side loose and tangled. I should have worn a scarf. I’m still raw from the fight with Remi, and the cut on my lip stings now that everyone’s looking at me.
The crowd parts. My legs move toward the centre.
Someone whispers, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Happy now?”
Dara.
“You have your one-on-one,” she says.
She’s right, in a way. It is a private arrangement—between clans. But I wanted something quieter. Something between just me and a boy. Not this.
And certainly not from him.
In a flash, Mother and her mates surround me, dancing and singing, their voices rising in celebration.
As the masquerades dance through the compound, I find myself studying them differently. Are these the spirits the men saw in the forest? Were they real, or just painted men in costumes?
Sleepy-eyed Goat Face turns toward me. The eyes behind the mask are too still. Too knowing. A chill runs down my back. I look away first. When I look back, he’s already moving on, chasing children. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe.
Egbon Ademola waits until people lower their voices.
“Let me understand,” he says. “You’re saying she will be your choice no matter what, even if she performs poorly at the carnival?”
“Yes, Egbon. That is what I am saying, Great Warrior.”
Women cheer; one warbles like a strange bird.
An old man shouts from the crowd: “These are the same warriors who ran from their shadows!”
“Yes,” Egbon Ademola says, “but in their defense, it was their first outing. They are supposed to take instructions. So, if someone says, run, they run.”
The crowd cheers.
Egbon Ademola folds his arms. “Well, you will have to prove yourself at the contest. No assurances from this end.” Smiling, he says, “Okay. We have heard you. Now show us how you intend to win your bride.”
At this, Laye performs a war dance—he balls the muscles on his chest and dimples them like drum surfaces.
I’m still watching when I’m swept off my feet—I mean, my soles literally leave the ground. I’m lying in a sea of hands. From my high throne, I think I saw someone who looked like Wande, but I’m not sure. Laye’s entourage has lifted me onto their shoulders, dancing and spinning with me. I’m dizzy.
They set me down before my suitor, and he prances around me.
Warriors reach for me, trying to grab me, and he shoves them to the ground, circling me and keeping them away. He scoops up the smaller ones and slops them down like clumps of fufu. He’s determined. It’s endearing. I don’t feel like a prize to be won, but a treasure to be defended. He doesn’t need the crowd to tell him that. He knows what he wants. I’m his aspiration, the one he chose since all those times words deserted him.
I put a hand on my hip and extend my elbow. I wave to the crowd, smiling. I hope his choice broke many hearts. Hope Dara treats me better now.
I don’t want to be anyone’s prize, but I won’t complain about being valued or being in the position every girl wants.
Hope we get acquainted. I’m offering friendship. I want to know the boy behind the bravado. No more silent stares. If the crowd is fufu, he’s the stirrer. But if I’m the soup, Wande’s the ladle; he carries me along without spilling me.
Laye fakes an attack, and his assailants scatter. Ugly Man with a Mane charges. Laye topples him, sending his costume flying.
My champion roars, and the crowd roars back.
He turns toward me, chest heaving with each breath. I can’t stop staring. His muscles bulge along the edges, hard and sculpted. I meet his eyes, but quickly look away when his grin widens. I may have smiled a little too much.
****
Image: Jean photosstock Pixabay cropped