WOMEN OF OYIN

Chapter Ten : The Things Mothers Hide

Adesewa didn’t return to the square that afternoon.

She walked home with the old leather note clutched tightly against her chest, the words of Queen Oríkẹ́ echoing in her ears like war drums. Her breath was shallow. Her mind raced. How could something so powerful—so important—be hidden?

And more importantly, why had Iya Abeni never told her?

By the time she stepped into the compound, the sun was beginning to sink, casting a golden haze over the earth. Smoke curled from the clay kitchen. Chickens pecked lazily in the corner. It was an ordinary day in Oyin—but nothing felt ordinary anymore.

Iya Abeni was stirring a pot of egusi, her back turned.

Adesewa’s voice broke the silence.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

The spoon paused mid-stir.

“Tell you what?” her mother said, though her tone already hinted that she knew exactly what.

“About Queen Oríkẹ́. About the blood moon. The sacrifice. The law of Oyin was broken.”

Iya Abeni turned slowly, eyes hard, but not surprised.

“Where did you hear that name?” she asked.

“From Baba Ilékun. He gave me this.”

Adesewa held up the leather page.

For a moment, something flickered in her mother’s eyes. Fear? Shame? Pain?

“You shouldn’t have gone to that old man,” Iya Abeni said, turning back to her soup, as if the conversation could be boiled down and served in a bowl.

“But I did. And now I know,” Adesewa pressed. “Why did you hide it? Why does no one speak her name?”

“Because silence keeps our daughters alive.”

The room fell quiet.

“I was like you once,” Iya Abeni said, barely above a whisper. “Curious. Fierce. I asked too many questions. My own mother slapped the name Oríkẹ́ out of my mouth the first time I said it. And I promised I would never pass her story on. Because knowing it… makes you dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

“Because once a girl knows that we once ruled, she starts asking why we don’t anymore. And in Oyin, questions like that…” She stopped. “They take everything from you.”

“But we deserve to know. I deserve to know!”

Iya Abeni looked at her then—really looked at her. The girl she had raised with caution and quiet strength. The girl whose fire she’d tried so hard to tame without extinguishing it.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

“She was your great-great-grandmother, Adesewa.”

Adesewa’s lips parted in shock.

“She bore the crown. She bore the shame. And she died so you could live in peace. Not in power, perhaps, but peace. We have kept her memory alive in whispers and in prayer. But the world outside… it does not forgive women who remember too much.”

Adesewa’s chest tightened. “So what now? Am I just supposed to forget?”

“No,” Iya Abeni said softly. “You are supposed to survive.”

She walked over, took the leather note from her daughter’s hand, and folded it carefully.

“But you must promise me something.”

Adesewa nodded, unsure.

“Do not tell your friends. Do not speak of this in the open. Not yet. When the time is right, the story will rise again. But until then…” she placed the note back in Adesewa’s palm, “…carry it like a knife beneath your wrapper. Quiet, hidden—but ready.”

And just like that, Adesewa was no longer a girl. She was a keeper of forbidden fire.