WOMEN OF OYIN

Chapter Five : The Silence Of Arewa

They had been inseparable since they were five.

Adesewa and Arewa , two wild hearts that laughed louder than the birds and ran faster than the wind. They fetched water together from the stream, wove each other’s hair under the mango tree, and whispered their dreams under moonlight when the world was asleep. Arewa had the softer soul: patient, careful, quick to smile, and even quicker to forgive. But when she was with Adesewa, a boldness flickered in her, like a candle testing its flame.

They had once promised each other, solemnly, hands clasped and eyes shining:

“We will never marry old men. We will choose love, not fear.”

But in Oyin, promises made by girls meant nothing when weighed against the will of men.

That morning, the village buzzed like a disturbed hive. Word had spread fast: Arewa was getting married.

To Pa Gbadebo, a cocoa merchant well into his seventies skin wrinkled like smoked leather, voice dry like harmattan wind. He already had six wives, and twelve children, most of whom were older than Arewa. But he was rich. Powerful. His yam barns stretched long like rivers, and the elders said the gods favored him.

That was enough. The bride price had been accepted in secret. Her parents had agreed weeks ago. Arewa had not been told until the day before the ceremony. She cried and begged, but her mother’s voice was hard:

“He is rich. He will feed you. What else is a girl’s life for?”

Adesewa found her on the morning of the wedding, sitting by the broken calabash near the back of her compound. Her eyes were swollen. Her mouth trembled when she tried to speak.

“I don’t want this, Sewa,” she whispered. “I want to run.”

Adesewa knelt beside her, gripping her hands. “Then run,” she said. “We can hide you in the bush, we’ll—”

Arewa shook her head slowly.

“They will find me. They will bring me back. And then they will beat my mother. My sisters will not be allowed to marry. My father will curse me before the village.”

Her voice cracked. “They say if I refuse, I will bring shame that cannot be washed away.”

Adesewa wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the village apart, stone by stone. But all she could do was hold her friend, while the drums began to sound from the square. The wedding was beginning.

By midday, Arewa was led away. Her hair braided tightly, her wrapper stiff with new dye. She didn’t cry anymore. Her eyes were empty. Her steps were slow. And as she was handed over to Pa Gbadebo, the people clapped. They said blessings. They danced.

Adesewa stood at the edge of the crowd. Her hands were fists. No one else saw the girl who used to laugh under the moon.

No one else saw the fear behind her silence. But Adesewa did. And she made a vow, right there in the dust and drumbeat:

One day, this will end. Even if I must be the one to break it.