WOMEN OF OYIN

Chapter Six : Free But Not Yet Free

Akinwale had the kind of face that made old women nod with approval.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with kind eyes and a voice that carried softly, like the hush of evening wind, he was everything the village wanted in a son. At twenty, he had already learned to hunt, build a compound fence, speak proverbs with confidence, and greet elders in the proper way. He was respectful. Handsome. Educated just enough to read letters, but not enough to be considered dangerous.

To the elders of Oyin, he was a model man in the making. But Akinwale was not what they thought he was.

He had grown up in a household full of expectations. His father, Baba Aremo, was a man of pride and reputation , a retired warrior with strong opinions and a voice that silenced crowds. His mother, Iya Modupe, was gentle in voice but fierce in belief: “A son must continue the bloodline without question.” From the time he turned fifteen, Akinwale’s ears had been full of talk about legacy, bride price, sons, and honor.

And so, when Baba Aremo called him to the family hut one dry evening, it was not a surprise.

“We have honored you, my son,” his father said, reclining against the wall. “You need not search for a wife like a beggar. We have already secured her. Paid the price long ago.”

Akinwale’s face didn’t move. But inside, something twisted.

“Who is she?” he asked.

His mother smiled gently. “She’s not born yet.”

Silence.

Akinwale blinked slowly. “Not… born?”

“Her mother is six moons gone,” Baba Aremo said proudly. “Our in-laws live across the river. They have good blood. If it is a girl and the gods say it will be —she will be yours.”

He was expected to smile. To bow in gratitude.

Instead, Akinwale stood up quietly and walked outside, his heart thudding like a festival drum.

How can I marry someone whose voice I’ve never heard? Whose mind I’ve never known? Whose name has not even been given?

Akinwale had no interest in marrying six wives, as his father had. He did not wish to "build lineage" like a farmer scattering seeds. He wanted one woman — one he could choose, talk to, walk beside. A partner, not a possession. A name, not a number.

But such talk in Oyin was considered madness.

“Love is for stories,” his uncle once said, shaking his head. “Marriage is for duty.”

Still, Akinwale felt something restless growing inside him is a quiet rebellion, like a river shifting beneath cracked earth. At night, he would sit by the fire and write thoughts in a small leather notebook, words he’d never dare speak aloud.

“If I must share my life with someone, let her be my choice and not my inheritance.”

The stars above Oyin were the same ones his ancestors had watched for generations. But Akinwale no longer believed they meant the same things. He no longer believed a man was free just because he could speak louder than a woman. If he could not choose who he shared his heart with, then what freedom did he really have? And so, he waited. Not for the girl promised to him, but for something else. Someone else.