In the town of Itenwa, the sun didn’t just disappear that evening; it spread red like blood across the sky, signaling that time was running out. In the market square, the usual sounds of people chatting had changed to the hurried noise of wooden crates scraping and the rustling of bags made from raffia.
It was Coronation Night, an important night when the new King would take power. If you were still out on the streets when the moon rose, your freedom would be taken away, and you would belong to the Crown. Some said the king would turn them into slaves, forced to serve him for the rest of their lives. Others whispered that the king would claim them as his own, marrying them and doing with them as he pleased. The most feared fate was to be chosen as a sacrifice, carrying the weight of the village’s sins on their shoulders.
“Obolo! My friend, stop what you’re doing and hurry!” Iyema shouted. Her voice was thick with dust from her work. She was quickly tying up her last sack of garri, her stall so close to Obolo’s that they often bumped elbows. “The King-makers are already at the shrine. If the gong strikes at 6 PM and we’re still here, you won’t even be safe because of your beauty!”
Obolo’s fingers, stained with bright colors from the beautiful fabrics she sold, moved quickly across the table. “Just one more fold, Iyema! This silk is too precious to be ruined by the night dew.”
“Precious? Your life is what’s precious!” Iyema said, balancing a basket on her head and vanishing into the crowd without looking back.
Obolo was reaching for her last piece of lace when a shadow suddenly appeared over her stall, long, still, and unsettling.
“I have heard,” said a voice as smooth as polished wood, “that you sell the best fabrics in the region. But tell me, Obolo, what does love mean to you? Is it the threads that come together to create something beautiful, or is it something deeper?”
Obolo’s heart raced, and she didn’t look up, her hands shaking as she tucked away the fabric. “What business do you have asking about love when the ancestors are about to walk the streets? Please leave, stranger. I need to go home.”
The man didn’t move. His dark eyes burned with a deep intensity that made the humid evening feel cold. “I thought in this beautiful moment, you might think about the power of love.”
Obolo frowned and finally met his gaze. He didn’t dress like everyone else here, but he carried himself with a strength that felt as powerful as the land. “Love is not something I can afford, especially tonight. My fabrics are my life. Now, please go!”
“So,” the stranger whispered as he leaned closer until she could smell the sweat of the distance he walked. “You love your fabrics more than anything else? More than your own freedom?”
Before Obolo could reply, a loud noise like thunder echoed through the air.
BONG.
The first sound of the 6 PM gong.
Obolo’s heart sank. She looked around. The market was empty. Iyema was gone. The other vendors were gone. Even the birds had stopped singing. The only things left were the fading light, the gentle rustle of her silk, and the man who still stood there.
The stranger’s smile grew slowly, looking almost dangerous, as the last sound of the gong faded into the trees.
Obolo’s eyes widened as reality dawned on her, the market was unsafe.
She had spent her life weaving together threads, but now she realized she was the one caught in a trap.
To be continued…
Will Obolo survive the King’s first night ? Stay tuned for Part 2!
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