The ground was no longer market dust. It was cold, polished stone that bit into Obolo’s knees as the King-makers dropped her like a sack of unwanted grain.
She didn’t look up. In Itenwa, staring at the King’s messengers was like staring at the king which was a sin that even the ancestors struggled to forgive. The air here was heavy, smelling of stale incense and old copper, the scent of power that had sat in one room for too long.
“Rise, Weaver,” a voice boomed. It wasn’t Iseye’s smooth mahogany tone. This voice felt like two mountains grinding together.
Obolo stood, her legs shaking. She wasn’t in a cell yet. She was in a courtyard filled with thousands of yards of fabric, but they weren’t her vibrant silks. These were dull, gray shrouds that seemed to pulse with a ghostly light.
“I am the Obaro,” the voice continued.
Standing before her was the newly crowned King, dressed in a light-eating black robe, his face hidden behind a beaded veil. Beside Obolo, two other men stood trembling, bruised and battered. They were the unlucky ones caught near the village square when the gong sounded, they tried to fight the kingmakers and run off but were unsuccessful.
“As for these two,” the King waved a hand with cold disdain, “throw them to the Great Boundary. Let them join those guarding the village’s boundary. If the wild animals or the spirits of the woods find them useful, so be it. Their lives belong to chance now.”
Obolo watched in horror as the men were dragged away toward the dangerous edges of Itenwa. Then, the King turned his veiled gaze to her. “The gong sounded while you were outside, Obolo. By the laws of our fathers, you are now a mere property at my disposal.
“You will weave these gray memories back into color, or you will find out what lies beneath the 6 PM silence that we grew up being warned of”, the king said pointing at the fabrics.
………
While Obolo was trapped in the chilling silence of the palace, the Itenwa market was loud with a different kind of fire: Rumors.
“I told her! I hissed at her to move!” Iyema cried, her voice cracking as she paced near Obolo’s empty stall. “There was a stranger there… a man with eyes like embers. He did something to her!”
But the market women shook their heads. Hunger for gossip was stronger than the truth.
“Obolo willingly gave herself to the King,” one woman whispered, folding her wrappers. “She’s been looking for a husband for years. She stayed out on purpose to become a Queen.”
“Queen?” another laughed bitterly. “She’s a virgin. Everyone knows. The King didn’t take a wife; he took a sacrificial lamb to carry the village’s sins. She’s gone, Iyema. Forget her.”
Iyema couldn’t take it anymore. “She is not a sacrifice! I will go to the palace myself. I will see if she is alive or if she has become the King’s property!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” the others gasped. “We must wait for the announcement. Only the Town Crier knows the fate of those caught.”
Just as Iyema turned to head toward the forbidden palace gates, a sharp, metallic sound rang through the market chatter.
KON! KON! KON!
The market went deathly silent. Every head turned toward the village center. The Town Crier’s gong was sounding, not the 6 PM warning, but the “Announcement of the Taken.”
Obolo’s fate was about to be shouted to the winds.
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