At Noon, we were gathered under the iroko tree, that ancient witness of justice, truth and peace , to give our daughter Abisola in marriage . The tree stood as a bridge between heaven and earth and it stood tall while it roots gripping  the face of the land  like an old man who had watched  several generations come and go, untouched by tears, laughter and celebration.

Benches arranged,Mats  were spread. kolanuts were broken, alligator pepper  shared, palm wine poured into wooden cups and voices rose in the authority of norms and traditions.

“Àwon okunrin oba mi (My kingsmen), My aged father began to speak, his voice as deep like the talking drum that announceds an impending war at dawn.. Many have come from far and near seeking Abisola’s hand in marriage. Today is a faithful day as we sit not to rush but to reason as tradition demands”.

I peeped through the small hole in the door to eaves drop from the conversation but the only word that reached me   was “Reason”. That word sat heavy on air. Then my name was called  aloud.

“Abisola”!
 

My father’s kingsmen adjusted their caps, beads clicking softly against their broad chests as figures were called out like market prices .Goats, Tubers of yam, Kegs of fresh palm wine, fabrics of different kinds, bottles of local gin and one basket of bitter kola. Money rose and fell like the Nigerian economy, each number called landed on my caramel skin, measuring me, counting my lifetime into digits yet leaving my heart and soul unmeasured. I sat neatly wrapped like the tribute given to the king at harvest, beads adorned my neck , wrists , waist and ankles. I smiled uncontrollably  like the trained smile of  a good Yoruba daughter , while my whole body trembled  like a caged bird.

“She is well trained and educated “ An elder said.

She is  very beautiful and  pounds yam  very well “ another said.

A true definition of beauty  with brains” someone concluded. “ it has a price.”

I wanted to ask if the air I breathed also counted.

The sun hid behind the branches of the iroko while the wind slowed it pace . I was present, yet negotiations about my future continued as though I were an object in the market place, Behind me, women old and young sat quietly like children scolded into silence for their wrong doing. One caught my gaze and whispered “endure”.

When the bargaining ended, and laughter filled the atmosphere , the iroko tree remained silent. Yet, I heard its gentle voice clearly :

“ A woman’s worth is debated but older than figures, deeper than tradition and a symbol of respect that binds two families”. ©️written by:Ann.