It was pouring heavily with rain the following evening when Fámorótì and Fúyẹ́ arrived back at Aya’ba Ọyátómi’s house.
‘This way, please,’ said the housekeeper who met them at the door. A servant steered Fúyẹ́ in one direction while the housekeeper guided Fámorótì through a warren of rooms to a different wing.
If it had been a crowded house last night, tonight it was the arena for a feast.
The housekeeper showed him into a room towards the back of the house and immediately retreated.
Aya’ba Ọyátómi was standing by the window. A flash of lightning lit her face, briefly, and the house rumbled with thunder.
Fámorótì knew why he’d been sent for.
‘I hope you don’t mind the suddenness of it all,’ he said.
‘Affairs of the heart are never too sudden,’ she replied. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
It didn’t sound like an instruction, but it was. A carved wooden stool sat in the middle of the room. He reached for it and sat down.
‘That girl is my daughter,’ she said; her voice was firm, her face soft.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘I’m the only mother she has.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Of all the women of our bounteous town, Akọgun Fámorótì,’ she said, ‘from those that live in the gaze of the palace to those that dwell in the shade of the hills, the wives-to-be and the newly married brides. The maids with burnished marks on their cheeks, those caramel stripes that enhance their beauty still. The ones with radiant gaps in their teeth: an emblem of beauty, gifted by the gods. The elegant ones, the ones for whom a prince may lust, the ones for whom a slave revolt. The ones with childbearing hips. The ones with hips that spark unrest in the loins of happily married men. The ones that glow like the pearls on their neck. The ones with the grace of a lounging cat. Take them one and all together, ask them all bar none together, and you’ll find, Akọgun Fámorótì, that none is as happy as my daughter is tonight. And fewer, even still, as happy as I am for both of you.’
‘Thank you, Aya’ba. My happiness knows no bounds.’
‘I do not question your honour.’
‘I’m sure, Aya’ba Ọyátómi.’
‘Nor would I for a moment doubt your word.’
Fámorótì’s smile faltered. ‘I’m sure, Aya’ba.’
‘I am merely a woman who likes to speak her mind. I know that many a time, on your numerous campaigns, in the course of your distinguished career, you have deflected from your side the arrow tipped with pestilent poison; the spear that quarters an elephant’s flesh; the white man’s brutal burning beans that spread like smallpox through the air.’
‘The òrìṣà have favoured me, Aya’ba Ọyátómi.’
‘May they continue to favour you, Akọgun Fámorótì.’
‘Àṣẹ.’
‘Àṣẹ. But all those scourges will be nothing – nothing! – compared to the boundless bane of my bitterness should you ever break my daughter’s heart. You would wake up on that day and find that your dreams have turned into a rising pillar of dust. Do we understand each other?’
‘We do,’ Fámorótì mumbled.
‘Good,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way. We can now go back and join the others. We must discuss the wedding.’
He paused, then he said, ‘Now?’
‘Now,’ she said. ‘It would be a shame if all the troubles I went through this past week – the rams I bought for the occasion, the game, the wine, the yam, the fish – went to waste. Not to mention the musicians. I hired quite a few.’
‘Wait, wait,’ he said. ‘You – what did you just say? What have you been preparing for a week?’
‘The wedding.’
‘Whose wedding?’ Fámorótì found he was sweating.
‘Your wedding,’ she calmly informed him. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t understand any of this, Aya’ba Ọyátómi. Your daughter and I met only two days ago. You said a week. You said you’d been planning for a week.’
‘When word reached us weeks ago that your father, and her father, had both fallen on the field of battle, I knew at once that it was only a matter of time before you showed your face in Òṣogùn. So I began to plan a wedding feast for my daughter.’ She laughed loudly, heartily. ‘Upon my honour, Akọgun Fámorótì, Oyíndà knew nothing of my designs.’
Suspiciously – all too casually – he asked, ‘Have you set the date?’
‘You’re free tonight, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes . . .’ he began. Then he stopped and said, ‘Tonight? This very night?’
‘This very night.’
‘But there’s—’ He tried to think. ‘There’s protocol, Aya’ba Ọyátómi. I have to inform the king.’
‘Which king would you be referring to?’ she asked, patiently. ‘I’m all ears. Tell me.’ She waited. When he didn’t respond, she said, ‘We no longer have a king in this town. What we have in this town is a man who once was drunk with power and now is simply drunk, day and night. You’ve been trying to see him since you stepped foot on this soil several days ago. I’m sure you know why you haven’t succeeded. He’s in a stupor, that’s why. He’s always in a stupor. That’s why you haven’t been able to see him. He’s outlived all his rivals – you’ve got to give him credit for longevity. But it isn’t all that hard to outlive anyone if, first, you had them killed; a fail-proof formula for longevity Kábíyèsí used to swear by. Anyone he found threatening, he killed or drove them into exile. That’s why your father left and never returned; you must know that. Only the sycophants flourished. The most shameless of them is Òrom̀bó. He’s the king of them all. I need not warn you to be cautious around that man. The only pleasant thing I can say about him is that when he strikes with his dagger he never strikes from behind.’ And now, without warning, she changed topic. ‘Is it true what we hear, about the Malian slave raiders? That they might be coming for us. Is it true? Is that why you’ve been trying to see the king?’ Again she continued before he could respond. ‘I’ll tell you what you must do tomorrow morning. Don’t waste your time going to the palace. I’ll call for a gathering in the town square. Everybody in town will be there, and you will talk to the people directly. You must tell them what you know about the Malians. And what we must do to stop them. Òrom̀bó will scream high treason. But there’s many a father in this town, and many a mother too, who have been biding their time, waiting to throttle that creature. The king himself will be in a state of torpor. He’ll be too befuddled to know what hit him. Listen to me, Akọgun. You’ve come home for three reasons: to take your bride, to save Òṣogùn from the Malian slavers, and to lead. I know you’ll deny it; you’ll say it’s not true. But I’m telling you, on the contrary, it is. You believe you’ve come home to bring a message to the king. You’re wrong. It is the gods themselves who have brought you here, and they didn’t bring you here to act as a messenger. They brought you here to fulfil your destiny and that is what you’re going to do.’
It was at this moment, as Fámorótì sat speechless before Aya’ba Ọyátómi, that Slow, Painful Death burst in, pursued by two irate housekeepers.