Chapter 2

Mrs Williams untied the apron strings attached to her floral print cotton dress and hung up the apron on a nail behind the kitchen door. She carried the pot of 'asaro,' a native yam pottage, to the makeshift table her husband had roughly made to serve as their dining table. She smiled at the little square hand made table mats her daughter had made. Hmmmn! Trust Sade to be ever resourceful!

This was by far the smallest apartment they had ever lived in; a mere two bedroom cottage-like structure hurriedly put up by the university where her husband currently served as 'visiting professor' but she wasn't one to complain about her circumstances. Rather, she believed in making lemonade out of any lemon thrown at her by fate. Also, she was a staunch believer in the unseen, albeit mighty hands of God in directing His chosen ones.

She smiled warmly as she placed the pot of 'asaro' near the half-filled jug of their home-made pineapple juice. They he no refrigerator in this rural setting but her ever resourceful daughter had managed to get the pineapple drink cooled just by placing the drink into the huge earthen pot she had made her father buy the last time they were in Ake township. Sade had also done a great job of setting up the table, even adorning the table with freshly plucked wild flowers which complemented the green lacy table cloth underneath it. Sade was really taking her lessons on resourcefulness well, Mrs Williams noted proudly as she put finishing touches to the already set table. Supper was the only meal the family had together whenever her husband was not travelling, so it was always a grand affair in their home.

"Dinner is served!" Mrs Williams called. Her husband and daughter answered from outside where Sade was helping her father mend a fence. Mrs Williams walked to the front door and opened it to see how far the work had gone.

"Okay, time to wash up! The food won't wait!" she called as she smiled warmly at her miniature-sized family.

Father and daughter groaned and quickly put finishing touches to their job. They brought in their tools and sauntered into the kitchen, where Mrs Williams made them dip their hands into warm soapy water before they rinsed them out with clean water. Thankfully, the Williams didn't have to go through the hassles of getting water from the river as the locals did, for the Professor had arranged for the water tanker that supplied the university staff quarters in Ake township to bring them water, all for an extra token. The Professor was a 'forward-looking' man who did not want his 'precious jewels', as he fondly referred to his wife and daughter, to go through any kind of stress. Though most of his colleagues disagree with him on this, claiming he was 'spoiling' his wife as well as his daughter, the Professor refused to conform to their 'egocentric views of relationships', as he always puts it.

At the table, Prof. Williams said the grace and the family dug into the delicacy so labouriously prepared by Mrs Williams.

"Delicious, my dear," the Professor nodded as he tasted the food. He smiled affectionately at his wife.

"Thanks dear," she answered, returning his smile. She spooned a mouthful of the native pottage into her mouth.

"Dad, what is Àsánte?" Sade asked suddenly, eyes earnestly fixed on her father.

Her parents exchanged meaningful glances, then her mother turned to her, her face expressionless.

"Where did you get that from, honey?" Mrs Williams asked her daughter patiently.

Food was temporarily forgotten as the parents looked at their daughter for enlightenment.

Sade's eyes became widened in alarm. "Is it that bad?" she queried.

Her father shook his head. "Very, my dear," he muttered. He looked her squarely. "Àsánte is a barbaric form of marriage whereby unwilling brides are abducted and forcefully taken to their grooms," the Professor explained.

"One of the girls that was supposed to be in Form Two this year was taken," Sade announced.

"Oh, no!" Mrs Williams covered her mouth with her palms.

"Why don't they stop it if it's barbaric?" Sade questioned her father.

"It is because of the financial and material benefits involved, I believe," the Professor quipped as he resumed eating his food.

"So, dad, what are you doing to stop all these barbaric acts?" Sade's eyebrows were raised in expectation.

The Professor laughed mirthlessly. "You can only talk, my dear, and pray that God touches their conscience."

"Many of them have seared their conscience for the love of money," Mrs Williams noted as she pulled her plate of 'asaro' nearer.

Sade just shook her head silently, wondering at her fellow man's depravity.

Moriah sat beside her mother on the mat spread near the orange tree in their compound. Her father, being the head of the family, took the only 'apoti' which he drew near the orange tree that served as a back rest for him. The moon was full and its light illuminated the compound, picking out distinctly the features of Moriah's family members as they ate their supper of 'amala and efo riro'. It was a taboo to talk during meals in Moriah's home, so the meal was eaten in a companionable silence.

Moriah cleared up the used plates after the meal and also disposed of the water used to wash hands before and after the meal. She then returned back to squat quietly near her mother on the mat.

She could tell that something was on her father's mind for he did not crack his normal after meal jokes. Instead, he lapsed into a pregnant silence. The female folk waited in silence, expectant.

Presently, 'Agbede', as Moriah's father was popularly called, cleared his throat and faced Moriah, who sat hidden in the shadows. "Moriah," he called sternly as he looked towards where she cowered beside her mother on the mat.

"Baami," she answered timidly.

"Why did you not come to greet Agbekoya when he visited earlier today?"

"I...ah... I..." she faltered in reply.

"Your mother told you he was around, didn't she?" her father queried further, anger evident in his voice. "Come out where I can see you clearly," he commanded as he sat up straight on his 'apoti'.

Moriah came out meekly from where she sat. She knelt down before her father, head bowed.

"Agbekoya has shown his intention to have you as wife. He has our support," her father announced curtly.

Moriah looked up, her disapproval clearly illuminated on her face by the moonlight. She frowned slightly as her father continued. "He has brought the first batch of yams."

"What about my school?" she dared to venture.

Her father laughed like one who had won a lottery. "That is no problem. Agbekoya will wait till you finish in two years' time. I have told him

so," he said in triumph.

"But I still want to go to university!" Moriah protested as she raised her arms in an involuntary protest.

"Ki ni 'ran e n lo se nibe?!" her mother quipped angrily from behind her. "What do you want to go and take in the 'unifasiti'?! she queried her daughter angrily, as she sat up on the mat. "Is that now the next step for your life?! How can you turn an ingrate after all our sacrifices?!" her mother ranted on, panting in anger as she unleashed her fury on Moriah. The girl would now truly justify their fellow villagers who had condemned Agbede for sending his daughter to school, irrespective of the fact that she was an only child. Their society had no good name or any regard for girls who pursued education at the expense of settling down in a 'decent marriage'. Her daughter would not shame her now! No, she would not be silent on this!

Moriah looked from one parent to the other. How could she make them understand and see reason with her now? Her future now lay in jeopardy all because of some tubers of yams! No! Her fate must be different from that of Salewa's! She looked up at her parents in the illumination of the moonlight. "I want to be a lawyer, 'agbejoro' in the big city!" she explained gently.

She got a prompt slap from behind her, given by her enraged mother.

"Adojutini omo! The child that shames!" her mother cried in anger. "Who put that into your head?!"

Moriah's father wagged a finger at her as he got up from his 'apoti'. "You must not put me to shame, Moriah. I have lent you the money I have!" He sauntered into the darkness of the house without a backward glance.

Moriah's mother got up angrily and pulled her ear from behind, making Moriah double over in pain but her mother did not let go of the ear until she was done with her reprimand. "You will not shame us, you silly girl! The whole village already blame your father for sending you to school! Now you want to shame him and repay him wickedly by refusing to settle down in a marriage, abi?! I will kill you first!" her mother shouted as she gave her some slaps at her back intermittently.

Moriah slept in great pains that night. She overheard her mother pleading with her father for the former had threatened to withdraw her from school and have her married off straightaway but her mother had pleaded that Moriah not be turned into an 'alaabo eko'! Moriah was at a loss for words. Never in her wildest imagination could she fathom the unreachable price for education as it has turned out to be in her case. Why, an uniformed passerby would think she had done the abominable, the way her parents had carried on, just because she had asked to be educated! She remembered what Miss Shola, their Social Studies Teacher, had said about education being a 'liberation from ignorance,' as she had shown them pictures of developed places that had improved the standards of living of the people in it as a result of the enlightenment brought about by education. One such novelty for Moriah had been the tap! Just the imagination of a pipe bringing water right into her own room was too much for her and she smiled now inspite of her pain as she allowed her imagination to soar wildly. There would be no need to struggle to get to the river quite early in the mornings again.

Her father's angry face flittered into her reverie and shattered her happiness. "You must not put me to shame..." he had said as a parting shot. Moriah sighed dejectedly as she listened for the sound of her parents' conversations but only her father's loud snores and her mother's occasional cough greeted her. The chirping of the crickets kept her company till she was swept off into a dreamless slumber.