By: AJ David

They say that on the night Baba Fagbemi died, freedom was born in the Ifesowapo village. It was like a caterpillar breaking free from its cocoon, a petal unfurling to bloom, a dog getting loosed and running away just a day before the Ogun festival.

For Baba Fagbemi’s four sons, freedom meant escaping the scrutinizing eyes of their father. It was about living on their own terms, wilding out, refusing to let their lives be preordained. Freedom was not having anyone threaten them with juju, warning that if they didn’t follow in his footsteps or those of their forefathers, egun—ancestral curse—would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Freedom didn’t just stay in Fagbemi’s house; it roamed the streets, giving some the liberty to act as they pleased. Tade, the mischievous son of Baba Fagbemi’s neighbor, and his ever-hungry friends could now pluck and eat mangoes from the tree in Baba Fagbemi’s backyard. They could feast until they were too full to move, and on days they didn’t get constipated, they’d pluck a banana leaf, roll it into a ball, tie it with a rope, kick it around, and play until their mothers started searching for them house to house.

For the woman who had long disputed land with Baba Fagbemi, the one he promised to fight tooth and nail, freedom meant finally claiming her plot. She could now turn it into a farm and plant cassava, maize, yams, and plantains—both to sell and to feed her children. By the next yam festival, this freedom might even make her one of the wealthiest women in the community, wealthy enough to attend Iyalode Alantakun’s first son marriage.

For Folashade—the girl whose mother sold akara under the iroko tree just a stone’s throw from the Baale’s house, the one some accused of using juju to attract customers—freedom meant something different. They whispered that her mother washed her butt into the beans batter before frying, yet people still flocked to her stand, late at night and early in the morning, even before the dawn light completely chase away the last shadows.

For Folashade, freedom meant finally being with Adegoroye, Baba Fagbemi’s youngest son, the one her heart longed for. ‘goro mi,’ she called him.

The night Baba Fagbemi died, some villagers cried—not out of grief or because a good man had left their midst, but because it was custom, a responsibility owed to the dead. Tears, whether real or feigned, were expected. Most people didn’t shed tears, but there were deep sighs, murmured hmmms, and mouths turned downwards with jaws clenched in sympathy. Their sadness was more for the suffering they believed Eledumare would grant him in the afterlife than for the man himself. Fagbemi, they said, was never a good man while he was alive.

This story is not about Baba Fagbemi and the life he led; it’s about something more. They say that if the wall never opens its mouth, the wall gecko would never enter. Fagbemi was that wall, and now that death has pried it open, the wall gecko can explore within.

There were many things the villagers didn’t support Fagbemi on—in fact, they disagreed with him on almost everything. But there was one matter where they all stood united: Adegoroye was forbidden from marrying or even courting Folashade. It wasn’t a personal matter, but in a place where customs are deeply rooted, where history is passed down and revered, certain things must be kept intact. In Ifesowapo, it was an abomination for a descendant of slaves to marry into the family of the chief priest.

The story passed down was that Folashade’s ancestors were once slaves, captives of war. They were granted freedom by a former Baale, but that was because the chief priest’s son impregnated one of the enslaved women. The gods had threatened doom upon the land if the priest’s bloodline were to marry a slave. So, the Baale granted the pregnant woman and her family freedom but with one condition: they would never marry into the priest family. This pact was sealed with an egun—a binding ancestral curse.

The stories say that once or twice in the past, a slave ancestor married a priest ancestor, and the gods made the entire village escort them into the evil forest. But those events were long ago; half a dozen generations had passed, and no one could say for certain what would happen if Folashade married Adegoroye. They just didn’t want to take any chances. Fagbemi however was adamant about this; he constantly reminded everyone of the ancient curse and even threatened to kill Folashade or ruin her mother’s ‘unfortunate akara business.’ If she ever neared his son.

***

The people of Ifesowapo had heard tales of white men with pale skin who all looked alike, settling in neighboring towns and villages. These men built schools and churches, proclaiming a strange religion about a god who killed his only son to save a world that spanned across many waters. Wasn’t an only son supposed to be more precious than the world, a whole arole oo, they wondered?

Then, one day after a full moon—when Adegoroye had just seen five full moons on earth—the white men visited them. They brought an interpreter, guns, gunpowder, food, mirrors, something they called books, their medicine, and their strange religion. They presented permits from Oyo to the Baale, claiming that the king had given them permission to build schools, a church, and a few settlements

At first, the villagers didn’t interact with the white men; they only observed them from a distance, sharing rumors they had heard from friends in neighboring villages where the newcomers had settled. These stories were often exaggerated, leading the villagers to see the white men as strange, untouchable creatures—an abomination on God’s given earth. Some of the white men attempted to reach out, but they were met with resistance.

However, one day, when Adegoroye could form complete sentences and had begun to understand the concepts of right and wrong, Adio, the crippled man whom the village stigmatized as cursed, accompanied the white men to their settlement and their church. In the following months, a few children and some of the village’s outcasts began to follow.

It took time, but gradually the villagers realized that the white men meant no harm. A handful of them were swayed by the strange religion—a decision that Baba Fagbemi and the Baale resisted for a long time. Eventually, about half of the village’s children began attending the school, predominantly boys, with very few girls, most of whom were the last-born in households full of daughters.

Fagbemi allowed only Adegoroye to attend the white men’s school. ‘Go and see what they do there and report to me every day,’ he instructed. Adegoroye was fifteen at the time. He took a liking to school right away—not because of the lessons, but because he saw a girl he liked. He barely cared about what the white men droned on about in the small, poorly ventilated mud classroom or the chalk scribbles on the board.

When his father asked him for a report on the school, Adegoroye replied, ‘It felt like being trapped in the prison at Baale’s backyard, except the guards are friendly. But they keep bleating like goats and talk as if they’re chewing hot yams they don’t want to burn their tongues with. And the other prisoners? Somehow, they love it there.’”

***

Adegoroye first noticed Folashade at the white man’s school, feeling an unexplainable pull toward her. But their connection wouldn’t fully take shape until the Night of Oba. This night, known as Ale Oba, was a celebration of the king—not quite a birthday, yet held in his honor. It was always during a half-moon on a starry night, when the village glowed with the soft light of atunpa, and palm wine and food filled calabashes were placed at specific spots throughout the village. The men would laugh and tell stories, the women would gossip, the maidens would dance, the young men would wrestle, and men a bit older, believed to be of marriageable age would join fraternities.

That night, Folashade danced among the maidens, her beauty fierce and captivating. Her ileke idi jiggled vigorously on her waist, and her komu cloth was wrapped tightly around her breast, covering her but leaving just enough to stir desire in any young man who watched. She danced near a well-lit atunpa, and the light illuminated her dark skin, making her look radiant, and ravishing. Her movements were graceful, her steps were majestic.

When Adegoroye saw her that night, he knew he loved her. And that was the true beginning of their love story

Adegoroye was a fine man, well spoken, he wasn’t tall like his brother but he spoke intelligently and he knows how to weave good stories and make people laugh. He was a bit industrious and occasionally mischievous. The white teachers didn’t like him very much, but he was brilliant and he learnt quickly, so they overlooked his mischievousness. Five years after he joined the school, he became their interpreter when the former interpreter returned to England—The whiteman’s land. It didn’t take long before Folashade fell in love with him.

After Fagbemi’s death, all three of Adegoroye’s sons went their different way. No one took on their father’s profession and became a Babalawo. The first son sold all the crops on his father’s farm, took the money and disappeared. The second sold a land, took the money and went to Oyo–some said he went to start a business there, others said he went to squander the money. The third son became a nuisance to the village, getting himself drunk, flirting with the girls and impregnating a couple of them who were stupid enough to allow him. Adegoroye worked with the whitemen and they paid him decently. But life felt incomplete without Folashade by his side. The villagers wouldn’t allow, the Baale strongly resisted. But Adegoroye never loved any other woman and Folashade wouldn’t accept any other suitors.

‘Goro mi, let’s elope,’ Folashade suggested one night as they sat beneath the orange tree at the market square. Adegoroye didn’t respond. He remained silent, his gaze wandering, as if lost in the shadows cast by the trees. The market square was where village lovers met under the cover of darkness—some made out, others to simply talk beneath the trees. That night was especially dark, the kind of darkness that made shadows twist into eerie shapes if you looked too long, and make trees look like figurines. The Yoruba believed that the marketplace was a realm shared by spirits, extraterrestrial beings, and humans. If spirits were there that night, they were surely laughing at the young couples who thought life could end in happily ever after.

‘You’re doing that thing you do when you don’t want to talk to me, Goro,’ Folashade pressed.

‘Where do you want us to elope to?’ Adegoroye finally asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe the white man’s land. I have this feeling the curse won’t follow us there.’

‘Do you believe in the curse?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But the white men say their God and His Son can break curses.’

‘This isn’t some petty curse, Adegoroye.’

‘So… you do believe it.’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

‘Then what will become of us?’

Adegoroye did not respond. He just looked on, into the darkness.

They say that as a man, you should never show fear—not in the presence of your family, not before those you’re sworn to protect, nor in front of those you love or hate. And Adegoroye was a man.

He had never truly considered eloping with Folashade, let alone leaving for the white man’s land. Sometimes he thought of them escaping to Oyo or Ife, but the people whispered, and the whispers warned that the curse would follow them anywhere. He knew that if he wanted to go abroad, all he had to do was tell one of the white men he wished to study law, medicine, or even attend Bible school in their country. They would allow him to go, but only him. They wouldn’t allow him to bring Folashade. He could lie, leave alone, and try to return for her later. But he didn’t want any of that—not law, medicine, or the Bible. What he wanted was a decent life with Folashade.

One of the white men—the most reserved among them—seemed a bit trustworthy, or so Adegoroye thought. He was crafty and scruffy, always wearing the same khaki over and over, speaking softly, and keeping his beard untrimmed. They’d talked a few times, and he seemed like someone who might help. Since Folashade had planted the idea, Adegoroye couldn’t shake it. He decided to give it a shot. The worst the man could say was no. And if he did, perhaps then Adegoroye would consider going alone, studying law, and returning in a few years to finally take Folashade away with him

However, he was met with a man who was willing to help. The whiteman, Mr. Brown-Water, promised he could help Adegoroye and Folashade leave for the whiteman’s land; both of them. Adegoroye had never appreciated the existence of anyone more, and for a time he thought maybe the whitemen weren’t as bad as what his people made them out to be.

Mr. Brown-water deviced a plan on how they would get to the Oyo the following week and then travel to Lagos port therafter, and how He and Folashade had to leave before dawn. Adegoroye told Folashade about this and she leapt for joy.

“I told you. See, this curse, it wont work on us there. I have that huge gut feeling it won’t” she said, her face lit with excitement.

“I believe you” Adegoroye said, smiling.

***

The week arrived, and the two lovers were ready to make their escape to England. They left for Oyo early—earlier than planned—but Mr. Brown-Water assured them it was for the best. They reached Oyo the next day, and from there, they boarded a canoe along the Ogun River to Lagos.

At the Lagos port, Mr. Brown-Water handed Adegoroye a small folded paper with something scribbled on it. ‘Don’t open this until you reach your destination,’ he instructed, an undecipherable look on his face. He then led them toward a weathered, three-masted schooner with faded black sails. ‘Just in time,’ he murmured, glancing at the ship.

Mr. Brown-Water met with a man on the dock. They exchanged greetings, smiles, and a few frowns, speaking in hushed tones. Their conversation grew tense for a moment, but finally, they shook hands. The man turned toward Adegoroye and Folashade, shouting, ‘The ship will set sail any moment now!’

Within minutes, the ship’s sails billowed, and it began to drift away from the shore. Adegoroye and Folashade stood at the edge, waving vigorously at Mr. Brown-Water as he grew smaller in the distance. The excitement and fear of the unknown filled their hearts as the schooner pushed out to sea, carrying them toward what will be their new world and full of hope and freedom.

The ship moved slowly into the vast ocean. They stood on deck savoring the beauty of the ocean and the ocean wind brushing against their face.

Somewhere, faraway from the port, but not too far away, in the middle of the Ocean, when the sky was starting to darken and unease begun to creep in,  Adegoroye walked up to the captain, the man Brown-Water talked to,  and softly pleaded for a cabin for him and his lover.

“Did you pay for this ship?” The captain asked

“No”

“You fools!”

“Mr. Brown-Water promised us you would help” Adegoroye said

“Oh, he didn’t mention the part where he sold you to me and how this is a slave ship and everyone aboard that is not me and my crew is heading for a cotton field in America. And you will all be working your ass off there”

“You are lying” He whispered. ‘The white men in my village–they said slavery is over and illegal’
“Oh, this is an illegal ship my friend and you, both of you, belong to me now” He laughed, a harsh, heart-wrenching laughter

“But..”

“You should head for the lower deck now, or I’ll have my men forcefully take you there”

“Please sir, let the lady go, take only me” He begged, desperation clawing at him.

“I paid for two, not one, and she’s in the lower deck already. You should join her”

“But..”

The captain brought out a gun, cocked it and pointed it at Adegoroye’s head. “No more questions and buts” he said “Get to the lower deck!”

A couple hands grabbed him and dragged him roughly to the lower deck. It was an overcrowded compartment, everyone hands and legs were tied and mouth gagged, it reeked of sweat, blood and despair. He saw Folashade at the far corner her clothes stripped, her hands tied, her mouth gagged and her face begging and he felt his heart shatter. He wanted to die. In that short moment before he was tied up, he managed to reach for the crumpled paper Brown-Water had given him and rolled it open and it reads:

I’m sorry Guro, I needed the money! May the Good Lord forgive us both and give you strength to bear the burden.

Brown-water

The name, it twisted in his gut. He tasted betrayal, disappointment and fear in his mouth. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened his hear to the waves rocking the ship carrying them into darkness, into everything else but freedom.