It was like a tour to me traveling around if opportunity presents itself because I like learning traditions, languages, and art. Sometimes, historical sites which are preserved as objects of the past are what I like to know about, get closer to, or touch if permitted.
After the death of Grandma, although it is tantamount to show respect and honor her bond with other family members, the opportunity to travel showcases that time just like a native says that states that the chicken that ate Maggie seasoning before death, becomes spicy on its own.
After her burial, I travelled to the Western side of my state to visit the abandoned chain of Ajawole, the legendary warrior. Getting there, I looked at the three-way junction which was a detour, and the rusted chain which coiled like a sleeping serpent.
As I squatted down to touch the rusted chain, I heard a voice from far, “ If I were you, I would not do that”. I looked to pick where the voice was coming from and I saw an elderly woman walking with a staff.
“I have heard a little about the warrior that descended into the earth itself” I replied.
“Ajawole” the old woman replied and continued.
“ If you wish to hear the full detail, come let's have a sit” she uttered.
Her hut was just beside the road and I didn't want to miss any gist so I walked close to her and we walked just a few steps away from the chain.
She sat on a native mat which was spread on the ground beside her hut and she put her wrinkled hand in a calabash which was placed beside her and she picked some bitter Kola from the calabash.
“ If I use this my dirty mouth to cut a bitter Kola for you, please don't eat but if I use it to talk to you, you'd better listen” she said after having a bite, and continued.
“ long before maps were drawn and borders were named. The people of this village were known for one thing, they were protected by a warrior who feared nothing, not man, not beast, and not spirit.
His name was Ajawole the unbent. He was born ordinary but the elders said he was taken away by a gigantic tornado when he was seven years old and returned when he was twenty. He grew into a warrior whose footsteps alone could scatter enemies.
During the Great Western region war, when rival clans stormed the land like locusts, Ajawole stood at the front. He fought days and nights without sleep, and he returned stainless without a crack so everyone celebrated as some feared him the more while a few envied him.
Many months later, he was coming back from hunting and some selected people from the village ran towards him. In their hands was a newborn baby bathed in blood wrapped in a white cloth.
“ How did you know?” He asked as he met eye to eye with his taboo relic. To show this they declared they don't appreciate him even though he risks his life for them.
Something inside him shattered and without a word, he walked away from the crowd that followed him.
“He got to that point,” the old woman said, pointing to the three-way junction.
At this point, I kept quiet and concentrated knowing that the story was getting to an interesting part.
She continued after a sip of palm wine which was at the other side where she sat.
Ajawole removed a heavy iron chain from his waist, he struck the earth with his fist and the ground split open like a wound. The villagers watched in terror as he descended into the earth itself and before he disappeared completely, he flung one end of the chain outward as his voice echoed from below.
“ If ever war returns and your cry is true, drag this chain and I will rise” he said then the earth sealed and years passed to decades, and peace covered our land like morning dew. Children grew into elders while the chain rusted but never broke. It lay there unmoving and half buried.
Then came envy, a new generation of leaders rose and men who had never seen war but hungered for relevance rose. They felt small beneath the legend of Ajawole.
“ Let's call him,” they said.
“ Let us remind the neighboring villages of our power” they bragged.
The oldest among them warned against it.
“ There is no war,” one of the elders said.
“ Peace is not weakness” another concluded but pride has a louder voice than wisdom.
One night without moonlight, the chosen few gathered, wrapped their hands around the rusted iron, and pulled it.
All of a sudden, the ground trembled, birds burst from trees and the sky split with silent lightning. Then the earth opened one more. Ajawole rose but was no longer entirely human, his eyes burned like coal in a furnace and his body was black as he moved around them at a flashlight speed.
“ Where is the war?” He asked as his voice layered with something thunderous.
The leaders shuddered. “ We feared an attack. We thought….” They said,
Ajawole smelled the lie before they finished speaking and remembered what made him a spirit.
“ People will poke you with a pin and ask if it hurts,” he soliloquized.
Other villagers rushed forward, falling to their knees. “ There is no war,” they cried.
“ It was a false call! Forgive us” they concluded.
Ajawole stood still for a long moment as even the wind dared not breathe. He looked at his chain and the trembling village. “ Peace is sacred, to summon war in its name is betrayal” he said and without another word, he turned and descended back into the earth and the ground sealed behind him for the final time but this time, the chain did not move. It remained and to this day, no one dared to touch it.
“ Touching it is just like another false calling for who knows if he is not sleeping “ she concluded and I thanked her for her time and the story was well said. I was so happy knowing more about this object of the past.
