The village of Agbaye was a place of serene simplicity, but Bola’s beauty stirred an undercurrent of restlessness. She was the kind of beauty that set men’s hearts ablaze, igniting desires even among the most disciplined. Her mere presence caused murmurs in the village market, and men would linger, hoping for a glance at her as she walked by with her basket of wares.
“An epitome of beauty,” her father, Baba Bola, would proudly say. “The heavens must have been at peace when you were created, my daughter.”
Her friends teased her with envy-tinged admiration. “Impeccable!” they often said.
But the most striking of all was the contrast in her parents’ approach to her future. Baba Bola, a seasoned hunter respected for his wisdom and integrity, held his daughter’s happiness above all. “Only a man who truly loves her should marry her,” he often told the villagers. “Not one drawn merely to her beauty.”
Her mother, however, harboured different ambitions. Mama Bola, sharp-tongued and quick to the scheme, saw her daughter’s beauty as a ticket to wealth. She often entertained rich suitors, accepting their gifts in secret. The most persistent among them was Chief Dayo, a man of power and wealth, but also a notorious polygamist.
“Bola deserves to be married into a royal family,” Mama Bola often argued. “We can’t let this opportunity slip away.”
“Not to a man with many wives and a household of envy!” Baba Bola would respond, his voice low but stern. “Our daughter is not a prize to be auctioned.”
Still, Mama Bola continued to collect gifts, especially from Chief Dayo. She dismissed her husband's warnings, claiming, “It’s just gifts! I didn’t force anyone to bring them.”
But Baba Bola knew danger lurked behind the greed. The tension between husband and wife grew, and the number of suitors only increased. With every gift Mama Bola accepted, Baba Bola felt the weight of it pushing their family towards a future he dreaded.
One night, under the cloak of darkness, Baba Bola visited the village’s powerful herbalist, known simply as the Oracle. A man of mystic abilities and formidable strength, the Oracle was feared and revered by all. His reputation for lifting an elephant with a single finger was whispered in the corners of the village. But for Baba Bola, the Oracle was more than a legend. They had been friends for years, having crossed paths deep in the forest during a hunt.
Together, they devised a plan—a way to weed out the opportunists among Bola’s suitors.
“She must fall ill,” the Oracle advised. “A sickness no one will understand. And whoever dares to carry the sacred sacrifice to cure her will be her true husband.”
Baba Bola agreed, knowing the dangerous nature of the ritual. He believed that only a man willing to risk his life for Bola’s health would truly love her.
When news spread of Bola’s mysterious illness, many of the once-persistent suitors vanished, too afraid of the sacrifice’s dangers. But one man remained steadfast—a palm wine tapper named Tunde, who had loved Bola since childhood.
While Mama Bola had scoffed at the idea of her daughter marrying a mere tapper, Baba Bola saw sincerity in Tunde’s heart. Tunde volunteered to carry the sacrifice, facing a treacherous journey through a cursed forest, with no guarantee of survival.
Lo and behold, after three days and nights, Tunde returned, exhausted but alive. The village celebrated his bravery, and Baba Bola, true to his word, agreed to the marriage.
But the night before the wedding, Bola vanished.
Panic gripped her parents. Baba Bola, though deeply upset, suspected foul play. His gaze turned toward his wife. “What have you done?” he demanded, voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief.
Mama Bola’s eyes darted away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered, but the guilt in her voice was unmistakable.
The matter was brought before the King, Oba Asunkungbade, a ruler known for his fairness. He summoned his guards, ordering them to search every corner of the village and beyond. Days turned to weeks, but there was no trace of Bola.
Three full moons passed, and the hope of finding Bola alive began to fade, except for Baba Bola. He never wavered. “My daughter will return,” he repeated like a mantra.
One day, as if by fate, the King’s guards stumbled upon a small hut deep in the forest. Inside, they found Bola dishevelled and silent, her belly noticeably swollen with child. She could not speak of what had happened, but the guards waited in ambush.
Two men arrived shortly after, unaware that they were being watched. They were seized and brought to the palace, where the villagers had gathered to see the “perpetrators” and the beauty they had taken from them.
Under the watchful eyes of the King, the men confessed that they had been sent by none other than Chief Dayo.
“He told us to guard her,” one of the men explained. “He said she was his rightful bride.”
The King, his face dark with fury, summoned Chief Dayo to answer the accusation. The chief, dressed in his finest, arrived with an air of arrogance, denying everything.
But Bola, silent until now, stepped forward. “He is the father of my child,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The palace fell silent.
Chief Dayo, realizing his lie had been exposed, shifted uncomfortably. “It was her mother,” he finally admitted. “She kept taking my gifts, promising me Bola, and then refused to honour the agreement. I... I only took what was rightfully mine.”
The King’s eyes blazed with anger. “Rightfully yours?” he thundered. “A woman’s life is not a commodity to be traded!”
With a wave of his hand, he ordered that Chief Dayo be stripped of his title and reduced to a commoner. The crowd erupted in murmurs, some satisfied with the judgment, others questioning if justice had been served.
But for Bola, the shame of her situation was unbearable. Pregnant and unmarried, the villagers’ whispers and sideways glances pierced her like knives. Though she had been released to Tunde, who still wished to marry her despite everything, Bola could not bear the weight of the humiliation.
One night, while the village slept, she took her life, drinking a fatal poison.
The next morning, Tunde found her lifeless body. His cries echoed through the village, a haunting sound that lingered in the air long after her burial.
At her graveside, Baba Bola wept openly, his heart shattered. “I should have protected you,” he whispered. “From them... and myself.”
As the village mourned the loss of its beauty, one question lingered in the air: Who was truly to blame for Bola’s tragic end?