OKOSENE ARRIVED AT his ramshackle abode just as sunset lit a crimson pyre in the western sky. Hands trembling in eagerness, he pushed aside the tattered screen of thatch that served as a door, and entered. The interior of the dwelling was lit only by a single, sputtering torch of rushes. But the sight revealed by the dim illumination still left Okosene gape-mouthed in astonishment.
Ajema stood in the middle of the hovel, clutching her zama-cloth wrap around her like the folds of a collapsed tent. The gele had fallen from her head, uncovering hair plaited in delicate rows across her scalp. Her face was a narrow, black oval, in which the Zamfaru face-marks were like jewels set subcutaneously by a master lapidary.
A smile flashed white in the splendor of her countenance. And a voice devoid of stridence or harshness spoke to him.
“This cloth grows heavy, Okosene,” the vision’s voice said. “I am afraid I cannot hold it up any longer ...”
Her hands opened, and the garment slipped to the floor. Okosene’s eyes devoured smooth, ebony contours hitherto buried beneath heaps of excess flesh.
Again, Ajema smiled.
“Will you do nothing but stand there, Okosene?” she asked.
Okosene rushed toward his wife so rapidly that the breeze of his passing whipped out the flame of the torch that was the dwelling’s only source of illumination. Ajema laughed girlishly as their bodies met in a soft collision in the dark. Soon, the hovel was filled with other, more passionate sounds ...
THE NEXT MORNING, OKOSENE gazed down at the sleeping form of Ajema. His eyes and hands verified that the previous night had been neither dream nor hallucination. Ajema stirred at his touch, but did not awaken. Okosene decided to allow her to sleep. She needed it.
Remembering the three cowries hidden somewhere amid his discarded clothing, Okosene reflected happily that hall he need do now was to ask the kungurus-kansusu to present him with many times that amount. He could wish for enough cowries to purchase the entire kingdom of Zamfara – plus a few neighboring ones for good measure.
Yes ... his third wish would be for wealth. And what of the fourth, and final, one? Would he ask for wisdom? Physical strength? Skill at warri? The possibilities were limitless. The wonder, however, lay in their very existence rather than their infinitude.
Old habits do not die in a day. Okosene rose and began to climb into his ragged garments. He would go to the guje, the customary gathering-place of Nyamem’s ne’er-do-wells, where thin, soupy fura would be sipped and off-color jokes told and warri played until noon. Then he would return to his home and discuss with Ajema what his final wish would be.
And, of course, he would say nothing to his cronies of the kungurus-kansusu, lest they attempt to take advantage of his good fortune.
Just before departing, Okosene looked again upon Ajema. The thin sleeping-cloth had fallen to her hips, revealing the breath-taking symmetry of her slim waist and high, pointed breasts. Okosene’s blood ran hot. But he controlled his amorous urges, as he felt somewhat depleted from the night before.
Face split in a wide grin, Okosene ventured out into the fierce morning sun. And he thanked the great god Yaa Nguyu for placing the magic guinea-fowl in his snare.
WHEN OKOSENE ALAKUN returned from the guje, however, his buoyant spirits took a sudden plummet. People were clustered outside his hovel ... more people than had been there since his last major argument with Ajema – or the Ajema-that-was. This crowd, however, was not the usual collection of over-curious neighbors. Okosene’s compeers did not wear the iron-studded harness of soldiers, or the crimson cloaks that marked the office of the zagi – the retainers of Shahu Nwankwo, who was the obufin, or chieftain, of Nyamem.
In the overall hierarchy of Zamfaru, the stature of the obufin of a small town like Nyamem was, at best, insignificant. Nonetheless, Nwankwo was the most powerful man in Nyamem. Thus, Okosene’s knees trembled as he approached his dwelling.
From inside, he could hear low murmurings, punctuated by an occasional burst of feminine laughter. There were smiles of amusement on the faces of the people outside as well.
It was only when he began working his way past the zagi and soldiers that Okosene noticed that one of the red-cloaked retainers carried a chicken in his arms. Given the highly agitated state of Okosene’s mind at that moment, perhaps his overlooking of the import of that chicken was forgivable.
The flash of a spear-point beneath his nose prevented Okosene from thrusting the entrance-screen aside.
“Not so fast, Alakun,” a soldier barked. “Shahu Nwankwo is still ... uh ... talking with your wife.”
“Talking?” Okosene repeated numbly. “What do you mean?”
At that tense moment, the obufin burst from the shabby dwelling and almost tripped over the soldier who had threatened Okosene. Nwankwo was a middle-aged man of more than medium height, with a burly build that had only recently began to surrender to the ravages of rich living.
Normally, Nwankwo’s mien was dour and imposing. But now, his cylindrical headgear sat slightly askew. The yellow-and-white patterned aba that swathed his body was disarranged. And his round, dark face was nearly bisected by a wide, white grin. At the sight of Okosene, the chieftain’s grin widened even further, and he gestured for the soldier to lower his spear.
“So, Alakun, you’re a sly one after all!” Nwankwo cried heartily. “Kwaku Anansi himself couldn’t have pulled off a neater trick. When my spies told me about it, I didn’t believe it possible, so I had to come and see for myself.
“Putting aside Big Ajema and taking up with a pretty young one, indeed! Although why you would choose to name this one ‘Ajema’ as well is beyond me. But that
