Fiction: Iwalewa — Virtue Of Beauty

April 28, 2017 Fiction , Literature , POETRY / FICTION

By

Amore David Olamide

 

 

 

The elders deployed sagacity into saying when they divined the birth of Iwalewa. Baba Ajao, Orimoloye and other notable men in satisfactory mood that entertained walnuts and undiluted palmwine gourd eschewed words beneath the shelter of a complacent hut, situated at the extreme of the village’s plot. Their parroting was cheerful. Each of their words titillates grins and each response commands luxury. Okunu’s restful sensuality upon each discussion was a convenient prove of enthusiasm around. Their talk of the children grew from a prudent to sardonic coast. They talked of the unbending Muniru and hardheaded Ambali; and how they rudely exposed wrappers of maidens around Enu-odi river, how they plundered hens and rams mischievously and how they extracted yams from Baba Ajani’s farm in ridiculous time. They deliberated on the rancorous Awolu and cantankerous Sunday Dagboru. Both maniacal entities that nearly blemished the town ignominiously during the monumental festival of Ojude-Oba. The moronic Dejo was also reviewed in words. A fatuous gende beaten pathetically by a juvenile!

“Iwalewa is unusual they said.” She’s infrequent Baba Adisa added. Purely, she is sensible. She’s a corn betwixt tassel. Oya’to gedegbe. She’s not witless like the underdeveloped gigolos in our town. Not like Abeke the perverted lady sensually profaned under the Coacoa tree. Not like Aduke the dogmatic whore debased in chambers. Not like Ibadi-Aran a maiden misusing her commodious buttocks. What else should we say? For her birth has brought opulence to native land. They said these with kola-laced mouths and benevolent hearts on that luscious morning in Oke-ila.

Baba Aremu, an onliest man patterned for proverbs, fetched in a parabolic said that ” a sacrifice was prescribed for the vulture, but it refused to sacrifice; a sacrifice was prescribed for the ground-hornbill, but it declined to sacrifice; a sacrifice was prescribed for the pigeon, and it gathered the prescribed materials and made the sacrifice. A prodigious sacrifice was tolerantly prescribed for Aromoke  Asani — Iya Iwalewa, on a laborious night and she condoned the gods order. Maybe for this reason, Olokun crowned her womb meritoriously with a prosperous child.”

Ti ori kan ba sunwon a ran’gba.

If one head is blessed, it will positively impact two hundred others. Iwalewa is duly illustrious to Oke-ila. Her presence has brought gaiety to the land like glee filled the honeymoon. And her birth has been a congruous hand of eledua. The lizard that jumped from the high Iroko tree to the ground would praise himself if no one else did. The demons will forfeit Iwalewa’s obeisance for she is worth wreaths.

Iwalewa is an entrance of the intriguing Oke-ila playground. Omodara they proudly say. For she is like the enticing Egbin in cartridge of palmfrond, like the shimmering butter of Adi-agbon and somewhat, she is equal to the beguiling brims of palmwine gourd. For she’s a ray of beauty that no dawn of twllight can shadow the resplendence of her appearance. She is the motive behind the coming of men. Her seductive smile like the swirls of Eye-Okin is an endearing stance that entraps both the puerile juvenile and prospective Majsin in such glamorous outplay like the glows of Osupa on a winsome night.

Even to say, on the acre of productivity, Iwalewa’s industriousness can never be disregarded. When in the breeding of cassava flakes, when in the functioning of cleansing Aso-Oke, when in the striving of merchandizing prodigious sales; Iwalewa is such an organ of contentious bargain.

She is a deific damsel. But not just a damsel but a monumental one. Maybe such distinctive stance summons the pilgrimage intent of why she is befittingly renowned as Adumaadan; the black and shine maiden — the fascinator of beholder, the decorous one that gleams, encumbered. If I could ever weave her words, I will thread her basket of eulogy with the silky hair of Iyemeja. If I could ever enthuse her, I will galvanize her with Gelede’s gymnastic dance. But all these are peripheral of sufficient lauds in regard of what Eledua chaptered in her. For she’s the one they say; if one can’t propitiously be obtain as a wife, one should magnanimously regard her as concubine. Iwalewa is just a goddess born auspiciously in the prime time of our term. There is plentiful myriad in the perception of proverbs. So as well, the offspring of Oduduwa are envisioned to utter. Wrapping from waist to the floor is the style of the queen’s wrapper; digging down to the deepest bottom is the requirement of the dry moat. Indigenous morals is the repute of Iwalewa. Such prestige of her will never falter.

I’m not the hunter of the midnight or the bearer of Ifa’s paraphernalia but it is in our lineage that the sagacity of Ewi dwells. I’ve rendered rendition at village of Olokomeji and other villages. Maidens have ushered me like houseflies, men have muttered their lauds and the staggering ancient had me rectified. It is such a distinct repute that swaggers my integrity in the village square.

I remember the morning I performed Eyinju Olodumare at the renowned festival of Ojude-Oba — the demons deepened their myth and bestowed me prestige with meritorious tendency.

Ajayi is my name and ogidiolu is an organic repute that’s only panegyrical from Iya Ajayi’s sprout. She calls me the owner of phlegmatic well — the processor of nipping water. Whenever she says this, there’s however an essential discuss to dissect on. There are matters constipating her belly to purge. And here she goes. “Ajayi Ogidiolu, my benevolent child” Iya Ajayi caressing the rashes on my laps as she charismatically eulogize me. You’re the one that bathed hypnotically in the river and enticed pietistic maiden around; with all tendering cosmetic soaps. I looked at her I saw a mouth honeyed like a sugarcane. I saw the smacks of eulogy pinning me into relish. And on her lips there is a zephyr conforming me. There were jingles betwixt her words. My head become voluminous with a seductively burst intent and my body melt down to the spine like the paste of sheabutter under a clinquant sun. She buttered her words with such a pulchritudinous smile that textured exuberance betwixt the rhythm of discussion. She genially persuaded me to keep bearing the Omolulabi’s maxim and obstruct the Omoburuku practice. She said she felt the density of my beards, the baritone that endorsed my voice and from this upon she clutched that I’ve been ageing. At this discerning stage, she regarded me to explore the “Wundia” realm and find myself an impeccable wife. Are words drained down within and I fancied the outpour of her erudite with a wish of meditating on her grope for long.

It is not that I’ve not discerned my crush like Ejigbemi with no crown to pinpoint. It’s not that Ogidiolu haven’t detect a maiden that flowered his heart. For from the hills of Oke-ila and her valleys; i’ve found a maiden that makes me smile. From the forests of our town and the vineyard of Agbole  Asani — I’ve seen a dexterous monarch. From the shores of pilgrimage night where stars shine gleefully is where I had her discovered. But I couldn’t tell mama that Iwalewa is the one out of zillion. That she is that fortunate lady that mars my Dansiki with beatitude. For, to her ear it will be a tune of Penkelemess (peculiar mess) and a reckon that degrades because Iwalewa is endowed, because she’s a quest to plentiful hearts that pulverized, because she is the propitious madien of Adegoke Omo-oba.

The break of news that Iwalewa desecrated Adegoke along the river nigh is all upon the village. It was said that Adegoke flamboyancy was slandered. His sterling repute was stigmatized. He erroneously thought Iwalewa belongs to the layers of maiden that he prejudiced with bag of Aso-Ofi, cowries and his coterie of affluence. It was described that this majestic bead was hauled abusively and the prince couldn’t retaliate for he ventured for deceit and saw virtue in Iwalewa. Adegoke wasn’t the least of those who fumed the moral of Iwalewa. Ogunjimi son of the rancorous hunter and Òwonikoko also earned besmirch in a sundry hour. And from lesson of the pigeon, the home mouse has rectified the bush rat that the playground is no more a humanitarian chamber.

My foresight has been monitored. I’ve salvaged my intimacy — and my seductive intent towards Iwalewa have been circumscribed. Ajayi trembles for despise. For the one that encountered the fierceness of Sango won’t belong them in quibbling the God of thunder. The tale of Adegoke is enough as precaution that Ogidiolu must gather.

The night of Atupa festival was a scenario of felicity and a motive that entwined, for the gods clustered their presence from the realm of cloud nine. King Adedapo relinquished mercy like his forefathers and the townsmen and women bestowed his company with varies of aesthetic displays. The gelede and the Zangbetho masquerade enhanced the podium with gymnastic dances. The Igunuko myths overawed the platform with flattering. The Bata dance, the Agidigbo sound and other denomination of pleasantries endorsed the atmosphere. To crown all was the dignity of “Talodaju” contest shared among village maidens in which Iwalewa conquered benevolently. She was thrilled divineded with treasuries but to the public awe Iwalewa forfeited all to melancholic pawns.

The event was also primed with Ajayi performance of aesthetic Ewi and how the king espoused me with the figurative credit of Eye-Orin. I wasn’t solidly enticed with that postulate of probity bestowed, for all I long for is the virtue of running my fingers between the appealing lines of Iwalewa’s Koroba hairstyle. All I quest for is that splendor of meeting her beneath the shadow of Igi-Orombo. All I desire for is for a day when she will transform into a butterfly, and she will flap her wings to my poetic verse and the caterpillars will speak of her beauty.

I was waiting for the day I could burst forth and fly away and find my home in her heart. The day when her light rain will touch my cheek like an angel’s butterfly kisses. When her smile will garden my heart and her words will become honey of every fruit in the harvest.

Aduke, Abeke and almost all the calibers of Orekelewa have somehow been orchestrated to their matrimonial houses. Either salubriously or not. Left with, was Iwalewa and other pubuscent. But she wasn’t impulsive for she knows the gods accedes to whatsoever destiny threads. She knows she’s like a flower and her blossom is indispensable. She doesn’t want to be like Abeke the one Adigun scolds in consistent time or Aduke the maid-wife of Owonikoko that works endlessly like pawn. She opt for comfort and enthusiasm in her matrimonial voyage and leave rest upon Eledua.

The mogbe o mogbe oo pandemonium and the catastrophic run was the unprecedented affliction that dwindled wrapper from the hips of Iwalewa’s mother. She smacked herself upon the ground and again she does and collapsed in such crunch of misadventure. “There is fire under my pant..Egbami.. People within and without…” Women from each sides of the huts rushed out to quench the flame of devastation encircling the rooftop. Iya Iwalewa couldn’t talk but she could only gasp her words through breath. “It is Iwalewa, it is my amiable child.. It is Okanlawon my only daughter…I’m doomed”. What is it with Iwalewa? They questioned… She aroused this morning but to a bombshell it was with blind eyes. She is inside. She can’t see. I’m doomed. Iya Iwalewa rolling herself unceremoniously on the floor in scream of jeopardy.

Olomitutu is the name of Osun. Oluyanju is the name of Orunmila. Opele is the clearer of men during the days of confusion. Speak forth for there’s dilemma. As he cast pleasantries upon Ifa. There is danger at Long?`s farm, Long? himself is danger. Baba Awo to whom Iwalewa was brought for redemption, to whose bear is to rebuke hands of Sopona and tranquil the embers of Esu, sit philanthropically and questions Orumila through Opele for the way out. He was obliging for a say in such a kindhearted sympathy. He said the hands of Apanimawagun the mothers of rancorous night, the egregious ones with maniacal loincloths. Those who fly upon sky scandalously and nastily feast on the new born child — those who stormed the laborious market and facilitated disorder, are merely involved. He said there’s a way out to revive Iwalewa’s sight and it is with a prodigious sacrifice that trembles the vulture. But he perhaps said for the completion of the sacrifice one must audaciously get a “leopard’s eye” from the demon’s forest. He said for this journey into the demon’s forest one must bury timidity to survive. For the visit to the region of Iya Osoronga is psychedelic. So he who must traverse must be a gallant man for the voyage is temerarious and the outcome might be hazardous. Baba awo also added that things must be gathered within the interval of seven days for her soul to persist.

The predicament of iwalewa has become the plight of the whole town. It is a prodigious to me and even the king has avowed to consign riches to whoever delivers Iwalewa from the spiritual thralldom. There have been sidewalks and side-talks. There have been gossiping upon opinions shared. Iwalewa’s dilemma is a trend upon lips as days tickles like into cleave like the night ghost.

The palmfrond bed was not a comfort zone for me to bury siesta. All my instinct could drill was the disheartening situation of Iwalewa and the resolution behind. I couldn’t fathom marrying her without the sensitivity of the eyes. I reprimand myself for keeping my approach so long. I chided the conscience that resisted me from pouring out my feelings at the river nigh. I thought of all but the way forward seems substantial for now.

Ogunjimi seems to be the competent man among us. For his father has charmed him with “Igbadi” and other delusive elixirs that stronghold the tendency of a man against odds of wars. He’s typically adequate more than the tarrying six of us on frivolous adventure into the demon’s forest. I seemed neutral like a man with no backup — all I have in hand is faith, the heart of Akinjanju and my poetic flute; as we anticipate for Baba – awo to steer the circuit.

The song of “Jigi Jigi Ifa I have a word” is the exhort that ushered Baba-Awo out of his hut. He said he smells difficulties, but Arikuyeri was the divination of death prescribed to Orunmila during sardonic days. So our mind should be restful. He casted pleasantries to the four corners of earth and thrilled Eledua with adoration before he charges us to move on and also to remember all precautions. As he chorused a song of Ajantiele to set our feet on voyage.

The noise of the villagers was what notified my return home. It was what validated me as the only survival. All I could remember was the death of Ogunjimi by viperous snake, the death of Adisa on the peak of the mountain. I remembered I ran into the demons pantheon and how I was aggressively tied up by those rampant monsters. I remember the song I sang during the point of death. The ewi of exhilaration i tendered with melliferous voice — which pleasured luxury into their ears with a benign heart. I remembered I was bestowed the leopard’s eyes. I remembered the invocation of “Opapa parada” that had me traversedm I remembered all and burst my fantasy into realistic smiles. For Iwalewa is revived and she has established the interest of being mine. She walks towards me amidst the village’s circle with such steps of gladdening that enchants the stroll of a pulchritudinous maiden.

I again discourse the poem of Iwalewa.

 

“Iwalewa — offspring of Fitila

The ecstasy in days of exuberance

Iwalewa Adumaadan

Iwalewa the virtue of wisdom

Iwalewa the beams of on moonlight

Iwalewa gleams on rainbow’s eyes”..

 

Our hearts beat against one another in their passionate fold. As my continuous glance upon her seemed drawing my soul like the petals of hibiscus flower and like the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies. I wished her lips clung to mine till they encounter erratic bliss, till the twilight run into early morn. Till Iya Asani would no longer behold the sensual fascination,  as I wish for these feelings that belongs to blest. I wish I stuck into her like peas stick into melon. Like butter embeds bread, like the nails clog upon fingers. I wish for all these; only for me to be shattered and shelved with the morning’s melancholic gong of my alarm that popped up to wake me up for its the scheduled 8am of 14th February. My heart saddened like the wearied heart of an orphan. I discovered the delight in it was an adventured journey of fairytale.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amore David Olamide

Amore David Olamide,  is a revolutionary columnist and a poet that writes literally in parabolic style, orature genre and see scenes in epical dynamism of traditional epilogues, eulogies and captivating artistic poetry, in coded fashion.

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