The KT OLLA Web Stories

WURA straddled one of her toddlers to her back and held another by the hand. She stood among several women at the British office, panting like a deer. There in front of them were the trucks, parked in large clusters and packed full with men—the ones forcefully taken the day before. Wura took a bold step out of the throng. She screamed on top of her voice: ‘Moro! Moro!!’ Then a face like his showed up. It had happened that the talk of the raid on the men had spread through town all through night. So everyone who had found her husband or son missing had rushed to the British station by dawn. Still, their going hadn’t changed things as the soldiers barred everyone from entering. So they weren’t able to meet their folk. The women roamed round there till the sun rose. After a bit more, the gates of the walled garrison opened. Then, army trucks drove out of that place, and parked. They were packed full with them—the captured men. The soldiers had barred access to those blokes. So like everyo...

A FEW sighs kept interrupting a long streak of silence. It was dark that night, as dark as all hopelessness can be. Seated on the floor with his back against the wall, Moro brooded on his predicament now. He had been taken among several recruits that evening. And now, he sat alongside them in the garrison cell. These were the men conscripted to join the army, the British army. From that side of the colonial territory. They were to be transported to Eko, which by then had been renamed Lagos. And from there, they would board ships sailing onto England. Those packs of men, alongside others across Anglophone Africa, were being sailed to the shores of Great Britain. To fight as soldiers defending the kingdom. Or to be deployed to trenches on the west front and fight on the side of Britain. Now here at the guard room of the British station, people slept away their sorrow while some others cried. Moro chose to ponder all through night. So he sighed a load of times. He thought of how he’d esca...

RUMOURS broke out about a looming war. Yet it was no war between nations of Yoruba people; it was a war among other peoples. This was the Year 1914 and the Fourteen Years War across Yorubaland had come to an end. Even then, it was the season of darkness across nations scattered all over earth... For by the mid-summer of 1914, a  war had broken out in Europe which would touch down to Africa. It was the First World War. ‘Please tell us, are the rumours true? Is the Whiteman at war now?’ ‘Will our men fight for his land?’ Everybody talked about these things. In the north and south protectorates called Nigeria. People asked questions and answered their matters themselves. They asked those things from the colonial offices—the educated class among them. Then they shared the news with the people in the markets and the town halls. ‘The Whitemen are presently at war,’ they explained. ‘And many nations are fighting this war. ‘Now you know we didn’t bring ourselves together. It is the English...

THE chatters of playful children filled a large house. There were two toddlers of two years and four, the children of Moro. And they filled the whole place like they were an army. It was a quiet morning that Saturday. Many years had passed; and Moro and Wura hadn’t only married, but they were raising children, too. It was their large house in the town of Ede. It stood with the houses of Oji and Daleka to form a ‘compound’ or ‘family house’. In those days, they built mud houses and used aluminum sheets as roof. It was the style of township homesteads. Moro had grown to be forty-five, as he started late to raise children. And now that he’d gotten them, he wanted to spend more time at home. So, he sat in a resting chair in his veranda, fanning himself with some knitted hand fan and staring at nothing in particular. Some inaudible talk went on around him while the man paid no attention. The chatters built up some more and it seemed more people were joining the talk. The children’s noise ha...

NOW time passed and seasons circled. And it was the wake of the 1900’s – a brand new century. The brothers of Moro had married wives, and they had settled in town. But Moro was often on the farm as he’d gotten no one to call family. Moro was in his thirties; so it had seemed his time was fast passing. And even though the folk then didn’t calculate their years; and though it would take future records to reveal time in hindsight— The man had gotten a form that made him look ten years younger. And still, not only would anybody take him as far younger; but even Moro thought that he was, actually. For he hadn’t quite realised that life was passing. So here again, time had passed into a brand new era. There were more strangers passing by, who weren’t Yoruba people. They had pale skins and wore their hairs in dark and pale. They rode beasts with iron bodies. Huge beasts which wouldn’t gallop nor leap—beasts which crawled on four big hoofs. They were the colonial people. Now time had turned wi...

ADUKẸ my own!’ Moro took over in a cool, soothing voice. He was set to impress his beautiful woman by a response that could beat her boasting. Yet he wasn’t going to sweep her off ground by talks about his own father. His airs were enough stuff to flaunt. So he called again. ‘Adukẹ my own beauty!’ ‘I am right here,’ she answered. Moro took her hands, looked into her eyes, and spoke. ‘I have neither kills nor captures from hunting... ‘Still I can tell you this: that  Father has found a worthy man for his precious daughter. ‘I call him Father, ’cause he raised you well!’ Adukẹ nudged him, chuckling loads. ‘Come on now, that’s too much!’ Moro looked at her and smiled. Then he dropped her hands and sat up. ‘You know already that I’m a farmer, but I am no small one. ‘I know my crops like the lines on my palm. Still my knowledge means little if it hadn’t prospered me. ‘So you must know that my harvests are in barns and barrels: wealth is a true friend to me!’ Adukẹ brightened with smile....

MORO’S eyes bulged in shock as he watched Adukẹ strode away from him. The young man knew he wouldn’t be seeing the pretty young lass again, as the lovebirds parted un- amicably. Now their love story started about a moon before. And then after a lovers’ fight it came to an end. It had happened that Adukẹ was the first beauty who caught Moro’s eyes, the instant he settled in the town. And so he’d found out about her, and done everything to meet her. He sent a go-between to talk to her and carry his thoughts across. It was the way they court women in those days. Yes, the intermidiary talked so well, as the coy pretty maiden came round. They were soon talking and loving... just Adukẹ and Moro. Well, this young suitor had gotten good looks which seemed to stand out there. He looked dark and bold, with a striking gaze in his eyes. Then he stood at a proud height above his peers, his shoulders squared in a dignified stance. He talked with a gentle speak... like a coward in men fight. Yet when...

NOW time passed and men grew. Ede settled around the newly found waters. The large town clustered round the waters, and lived and prospered. Meanwhile, a few members of the townsfolk didn’t move from the former settlement. As shifting homes appeared quite tough for some. Therefore the first settlement was made a tribute town of Ede Land, in those days of empire building. It was renamed ‘Awó’. Situated on the byway as one journey to a town called Ìwó. So, Moro and his brothers bought land in Ede. At its new site around the River Oṣun. And then they built houses like others also. The men built three houses to form a large homestead. It sooner became the households of Moro and Oji and Daleka... A clan of three brothers. Meanwhile, as Ede Town moved from its former place to the vast new ground, they hunted and farmed in the far south, thick in the wild jungle. They planted palms to make oil and trade in them. They dealt in fruit crops also. And covered the land in green. Their hunters went...

IT was Oji who took the burden of clearing the air. And making their brother see the good in their news. He was Moro’s immediate brother. So he sat him down to talk. He took him under a shade of banana plants in his farm. (Daleka followed, too.) Then Oji told him about the land’s crisis with water, which he’d gathered from the chatters about the news. He told him of the big stream further down the steep of the main town, as one journey facing the south. He said that the town was moving down to the riverside. And spreading from around the river southward. ‘Do you know what the ruler decreed?’ he asked. By now his listener was curious. So he answered, ‘What did he say?’ Oji smiled to tell him. ‘His Majesty ordered that all of Edeland will now move to the forest grounds around the big stream and beyond it.’ Moro was fully interested. He spoke without thinking. ‘Wait! Do you really mean Ede is moving?’ He was so curious he wanted every word repeated. Now he liked to savour every bit of sen...

MORO, Oji and Daleka seemed to be the last people in their new-found land to catch up with news...  For the travellers had been trying so hard to settle, when the town had planned moving. Still it wasn’t these men alone who didn’t know that their town was moving. The remote farm villages also didn’t hear a thing. No, the village heads hadn’t reported all the while that the town might move sometime in future. As none of the chiefs knew when it would be. Even still, the distant future suddenly turned to Now in the ears of the chiefs of Ede Land... As the ruler made the move, and his new step became news. Now it had been the case that the former township of Ede was built on a rocky ground. Far north of a river named Oshun (now spelt as ‘Oṣun’). The town was far-removed from the moving stream. And getting down to water from the mountain slope was a whole day hike. It was that hard to find water. Therefore the main town was running out of their springs when Moro and his brothers arrive...

TIME rolled like wheels as seasons passed. A few plantings and harvests went by, as with each harvest Moro thrived in the land. His crops turned out huge proceeds. Even then, the stout young one had only got enough to spend on him and his kid brothers. As he paid large tributes to the man he promised to make wealthy. Still Moro wasn’t so disheartened by this. Rather the young man felt quite grateful that he’d got a farm to call his. And that he wasn’t someone’s slave. Now land and freedom weren’t the only things that Moro owned. As he’d also found the love of people. For he led a quiet life, earning and spending so noiselessly. Yes, the village seemed quite impressed by him, so much they called him mature. And so everyone honoured the good man who was no enemy to anyone. Even so, Moro had a different destination in mind. He wanted more from life... He wanted a home that was no building nor place. He wanted a woman to call his. He wanted to build family. So, he looked around with this i...

THOSE are wise words,’ the chief spoke now. ‘Young man, you’ve got great thought!’ ‘Thank you sir,’ answered Moro. ‘But why are you telling me this,’ the old one put in. ‘I am pretty sure you aren’t telling me for fun’s sake. ‘Well, you definitely know that a Baalẹ isn’t royalty. At least, not in the main town. ‘So what can a chief do about king talk, when we don’t even own the right of kings?’ Moro smiled. ‘You can do very much sir!’ The man was amazed. He just got up, picked the boy by the hand and drew him in. He took him to his bedchamber in his large mudhouse. It was one built like a bungalow home. Yet with clay used for walls and thatch as the roof. The room was quite a little scanty. It had only a large mat rolled in a corner, with a pillow of cloths by the side. Then a few clothes were hung on pegs driven into walls. It was a simple farmhouse. Now Baalẹ went for the mat and spread it out for the boy to sit. He took the cloths on the floor, bound by a lean one to form a pillow. ...

MORO wanted to own a farm in this farmland of a different people. And he was sitting with a man who wanted wealth as a farmland chief. The younger man had got no money to pay to lease the ground; yet now, he wanted to own it. Again, he’d got nothing in hand to make the chief wealthy. Still he wanted to talk. No, Moro wasn’t at loss of what to say. For he’d got wits that could make things work. He’d got the words of an elder in his belly, too. But God brought him these; and he wouldn’t know. Yes, the lad seemed to have got something inside that wouldn’t stay buried. A seed of tomorrow that’d push through soil to grow. A dream of future that only God could give. But he didn’t know. Now he drove the words which Heaven scripted: ‘I have this question, Baalẹ: how long will it take for a running messanger to take news to the palace from here and return?’ ‘It will take a full day,’ replied the chief. Moro smiled. ‘That means it will take at least a day for the King to be summoned if there is ...

EVERYONE knows the king is the wealthiest. But who knows the secret of his wealth?’ It was Moro who spoke, and his words got Baalẹ quite stirred. Yes, the village head wanted wealth and honour. And anything that would fetch ideas about these, he was in for it. Still when the talk went the way of the ruling king in broad daylight, he thought to tread with care. Truly, it was these two men alone playing games in the older man’s courtyard. But the middle-aged man knew well to warn himself that ‘walls have ears’. So he spat out something he didn’t mean. ‘Boy, let me tell you what is bigger wealth: it is having big secret and keeping all of it. ‘If it is secret, save it! And then spend it on yourself!’ He went back playing the game. In the meantime, Moro could read the older man that he looked afraid. So he picked up. ‘It is no secret, Baalẹ! You can trust me!’ ‘But you did call it secret!’ ‘Yes, I did! It is open secret!’ Baalẹ paused with the game, as he suddenly grew guarded. ‘Well if it...

NOW it had rained all morning this day. And the sun was finally tearing through clouds to take the day’s glory. It was a brief break for the villages of Ede’s farmlands. As they rested from taking turns in harvesting yams. The town’s harvest season of yam and cassava tubers were in the rains... So they worked double to get them stored in barns and sold in markets – to avoid early rot in the wet weather. Yes, the crops were sources of flours and flakes for main foods. And several kinds of yam – like the ewùrà, ebòlò and the white yam, were also prepared as meals. So, everyone was out going about their own business those rest days... The farmers would go for a routine check on their farm every morning. And return earlier than the time to gather for talks by evening. Every evening, the men would sit under the shade of trees, and play board games amid talk and drinks. They’d talk about everything. From the ruler to their people. And to their wives and children. The young Moro chose to go a...

THE travelling sons of Dada found themselves on a large harvest ground as they walked into a nearby farm. They got there to see the farm settlers helping to sort out the harvested tubers. They were sorting the tubers into sizes and then gathering some for the barn and the other ones for sale. They were still working that late dusk hour when the boys matched in. ‘Ah join us, boys; there’s still work!’ ‘Did you come to help out?’ ‘You definitely don’t come from this side, do you?’ Everyone found the wards a breath of fresh air. Just everyone wanted to chat them. Just that moment, a man of about middle-age asked a thing. And everyone else stopped talking, and they listened for answer. ‘You came from one of those far villages, right? Your feet are dusty, so it must be far!’ That question caught the wandering group by surprise. Not for the fact that their case wasn’t exactly so. But that the question sounded so apt to make them belong already. So, the three young men just stood there, dazed...

MORO and his company walked into the square of a large farmstead, as they came to the farmland of Ede people. The houses were a cluster of hut buildings with a large square between them. But no one seemed to be in those houses as they got there. Again, the whole village of farm houses seemed rather too quiet. As there would be many more huts and farm settlements down the lane. But the only sign of life around were not people, but screeching birds. The wandering boys looked to themselves and wondered what. The whole place looked as though its dwellers had travelled... But it only seemed so to the kids because they were wanderers. It was Oji who pointed this out for them. ‘Look, we’re the only people without a place. So these place will look as if it’s got nobody! But that is a trap! Maybe they knew we are here!’ Daleka was the youngest. His point seemed different: ‘What if they’re still at the farms?’ Oji was fast. ‘At this time? Even the roosters have gone to sleep!’ He pointed a hand ...

BOYS roamed and walked through jungle paths and mountain steeps. They charted through valleys, low grounds and plains. Then they came to water and washed; caught fish, and shot stones at riverbirds. They made constant fires to smoke their kills and provide warmth. They passed several nights by rivers. Then they picked up to travel on... They go on trekking for days and nights. This was Moro, Oji and Daleka... youngest of the offspring of Dada. They had left the camp of their brothers as early as the first crow of that night they decided. They were travelling far, facing the setting of the sun as they fled Ekiti. They would roam water routes, traverse past the settlements of Ijẹsha Kingdom. As the people of Ijẹsha were fighters in the war. Then they would travel past Ifẹ, as the town was already besieged by Ibadan troops. They were in a desperate need. They wanted to be out of the warring kingdoms. Yes, these were three young men who fled the flagrant show of black magic in slaughters.....

ALL through night at the close of that day, Moro was down on the way-out for his brothers and him. A way out of being drafted into Ekiti army alongside his half-brothers. Yet Moro’s way-out appeared even more dangerous than facing rifles now. For it didn’t seem like a mere escape from the war. But somewhat like a dangerous escapade. The moon was up in all its glory as the glowing full circle brightened the earth beneath. Still the night light wasn’t enough for the young man. For Moro was finding home the darkest place to be. This was the large homestead belonging to his father Dada. The village was also called home by the whole clan. But Moro had lost his mother before he knew much of her. And while he was still learning to trust his father, he lost him. Even when the man didn’t travel or die. So the boy and his younger brothers had been all alone since they were little. Then they’d got to rely on the favours from their half-brothers, as they were born to Dada by his second wife. Even ...

THE tender voice rose above the fading noise. It was a younger man’s voice. ‘Must man play that game with death to be sure he is man? Or is he born different till death calls him man? ‘Really, must we go and fall in war to prove ourselves men?’ Those words were spilled like water. They weren’t supposed to be spoken out for all ears... But Moro was lost in thought all the while. And here he was, back to the place and thinking his thoughts aloud without knowing it. Moro was the sixth son of Dada. And what the sixteen-year-old shared with his older siblings was just their father. He had a different mother. Then even now, he had got a different view. His brothers looked in his direction as the eldest one went fuming at the lad. He shouted at him. ‘Morrohh!!’ And then the next moment, he made to pounce on him as the other boys stopped him. ‘Brother, let me handle this,’ someone requested. ‘Let me talk to him instead,’ said another. Several words came from different angles as one of the men ...

IT was the time when kingdoms and nations strove in wars. When men carved bravery and essence in kills and slaughter. Nay, it was no Dark Age but the Seasons of Dark Hearts. And there in the core of that darkness lived a man with dreams. He dreamed of greatness like that of the fighters. Dreamed of glories like those of warrior kings. But his dreams he called by a different name. For he wanted the glory without a sword, a reign without the throne. He wanted life and its fullness. Still he hated the way of kings, lords and warlords. That dream was born in 1885. And they call this man’s name, Future. [ c. 1885 – 1914]