The Oracle’s Warning

They said no one defied the oracle and lived to tell the story. Not even the kings.

In the quiet town of Igbo-Ora, where the morning dew clung to mango trees and the night air was thick with mystery, there lived a young man named Tajudeen—Taj for short. He was the only son of the late Chief Balogun, a respected hunter, and his mother, Mama Risikat, sold herbs at the local market. Tajudeen was kind, well-built, and smart, a mechanic by trade and a quiet leader among his peers.

Then came Nnenna, the daughter of a revered Igbo high priest. She was a vision: tall, with skin the colour of roasted chestnuts and eyes that seemed to read your soul. She came to Igbo-Ora for her National Youth Service and was posted to the local girls’ secondary school. It wasn’t long before her presence stirred more than admiration—it stirred fate.

The first time Taj laid eyes on her was during a village sanitation day. She wore a plain t-shirt and jeans, but to him, she looked like a queen in disguise. Their eyes met, and something ancient passed between them—something unspoken but undeniable.

They began to meet. At first, casually. Then, intentionally. They talked about everything—from intertribal weddings to politics, from village tales to Lagos traffic. Before long, they were in love, deep and honest. A Yoruba man and an Igbo woman, wrapped in something neither language nor tribe could contain.

But fate was listening.

It was Aje Festival season, and tradition demanded that before any union between families could be blessed, the oracle must be consulted. Tajudeen didn’t believe in “all that,” but to keep the peace, he accompanied his uncle and elders to the shrine of Agbana, the town’s ancestral spirit.

There, the priestess emerged in a trance. Her eyes rolled back, her voice dropped into a cold whisper:

“There is love, yes. But there is also blood.

Two hearts beat in defiance. If joined, one shall die before the yam harvest.”

The silence that followed was colder than harmattan breeze. Taj laughed it off. Just village superstition, he said. But his uncle, Chief Akanni, didn’t laugh.

“You will not marry her,” he declared.

Taj and Nnenna tried to stay away from each other. They really did. But how do you deny something that feels like it was written before time? They met in secret, under the old baobab tree. They whispered dreams into each other’s ears. They made promises. And one night, beneath the stars and the trembling song of crickets, they made love.

Soon after, Nnenna missed her period.

The news spread like wildfire. The town was divided. Some whispered that love had blinded them. Others said the oracle would make them pay. Taj’s mother wept day and night, pleading with her son to renounce the relationship before it was too late. But love had made Taj fearless, and Nnenna believed her unborn child was not a curse, but a gift.

With their backs against the wall, Taj and Nnenna decided to flee to Lagos. Far from the shrines, far from the priests, far from the eyes of those who feared what they didn’t understand. They left one rainy morning before the first cockcrow, hands locked, hearts pounding.

But they didn’t get far.

Just outside the village, on a slippery bend, their bus skidded and crashed into a palm tree. The scream echoed into the forest, but by the time the villagers arrived, it was too late.

Tajudeen was gone.

Nnenna survived, barely. She woke up days later in a hospital bed, her belly bruised, but her baby still alive. Her wails shook the walls, not just from pain, but from knowing the oracle had not lied.

Months later, Nnenna gave birth to a baby boy with Tajudeen’s dimples and his quiet eyes. She named him Ifetayo—love has brought joy after pain.

She returned to Igbo-Ora, not to defy the oracle, but to prove that love, even in death, was not a mistake. She built a school in Tajudeen’s name and raised her son with the stories of the man who once dared to love her beyond boundaries, beyond warnings, beyond fear.

And even though the oracle’s words came true, the villagers could never again say that love was powerless against tradition. For in the end, it was love, not the curse, that remained.

“The Oracle’s Warning” was heeded.

But love... love was never silenced.