In the village of Ogbomosho, where the gods were still feared and ancestors were still heard in dreams, there lived a girl named Morounkeji — the only daughter of Chief Odebiyi, the high priest of the Ogun shrine. She was a beauty sculpted by the gods themselves: skin like polished mahogany, eyes like molten coal, and a voice that stirred the soul. But none of that mattered — not when she was promised.
Promised to a god.
It was an oath her father had made many years ago, in desperation. The land was dry, the cattle dying, and his wife was bleeding between her legs every full moon. In the darkness of the grove, Chief Odebiyi knelt before the shrine and whispered: “If you save my family, I will give you my first daughter.”
And the gods, it seemed, listened. Rain fell. His wife healed. Morounkeji was born with a silver anklet around her left leg — one no one could remove. The villagers said it was the mark of the god’s claim.
By the time she turned 21, the whole village knew she would be taken to the sacred grove on the night of the Festival of Sacrifice — not to die, but to serve as a bride of the shrine, forever cloistered, never to marry or bear children. Her fate was sealed like a yam in hot embers.
But the heart does not bow to tradition.
Ayo was a hunter’s son — strong, rebellious, and in love with the forbidden. He had returned from Lagos after studying animal science, but couldn’t bear the city life. Back in the village, he began volunteering at the community school, where he met Morounkeji. Their connection was instant. Electric. Dangerous.
They kept their love secret, meeting by the riverbank under the moon, whispering dreams of escape. Ayo spoke of running away to Ibadan, or maybe Osogbo. “We’ll change our names. No one will find us,” he said.
But Morounkeji had seen the shrine in her dreams. She heard its drumbeats in her sleep. “It’s not just my father,” she would say. “It’s something older. Something watching.”
One week to the festival, Morounkeji vanished.
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The village woke to panic. The high priest was furious. Drums beat in warning. The gods, he claimed, were angry. Thunder cracked in clear skies. A boy fell into convulsions near the shrine. Chickens laid black eggs. The elders demanded that Morounkeji be returned or the whole village would suffer.
But Ayo had taken her. They were hiding in an abandoned cocoa farmhouse three hills away. He believed they had outrun tradition. That love could silence the gods.
Until she began bleeding from her nose. Until she began to speak in voices not her own.
They tried to pray. To burn herbs. To call the local pastor.
Nothing worked.
Finally, on the night of the Festival, Morounkeji rose before dawn. She kissed Ayo without a word and walked barefoot back to the village.
She found her father in the shrine, weeping. “I didn’t think they would actually come for you,” he whispered. She touched his face and smiled, her eyes no longer her own.
She stepped into the groove as the first drumbeat sounded.
But this time, something shifted.
Ayo burst through the crowd, carrying a flaming torch and a palm branch — the symbol of peace and defiance. He fell to his knees before the shrine, declaring, “If you must take her, take me too. Her heart is not hers alone anymore.”
The sky grew silent.
A wind howled through the grove.
Then, the silver anklet on Morounkeji’s leg cracked and fell. Just like that. The gods had accepted the exchange. Or perhaps, they had acknowledged love for the first time.
The elders called it a miracle. The high priest resigned weeks later. And Morounkeji? She married Ayo under the open sky, not in defiance of tradition, but in proof that some traditions must bend — or they will break the hearts they claim to protect.
Today, they run a cultural centre for young girls — a place where choices are honoured, not handed down like chains.
And every year, on the Festival night, they light a small lantern by the riverbank — in memory of the girl who was once promised, and the man who dared to love her back to freedom.
