The rains came early that year. Heavy drops pounded the roofs, drumming through the village like warning beats of a drum. The sky stayed dark for days, the roads thick with mud, the air heavy with damp earth. For Sola, each drop was a reminder of time—time slipping away, time bringing her closer to the day she feared most.
And then it happened.
On a gray morning, the sound of footsteps echoed down the path. Sola was sweeping the compound when she heard the call:
"He is back! He has returned!"
The words cut through her like a blade. Her broom slipped from her hands. She turned, her eyes wide, her heart sinking into her stomach.
A group of men appeared first, carrying baskets from the city. Behind them, tall and broad-shouldered, came the man she had once called husband—Ola.
His stride was steady, his face stern, his clothes smelling faintly of smoke and sweat from travel. His eyes swept over the villagers who had come to greet him. Some bowed, some called blessings. But when his gaze landed on Sola, something unreadable flickered across his face.
Sola forced a smile, her lips trembling. "Welcome, husband," she whispered.
He did not answer immediately. His eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, as though weighing, searching, questioning. Then he gave a curt nod. "I have returned."
The days that followed were heavy. Ola settled back into his home, his presence filling the hut like an old shadow. He spoke little, his voice sharp when he did. He ate his meals silently, watching Sola with eyes that seemed to see too much.
The whispers had reached him—Sola knew it. She saw it in the way he looked at her, in the silence that stretched between them like a rope ready to snap.
One evening, as she placed his food before him, he asked, "Where is Kunle these days? I do not see him."
Her hand froze on the pot. Slowly, she sat down, her voice quiet. "He… he has been busy in the fields."
Ola's eyes narrowed, though he said nothing more. He ate in silence, each bite a judgment.
That night, Sola lay awake beside him, her body stiff, her mind racing. She thought of Kunle, of the warmth of his arms, of the fire in his eyes when he promised to protect her. And she thought of Ola, the man she had once hoped would love her, now a stranger she feared.
---
Kunle avoided the hut for days after Ola's return. But one night, when the village was asleep and the moon hid behind clouds, he came.
Sola was outside fetching water when she saw him. His figure was half-hidden by shadows, his eyes urgent.
"Sola," he whispered, reaching for her hand.
Her heart leapt, but she pulled back quickly. "No, Kunle. Not now. He is here. His eyes are on me every moment."
Kunle's jaw tightened. "And do you think I can stay away? Do you think I can sleep, knowing you are in that hut with him? Knowing you are unhappy?"
Tears welled in her eyes. "If he finds out, Kunle… he will kill you. He will kill me."
Kunle stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek, his voice trembling with passion. "Then let him. I would rather die than live without you."
Her lips parted, torn between fear and love, between duty and desire. Before she could speak, a sharp voice cut through the night.
"Sola!"
She froze. Ola stood at the doorway of the hut, his eyes dark, his face twisted with suspicion.
Kunle stepped back, fists clenched, his body tense. Sola's heart pounded so hard she could not breathe.
Ola's gaze shifted between them, and though no words were spoken, the truth was there, heavy and undeniable.
The days that followed were a blur of fear. Ola spoke little, but his silence was worse than anger. He watched Sola with sharp eyes, his movements stiff, his temper simmering beneath the surface. The villagers, sensing the storm, whispered louder. Some avoided Sola altogether. Others smirked when she passed, waiting for the fire to fall.
Kunle, too, grew restless. He wanted to confront Ola, to speak his truth, but Sola begged him not to.
"Please," she whispered, gripping his hand in desperation. "Wait. Let it pass. Do not give him reason."
But Kunle's patience was thin. "I will not hide like a thief, Sola. What we share is not shame."
Her tears fell as she clung to him. "It may not be shame, but it is danger. If you love me, you will wait."
Reluctantly, he agreed, though his eyes burned with frustration.
One night, the storm finally broke.
Ola returned late, his clothes damp from rain, his eyes darker than ever. He sat heavily, calling Sola to bring his food. She obeyed quickly, placing the bowl before him. But as she turned to leave, his voice stopped her.
"Sit."
She sat, her heart pounding.
Ola leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her. "Tell me, Sola… do you think I am blind? Do you think I do not hear? Do you think I do not see how you look at him? How he looks at you?"
Her blood ran cold. "Husband, I—"
"Silence!" His voice cracked like a whip, making her flinch. "The whole village whispers. Do you think I do not know? Do you think I am a fool?"
Tears filled her eyes. She shook her head, her voice trembling. "It is not as they say…"
But Ola slammed his fist against the table, making the bowl jump. "Do not lie to me!"
At that moment, the door opened. Kunle stood there, drenched from the rain, his chest rising and falling with fury.
"If you want the truth," he said, his voice steady, "then hear it from me."
Sola gasped. "Kunle, no…"
But he stepped forward, his eyes locked on Ola. "I love her. She is mine, as I am hers. You abandoned her. You left her empty and alone. And I… I gave her what you would not."
The hut was silent, the storm outside raging as if echoing the chaos within. Ola's face darkened, his hand reaching for the wooden staff by his side.
Sola screamed. "Stop! Please!"
But the men were no longer listening.