Chapter 3: The Fight for Freedom

The days that followed were heavy with whispers. Wherever Promise walked, she felt the stares of her neighbors, sharp and piercing. The story had spread like wildfire: the girl who dared to question the oath.

Some shook their heads in pity, others in disapproval. A few, the younger ones especially, looked at her with something else — hope.

Promise pretended not to notice. She carried her head high, but inside, her heart was a storm. Each night she lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of her mother’s hut, replaying the elders’ words. Bound at birth. Cursed if she leaves.

The words wrapped around her like chains. But chains, she told herself, were meant to be broken.

She began to plan quietly. Lagos was her only chance, and nothing — not an oath, not a curse, not even her mother’s fear — would stop her from boarding that bus.

She saved every coin she earned helping Mama at the market. She whispered excuses to slip away and speak with the bus drivers who occasionally stopped at the edge of the village. She studied the timetable, the routes, and the days when the community seemed least alert. Every detail became a lifeline.

And all the while, Daniel stayed close.

One evening, they sat under the almond tree by the stream, the same place they used to play as children. The setting sun painted the water red, and the silence between them felt heavier than words.

“Are you sure about this?” Daniel asked, his voice low. “If you leave, there’s no going back. Not easily.”

Promise hugged her knees, her reflection trembling on the surface of the stream. “Daniel, I was not born to fetch water and grind pepper until I grow old. I was not born to marry a man I don’t love just because tradition says so. I was not born to die in silence.”

Daniel studied her, the fading light catching the stubborn determination in her eyes. “You’re stubborn,” he murmured.

Promise smirked faintly. “And you? You’re always afraid.”

“I’m not afraid for me,” he said softly. “I’m afraid for you.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them. His hand brushed against hers on the grass. She didn’t pull away.

But Mama sensed it. Mothers always do.

One night, as Promise folded a small bundle of clothes in secret, Mama’s voice broke the silence.

“You’re planning to leave.”

Promise froze. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting Mama’s weary gaze.

“Mama…”

Tears welled in Mama’s eyes. “Do you want to kill me before my time? You think I don’t know? Every day, I see the fire in your eyes, the way you count coins, the way you disappear.”

Promise’s throat tightened. “Mama, please. I can’t stay here. I can’t live my whole life bound to something I never chose.”

Mama grabbed her hands, squeezing them hard. “If you leave, they will curse you. They will curse us. I cannot lose you twice — once to the oath, and once to Lagos.”

Promise’s own tears spilled. “Mama, you already lost me the day you traded my freedom for my life.”

The words cut like a blade. Mama staggered back, clutching her chest. Silence filled the hut.

Promise wished she could take them back, but she couldn’t. They were true.

By morning, the whole village seemed to know. Children whispered when she passed, elders muttered prayers, and even the market women avoided her stall.

The cursed one, she heard someone say under their breath.

Promise clenched her jaw. Let them call me what they want. I will show them.

That evening, Daniel found her again.

“They’re watching you,” he warned. “If you try to run, they’ll stop you.”

“Then I won’t run,” she said sharply. “I’ll walk. Straight to that bus. And I won’t look back.”

Daniel exhaled slowly. “Promise, if you do this, I’m with you. But you need to be ready for whatever happens.”

Promise turned to him, her voice trembling but fierce. “Daniel, I was born ready. Lagos is my destiny. I’ll die before I let them bury me here.”

The night of her escape arrived.

Promise rose quietly, tying her bundle of clothes in a shawl. Mama was asleep, her breathing uneven. Promise lingered a moment by her side, tears in her eyes.

“I’ll come back for you, Mama,” she whispered. “I promise.”

She slipped out into the night. The moon hung low, silvering the path ahead. Her heart pounded as she approached the edge of the village where the bus would stop.

But as the headlights appeared in the distance, her stomach dropped.

Figures moved in the shadows.

The elders. The women. The men. The whole village.

They were waiting.

The night at the bus stop stretched longer than any night Promise had ever lived. The crowd pressed closer, their voices an unsettling wave of chants, warnings, and gasps. Children clung to their mothers, wide-eyed, as though watching a story they would one day whisper to their own children.

Promise’s heart thundered. Her legs wanted to give way, but she forced them steady. She remembered the faces of every girl who had whispered dreams to her at the market, voices hushed in case the elders overheard. They were watching now. Their silence was not weakness — it was hope passed into her hands.

Elder Bamidele’s staff struck the ground. “Return to your mother’s hut before dawn. Do not tempt the gods.”

Promise swallowed hard. Her lips trembled, but her chin lifted. “I will not return.”

The murmurs grew louder, swelling like a storm. Some faces hardened, others softened, but all eyes were on her.

Then, from the crowd, Mama emerged. Her wrapper was crooked, her scarf slipping. Her eyes glistened with tears as she stumbled forward.

“Promise,” she cried, her voice breaking. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Promise’s chest ached. For a heartbeat, she almost faltered. But then she remembered Daniel’s words: cages are made by men, and men can break them.

“I must, Mama,” she said softly but firmly. “I must.”

The Chief lifted a calabash painted with white chalk, his voice booming. “This oath has held for years. To break it is to call death upon us all.”

Mama’s hands shook as she stared at the calabash. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Then, with trembling steps, she reached out.

“Give it to me,” she demanded.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The Chief hesitated.

“Give it to me!” Mama cried again, her voice raw.

Slowly, he extended the calabash. Mama held it high, her arms quivering under its weight. For a moment, the entire village seemed to stop breathing.

Then, with a cry that was half anguish, half defiance, she smashed it against the earth.

The calabash shattered, shards flying. The sound rang through the night like thunder. Chalk dust rose into the air, mingling with the gasps and cries of the people.

The silence that followed was deafening. But it wasn’t empty. It was the sound of fear cracking open. For the first time, the villagers saw that the sky did not fall, that no curse had rushed down to consume them. The stillness carried its own message: the power they feared had been broken all along.

Promise’s chest ached, her breath shallow, but her spirit soared. She had never seen her mother look so small and yet so powerful at once. In that moment, Promise realized courage wasn’t always loud; sometimes it was an old woman breaking tradition with trembling hands.

As Promise and Daniel walked toward the bus, people shifted aside — hesitant, but not stopping her. One little girl broke free from her mother’s hand and ran forward, touching Promise’s skirt before darting back, eyes wide with awe. Promise’s throat tightened. She hadn’t left yet, but already she was someone’s proof that silence could be broken.

At the bus door, Promise glanced back one last time. Her eyes found Mama’s. Tears streamed down the older woman’s cheeks, but her chin was lifted.

“Go,” Mama whispered, her voice trembling but firm. “Go and live.”

Promise’s chest swelled with both pain and pride. She nodded slowly, holding her mother’s gaze until the bus driver shouted impatiently.

She stepped onto the bus, Daniel close behind. The doors closed with a hiss. The engine roared, drowning the murmurs of the crowd.

As the bus rumbled forward, Promise pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the village recede into the night — roofs shrinking, voices fading, shadows melting into the trees.

Her heart pounded, not with fear, but with the rhythm of a new road. Somewhere ahead, Lagos glittered in her imagination like a crown waiting to be claimed, daring her to rise.

She smiled through her tears. Chains don’t always break with thunder. Sometimes, they break with a mother’s trembling hands and a daughter’s unshakable vow.