I was thinking about running again.

Grabbing my sister, Tega, and just bolting out the door and out of Kokori. Then I wouldn’t have to be married to whomever my uncle and aunt brought with the best price.

I was distracted from my thoughts by the gust of wind that, along with a light drizzle, was trying to put out the fire in front of me. But the flames remained strong and my pot of vegetable soup kept on bubbling.

I looked out the kitchen window and into the courtyard where we had our meals, drank red spice tea, and received guests. At the entrance, next to some potted plants, were the statue of Egbesu, our protector god with his gilded sword, and a wooden carving of the Ọkan, the Sun Bird spirit that brought wealth, its spiked wings spread wide.

Tega was busy cracking ori seeds out of their shells on a stone slab under the awning of the kitchen. We would later sundry them before grinding to get the rich-smelling oil. The combination of the ori oil and a special powder from Burutu got our hair from chin to chest length.

She adjusted her robe around her hands and stretched her aching back before resuming cracking.

Imoni came out of the room she stayed in when she visited. She was my mother’s older sister and looked every bit like her. She was tall and plump, and her delicate facial features, enviably long hair, and charcoal-dark skin made her one of the most beautiful women in Kokori.

She had been married for years but had had no children. Her husband, who should have followed the custom of letting her go and marrying another, chose to do the opposite. And even after his death, his family never let go of her.

She had been in charge of Tega and me ever since our parents passed away. Because my father had no sons, we had to remain in the house until we were married.

“The house of Okota Tanomare will stand until you are both married,” my father’s younger brother, Unika, had declared. He had assumed the role of our father, and Imoni our mother.

Imoni took a look around the courtyard, then headed my way. She adjusted the wrapper she had around her shoulders and breathed out misty cold air. “Naborhi, when you are done cooking, go to the small market and buy some smoked fish.”

She handed me a few silver shells through the window. She inhaled and gave me a toothy smile. “That soup smells delicious. Your cooking and your beauty will fetch an excellent bride price. Your husband will be a lucky man.”

I hid my cringe.

Usually, I was glad I looked more like my mother and Imoni than my father. But when my beauty was used to gauge my worth as a woman, I wished I had inherited his icy stare and harsh features.

My father, Okota, had been tall like the uloho tree and menacing like a crocodile. He would curse at the empty courtyard whenever he drank agbagba wine directly from its wooden jar. His breath always smelt bad, soiling the air around him. He would threaten to beat Tega and me but would never go through with it.

“I am not going to hit you foolish girls. And leave a scar that will reduce your bride price? That will never happen.”

My mother, however, was not offered the same courtesy. Sometimes I wished he would hit me so I could have a reason to hit back. Hard. But I remained a good, dutiful daughter, and my mother remained a good, dutiful wife until she died three years ago during childbirth. It was her third attempt to give him a son.