Part 1
The day the “mad woman” stood before the village chief and told him he had only 7 market days left, the whole market went silent as if death had passed through it.
For years, the people of Irele had treated her like dust. She sat beneath the old iroko tree near the pepper sellers, wrapped in faded Ankara cloth, her hair tangled with harmattan dust, her feet bare on the red earth. Children threw palm kernels at her. Traders mocked her when business was slow. Some women said she was cursed. Some men said she was a witch who had eaten her own children in the spirit world.
Nobody knew her name anymore.
They called her Mama Iroko.
Every 4 days, when the market opened, she appeared before sunrise and sat in the same place. She never begged. She never argued. She never chased food. If someone dropped roasted plantain beside her, she ate. If nobody gave her anything, she watched the market until sunset with eyes too calm for madness.
But there was one thing everyone had noticed.
Whenever High Chief Adekunle Babalola passed through the market with his guards, Mama Iroko always stood.
She did not dance. She did not curse. She did not stretch her hand for money.
She simply rose from the dust and stared at him.
And Adekunle, ruler of Irele, son of the late Oba Babalola, owner of farms, oil tankers, hotel buildings in Lagos, and the most feared political name in 3 local governments, always looked away first.
That morning, the chief arrived in a black SUV with 2 police escorts and 4 palace guards. The drummers began at once. Women adjusted their wrappers. Men bowed slightly. His wife, Chief Mrs. Morenike, stepped out beside him in gold lace and coral beads, her face smooth and proud. Behind them walked their first son, Tade, the prince everyone believed would inherit the stool.
The market shouted.
—Long live the High Chief!
—May your enemies scatter!
Adekunle raised one hand, but before he could smile, Mama Iroko stood beneath the tree.
Her torn wrapper dragged in the dust. Her lips moved.
A tomato seller hissed.
—Look at her again. Every market day, the same madness.
A young man laughed.
—Chief should send her to a prayer house. This woman is disturbing progress.
Then Mama Iroko lifted her head, and for the first time anyone could remember, her voice came out clear.
—Adekunle Babalola, you have 7 market days left.
The shouting died.
A calabash fell from someone’s hand and cracked open.
Adekunle froze.
Mama Iroko took 1 step forward.
—7 market days, and the truth you buried will sit on your throne.
Chief Mrs. Morenike turned sharply toward her husband.
—What nonsense is this?
Adekunle’s jaw tightened.
—Remove her.
But his voice shook.
The guards hesitated because everyone had heard it. Not the broken muttering of a mad woman. Not the scattered talk of someone lost to the streets. Her words were clean, sharp, and aimed like a knife.
—Your time is finished, she said.
Adekunle pointed at her.
—Drag that woman away before I forget mercy.
2 guards rushed forward, but Mama Iroko did not run. She laughed once, not wildly, not foolishly, but like someone who had waited 25 years to see a wall crack.
Tade moved closer to his father.
—Daddy, who is she?
Adekunle did not answer.
The crowd began to whisper.
—Why is Chief afraid?
—What throne is she talking about?
—Has this woman spoken before?
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