Ozu's brow furrowed, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
"Who asks?"
The stranger lowered his gaze, a faint smile trembling at the edges.
"Kofi," he said, “a traveler who lost his way. I heard your family needs help.”
Aunt Neca appeared, arms crossed, eyes blazing.
"Help? From a beggar?" she snapped, her voice like a whip.
Kofi swallowed, his hands tightening around a worn satchel.
"I have no riches," he admitted, "but I can work the land, tend the fields. In return, I ask for a share of the plot you promised to my mother’s brother.”
Ozu's mind raced—land was his pride, his secret weapon.
He gestured to the courtyard where the children played, the very ground his cousins would inherit.
"You speak of land," he said slowly, "but you speak of marriage."
Kofi's shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping his lips.
"If you bind me to your daughter," he whispered, "I can stay, I can give you my labor, and you keep what you need.”
Silence settled like dust.
Goi and Chinier snickered from the doorway, eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation.
Uncle Ozu finally nodded, a thin smile cracking his stern façade.
"Very well, Kofi. Marry my niece, and you shall have a portion of the land. We will seal it with a ceremony."
Kofi bowed his head, gratitude flickering in his eyes, though his voice trembled.
"Thank you, uncle," he murmured, barely hearing his own words.
As the stranger turned to leave, I felt the weight of the world settle on my shoulders—another bargain, another chain.
The Vows and the Ledger
The sun hung low, casting amber shadows over the reed mat where the wedding would take place.
Villagers gathered, murmuring prayers, while Aunt Neca arranged fresh flowers, her smile sharp as knives.
Kofi stood beside me, his hands clenched, his gaze drifting over the faces that had tormented me for years.
I swallowed, feeling the knot of resignation tighten in my throat.
"Do you, Adama, take Kofi as your husband?" the elder asked, voice echoing across the courtyard.
My mouth opened, then closed—silence. I lifted my hand, a whispered promise to endure.
Kofi's eyes widened, a flicker of something unspoken passing through them.
The ceremony moved in rhythmic chants, drums beating like a restless heart.
When the elder called for the exchange of vows, Kofi stepped forward, his voice low.
"I, Kofi, vow to honor you, to share my labor, and to keep your name safe," he declared.
Behind him, a servant handed a small wooden box, the traditional gift.
My fingers brushed the box, feeling the rough bark, the faint scent of old incense.
Curiosity sparked; I opened it, expecting a token, but a thin stack of paper slipped out.
It was a ledger, its pages yellowed, numbers inked in hurried strokes.
My breath caught as I glanced at the entries—lists of land parcels, names of buyers, sums far exceeding what the village should own.
Kofi’s gaze fell on the same page, his brow furrowing.
He reached out, his fingers trembling as he traced the line that marked a sale to a merchant from the far town.
