Part Seven
19.
The new colonial administrator, a brisk, officious man named Henderson, saw the market not as a threat but as a problem of inefficient management. His predecessor, Pilkings, had become known as the "old fool who went native," a man who allowed local superstition to undermine the rule of law. Henderson, armed with new regulations and a fresh mandate from London, was determined to correct the error. He saw the loom under the baobab tree as a symbol of this decay.
He marched into the market one morning, his boots scuffing the dusty earth. Omolade sat at her loom, the low, rhythmic shuttle a familiar hum in the air. Henderson, flanked by two armed constables, addressed the market women, his voice a sharp, cutting contrast to their low murmur.
"This is an unauthorized gathering," he declared. "This... contraption... is a public nuisance. It will be removed immediately."
Omolade did not look up from her work. The market women, a silent, unreadable mass behind her, simply looked at the newcomers.
"The loom is not a nuisance," Omolade said, her voice quiet but firm. "It is a chronicle. It is the story of this market, and the people who live here. You may remove the wood, but you will not remove the memory."
Henderson, unused to being spoken to in such a manner, bristled. "Do not be insolent, woman! This is an order! Constable, remove the loom!"
The constable, a local man with a troubled face, stepped forward. He had grown up in this market. He knew the stories. His own grandmother, he knew, had woven the thread that commemorated Olunde's sacrifice. His movements were slow and hesitant.
The market women, sensing the man's conflict, began to hum. It was not a defiant hum, but a sorrowful, low sound, a sound of profound loss. It was the sound of a world being broken again. The constable paused, his hands hovering over the loom.
"What are you waiting for?" Henderson demanded, his voice thin with impatience.
The constable looked at Henderson, then at Omolade, and then at the cloth she was weaving. He saw the dark, sorrowful thread of Elesin's shame. He saw the vibrant, hopeful thread of Olunde's honor. He saw his own grandmother’s contribution, a small knot woven into the large, intricate pattern.
He could not do it. He could not remove the loom.
"I cannot, sir," the constable said, his voice low and full of shame.
Henderson’s face reddened with fury. He stepped forward himself, his hand reaching for the loom. He did not see the history in the threads. He did not hear the silent chronicle. He only saw a nuisance, a symbol of a culture he was determined to erase.
Just as his hand touched the wooden frame, the loom itself seemed to protest. A thread, taut and full of meaning, snapped with a small, sharp sound. It was the thread that told of Elesin’s hesitation, the thread of his final, selfish wish. It was a small sound, but in the profound silence of the market, it felt like a gunshot.
Henderson recoiled as if he had been burned. The women’s humming stopped, and in its place, a silence settled, a silence filled with a weight that felt like judgment. Henderson looked at the market women, at Omolade, at the loom with its now broken thread, and felt, for the first time, a fear that was not of rebellion, but of the immense, spiritual weight of their history. He had come to govern a land, but had found himself powerless against a people’s memory.
20.
The incident with the loom became a legend in the market. The constable, shamed by his near-betrayal, quit the colonial force and returned to the market, where he became a silent, watchful protector of the loom and the women who wove its story. Henderson, his authority publicly broken by a snapped thread and a people’s silent resistance, became a man of whispers and hushed tones, his arrogance replaced by a profound, unsettled fear. He would never again look at the market without feeling the chill of a spiritual power he could neither comprehend nor control.
Omolade continued to weave, incorporating the new threads into the cloth: the thread of the constable’s shame and redemption, the thread of Henderson’s fear. The communal cloth grew larger, richer, and more complex. The loom was not just a craft; it was a living history, a testament to the fact that their story would not be erased.
The loom became a school. The girls who learned to weave also learned the history of their people, the stories of their ancestors, and the strength of their own quiet resistance. They grew up knowing that the white man’s rule was a temporary wind, and their own spiritual fabric was an enduring earth.
Omolade, years later, would sit at the loom, a serene, wizened elder. She would tell the stories of the old days, of Elesin and his fatal arrogance, of Olunde and his tragic nobility, of Iyaloja and her quiet, powerful strength. She would tell of the white men who came with their noise and their rules, and how they were defeated not by force, but by the quiet, persistent rhythm of a shuttle and the unwavering spirit of a people who refused to be unraveled.
The final scene would be Omolade, with the loom beside her, surrounded by the next generation of weavers. They would sit under the baobab tree, their voices low and rhythmic, their hands guiding the shuttle. The loom, weathered and scarred, stood as a monument, a silent testament to a story that, once threatened with unraveling, had become stronger, richer, and more enduring than ever before. The colonial era would fade into a footnote of history, but the story of the loom, and the quiet power of the women who wove it, would remain, a timeless truth told in cloth and thread.
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