“As part of our tradition,” she continued, her voice clear and controlled, “there is a ritual that must be performed before this marriage can proceed.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd. The officiator looked uncertain, but stepped back.
Boma remained calm. “What is the ritual?” he asked respectfully.
Mami Ajoa turned toward him slowly. “There is a baobab tree in this park,” she said, pointing toward it. “Before you can marry my daughter, you must cut it down.”
The crowd gasped.
Afia stared at her mother in disbelief. “What are you saying?”
Mami Ajoa continued as if nothing was wrong. “You will use a knife—only a knife. When the tree falls, then the marriage can proceed.”
Silence followed. The weight of her words settled heavily over everyone present.
“That is impossible,” someone whispered from the crowd.
Afia stepped forward, her voice shaking. “Mom, this is not a real tradition.”
Mami Ajoa finally looked at her. “Are you questioning me?”
“Yes,” Afia said firmly. “This makes no sense.”
Mami Ajoa ignored her and turned back to Boma. “Well,” she asked, “will you do it?”
All eyes were now on him. Boma looked at the tree, then at the knife that had been brought forward. He understood what this meant. This was not a test of strength. It was a test designed for failure.
Yet he did not step back. He walked forward slowly and took the knife.
“I will do it,” he said.
Afia grabbed his arm. “No, you do not have to prove anything like this.”
Boma looked at her calmly. “If this is what stands between us and our future, then I will face it.”
Afia shook her head, her eyes filled with worry. “This is not right.”
Boma gently removed her hand from his arm. “I will handle it,” he said quietly.
He walked toward the tree, each step drawing more tension from the crowd. Behind him, Mami Ajoa watched with satisfaction. To her, this moment was the final step. Soon everyone would see what she had known all along—that Boma was not worthy.
But just as Boma reached the tree and raised the knife, a voice broke through the silence.
“Stop!”
Everyone turned. Madam Awusi stepped forward. Her expression was no longer calm. Something had changed, and whatever she had seen was about to change everything.
“Stop!” Madam Awusi’s voice cut through the tension with unexpected authority. Boma paused immediately, the knife still in his hand. He turned slowly, looking at his mother. The crowd followed his movement, all eyes shifting toward her.
Madam Awusi stepped forward, her face serious. “This is not right,” she said firmly.
Mami Ajoa folded her arms. “And who are you to question our tradition?”
“I am his mother,” Madam Awusi replied, “and I have every right to question something that makes no sense.”
