Aduke, you see, the village wants my head. They say; it is a taboo for a man to carry the water pot of a woman upon his head. On seeing me, father spat upon the wrinkled face of the earth, then says; "woman, you're no son of mine". He rebuked me. And for mother? She has refused my warring stomach that celestial taste of her soft brownish amala accompanied with the cajoling bride; egusi in heavy make up of smoked fish, livers and beef.
In few market days, Aduke, your beads and ornaments would be replaced with rafters tied around your body, partly naked, beaten, then dragged to the village shrine, built with skulls and bones of those who had loved as we both did. There, you shall confess to the portion of charm to which you had given me in the form of roasted meat. For it is believed that no sane man would break firewood for a woman, nor carry her water pot upon his head no matter how intoxicating the love.
In spite, stones taking different shapes would fist on your body till earth becomes a drunkard from the gulps of your blood while you draw your last breath and your corpse left for hungry vultures to devour.
For this is how sanity and justice are spelt in our world of cruelty and insanity. Aduke, for the sake of our love and of generations to come, we shall deny the world this cruel insanity.
For tonight when the moon is at its full, and when the wind moans to gentle whispers of hidden lovers and when the crickets have become the gossipers of the silent night, we shall meet before the feet of the iroko tree, there we shall lurk our eyes upon each other like the first time our love danced to the rhythm of our heartbeats, while we watch our tears speak in silent tones. Therein, Aduke, simultaneously, you shall slit my throat and me to slit your throat. For at dawn, when the sky weeps in the form of cold dews, our tale would be written upon the heart of lovers who dares to love as we did.