The cost of a son

Mazi Okonta was a revered man in our community. Among the council of chiefs, he stood out, not just for his wealth or his influence, but for his education. While the other chiefs barely made it past Standard Six, Mazi Okonta proudly held a secondary school certificate. That small piece of paper made him the most educated man in the council and for that and many other reasons, he was deeply respected.

He was a kind and generous man, always using his resources for the good of the people. The elders had begged him, time and again to accept the crown and become king but he always declined. He believed true leadership wasn’t about titles but about service. Mazi Okonta was the kind of man who preferred to work in the background as long as peace reigned and his people prospered.

But for all his achievements and blessings, Mazi Okonta lacked one thing: a male child. He had three wives and eleven daughters. Though his daughters were bright and well-brought-up, he longed for a son, someone to carry his name when he joined his ancestors. The ache for a male heir consumed him more with each passing year. Rumour had it that he even took his wives to a fertility doctor in the city, one famed for helping couples conceive male children but the results remained the same.

Then, Mazi Okonta began the search for a fourth wife. Every eligible woman in the village secretly wished to be chosen. After all, Mazi Okonta took care of his wives like royalty. But he surprised everyone by choosing Sisi, my close friend.

Sisi was a young widow, the only daughter of her parents and their third child. Her husband, a hunter, had died after a long illness. Not long after, their only son followed. Many believed Mazi Okonta saw in her the promise of male child.

Sisi, for her part, saw the proposal as a rare opportunity. She was determined not just to be a wife but to be the mother of Mazi Okonta’s heir. While I believed she had a natural chance of bearing him sons, Sisi didn’t want to take chances or perhaps she was blinded by greed

“Desperate situations require desperate measures,” she told me, the day she confided her plan to travel seven villages away to consult Okosisi, a renowned native doctor. I warned her. Yes, Okosisi was powerful but his medicine came with consequences. But Sisi wouldn’t listen.

Okosisi promised her a male child on two conditions: the child must never go near fire and she must fast for three days, consuming only a spoonful of palm oil every three hours. Sisi agreed. It wasn’t much of a price to pay for what she wanted.

Months later, she gave birth to a son. She named him Okonta Junior—OJ. Mazi Okonta was overjoyed. His dream had come true. Sisi became his favourite wife and he treated her like glass. In time, she bore him a daughter and then another son. But it was OJ who held his heart.

With her new status secured, Sisi began to change. She wore her pride like a second skin although she remained polite to me perhaps out of fear, knowing I was aware of her secret.

OJ was a bright and curious child. Though pampered and protected, he longed to play freely like other children. He longed to climb trees, roll in the sand, run barefoot. But his mother wouldn’t let him. The rules were strict: no fire, no rough play.

Then one day, an opportunity came. Mazi Okonta and his wives had travelled to the city for an important event. With no one watching, OJ joined the village children. They played hide-and-seek, chased each other through mango trees, and climbed the udara tree by the stream.

Then they decided to play “kitchen.” OJ’s task was to fan the fire while others fetched cooking ingredients from their mothers’ kitchens. But when they returned, OJ was gone. In his place was his clothes and a large pool of palm oil near the open flames.

Panic spread.

Where was OJ? Who spilled the oil? The children were confused. The search began but OJ was nowhere to be found.

Hours later, the search party returned to deliver the news to Mazi Okonta and Sisi who had just returned from their trip.

Chaos erupted. Sisi collapsed, wailing uncontrollably. It took relentless questioning before she finally confessed everything… how she had gone to Okosisi, the condition about fire and the oil ritual. Everyone listened in stunned silence.

Mazi Okonta was broken. The son he had so desperately wanted had been born of juju and had melted into the very oil used to conceive him. The irony was cruel. He had overlooked the strength, brilliance and potential of his daughters in pursuit of a son.

Worse still, the entire village began to whisper: Were Sisi’s other children real? Were they normal? Could they be made of oil too?

The shame became unbearable. One morning, Sisi vanished leaving her two children behind. Mazi Okonta took in the children and raised them with care, despite the lingering questions. But something had changed in him. He no longer spoke of heirs or legacies. Instead, he poured his energy into his daughters, teaching them everything he knew and singing their praises to anyone who would listen. His daughters had managed his businesses, earned respect and brought him honour yet he had never truly seen them until the OJ incident.

In time, his daughters carried his name farther than he ever imagined, becoming scholars, traders and respected leaders. The community learned from his story too. That the worth of a child is not in their gender but in their heart and deeds.

And so, Mazi Okonta learned, though painfully, that greatness is not reserved for sons. Sometimes, it is hidden in plain sight—in the daughters we overlook and in the love we fail to see.