Shame wear me agbada - by Emilia's Pen

<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/Screenshot_20250822-082438.jpg"/>In the bustling heart of Ibadan, where the sun painted the streets gold and the air buzzed with life, Tunde was a man who turned heads. His deep blue agbada, threaded with gold, flowed like a royal mantle, earning him nods of admiration and whispers of envy. To the world, Tunde was a man of style and confidence, but beneath the folds of his fine robe, he carried a secret heavier than the fabric itself—he was drowning in debt. Tunde had borrowed heavily from Mama Ngozi, the sharp-tongued moneylender whose reputation for chasing debts was as fierce as her glare. He’d promised to repay her after a big deal, but the deal crumbled, leaving him with nothing but excuses and his prized agbada. He avoided Mama Ngozi’s stall, taking longer routes through the market, but he couldn’t outrun his shame. The annual Oba’s festival brought the community to the palace square, alive with drums, dance, and laughter. Tunde, as always, wore his agbada, its grandeur masking the turmoil within. He mingled with the crowd, flashing smiles, shaking hands, pretending all was well. For a moment, the weight of his debt seemed to lift, carried away by the rhythm of the festival. Then, like a storm breaking through a clear sky, Mama Ngozi’s voice thundered across the square. “Tunde! Omo olowo! Where my money dey?!” The music faltered, and the crowd turned. Tunde froze, his heart pounding as every eye fixed on him. His agbada, once a shield, now felt like a spotlight, exposing him to the world. “Calm down, Mama,” Tunde said, forcing a laugh. “I go settle you soon.” But Mama Ngozi was relentless, pushing through the crowd, her wrapper tied like a warrior’s armor. “Settle me now!” she roared. “You think say you fit wear this fine agbada and parade like king while my money dey laugh at me? Shame no dey catch you?” The word “shame” sank into Tunde like a blade. The crowd’s murmurs grew—some snickered, others shook their heads. His agbada, once a symbol of pride, now felt like a costume, mocking him. Mama Ngozi grabbed its hem, threatening to tear it off. “This cloth go pay me today!” she declared. The gasps from the crowd were like needles, each one pricking Tunde’s pride. Baba Ade, the wise elder, stepped forward, his walking stick tapping the ground. “Enough!” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Mama Ngozi, you will have your money, but not like this. Tunde, a man’s worth is not in his robes but in his actions.” His words were meant to guide, but to Tunde, they were another layer of judgment, another reminder of his failure. The community, moved by Baba Ade’s wisdom, offered Tunde small loans and promises of work to help him settle his debt. Mama Ngozi, begrudgingly, agreed to give him time, but her parting words stung: “No more agbada until you pay me o!” The crowd dispersed, the festival resuming, but Tunde stood rooted, his agbada still on, yet it no longer fit right. Shame had woven itself into every thread, a stain no amount of washing could remove. Days turned to weeks, and Tunde worked tirelessly—carrying loads at the market, running errands, anything to scrape together Mama Ngozi’s money. He paid her back, bit by bit, but the memory of that day in the square clung to him. Even when he wore simpler clothes, he felt the eyes of the community on him, their whispers echoing: “That’s the man who thought agbada could hide his debts.” Tunde tried to move forward, but shame was a relentless tailor, stitching itself into every step he took. He avoided the agbada now, leaving it folded in a corner of his room, but its presence haunted him—a reminder of the day he stood exposed. The community forgave, some even forgot, but Tunde couldn’t. When he passed the square, he heard Mama Ngozi’s voice in his head. When he met old friends, he saw pity in their smiles. One evening, Tunde stood alone, staring at his agbada. He thought of wearing it again, of reclaiming his pride, but his hands trembled. Shame had tailored a new robe for him, one he could never take off. It wrapped him tighter than any cloth, its weight heavier than gold thread. And so, Tunde lived on, a man who once walked like a king, now bound by a shame that wore him, unyielding, forever.

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