Let me tell you the story of Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ (Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ is a Yoruba word that means: a woman with large breasts.) My Dad told us a lot of stories. I don’t know how many times he told the story of Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ but I know it was one of the ones he loved to tell. I particularly love the song we sing in the middle of the story. So, the story of Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ with a sprinkle of spice:

Long long time ago, in a small village called Akè, there lived a witch called Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀. Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ was an outcast not only because she was a witch but also because of her extremely large breasts. She was believed to have killed both her husband and her children. (The original bad beesh.)

Women said her large breasts was a punishment for her numerous sins (is it just me or jealousy just joined the group chat?) while men, well, men couldn’t decide if it was a curse or a blessing (e sort of choke). Nonetheless, everyone agreed that Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ wasn’t fit to live in the village with them so they banished her to the forest. (Bye bye bad beesh.)

Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ built a small hut for herself in the forest of Akè and lived there alone. Her new neighbors were plants, animals and spirits. She thought plants were only useful for food and herbs, animals were too gullible and spirits either talked too much or acted too strangely. She craved adventure. Her wicked ideas begged to be expressed.

Finally, she decided to sneak into the village when all the women had gone to the farm, all the women had gone to the market and only little children were around. She tried this the first time. She went from house to house and ate the food the busy parents left for their children. Then she went back to her hut expecting the villagers to attack her the next day but nobody came. Good. She thought. The children took her threats seriously. (Who wouldn’t?)

The children couldn’t tell their parents about Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ because they were scared of her and her threats. Her large breasts that touched the ground and her extremely long nails were enough to scare them because they’ve never seen any woman with such features before.

Excited about her new adventure, Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ started going to the village everyday (safe to say she became a working class witch), eating the food of the poor children and running back to the forest before the arrival of their parents. Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ got so popular among the children that when they saw her coming, they’d start singing. With a wicked smile and a weird dance, (a weird dance because she spends over half the time packing her breasts and trying not to step on them. What a life she lived.) Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ would join them:

CALL: olomuroro ma wole

(Olomuroro watch your steps.)

RESP: tere mina mina jalankato

CALL: iya re nko, baba re nko?

(Where’s your mother and your father?)

RESP: tere mina mina jalankato. Mama a mi losoja. tere mina mina jalankato. Baba a mi losoko. tere mina mina jalankato.

(My mother has gone to the market and my father’s has gone to the farm?)

CALL: kilo fisile? Kilo fisile?

(What food did they leave? What food did they leave?)

RESP: tere mina mina jalankato. Efo ateko nbe laja. tere mina mina jalankato.

(There’s pap and vegetable on the cupboard.)

CALL: gbe wa kaje. Gbewa kaje.

(Bring it let’s eat. Bring it let’s eat.)

RESP: tere mina mina jalankato. Owo omode ko taaja. tere mina mina jalankato.

(A child’s hand can’t get to the cupboard.)

CALL: fi pepe tise. Fi pepe tise.

(Climb a stool. Climb a stool.)

RESP: tere mina mina jalankato. Olomuroro ma wole. tere mina mina jalankato.

(Olomuroro watch your steps.)

This continued for a long time. Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ got happier and fatter while the children of Akè got sadder and thinner. Their parents began to suspect that something was wrong. They noticed how thin their children were looking and how sad they were becoming so they came together and formulated a plan.

On this fateful day, they all pretended to go to their various places of business as usual and Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ as usual, danced into the village. Unbeknownst to her that the parents of the children whose food she’d been eating were lurking in the forest armed with rage and weapons. As soon as she entered the first house and came out with the little boy’s bowl of food, she was attacked by the angry parents and beaten to death.

Just in case you’re wondering if Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ had no magical powers, imagine trying to sweep your breasts off the floor and cast a spell at the same time, in an emergency situation where time is of the essence. (It would have been something like “vajaoaoaisjsjsjsjkana——ah, my head.”) Maybe it was more of a curse than a blessing afterall.

With Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ dead, the children could now eat their food in peace and the people of Akè lived happily ever after. THE END.

I’m still here though. I’m just thinking, do you think Ọlọ́múrọ̀rọ̀ may have had a career in dancing if her breasts weren’t overflowing (literally)? Uhm. Maybe not. Anyhoo, cheers to the children of Akè that can now eat in peace.

P.S: I’d sing you the song but you gotta pay me. Okrrr.