Chapter 1: Okon and the Market of Mouths

If gossip had a capital city, it would be Obodo Ime,a Nigerian village where every sneeze had a witness and every whisper had an echo.

Right at the center of it all stood Okon, the man everyone both loved and doubted.

They called him Okon the Professional Liar — not as an insult, but as a title.

Because in Obodo Ime, lying was an art, and Okon was Picasso.

He could lie so sweetly that even elders would nod and say,

“Hmm, this boy is not normal — his mouth is possessed with confidence.”

One bright market day, Okon arrived wearing a borrowed agbada so long he kept tripping over it.

As usual, he carried no goods, no money, just his silver tongue.

The women saw him coming and whispered,

“Ah! Okon don come again o. Let us hide our ears!”

Okon raised his hand dramatically.

“My people!” he shouted. “I bring breaking news from Calabar!”

The crowd gathered. Even goats stopped chewing.

“Yesterday,” Okon began, “the governor called me. He said, "Okon, you are the only man who can help us convince rain to fall."I told him, ‘No problem, sir.’ I went outside, whistled three times and rain began to fall, right there on his car!”

The market burst into laughter. Mama Eno nearly dropped her basket of crayfish.

“Okon!” she said, giggling, “you mean you control rain now?”

“Ah-ahn, Mama Eno,” Okon replied, chest out, “don’t you remember the rain that spoiled your last wedding wig? That was me,I was testing my powers!”

Everyone howled. Even the village drunk, Pa Ibe, clapped his dusty hands.

But Okon wasn’t done. He always ended with one lie so bold, even the sun paused to listen.

“In fact,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m planning to marry a rich woman from the city. She’s finer than morning palm wine. Her father promised me one thousand cows as bride price.”

The market went silent.

Then Mama Nneka snorted.

“You? Marry a rich woman? The only thing rich about you is your lies!”

Okon smiled.

“You’ll see her soon, Mama. She’s coming to Obodo Ime next week. Her name is Amara, daughter of Chief Nwokorie, the cocoa merchant!”

The crowd burst into disbelief and laughter.

But Okon walked away with that calm, smug look of a man who had just sold smoke and made profit.

That night, word spread faster than bushfire.

By the next morning, even the town crier had added his own version:

“Hear ooo! Hear ooo! Okon the rain-caller will soon marry Chief Nwokorie’s daughter!”

Even the chief’s wife sent her maid to confirm.

Okon’s lies had taken root like yam tendrils.

He sat under the mango tree, sipping palm wine, and said proudly,

“Ah, I love my job. When I lie, it grows wings.”

But fate, as mischievous as a cat in a fish stall, was already preparing his punishment or perhaps, his biggest surprise.

Because one hot afternoon, just as Okon was bragging again at the palm wine joint, a fancy horse-drawn cart stopped in front of him.

The door opened.

And out stepped a woman so breathtaking the world went quiet.

Her eyes sparkled like clean river water, her smile was as sharp as a knife.

She looked straight at Okon and said,

“You must be the famous Okon… my husband-to-be.”

Okon’s calabash dropped from his hand.

Even his lies froze mid-sentence.