THE BURIED PASSION

Sarah’s heart pounded rapidly within her as she raced along the alleys of Amuna town in the heart of darkness. She kept taking backward glances to see if the three boys had relented. She could still make out heavy footsteps behind her. She wished she had not hurled insults at them when one of them had approached her on campus 2 days ago. 

She had walked a mile away from her private hostel down the town to buy herself a food at the major junction. She had felt her stomach rumbling within her when she woke from a long sleep, for the day’s tedious lecture. There she had met the three boys who then followed after her when she finished buying bread and sardine. She had started down the silent highway with a fast pace, gradually faster and nervous when she observed that those three boys were also walking in the same direction; she had broken into a race and so did the boys behind her. She realized she was in trouble when she sighted the flickering flash of knife-like objects in their hands. She guessed they were cult members.

The streets of Amuna town in Kumasi were always quiet at 11:00pm till dawn. Armed robbers had been haunting the town lately like chickens scavenging for food; yet no police could dare their sophisticated weapons. Most of the residents had shut out the world against themselves in their various habitations at this hour. If they heard any call for help, all windows and doors would definitely bang at their frames and thresholds.

“Ouch!” She groaned as she ran into puddles.

Above her she saw neither moon nor stars, but thick clouds.  At least, that would have been a source of illumination for her to run in the right lane. No single light around to weaken the darkness either, except for few houses where lanterns and candle-lights twinkled through their opened windows - the electricity supplies seemed to be off for the night. 

An idea struck at her to hide somewhere. What if she ran away from red sea and into devil’s hand?

It had rained heavily during the day. So the piercing wind of September swept over her like bucketful of iced water as she ran helplessly through the lump of darkness which had now rendered the buildings like burial monuments. Most of the houses were in two-three stories except for a few bungalows. She felt a numb sensation in her limbs and they became useless to continue the hundred feet that remained of her journey to the hostel. She strived over and over, knowing that the gangs would soon desist from her as there was armed corps securing the hostel. 

She shivered convulsively and slumped to the ground.

The polythene bag containing her food was wrenched away from her grip by the greedy wind. Her heart was gone as she submitted herself to the tragedy that was about to befall her.

Lying on her back on the ground, she wondered how the three terrors had suddenly turned a single one above her. 

She couldn’t make out who the person was amongst those 3 terrors as she peered into the shadowy figure. Perhaps the rest were lurking somewhere in the darkness.

She shut her eyes tightly, waiting for her body to turn to a slaughtered cow at abattoir. The cult members had killed several students that way. Most times, corpses of students would be found without hands or legs in the bush behind the main campus.

One minute gone - she hadn’t felt her body butchered by the blood-craving machetes.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” Her voice faded out.

The obscure figure offered her what seemed like a helping hand, but she refused.  Instead, she pleaded with the hand to spare her life.

“It’s me … Kwame,” said the shadowy figure.

The voice jolted her into a vigorous consciousness, but she was confused as to how the three terrors had suddenly turned her boy-friend.

He switched on a torch light over the spot she was lying and helped her gently to her feet. Her fantastic figure was now visible through the brilliant shaft of light from the torch. She was clad in a blue blouse and flaring, feminine trousers that defined her hips and overall shapely body. She had a radiantly brown skin, and her typical African beauty was stressed by her braided coiffure. She seemed to be in her early twenties.

“W...where are the guys?” Sarah’s lips quavered in terror, trying to catch her breath.

“They have stopped chasing you a while ago,” said Kwame, “I saw them chasing after you from afar off and I trailed behind them; I was afraid as I knew they might hurt you. Fortunately, with the help of my torch light, I discovered that two of them were my faculty mates, so I have pacified them on your behalf. I was the one who’d been running after you from the main road, asking you to stop... I guess the shock had prevented you from hearing me.”

“Ooh! ... My God” Sarah heaved a sigh of relief with her palm placed on her chests; she embraced Kwame thankfully, “thanks for saving my life.”

“Where is the stuff you were holding? “Kwame asked after withdrawing himself gently from her.

Sarah crouched and finally fetched her nylon bag with the aid of Kwame’s torch-light. She resumed her feet and Kwame led her out of the awkward alleyways with his torchlight, and they walked along the highway that led to her hostel. 

Power supply generated suddenly through the town, and the once gloomy neighbourhood was lit up to depict a fascinating landscape. Cheers of light-arrival could be heard from every household around. Apart from that, everywhere was silent as usual.

“What have you done to them?” Kwame asked after a long walk in silence.

“I…I don’t know,” Sarah stuttered uneasily.

She kept stealing glances at Kwame’s face when she observed he had kept quiet again and paid no attention to her any longer after the question.

Kwame was a good-looking lad his late twenties. His fair skin and dominating physique really intensified his attractive masculineness. Sarah had always felt uncomfortable being around him, for he had asked her on a date three years ago in 100 level, but she had rejected his dating proposal and accepted him as a friend instead. She was passionate over him secretly, but had hidden her feelings from him due to her excessive pride. She had discovered that Kwame was not from a rich home, unlike her whose parent were affluent. She had always been saying amongst her friends that Kwame was below her class as she was amongst the top girls in Kumasi University of science and technology. 

Two years ago, Kwame had proposed to another girl called Nene; a lady that was superior to Sarah in every status - fashion, family background and elegance. In fact, her father was the formal governor of Kumasi.

Ever since he had begun to date Nene, Kwame had always been meeting Sarah once in a while on campus as a friend, and each time, Sarah would look for a way to pour out her hidden feelings. It was too late for her as she had taken him for granted for a whole year before he fell into Nene’s hand. She had always been jealous anytime she saw them together, but she daren’t show it.

At that moment, Kwame also stole a glance at her as his mind wandered back to the first day he’d met Sarah on campus. He had been struck by an impulse to approach her. He had walked up confidently to her under the tree next to the library. He had talked for so long, manipulating several tactics to win her heart. In the end, Sarah had worn a smile and told him she would think over his dating proposal. Kwame had called her phone endlessly for a whole month; she would not pick it up. The day she finally answered his phone call, their conversation had gone thus: 

“All I’m requesting from you is a YES to my dating proposal,” Kwame had pleaded with her on phone, almost tearfully.

“I’m sorry; we can only be friends. I’m engaged.” she responded curtly.

 “You mean we can’t go on a date?”

“Yes, just friends.”  She had said firmly and terminated the call.

Kwame had been dismayed. However, he’d been happy that she could accept him as a friend at least. He couldn’t afford to lose her after all. 

“Friendship would always grow to love someday,” he had consoled himself with that. Kwame had become completely despaired when he presented a love card to her during Valentine’s Day, and she responded with a text message, stating she’d never loved him. She had only liked him as a friend.

Chris brown’s - I LOVE YOU - ringtone from Kwame’s phone jerked both minds to present from their thoughts.

“Hello dear,” said a gentle voice from the phone, “What has taken you so long?”

“Nene, I’m sorry. I will join you soon.”

They both halted since they were now in front of Sarah’s hostel. The illumination from the streetlights and the four-storey hostel that towered above the street bathed their figures with magnolia glows, leaving along the tarred highway a lilac glint.

An extreme Jealousy was written all over Sarah’s face  having realized it was Nene that just contacted him. 

“Are…are you really going now,” she asked, tilting her head to fight back the regretful tears pricking within her eyes.

Kwame smiled broadly, “Yeah, my angel has missed me already. That is how your boyfriend cherishes you too. Isn’t?”

“Not really,” Sarah said, shrugging her shoulders and revealed back her face, “I have no boyfriend presently; I’m single.”

“Cut that crap, baby… you can’t be serious?”

“I am,” Sarah responded firmly. 

 

Kwame stared at her for a moment; a mischievous smile flickered across his face.

“How come…just let me know your boyfriend; perhaps I can settle the quarrel.”

“Never mind,” Sarah responded brusquely.

“Alright…if you say so”

 A spine-tingling cold surged through Sarah’s body and she shuddered. Faint thunderclaps could be heard from the distance while the wind heaved their attires around them in swirls, sweeping dust and rubbish here and there. For Sarah, the ordeal of the previous moments had faded into oblivion. She felt no much hunger either. She was only pleased having Kwame around her. Kwame checked on his wrist watch - 11:25pm.

“I’ve got to take my leave right away. Nene is awaiting me in the car,” Kwame said, stressing a look at his wrist watch stylishly, standing face to face, but one foot away from Sarah, “I’ve only excused myself by telling her I wanted to buy something at the junction when I saw you from inside the car.”

Sarah stared affectionately into his eyes; Kwame never noticed it as they embraced.

“Thanks once more for rescuing me,” mouthed Sarah.

“It’s okay… what are friends for?”

Kwame wanted to withdraw himself on time, but Sarah didn’t let go. Instead, she moaned softly with pleasure. She released body slightly and Kwame thought he was eventually free. She seized the opportunity to stare seductively into his eyes, groped for his hands, wanting them to caress over her butt instead of being merely wrapped around her back. Kwame noticed everything, including the frets in her body now as she advanced her trembling lips towards him.

“We are just friends. Aren’t we?” Kwame protested, “I think friends don’t kiss. A peck is okay.”

“Yeah, I know,” she whispered, “but, I…I…love you”

Kwame unlocked himself abruptly from her hold. He was dumbfounded by the statement and thought for a moment if he’d not heard her quite well.

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about!”

“I do,” she said, staring into Kwame’s eyes with hot tears dripping down her cheeks; her lips, quavering with emotion, “I… I have always loved you, but….” 

 “It’s too late for this, Sarah,” Kwame cut in calmly, holding her by both shoulders to console her. Sarah nestled her head in his chest as Kwame patted her back gently and continued, “I have fallen in love with Nene and she had also shown love to me. Nene’s parent and mine have just met for introduction two weeks ago. Her parent had wanted her to get married on time because she is their only surviving child out of 3 children.”

 He withdrew himself gently and stared right into her glistening eyes, “We can always be friends forever.” 

On hearing this, Sarah collapsed to her knees, weeping earnestly. Some women were passing by across the road with loads on their heads, and cars had been passing by occasionally. Sarah still rooted on the spot. She was heedless of the drizzles that had now augmented into showers of rain, damping the pavement under her.

“I’m sorry, I have to take my leave now,” Kwame helped her to her feet, “it’s very dangerous here at this hour of the night.”

Kwame reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped her pretty face. He embraced her once more and left her to her fate, lonely on the street.

THE PRIDE OF A BRIDE

 TAG: FICTION,  YOUNG ADULT, HISTORICAL, FANTASY
 

 

 Immediately I heard the sound of Papa’s bicycle bell I sprang to my feet at the backyard where I’d been breaking palm-kernels. The sun was slowly resuming its duty on early Tuesday morning. I dashed into the room in order to put on my school uniform. I couldn’t afford to lose the payment of my school fees again.

My father would wake up before the birds and cocks of our village to tap palm-wine, and he would tie the big gourds at the back-seat of his bicycle. I could hear the voice of his friend, Papa Oyibo. The two friends must have returned from the farm at the same time. Papa Oyibo’s house was next to ours. His second child, Benita, had become my bosom friend since childhood days. We were both mature now. I was 18 years of age while she was a month older than me.

Behind our mud house was an iroko tree that always produced terrible noises at night. The zinc that formed our roof was completely rust and ragged, and our backyard was rampant with tangled bushes. Mama once told me that the house was bequeathed to my father by his late father; that was where my parents nurtured me and my four elder brothers. I was the only daughter of the family and the last child. Mama had been proud of me for my beauty and intelligence. She would drum into my head morals and values of our community.

“Adaora, my daughter,” Mama had said to me one night when the moon directed its bright gaze through our window, “I don’t want you to listen to all these men because most of them are liars …They would render you useless and dump you after turning your head with sweet-sweet words...You know I’ve been telling you this right from your early teen age. You are now 17; you should always remember whose daughter you are everywhere you find yourself.”

Mama had said further that I should never lose ‘the pride of a bride’ on me to any man who would not pay the price; that was really a strange word to my ears.

Confused, I muttered to myself, “The Pride of a bride? I am still a student. I’m not a bride, of course.”

I thought for a while, and it dawned on me that the pride of any bride is her virginity or purity.

“Why do you call it the pride of a bride, Mama?” I asked Mama who seemed to be dozing off on our tattered cushion chair. The lantern that sat quietly on our worn-out concrete floor was mimicking Mama - it occurred to me that its fuel had run dry, “Mama, I want to know.”

Mama had taken a deep breath as she had always done whenever she had an important thing to say. And she told me in our dialect, “It is because any woman who can resist all the distractions from men who want to receive it would be an object of pride in her husband’s household ... A good bride is the one who retains her virginity until her formal marriage. The bride would also be rewarded abundantly from God … If the woman mistakenly did anything wrong, her husband and his relatives would quickly condone such woman’s misdeed because of the trait of pride that is present in her.”

It was my turn to give a sigh which Mama had given earlier on. I couldn’t disturb her any longer. I left for bed and thought about those words.

“Adaora!”

I was stirred from the daydream when Papa called my name. I was about to put on my uniform, getting ready for school. I guessed he wanted to give me the school fees which had been on my mind all night-long. I rushed outside after wearing my school uniform - a white blouse and army green skirt. I waited beside Papa who was mending his bicycle wheel at the verandah.

“Nnwa Adaora!” Papa chanted my name when he stood up from his stooped position with an expression of delight on his face. He diverted his look away from me to Papa Oyibo who was tying a keg of palm-oil to his bicycle seat. “Adaora is now growing into womanhood! You can see that children of nowadays have rapid growths. She’s now looking beautiful like a queen.”

I looked at myself from my breast level to my toe as if to ensure if papa was telling the truth. Papa was right; my height was now competing with his. My father used to be taller than me when I was 15, but now we almost had the same height. I noticed my breast too; it was full and ripe. My pronounced hips had really complemented my shape, and I’d always admired it discreetly whenever I looked through the mirror. My skin was a chocolate brown. I had got a round face and my lips were very full just like my backside. No wonder all the boys in my school would stare at me and almost hit their heads against the wall whenever I walked past them. However, my uniform wasn’t too fitted like other girls who’d re-adjust their skirts to define their shapes. Papa had been proud of me right from the day I had the 1st position in primary 4. And now that I was in SS1, my credit grades (in all subjects) had always been the highest in my class.

Papa kept exchanging banters with his friend about me.

“I hope you are through with the palm kernel,” Papa said to me after he had given me 12 naira for the school fees. I was very happy. No one would laugh at me in the class again as they had done the last time when Mr. Ben, our class Teacher, announced the list of those who were yet to pay their fees. I was the only one left on the list. Every eye shot at me and my legs almost rejected the rest of my body.”

“No papa, I will break the rest when I come back from school,” I told my father. He nodded with a look of satisfaction.

Papa understood me. He knew I was not lazy, unlike my elder brothers who’d find one excuse or the other if Papa wanted to send them on an errand.

Papa was really lucky to have a woman like my mother. I took after Mama with almost every feature of my body, but Mama was fair. She was in her early sixties. Papa had a dark complexion, and he was a little older than Mama. He was built and muscular. His plentiful moustache had always thrilled me. Whenever he drank palm-wine and ate kolanut with his friends at our verandah, his gray moustache would be drenched with the wine froth.

****

I arrived at school late. The structure of our school was nearly ‘n’ in shape. The administrative block was at the end, and the classrooms maintained two straight lines. We never had a school gate. I stumbled upon a wicked, female prefect at the entrance who then yelled at me to gather some rubbish from the school entrance to the front of our principal’s office, which I did. There I met two of my classmates, Amara and Gloria, serving punishment. Their hands were raised up in the air, and their knees stuck to the dusty ground, under the angry sun. I was nervous as I knew, certainly, that I was going to serve the same punishment; they were the two popular latecomers our school could ever boast of, but I was disappointed in myself this time around.

I was surprised when the prefect left me to go to the classroom when I returned from the refuse-pit. I began to wonder what offence the two girls must have committed other than their late-coming habits. I had always known Amara for her sauciness and lack of courtesy.

I could remember a day when an old woman came to buy some goods from her in the market. Her mother’s shop was adjoined to ours. Her mother was selling yams and raw eggs. My mother was selling only palm-oil.

When the old woman was about to collect the eggs, her hands were trembling for her old age. Amara was impatient, and she pressed it on her feeble palm so that it fell and smashed on the dusty ground. The poor woman pleaded that she had got nothing on her except for the 2 kobo with which she would feed her grandchildren. Amara flared up and gripped the old woman’s cloth. After the woman reluctantly paid the money, Amara began to rain insult on her. I did not utter a word. My intervention would be futile because she wouldn’t heed me.

Amara was fair in complexion, and strikingly beautiful. She was one of our village dogs; almost all the village boys had tasted her thing. The ‘pride of a bride’ on her had been turned to ‘shame of a bride’ since when she was 14. I had caught her several times along the bush with different boys; yet, her mother must not hear about it. A woman must not have any affair with a man that was yet to pay her bride-price or dowry for a formal marriage. Apart from the fact that it was God’s commandment, it was our custom.

When I got to the classroom, no teacher was there yet. I saw my classmates huddling together in groups. They were murmuring about what seemed obscure to me. The desks in our classroom were arranged in 6 separate rows, but my seat was among those at the first row, next to our 3 rectangular windows. I asked the girl sitting next to my desk what was amiss.

“Haven’t you heard?” Brenda asked.

“What is that?” I asked curiously.

She whispered to my ear, “Have you heard that Amara has lost her virginity?”

“How … how do you mean?” I asked as if I never knew anything about that.

“Our principal caught her when he was riding his bicycle along the farm yesterday.”

“How was she caught?” I asked in a low tone.

“When they saw the principal coming, they separated immediately. Meanwhile the principal saw the boy’s face; he lives just behind his apartment. His name his … mm,” she seemed to be groping for the boy’s name in her head while I became more curious. “Yes, his name is Ikenna. The boy confessed to the principal when he was being tortured that they were doing it for the third time.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed quietly.

“The principal announced it on the assembly ground this morning.”

I refused to give any more response as I pondered over her fate in the whole school. “What a shame! The whole village will soon hear about this,” I thought to myself.

When Amara returned to the classroom later in the day the class grew silent. Suddenly, everybody exploded with laughter at once as if they had planned it. Brenda noticed I looked so sad; she then tickled me until I was tempted to smile. My body was very sensitive to it. Amara looked at my direction at that moment and buried back her shameful face in her desk. I tried to read her mind. Perhaps she thought I was also mocking her, or I was the one who gossiped to the school principal about her favourite spot in the bush.

When I returned home later in the day I saw Mama and Papa rejoicing in the room. I thought my brother’s wife who was in Lagos had given birth. That was the most likely thing that could summon such euphoric mood. I greeted them and hanged my school bag on the earthen wall.

“Nnwa Adaora,” Mama called my name in a cheerful tone and stroked my finely plaited hair as I sat beside her, “we have now become the Igwe’s in-law.”

“How do you mean, Mama?” I was confused.

“Prince Obiora came here today to ask for your hand in marriage.” Mama said.

“That is true, my daughter,” Papa remarked happily, “the king sent his soldiers here today with their car filled with yams and other things which you must see for yourself.”

I could figure out excitement wandering around my parents’ faces

I was amazed, so I began to nurture doubtful thoughts. What if my parents were merely teasing me, or saying all these just as a compliment? What If it happened to be true? Why me?

Prince Obiora was the heart-throb of every maiden in our village - a whole heir to his father’s throne. He was fair and extremely handsome. He had all the alluring features most women would ever desire in their dream men. He was probably in his early twenties. There were other maidens in the village that always made eyes at Obiora whenever he walked around the village with his father’s soldiers. I remembered a day when Amara told me secretly that whenever she set her eyes on Obiora she would get sexually excited. Those times when we were younger, whenever we went fetching water at the village stream, with our clay pots on our heads, some of them would say they were going to seduce him. I dare not utter any word beside them, for most of them were the children of the high chiefs and other noble leaders in the village. Although, I had felt so much for him too, but I wouldn’t utter a word as my own parents were penniless. “Who am I to aim at the prince for a fiancé?”

My feelings now began to swing between happiness and fear. The fearful part of my feelings was beyond my parent’s understanding. I was afraid of envies from the witches and wizards in the village. The first son of a king proposed to an ordinary villager’s daughter. I couldn’t sleep well in the night. My mind kept straying back to the thought of Obiora and his marriage proposal.

****
Four days later, the news of Obiora’s offer to me seemed to have cast across the whole village like beam of sunlight. One of my classmates, Bola, asked me during the break time if what she had heard was true.

“You mean Obiora had proposed to you?” Bola asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Yes,” I nodded lightly, “but, I haven’t seen him yet.”

“ I’m happy for you, my friend,” Bola said joyfully.

That was the first time she ever called me her friend. She was the only Yoruba girl we had in our class, and she had always snubbed me because she had come from a rich home.

It seemed all the students in my school had heard about it. Some of them would point fingers at me whenever I passed by.

Amara kept malice against me. She had refused to talk to me since the time she was humiliated. During the class she kept staring at me, her eyes flaring like a furious fire. She must have heard about it. I knew she could strangle me to death if she had the chance.

The next day was Saturday. Obiora sent his father’s guards to summon me to the palace which was the most beautiful building in our village. The whole place was surrounded with beautiful flowers and fenced with a cream-coated wall. There was a golden gate at the entrance which was secured by soldiers. I had plaited a new hairstyle the day before, and I dressed in a purple gown. When I got to the palace the prince invited me to the living room. He sat closely beside me on a white couch.

“Adaora,” Obiora turned to me, staring hotly into my eyes, “I’ve been watching you for so long a time in this village … I’ve also made proper investigations about you … You are decent, respectful and beautiful at the same time. This is a rare quality for just one maiden. Goodness is a beauty on its own. That is why no other maiden in this village can ever snatch my heart away from you. They don’t have those qualities you possess … Are you now ready to accept my proposal?”

The way he asked the question really shocked me. I escaped my eyes gently from his enchanting look. I wore a thoughtful expression on my face in order feign a reluctant agreement. I wanted to know if he really wanted me. I could make out the true feelings in his eyes as he started beseeching me to accept him. After several pretenses I had exhibited such as: taking my face away from him, fidgeting, staring downwards with folded arms. I couldn’t help it again.

“Y-e-s,” I said finally, my lips trembling.

“Thanks for saying ‘yes’ to my proposal,” he said and embraced me.

I could feel my body drowning in ocean of affection.

He withdrew himself gently from me and said, “God has created the cloth because of the body … he created foot-wears for our soles, and the unbelievers for hell fire. You should know that God had merely created you for me, Adaora.”

He ended the statement, stroking my nose with his index finger. The words were strange to my ears. I smiled blushfully.

“I love you,” he said with a small smile.

“Me too,” I said hesitantly amidst strong feelings that had overwhelmed me.

“But,” he said, wearing a more serious look, “I want you to face your studies first, and finish with good grades. We can then prepare for the engagement. Most importantly, you have to remain a pure maiden before our wedding as the tradition says.”

“I promise,” I nodded like a baby. It seemed I had lost my senses to him.

I acted according to Obiora’s wish. I tried my best to maintain good grades in the classroom. I became an object of envy amongst my classmates and my friends in the village. My family was always in a happy mood. Our household never lacked any food stuff which was the vow of the King till the end of my education. My parent became more proud of their only daughter. They never allowed me to engage in strenuous activities any longer.

Some months later, Papa left a lump of palm kernel on his farm. Although, I’d always advised him not to stress himself anymore since we never lacked anything in the house again. He would tell me he had to exercise his body-system as a man. He decided to return to the farm for the palm kernel himself. My two brothers who still remained in the house with us were gone, probably to play football. My other brothers had gone to Lagos for business.

Papa still insisted on going back to the farm; he did not want to stress me any longer. He said the fiancée of a prince was not meant to labour. I felt flattered with that.

“Papa, please let me help you with it,” I insisted, “all the same, I still remain your only daughter. Age is now telling on you.”

“Alright, my daughter,” Papa said, placing his hand across my shoulders, “you can go, but don’t stay too long. It’s getting dark already.”

“Okay Papa,” I assured him, and made my way with a fast pace towards the farm.

Papa’s farm was half mile away from our home. When I was in the middle of the bush, everywhere was silent as it was twilight already. The trees that towered above the path were throwing down faint spots of light from the drowsy sky. When I walked farther, I began to hear the sorrowful songs of nightingales, consuming the sounds of other birds. And when it blended with chirping of insects and croaks of frogs, it formed horrible rhythms in my ears.

I hastened my pace, my heart beating loudly, almost rising over the ‘pitter-patter’ of my slippers. I could hear rustles in the bush around. That must be a rabbit or any other animal. I was already getting close to papa’s farm. The rustles augmented and stopped for some time..

Suddenly, two young men emerged from the bush before me. I was shocked. My legs wobbled under me. They looked so fierce in their only shorts and broad chests.

“Jesus!” I cried.

Without a second thought I fled back, screaming at the top of my voice.

“Help! Help! Help!”

I was racing relentlessly along the narrow path. I ran and ran until I lost my strength. The two men held me down. I began to shed tears as one of them began to loosen the string of his shorts; their eyes sparked with lust. I regained my strength to struggle. It was too late - the other man had held down my hands against the muddy shrubs. They succeeded in untying my wrapper while I groped with one partially free hand to get something to defend myself. Fortunately, my hand managed to grab a giant stick that lay innocently beside me; my strength now intensified like I was possessed. I hit the one on top of me forcefully; he fell unconsciously to the ground. I sprang to my feet and picked a race once more. I was left with pink undershorts and blouse. The other man was running after me.

When I took a backward glance at the junction to the village square he had disappeared. I continued running until I got home. I began to pant like a lamb that had narrowly escaped from a wolf.

“Papa! Papa!! Papa!!!” I cried, still panting heavily, “Two men wanted to rape me along the bush.”

“Who are they?” Papa’s voice thundered as he held me close to himself. His eyes flashed with fury.

“I don’t know them … They must have run away Papa. I managed to hit one of them.”

“I hope they did not succeed!”

“They did not, Papa.”

I narrated the horrible experience to my mother and brothers late in the night; they praised me as a brave woman. They thanked God that I didn’t lose my virginity to them after all.

I knew that the other man would’ve caught up with me if he had not tried to revive his unconscious friend. Oh! My goodness, my pride would have been received by two men with force.

Rumour went round the village on the following day. It was said that a woman who saw me when I was being raped had taken my wrapper to the Palace to show the Igwe, dabbed with blood. I went to the palace to confirm. My heart almost burst open when I saw my wrapper. How did a stain of blood get to my plain yellow wrapper? Who could ever believe that I’d not lost my virginity? I stood firm like a statue, draining like a salt that was deprived of breeze in front of the Igwe, his chiefs and Obiora. All my excuses were in vain.

“In the first place, what were you looking for at that period of the day?” Obiora asked with a clear reproach in his voice.

“I…I…wanted to help my father to...to….” My voice failed me.

“…to do what?” Obiora interrupted me. His voice sounded harsh to me for the first time, “Haven’t I told you to always alert me if you are going anywhere so that the guards will follow you. Haven’t I?”

Words froze in my mouth. Obiora also believed that my innocence had been severed.

Obiora later tried to show empathy, but the King would never allow his son to get married to a deflowered maiden. I was disappointed in myself too. I wept earnestly all nights. I refused to eat or drink anything. If I made an attempt to, I might throw up. I wished I could hang myself to death to bury this innocent shame. My parents were perplexed; they hardly believed I wasn’t a victim. How else could they confirm this? Not with those ineffective fetishes that would worsen the matter for me. It’s only God that could bear me witness. One rainy night, I crept out of the room.

“Oh! My God! Where is your merciful countenance?” I swallowed hard while the lightning-breaking torrent washed relentlessly at my tears, “Is there a crime in helping one’s parent? If not, anybody that is behind my predicament must undergo afflictions and miseries … The God of Elijah, come and save me!”

My knee sank in the sweeping flood in our compound. The whole village was asleep. I was heedless of my drenched cloth and the dreadful darkness. I dread not the terror of any uncanny creatures that might be lurking inside it too; all that mattered to me was the wrath of God upon my enemies.

Whenever I was in the classroom I wouldn’t concentrate. On one occasion our class teacher asked a question at the chalk-board. He told me he’d called my name thrice before I could respond to him as I was carried away. Most of my classmates seemed to know my troubles, so they were all mocking me. Amara was their leader. She laughed out louder so that I could hear her clearly. Unawares, streaks of tears dropped to my cheeks. Mr. Ben invited me to his office afterwards; I explained everything to him.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Mr. Ben.

“I’m very sure, sir; the men did nothing to me,” I said, brushing tears away from my eyes with the back of my left hand.

Mr. Ben Sighed and said, “This is a powerful situation. My advice to you is just to be prayerful. If you don’t get betrothed to the prince, life still goes on. Don’t be despaired. Okay?”

“Thank you, sir.” I fell to my knee.

Mr. Ben seemed to be in his early forties; he was faithful and God-fearing. His father was a Reverend, so he believed in the power of prayer too. Thenceforth, I kept my heart strong. I never minded my classmates and the villagers that would mock me whenever I passed by. Some would pretentiously ask why I wasn’t going to the palace any longer. All they wanted was the explanation of what they had already known in order to mock me to my face. I kept attending church services and became more prayerful, although I’d lost my hope from getting along with the prince. Obiora had tried his best to persuade his father, but nothing could be done against the tradition.

When I was working on Papa’s farm about a month later, I suddenly heard the resounding clanks of the royal gong, swallowing the silence of the hot afternoon. I heaved a sigh and wiped away dripping sweats away from my brow. I wondered what must have gone wrong. The gong was not usually used to pass message across to the villagers any longer. If the king had got any message for the villagers, notices would be pasted round instead for the new age. Educated people would then interpret the texts to the old folks that couldn’t read nor write. If they did resort to the gong, it was suggesting that a calamity had occurred somewhere. I was anxious and impatient after the sound of the gong that could still be heard, receding into distance. I tried to make out what the town-crier was announcing, but my ear failed me completely for the distance of our farm to the village square.

When I arrived home later in the day, they said the prince was seriously ill. Attentions of all the maidens were needed unfailingly in the palace on the next day. The question that overtook my mind was, “Are the maidens responsible for the illness of the prince?”

I didn’t sleep overnight. Tossing and turning on the mat, I kept wondering what must have caused Obiora’s sudden illness.

There we all gathered on the next day when we were all supposed to be in the school. The king was the supreme ruler of the village, and whatever he said was final as he was also a government on his own. We all assembled outside the palace. The Chiefs soon came out to address us.

“Good morning to you all, maidens of Uboma village!” said one of the three Chiefs in red caps.

“Good morning, your highness,” we all chorused, but everyone looked confused. None of us seemed to know our mission in the palace.

“The reason why we have called this urgent meeting is that … the son of our great Igwe is lying down sick … so, we need a pure maiden who will fetch water from the river. The water would be used to prepare the herbs for his quick recovery according to the gods of our land. Our Igwe promised to reward the family of any maiden who will present herself for the succour with riches and also build the family a beautiful house … Our prince is ready to marry such a maiden. The water would be fetched at exactly 12- a.m. tomorrow midnight.”

The Rulers were only meant to use traditional means to heal any sickness according to the custom. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe in other religions. The elders would always say, “We have to follow the tracks of our ancestors.”

At that moment, the maidens who were still pure were evident to identify as they roared with cheers amongst the crowd. It dawned on me that few of these maidens were pure when most of them wore shameful looks. Amara was there too; she dared not cheer up along. She stared at me with pleasure; maybe she thought I was also shameful when I refused to display any jubilation. I was looking forward to how the chiefs were going to nominate one maiden when about ten of them seemed to be pure. I knew I would be counted out according to their beliefs that I had once been stigmatized, so I didn’t include myself. They had invited every one of us probably to humiliate me, especially. All our chiefs seemed to have lost their sense of judgment!

One of the chiefs cleared his throat and said further, “The pure maiden may lose her life after returning with the water for the prince to live. If the maiden has lost her virginity, that would be the worst of all; the river-goddess will devour such person and the corpse will never be found.”

An utmost Silence replaced their previous jubilations. The chiefs kept asking who was ready to take up the task for what seemed like ages; no mouth uttered a word. Obviously, none of them was ready to sacrifice for the prince.

“This is an opportunity for me to show my innocence,” I thought to myself. If I lost my life in the course, at least, I wouldn’t be devoured by the river-goddess to show my purity to the villagers and our king. The thought of death made my body shiver. My feeling for Obiora was still very strong. He would never forget forever. My name would also be remembered in the history of this village.”

What of my dear parents? They would be consoled with the riches too. I cried for my dear life inside of me. Oh My God!

“I will fetch it!” I voiced out confidently with tears on my face.

Every mouth went agape with looks of surprises. Some people began to mock silently that I was ready to be devoured by the river-goddess. The chiefs couldn’t shut their widely opened mouths; they shook their heads pathetically as they all believed I wouldn’t come back at all.

When I returned home, I explained to my parents that I had presented myself for the task. They reproached me for taking such a bold step without their consent. I asked them to be prayerful instead. I let them realize that I was still pure. Papa believed so much in me; he was a little worried.

“It’s not certain that the person wouldn’t live after,” I assured them.

“May our ancestors guide you safely back to us,” Papa said, after taking a deep breath.

“Chine-ke-e-e-e-e, my only daughter!” Mama sobbed; I consoled her that nothing would happen to me. My mind wasn’t at rest either, but I daren’t say it out.

. . . .

The night came after long and anxious anticipation. Three royal cultists followed behind me along the way to the river. The river was about a mile away from the village. The dreadful darkness held terror for me as the wind began to howl like thousands of bush babies. I kept praying as I paced on gently with a water-pot held firmly around my waist.

At one spot, I stumbled. It was a small stone; I calmed myself. I became nervous as we neared the river. What an odd world! The river which always beamed to us in the afternoon now became a monster to me. When I was climbing the rock around the water, I slipped and held back myself at once.

At last we arrived at the spot, and I was instructed by the cultists to take the water without looking back after. I dipped the pot gently into the water and occupied it in one deft movement. I placed it on my head comfortably and turned back at once. The cultists left me to go ahead and followed behind me again, reciting some incantations. I’d never imagined finding myself in the midst of all those cultists in my dear life. Destiny’s call must be answered.

I arrived at the palace safely with the pot of water. I dropped the water gently on the floor. Suddenly I felt a strange wind sweep over me; I fell to the ground immediately.

My eyes flipped open. Just like a dream, I found myself lying down on a mat in the palace. I realized it was broad day light already. I could see the chiefs and Igwe as they jumped to their feet from their respective seats. The chiefs helped me gently to my feet. They all began to pay me gratitude like a goddess. They said I was breathless after dropping the pot. They also said my parent had come to mourn my loss in the morning. At that moment I noticed it was afternoon. The King almost bowed his head, but I held him back. He apologized for the way he had treated me about the issue of my assumed loss of virginity.

“My daughter, I don’t really know how to pay you,” Obiora’s mother said and embraced me.

Obiora came in at that moment. He looked vibrant and hearty. We embraced affectionately; we both shed tears of joy. The king and his queen beamed with fulfillment and pleasure.

Suddenly, one of the cult members who had sat there without uttering a word immediately cleared his throat loudly to stir us apart from our endless embrace.

“You have done well, my daughter,” croaked the old man. “The gods never revealed to us that the maiden wouldn’t live after the task. All that was requested was a virgin … but we have seized the opportunity among ourselves to discover who has a true feeling for our prince amongst all the maidens. If we hadn’t used this tactic, many of them would have fought over this task as it also involves reward of riches and other valuables. So, we had to use the elders’ wit to solve the matter. The way you lost consciousness was planned by us.”

I was astounded to hear that. It was then I realized that those cultists were really prudent. The king and his chiefs seemed to know nothing about the plan either. They all looked astonished.

Our Igwe, who had now become my father in-law, asked his soldiers to drive me to our house in his new ‘Volkswagen VW Squareback’. That was my first time of sitting inside such a luxurious car. It was one of the latest cars in town.

My parents were amazed to see me alive again. They began to check all over my body as if I was an alien creature, or perhaps they thought it was a reincarnate of me. I assured them I was their real daughter; I was not a ghost. Papa and Mama embraced me with tears of joy streaming down their cheeks. My brothers took over the embrace from them, then to our neigbours. I was very happy to see Benita. Her eyes were swollen, obviously from tears. She must have come from her uncle’s place in Aba because of my assumed death. We embraced affectionately.

Mama let out a cry of joy that gathered almost the whole village to our compound.

“My daughter is not dead O!” she announced at the top of her voice, “Those of you who thought my daughter had lost her virginity. You can all see for yourself.” she repeated the statement up to four times. She seemed to be in her euphoric mood; the happiest day of her life.

The king later commanded the soldiers to fetch the woman who claimed to have seen me when I was being raped. After a long torture by the soldiers, with her body dripping with blood, she confessed before Igwe that she’d been sent by some maidens. She revealed how they cunningly dropped a red pigment on my yellow wrapper to fake a blood stain.

After a long investigation, the conspirators were all arrested by the soldiers. I was shocked when the soldiers brought into the palace the men that tried to assault me along the bush with 8 maidens alongside. They were all chained together with shackles like slaves. The remorseful looks on their faces were as glaring as the noon sun. Amara was among them. I hardly recognized her because her beauty had been ravaged by rods and kicks from the soldiers. Igwe’s decision was indisputable. They were all jailed by the soldiers with no specific date of liberation or discharge.

THE VENGEANCE OF OMOGE OMI (PART 2)

She tries to turn her head to ascertain the source of the voice, but not successful. Besides, how would she see the person in this brilliant darkness? She wonders sadly.

The hailstones withdraw and the noise in the sky die down. Surprisingly, her feet unlock from the earth and she turns around. The question repeats itself from the path behind. She spins around and around; she never gets the particular direction.

“I…I was sent by Yemoja, yeye olokun – the sea goddess,” she says anxiously.

“To do what?” The voice barks.

“To set my brothers free from bondage of cruel mankind,” says  she, now in a stern voice, “and I want to break the eggs of life which represent their destinies,” She begins to wonder, at this moment, what has befallen her magical endowment.

“Your powers are not active at this very spot, young goddess,” says the voice, in a less severe manner, “and your thoughts are like spoken words in my ears.  No matter how much power you possess, I am invisible to  every eyes. I’m only visible to Eledumare, the god of creation, because I dwell between heaven and earth.  Are you aware you are in Aginju Iberu?”

“Ye…Yes. I am aware,” she stammers, groping around in the dark like a blind beggar that has just misplaced a walking stick.

“ I will not hurt you due to the nature of your assignment. If you had come for evil, I will not hesitate before sending you to the river where you belong. Many humans have come here to keep glories and destinies of their kinds. Some succeeded. Majority did not.  I’m not sure if your mission will be successful with all you shall come across on your way. From here, your disappearing force would be impotent until you mission is fulfilled. May the head of Olokun stand solidly behind you.”

“ Ase!” she says, rubbing her palms together in prayer.

“I am heading to my abode. I saw you by chance on my way to a journey. Now you can leave.”

“Thank you,” she says, bowing her head slightly in obeisance.

At that instant rivers of withered leaves and dust gather in clouds, sweeping and whistling in the air. Trees swaying wildly like drunk dancers, twigs and branches  breaking down, snapping and crackling under the violent wind. The shadowy clouds begin to clear way for less dark masses when a blood red moon creeps to the center of the sky. In the course of the upsurge, Mojisola shields her eyes from the dust.

Woo—woo—woo—woo—woo! Woo­—woo—woo—woo—woo!

At once the silence is replaced by creepy, bloodcurdling roars, rising and falling with howling of the wind. The continuous chirpings of insects and cries of night birds blend with the noise to compose a more dreadful tune. The darkness barely breaks down under the peering moon; so, she picks her way aimlessly towards the path ahead. She wishes no creature would attack her before she regains her power. Every single sound seems to startle her; even the slightest crunching of dry leaves under her bare feet. Acrid odour of muddy shrubs and trees squeeze into her nostrils, clenching her stomach. She feels empty, apart from the privilege of being in her future image. She wonders why Yemoja hasn’t told her this before. She prays silently to olokun that no evil should befall her. After walking several feet further she feels a radiation in her body. She halts abruptly. Instinctively, she knows that her power has returned. To verify it, She picks up a twig-covered stick that is lying among the scattering leaves, then dilates her eyes which snappily reddens like burning coals— the stick flares up with yellow flames. She smiles and let out a sigh of relief. After squinting prophetically at her left palm she starts clearing her way with the flame. Hanging on the tree-branches above are human skeletons of different frames covered by cobwebs, and at the feet of each tree are heaps of human skulls, soiled fabrics, rust swords, machetes, and rifles. She wonders if any war took place on the land in the remote past – perhaps thousands of seasons ago since she can see swords hanging from the chests of some skeletons.

Crack-crack-crack-crack — a sharp  noise from behind prompts her to turn around like a whirlwind. It is a broken-down twig landing on the ground from tree branches. Before turning back on the path the strikes come again in doubled successions. Turning around again, there is no tree at that spot, but tangled undergrowth. Meanwhile a certain animal rushed into the undergrowth.

 Mojisola stumbles when the earth starts quaking under her feet as if hundreds of elephant are approaching. The quaking would stop for a measured moment and continues again as if it has been timed. She wants to move, but loses balance—almost falling off her feet.  Then like the snap of a ‘Y’–catapult, a painful slap descends at the back of her neck. When she waves the flaming stick in the direction of the blow she sees nothing—she can only hear a mocking grin like the one made by a naughty two-year old baby. Again and again, slaps lashing at her back like spit of angry fire. Suddenly, the earth stands still. With her eyes reddening with rage, she tosses the flaming stick away and thrust her both hands in all directions of the forest. With that, lightning radiate into the night, hanging from one tree to another in a mighty web. Unfolding before her is a dwarf with a mat on his head, eyes hollowed out between a head twice bigger than a burnt-looking body.

“Why did you burn my skin?” The creature barks, showing clenched decaying teeth.

From his appearance Mojisola knows he is Egbere—a mat-carrying spirit.

With her hands resting on her hips, Mojisola snarls, “The reason is so obvious!”

“You deserve that!” the dwarf yells, “You stirred me and my children from sleep with that fire in your hand. After wandering endlessly during the day; you don’t want us to have a good sleep in the night? Many humans have come here, and they ended up as meats for the vulture!”

Mojisola smirks between a calm anger, “Now, show me your house around here.”

The creature points at the oak tree behind him, “Are you blind? Is that not a house? Don’t just let me drop this mat on the ground. Or else!”

Mojisola wonders what would happen if he drops the mat; nevertheless she doesn’t panic.

“Or else what!”

On hearing that, the creature spread out the mat on the ground, and at once the earth begins to vibrate again. Mojisola loses her balance and falls on her back. She feels her back stuck to the earth. The Egbere roars with a triumphant laughter which immediately drives his family out of the tree wall. All of them, with spears and swords in their hands, surge over Mojisola, swinging their weapons for finishing blows.

With blue flames shooting from her glowing red eyes Mojisola melts down their weapons into cloud of ashes. Yelping and screeching in pains, they all stagger backwards to reinforce. Again she uses her eyes to heighten the force of the wind which abruptly kicks the mat into the air like a dry leaf—the earth becomes stagnant at once. The creatures’ attention immediately divert to the flying mat. Like a rising piece of wood, Mojisola stands swiftly on her feet.

“My mat! My mat! My mat!” The father dwarf cries out, soaring after the mat in the air, but before he could reach it Mojisola has set the mat on fire with her glowing eyeballs. While the mat is blazing they all disappear into the night, wailing and screeching hurtfully.

Gasping in devastation, Mojisola wonders if the mat is their strengths. She believes they have gone to gather more force; maybe overpowering ones. Squinting into her palm again, she discovers that her destination is nearby. Just as she bends down to pick up another stick, she hears crowd of  chatty voices waking and dying under the wind. She wonders if there is a village where normal people are residing there.

She is baffled once she perceives reflections of fire afar off — that is the only path that leads to her destination.  She lights up the stick with pale orange flames. After walking a little further, she can see lamps twinkling like masses of stars in the blackness ahead. “Is this a night market?” She wonders aloud.

“Yes, it is a night market, but for the spirits of Aginju iberu,” a manly voice answers from nowhere.

“Who is that?” Mojisola asks.

“ I’m right beside you, if only you can use your inner eyes.”