One fluid leap, and the leopard sailed through the night air, clearing the broken adobe wall surrounding Amara's father's compound. It landed without a sound on the red dust ground, its limbs absorbing the weight like a seasoned predator accustomed to silence. Its nostrils flared at the thick scent of goats. Without hesitation, it glided toward the animal pen tucked behind a bamboo shed.
Earlier that evening, Amara's father had counted the goats—five in all, including two mother does. Towering above the rest was the prized Arewa buck, a mountain breed from the northern savannah, acquired at Nkwo Idu market for what many believed was a laughable price. The man had cared for it obsessively, even rubbing native ointments on its joints and feeding it pawpaw peels and yam flour. It now looked less like a goat and more like a short-horned cow.
"The next New Yam Festival," he'd told a neighbor, "that beast will pay the dowry for my second wife, if Mama Amara keeps wetting the mat in her sleep."
But the leopard had no interest in dowries or dreams. It crept closer, its golden eyes glowing like molten brass. Something ancient stirred in its chest as it locked on the Arewa buck, which lay snoring gently, oblivious to the coming end.
"Ruff! Ruff!" barked Tama, the family's old hunting dog, jolted from sleep by a shifting breeze.
The leopard shifted focus instantly, like a soldier responding to an unseen command. It pounced toward the dog with uncanny speed.
A loud clank! and a window flew open. A glint of metal—then the unmistakable silhouette of a double-barreled shotgun emerged into view, aimed directly at the leopard's midsection.
"Nnem o! Chineke m egbuo m!" cried a voice in terror.
"Who the hell is that?" a voice barked across the dimly lit dormitory at Federal Academy, Uzioma.
Ugochukwu Nwachinemere kicked off his scarlet dorm blanket and sprang up from his bunk. He was drenched in sweat, breathing like he had outrun a thunderstorm. Somewhere, a metallic torch clattered as someone got to their feet.
"Ugochukwu!" snapped the voice again. It was House Prefect Wale, stepping out of his cubicle with a heavy flashlight. The sharp beam cut across the room, bouncing off mosquito nets and polished boxes.
"What kind of midnight drama are you rehearsing?"
Ugochukwu sat, trembling. "I… I don't know. It was just a dream."
"A dream that made you scream loud enough to wake a blind spirit?" Wale shook his head and flashed the light directly in Ugochukwu's eyes. "Have you no manners? Standing orders require silence after lights out."
"I'm sorry, Prefect," Ugochukwu said quickly, now standing.
"Report to the Prefect's Room tomorrow. Before morning assembly. Written explanation. I want details."
"Yes, Prefect."
Wale walked off muttering about disobedient juniors. Ugochukwu sat down again, his skin cold despite the heat.
He pulled the damp blanket back over his shoulders but couldn't find sleep. His thoughts flickered like a broken lantern.
Why a leopard?
Why not dream of home, of Mama making ofe onugbu, or his sister Obioma chasing lizards with a broom?
Why a beast with eyes like polished fire?
And why had he screamed… instead of rejoicing?
He'd seen only one leopard in real life—and that was enough.
He had been six years old, maybe six and a half. His parents were away at a burial vigil in their ancestral hometown, Obeledu. He and his older sister had fallen asleep on the mud veranda after eating roasted yam and red oil. It was the kind of sleep only bush children knew—deep and unbothered.
He had opened his eyes randomly—or perhaps something had opened them for him.
Two glowing lights hovered in the darkness.
Fireflies, he had thought.
But fireflies blinked. These lights didn't. They stared—still and steady, like the eyes of a god.
Then came the cry: ma-a-a-a!
A goat. One tortured bleat, then silence.
Obioma stirred, unsure of where she was. Then the thud—like a sack of garri tossed over a fence.
When Mama and Papa returned, Mama almost collapsed at the sight of the blood trail. Their best nanny goat, gone. Just a dark red path in the sand and a set of paw prints as wide as plantain leaves.
Papa, Mazi Agbu, exploded.
"It is Mazi Oke's doing! May thunder scatter his teeth! This is the fourth goat this moon! He must answer to the council this time!"
Later, when his father calmed down and his mother was in a mood to talk, Ugochukwu got the answers he sought.
Yes, in some villages, there were men who could slip into animal skins like clothes and become beasts. True, not all leopards in the region were just animals. Some had souls.
Mazi Oke, their quarrelsome neighbor, was one of them. His name was whispered during moonlit stories, his compound walked around by children playing catch. Whenever goats disappeared, people clucked and nodded. "It is Oke's doing."
"Did he wear a costume?" Ugochukwu had asked.
"No."
He became the leopard.
Entered it. Rode it like air rides thunder.
When the beast bled, he bled.
That excited Ugochukwu. He imagined commanding a leopard like a pet, telling it to fetch bushmeat, chase bullies, or leap across rooftops. He dreamed of becoming the village legend, the child with a beast for a shadow.
Then came the dark part:
If a leopard was caught… and killed?
Its human twin died too.
"God forbid," his mother said, clutching her wrapper tighter.
His father, solemn-faced, had reassured him. Their family had once been part of the Ebeagu, the leopard line, but that chapter had closed. The last to bear the gift had died childless. There would be no more leopards in their bloodline.
That had comforted him.
Until tonight.
Now, seven years later, the memory had returned like a debt unpaid.
And so had the dream. But was it just a dream?
He clenched his eyes shut, hoping for sleep. But deep in his chest, something curled—something ancient, coiled like a string of smoke refusing to rise.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would begin asking questions. Real questions.
Not from his peers.
Not from books.
But from the ones who truly knew: the shrine-keepers. The men who still spoke to trees.
And maybe, if the whispers were true, from Dibia Ozo, the last living interpreter of the Ikuku Tree.
The leopard's eyes might return in sleep.
But Ugochukwu would no longer run.
He would look back.