Ugochukwu had barely opened his eyes when he thought he heard his name echo through the dim morning light. The voice was low but firm—undeniably his father's.
"Ugochukwu!"
"Sir," he responded groggily, rising from the bare floor, confused at first about where he was.
The wooden bed he had shared with Emeka the previous night was now fully occupied by the latter, who had sprawled across it as though he owned it. Ugochukwu's back ached from sleeping on the cold ground. That bed, handcrafted from seasoned mahogany and topped with a straw mattress, was one of his father's proudest purchases—a symbol of academic success and forward progress. From bamboo to wood, and perhaps one day to an iron frame with springs.
In the central hut—the obi—Mazi Agbu was waiting, seated on a cane chair that had seen generations.
"Sit," he commanded with a nod.
Ugochukwu did so, still trying to gauge the mood in the room.
"You must have heard that Amara came home two days ago?"
Ugochukwu's heart fluttered. "Is she… is she here now?" he asked, failing to mask his excitement.
His father's eyes narrowed slightly, then he brushed aside the question. "Let's focus on you. Why are you here with this foreign boy, without warning, in the middle of the term?"
Ugochukwu swallowed. "We came so he can learn the Igbo way, Papa. So he can live among our people."
"Is that what the school said?"
"Yes, sir."
"But when you arrived yesterday, you said it was a special mid-term break."
A tangle of silence followed. Ugochukwu weighed the truth against dignity. He could not bring himself to reveal the suspension—not yet. In two weeks, they would return, and no one here would be the wiser.
"Papa, I said that to protect Emeka. He is not used to our ways. The school thought it best to let him stay in an Igbo village—to understand the roots of his father's culture."
Mazi Agbu stared at his son for a long moment.
"Did the school pick you for this responsibility?"
"Yes, sir. He is my friend. I was there when he… well… misunderstood some rules."
His father leaned back. "So long as you are returning to school in two weeks to continue your studies, I will not press further."
Ugochukwu exhaled, "We will return, Papa. That's a promise."
"Good. But tell your friend to accept us as we are. We will not change to suit him."
As Ugochukwu left the obi, his mind was already drifting. Amara was in town. Could it be fate? He had to see her before she left. First light would bring that opportunity.
By dawn, the compound was immaculate. The pit latrine had been scrubbed; the makeshift seat cleaned with ash and water. Mama Agbu had sprinkled powdered disinfectant and izal around the bathroom enclosure.
Ugochukwu noted it all with pride as he prepared Emeka for the day. There might be no tiled bathrooms or flush systems here, but the cleanliness was undeniable.
They arrived at Amara's compound to a dramatic welcome.
"Ugochukwu!" Amara's mother cried, hand clutching her chest. "My heart jumped out when I saw you. You are not on holiday?"
"Pattern," Ugochukwu saluted. "No, Ma. Not officially."
Her eyes flicked toward Emeka and softened with concern.
"This is my friend and classmate, Emeka. He grew up in America. His father is Igbo, but his mother is white. Our school asked me to bring him here, to learn village life."
The explanation rolled off Ugochukwu's tongue more fluidly with each telling.
The woman clapped her hands together gently. "So of all the boys in that prestigious school, they chose you?"
"Yes, Ma."
"Keep going, my son. Keep holding your head high. Who knows—one day this friend may take you to America!"
Then she asked, almost as an afterthought, "Did you know Amara is here?"
Feigning surprise, Ugochukwu responded, "No, Ma. I had no idea."
But before he could say more, the door behind her opened and Amara emerged like a vision. She ran toward him and embraced him, a moment so electric it made Emeka blink.
"This is Emeka," Ugochukwu introduced, when he found his voice. "My classmate and friend."
"And this," he said proudly to Emeka, "is Adanna—known around here as Amara squared for a reason."
Amara bashfully pinched his arm.
Emeka tried to kiss her cheek, but she gently pulled back, offering only her fingers. Undeterred, Emeka beamed.
Amara soon returned with two bowls of fruit salad—perfectly diced pawpaw, pineapple, banana, and citrus. The freshness of the ingredients mirrored her thoughtfulness.
"No whispering in any barbaric language!" Emeka cried playfully when she leaned in to explain in Igbo.
"But it's your father's language," Ugochukwu teased.
"Not mine," Emeka replied. "Still, I withdraw the word. Just… find me my own Amara."
They laughed together, the three of them, like old friends on a porch in spring.
Later that evening, Ugochukwu sneaked into the pit latrine—the only private place he could read Amara's letter. She had discreetly slipped it into his pocket when Emeka wasn't looking.
It was thick, and as he unfolded the sheets, her delicate handwriting flowed before him like a melody.
She began with her health. The headaches had worsened since the last term. They struck most violently during tests. No medicine seemed to help—Western or otherwise.
A sympathetic teacher had advised a visit to a Hausa spiritual healer in Ibagwa. Her mother had taken her there, and from there, the journey had shifted to Orji, near Owerri, where they met a dibia who shocked them with his knowledge of Amara's school life and challenges.
He connected her condition to an incident in her early childhood, when she had gotten into a quarrel with a classmate who later developed epilepsy and died tragically in a fire. The dibia believed the spirit of that girl had latched onto Amara out of revenge, hoping to drag her into darkness.
The ritual had been elaborate—white animals, sacred pots, specific salts, and a symbolic burial. They stayed for two nights.
Now she felt better—clear-headed, hopeful. She wanted to return to school for a test that Monday, to measure the success of the dibia's intervention. She concluded with a question: "Do you still think everything old is foolish?"
Ugochukwu folded the letter slowly. The pit latrine no longer stank; it felt like a confessional booth. His mind was torn between what he'd been taught at Government College and what his heart wanted to believe.
He remembered how Amara had looked that day—radiant, stronger. Something had shifted.
Maybe, just maybe, Dibia Ozo and all the ways of the old world were not so foolish after all.