The sun sat high and merciless in the sky, casting unforgiving beams down upon the baked earth of the village square. Heat shimmered in waves, rising from the dusty ground like the breath of ancient spirits. Beneath the wide, whispering arms of the old baobab tree, Iyi sat cross-legged on a reed mat, his hands busy weaving strands of raffia together absentmindedly. Around him, the marketplace moved with the slow, patient rhythm of survival—traders calling out their wares, goats bleating from their tethers, and the sound of pestles pounding yam drifting faintly through the air.
It should have been a peaceful day.
But his eyes—his healer's eyes—had learned to feel disturbance long before it found words.
And he felt it now.
A subtle pull.
A shift in the wind.
Then he saw her.
A small figure, no more than ten, moving slowly across the sun-baked earth with a limp that spoke of both injury and exhaustion. Her dress clung in patches, dust coating her skin, and one of her sandals dragged uselessly with each uneven step. But it was her eyes that held him—wide, dark, watching everything while hiding more than a child should ever carry.
She came alone.
No mother to hold her hand. No brother to lead the way. Just a trembling bundle of silence wrapped in scars.
Iyi straightened, his heart tightening as the girl drew closer. Her arms and legs bore the unmistakable signature of fire—burns that had healed poorly, raw skin now dulled and tight, patchy and painful to behold. Some marks were old, faded into smooth silver ridges. Others looked recent—scabbed and swollen beneath faded cloth wraps. But none of them broke her gaze.
"Uncle Iyi," she whispered, barely audible over the breeze. Her lips trembled, cracked from heat. "They said… you help people. My mother said... I should come."
She didn't cry. Not then. Not yet.
And that broke him more than tears would have.
He gestured gently to the shade beside him. "Sit, my dear. Let the tree cool your bones."
She hesitated, then settled cross-legged on the mat beside him, folding herself carefully, mindful of the pain each movement cost her.
Iyi reached for her hands—small, rough, the skin tight over her knuckles. He held them softly, without judgment. "What happened?" he asked.
The girl blinked. Her voice cracked. "The fire. It… it started in our kitchen. I was fetching water from the stream. I heard my mother scream. I ran back but…" Her lips trembled. "I tried to pull her out. She was caught. The flames… they touched me too."
Her words dissolved into silence, but the truth filled the space between them. It was not just the burns that brought her. It was the fear. The guilt. The desperate hope that someone, anyone, could help them still.
"She's hurt," the girl whispered. "Badly. She won't wake up sometimes. She groans and... her skin's—" She stopped, unable to go on.
Iyi pressed a palm to the girl's forehead—warm, too warm. Stress and the sun had taken their toll. From the folds of his satchel, he retrieved a small bundle: a cooling blend of neem leaves, crushed pawpaw root, and shea oil wrapped in a banana leaf.
"Come," he said softly, rising with a grunt. "Take me to her."
The girl's home lay on the western edge of the village, where the reed huts thinned and dry patches of land stretched toward the bush. The air grew thicker with smoke as they approached. The roof of the kitchen hut had collapsed, charred wood scattered across the ground like broken bones.
Inside the sleeping hut, the air was still. Too still.
Her mother lay on a woven mat, barely moving. One side of her body had been badly burned—the skin blistered and red, peeling away at the edges. Her chest rose slowly, her breaths shallow. Iyi knelt beside her and laid a hand gently on her cheek. Her skin burned with fever.
"She's fighting," he said quietly. "But the battle is hard."
The girl knelt beside her mother, tears falling silently now. She didn't sob. She had done all the crying she could. Now there was only the weight.
"I didn't know what else to do," she whispered. "I thought... if I could bring you... maybe..."
"You did right," Iyi said, voice firm but kind. "You did brave. And we will fight with her now."
From his satchel, he began to work.
He drew water from the family jar and mixed in a sachet of herbs—cooling mint, anti-inflammatory aloe, crushed turmeric, and a few drops of the lavender soap he had made under the moon. He bathed the mother's burns with the mixture, whispering softly all the while—not just prayers, but invocations. Words meant not just to comfort, but to awaken.
The girl watched everything, wide-eyed. "What are you saying?"
"I'm reminding her spirit of its strength," he said. "Sometimes, when the body suffers too long, the spirit tries to leave early. We speak to remind it that it is loved. That it is needed."
He gently applied salves made from shea butter infused with moringa and beeswax. With every layer, the skin looked less angry. With every breath, the mother seemed to deepen, slow, settle.
But healing was never instant.
It was a path. And they had only taken the first step.
Two Weeks Later
The hut smelled of lemongrass and hope.
The mother now sat upright on the mat, sipping from a cup of warm honey water. The burns were healing, the raw wounds now covered in protective salves and fresh bandages. Her voice had returned—weak but steady—and she smiled whenever Iyi entered.
"Thank you," she whispered often. "Thank you for my daughter… for not letting her carry this burden alone."
Iyi only nodded. "She is strong. She carried both of you until I arrived."
The girl had stayed by her mother's side throughout, tending the herbs, helping Iyi stir pastes, watching with sharp, eager eyes. She began to ask questions.
"Why do you crush the leaves before boiling them?"
"Why must the fire be low when mixing the oils?"
"Why do you say the names before each salve?"
Iyi answered patiently. She was not just curious—she was awakening.
"You have the heart of a healer," he said one morning, handing her a pestle and motioning for her to begin grinding turmeric root. "You feel what others feel. That is the beginning."
And so she learned.
Each day, she rose before dawn to fetch water, to gather herbs with Iyi from the nearby bush. She learned how to mix, to balance, to wait. She learned that healing was never rushed. That the spirit moved at its own pace, and the hands must follow.
Her burns healed, slowly. Some scars remained. But she wore them now like something sacred.
The Gathering Beneath the Baobab
That evening, the baobab's leaves rustled in the breeze like ancient tongues whispering blessings. The sky had turned pink with twilight, the air soft and golden.
Iyi stood beneath the tree with the girl beside him. She wore a new wrapper—simple but bright—gifted by a weaver who had heard her story. Her scars, still visible, no longer looked like wounds. They looked like maps—marks of where she had been and how far she had come.
The villagers gathered, their murmurs swelling like ocean waves. Children sat cross-legged on mats. Elders leaned on staffs. Even the skeptical trader who once laughed at spirit-healing stood quietly near the back.
Iyi raised his voice. "We gather not for medicine today, but for testimony. For story. This child came to me burned and afraid. Her mother near death. Yet through her courage, her patience, her hope, she brought healing to herself, her mother, and to all of us."
He turned to her gently. "Tell them, child."
The girl stepped forward, voice soft but steady. "I thought my mother would die. I thought I had no strength. But Uncle Iyi showed me that healing is not only for those who know—it's for those who try. I have learned to heal not just skin, but the fear beneath it."
A hush fell over the crowd.
Then applause.
Loud. Real. Alive.
It wasn't just for her survival. It was for her spirit. For daring to rise from ashes and become more.
As the moon rose, the crowd slowly dispersed, many leaving small gifts at Iyi's feet—baskets of fruit, bundles of herbs, cowries. But the greatest offering remained beside him—the girl, now radiant with purpose.
She looked up at Iyi and whispered, "Thank you. You gave me hope."
But Iyi only smiled, his eyes warm with pride. "No, my child. The hope was always yours. I only held the mirror."
And as the wind danced through the branches above, rustling ancient prayers, the girl with burns became more than a patient.
She became the future.