Chapter: 17
The grove was greener now.
That was the first thing people noticed. The once-sullen land — known for its uneasy silence and twisted trees — now breathed. Flowers grew without coaxing. Birds returned. Even the wind carried warmth.
But beneath the surface of this newfound peace, Amira stood at a quiet crossroads.
Word of her healing work had traveled beyond the village. Messengers came — from neighboring towns, from coastal settlements, even from elders who once rejected her. They brought requests, offerings, stories.
"Come," they said. "Teach us what was lost."
One village offered to build her a sanctuary.
Another promised to house a school for girls to learn the old rites — with her as the first Odoziaku, the keeper of spiritual wisdom.
And with every offer, a new tension bloomed inside her.
She looked at her home — the walls still painted with her grandmother's fingerprints, the soil where her own tears had mixed with Asanma's grief. Could she leave it behind?
Or would staying mean burying the fire again?
A Visit to the Baobab Tree
She stood beneath the ancient baobab that had witnessed so much of her becoming. The leaves whispered, as if remembering. As if urging her to choose not from fear, but from calling.
She remembered Elias's words: "You need a sky wide enough for the weight you now carry."
A sky.
That's what she longed for — not escape, not glory, but space. A place to breathe with the truth she had claimed. A place to carry the ancestral memory beyond the borders of fear and shame.
But was that place here?
Or elsewhere?
The Council of Women
That night, the oldest women of the village invited her to sit among them.
They did not ask questions.
They placed before her a bowl of water, a woven mat, and an unlit lamp.
Each item represented a path:
Water — to flow outward, carry the gift beyond.
Mat — to stay rooted, to build from home.
Lamp — to wait, to discern further.
Amira stared at the bowl.
She saw herself teaching young girls not to fear the sea or the wind. She saw herself entering towns still bound in silence, singing the songs Asanma once mourned.
But then she looked at the mat.
She saw her grandmother's ghost smiling.
She closed her eyes.
Then reached for the lamp.
The Waiting
She did not rush.
She stayed silent for three days.
Listened.
Dreamed.
Fasted.
And then on the fourth morning, she stood before the village square. She addressed them with calm certainty:
"I will remain… for now. To teach. To restore. But when the final rains come, and the river begins to swell, I will go. The story must leave the soil it was born from. Our healing cannot remain buried where only we can touch it."
There were tears. Applause. Resistance. Gratitude.
But more than anything — there was understanding.
A Final Sign
That evening, she lit a lantern at the edge of the river and whispered into the wind, "If you still think of me… let the tide carry this to you."
The water rippled. A soft breeze stirred.
No whisper came back — only stillness.
And sometimes… that was enough.