The moonlight poured through the slits in the thatched roof, but inside the quiet hut of Mazi Eche and his wife Ahudiya, rest was nowhere to be found.
Awele tossed violently on her raffia mat, her breath ragged and shallow. Her limbs jerked, as though fighting invisible chains. Beads of sweat lined her forehead, soaking into her hairline, her wrapper tangled tightly around her legs.
Then came the whispers.
A hissing sound—low, sharp, constant.
From the shadows of her dream, she saw him again.
He stood in the clearing as always, barefoot on scorched earth, his hands bound behind him, face streaked with something dark—mud or blood, she never knew. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was loud, like drums before war.
On his head, long dreadlocks slithered like sleeping snakes, coiled but deadly. They always looked asleep… until she stepped closer.
"Awele…" he whispered without moving his lips.
Her feet moved on their own. Step by step. Her heart pounded like thunder rolling over hills.
As always, when she got too close—his eyes snapped open.
White. Glowing. And all at once, the snakes stirred to life, hissing and writhing with fury. The boy strained against unseen chains, trying to reach her—pleading—but the snakes turned on her, lunging.
She screamed.
"NOOOO—!"
Her shriek pierced the silent night.
Ahudiya jolted from sleep. "Awele!"
Mazi Eche, already sharpening his cutlass in the outer hut, stormed in. "Again?!"
They were by her side in seconds. Awele's body writhed on the mat, her hands clawing at her wrapper.
"Hold her legs!" Ahudiya cried, voice breaking.
Mazi Eche gripped her ankles gently but firmly. "my daughter! Wake up!"
Ahudiya placed both hands on Awele's cheeks, "Nnem, it's Mama. Wake up, wake up, my jewel—"
With a violent gasp, Awele jolted up. Her eyes darted around the room like a frightened deer, her chest rising and falling in rapid rhythm.
"Mama… Mama… they were going to kill me!"
"Hush now," Ahudiya said, gathering her into her arms. "We're here. You're safe."
Mazi Eche sat close, his face lined with both worry and frustration. "This dream again?" he asked gently.
Awele nodded, tears streaming. "But this time, he… he opened his eyes. He saw me. And the snakes—Papa, they were alive. I could hear them."
"You said that before," Ahudiya whispered, brushing her daughter's damp forehead.
"No," Awele sobbed. "This was different. He looked right at me this time. As if… as if he was begging."
A heavy silence filled the room.
"Ada nnaya," Mazi Eche said firmly, pulling her close. "Whatever this is, we'll find a way to end it. I swear on my father's name."
"You've said that," Awele said bitterly. "You've taken me to herbalists. Native doctors. You've given me all the leaves and roots in the world. Still, every night, I see him. Why? Why me?"
Ahudiya's eyes welled. "My child, we're trying…"
"I'm tired," Awele whispered. "I just want to sleep like a normal girl."
Mazi Eche helped her lie back down. "You're not a normal girl. You're my daughter." and you're going to be fine, he petted her gently and back to sleep.
As sleep returned to her, the hut fell quiet once more. Only the distant hoot of a night owl reminded the family that dawn had not yet come.
Ahudiya sat beside her daughter, watching her breathing settle. She reached out and gently touched the girl's cheek, smoothing away a stray curl that had clung to her forehead. "My daughter," she whispered. "Whether you are mine by blood or by fate, you are mine still."
Awele was a jewel—dark-skinned like the wet earth after rain, her tone glowing with a smooth, star-lit richness that made people turn their heads in the market square. Her legs were long and graceful, her movement light and deliberate like the flutter of egret wings. Her waist was narrow, her build slender, her smile warm like fresh palm wine on a dry throat.
Her eyes were perhaps her most captivating feature—round and white with dark pupils that shimmered like twin moons reflected on river water.
Awele loved her parents deeply—Mazi Eche, the seasoned hunter and yam farmer who doted on her like his only treasure, and Ahudiya, the soft-spoken but fierce mother who had eyes that read emotions like open palm leaves.
Yet sometimes, when she stood by the stream or sat beneath the ogbu tree watching the younger girls play, a strange ache would settle in her chest. A feeling like… homesickness.
Awele had no memories before the age of three. All she knew was that her father had found her one early morning, barely breathing, wrapped in strange linen at the edge of his farmland. Since then, they had called her *Awele*—the gentle one.
And she had lived up to the name. Humble, kind, soft-spoken—but not timid. There was an inner fire in her, a strong will that flickered behind her polite eyes.
The next morning came slowly. The rooster crowed thrice before Awele stirred. Her lashes fluttered open, heavy with the remnants of the nightmare.
But what reached her ears was not hissing this time—it was the swish-swish-swish of broom bristles across the compound floor.
She sat up quickly.
"Nnem?" she called groggily.
Outside, Ahudiya's voice floated in gently, "Ah, you're awake?"
Awele rose, tied her wrapper tightly around her waist and stepped out into the soft golden sunlight.
Her mother stood with her back to her, bent over, sweeping the front of the compound with quick, familiar strokes.
"Nnem!" Awele scolded, gently snatching the broom from her hands. "You should've woken me!"
Ahudiya laughed. "And why would I disturb the sleep of a queen after the war she fought last night?"
Awele pouted. "Still. I'm the one meant to sweep. Go and rest, let me finish this."
"As you wish, my stubborn daughter," Ahudiya smiled, standing straight and placing a palm on Awele's cheek. "But your eyes look brighter today. Maybe this morning will be better."
"I hope so," Awele whispered.
She bent to sweep, the beads on her ankle clicking softly as she moved across the earth
As Awele swept, her mind began to drift this time, not to dreams or darkness, but to the simplicity of morning: the scent of roasted yam from a neighbor's hearth, the bleating of a young goat nearby, and the gentle rustle of palm trees in the breeze.
She was just about finishing the compound when she heard the familiar soft voice.
"Awele, my good friend. I greet you."
She turned to see *Ola*, her closest friend, standing at the entrance with her own water pot resting against her hip.
Ola was beautiful in her own right—tall and full-figured, with caramel-toned skin that glistened in the morning sun. Her lashes were long and curled like dry fern leaves, and her smile was always lopsided in a charming way. Her mother was known for making the best palm oil in Umudum, and everyone said Ola inherited her sweetness.
Still, in a crowd, eyes always found Awele first.
"Mama Awele," Ola teased, good morning " hope you rested well .
Awele laughed, dropping the broom. "I would've been done if I didn't wake up late."
"You overslept?" Ola tilted her head. "That's rare for you."
Ahudiya, who had returned with a bowl of soaked ukwa, looked up from where she sat under the cooking shed.
Ola's expression softened. "Another dream?"
Awele nodded briefly, brushing the dirt off her hands.
"Well," Ola said, trying to change the mood, "the stream is calling. Let's fetch our water before the sun turns into a warrior itself."
Awele ducked into the hut and reappeared moments later with her clay pot balanced effortlessly on her shoulder.
"Nnem, we'll be back soon," she said.
Ahudiya looked at the two girls—so full of life and grace—and smiled faintly. "Walk carefully. Greet the stream for me."
"I will," Awele said, already skipping toward the path.
Ola followed, humming.
Ahudiya remained seated, watching their retreating figures. Awele's dark skin shimmered beneath the rising sun, her slim figure swaying gently beside Ola's fuller form. They laughed and chatted as they walked, their voices blending into the chirping of birds and the far-off calls of morning traders.