The town of Eshara had changed, but not as much as outsiders might think. There were new buildings, painted in brighter colors, and the main road was now lined with shops selling phone cards, second-hand clothes, and fried snacks. Motorcycles buzzed through the streets, and children carried plastic buckets of water on their heads. But beneath the noise of engines and the glow of phone screens, the same old rules still lived in the hearts of the people.
Chinedu Okafor sat in the back seat of his father's black SUV, staring out the tinted window as the car rolled slowly through the town. He had not been back to Eshara in years. His father had moved the family to Abuja when Chinedu was still in secondary school, and since then, Eshara had become a place of holidays and short visits.
Now he was twenty-three, fresh out of university, and his father had insisted he return for a while. The judge said it was time for Chinedu to learn about his roots, to understand the people he would one day serve. Chinedu knew what that meant. His father wanted him to follow the same path, to study law, and to carry the family name with pride.
But as the car passed the familiar streets, Chinedu felt a strange pull in his chest. He remembered the stories his grandmother used to tell him when he was a boy. Stories of old Eshara, of love and betrayal, and of whispers that could destroy lives. He had always thought they were just tales to pass the time. Yet now, as he looked at the faces of the people watching the car, he wondered if those whispers still lived here.
The car stopped in front of the family house, a large compound with high walls and a heavy gate. The driver opened the door, and Chinedu stepped out. The air smelled of dust and fried plantain. Neighbors stood at a distance, watching. Some smiled politely; others whispered behind their hands.
Inside, his mother welcomed him with a warm hug, but his father only gave a firm nod. "You will spend some time here," the judge said. "You will learn. And you will not forget who you are."
Chinedu nodded, though his heart was heavy. He already knew this visit would not be about freedom. It would be about duty.
Later that evening, restless, he decided to take a walk. He slipped out of the compound and wandered toward the edge of town, where the houses grew smaller and the forest began. The air was cooler there, and the noise of the town faded.
That was when he saw her.
She was standing by the river, her feet in the water, a basket of herbs at her side. Her hair was tied back, but a few strands had escaped, brushing against her face. She bent to wash the leaves in the water, her movements quick and sure.
Chinedu stopped, his breath caught. He did not know her, yet something about her felt familiar, as if he had seen her before in a dream.
She looked up and saw him. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then she straightened, brushing her hands on her dress.
"Are you lost?" she asked. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp.
Chinedu shook his head. "No. I was just walking."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You are the Judge's son."
It was not a question.
"Yes," he said quietly.
She gave a small smile, though it did not reach her eyes. "People will talk if they see you here."
Chinedu frowned. "Why?"
"That is because I am Amara," she said. "The daughter of Mama Ifeoma."
The name struck him hard. He had heard it before, whispered in the market, spoken with both respect and fear. Mama Ifeoma was the town's herbalist, the woman people went to when hospitals failed them. Some called her a healer. Others called her a witch.
And this was her daughter.
Chinedu felt the weight of her words. He knew what people would say if they saw him standing here with her. He knew the whispers would spread faster than the river's current.
But he did not move.
"I do not care what they say," he said, surprising himself.
Amara tilted her head, studying him. "You should care. Whispers can destroy a person here."
Chinedu looked at her, at the strength in her eyes, and felt something stir inside him. He thought of the old story his grandmother once told him, of a boy and a girl who should never have loved each other. He had laughed at it then, but now, standing by the river, he felt the story breathing again.
Before he could speak, a voice called from the path. "Chinedu! Is that you?"
It was one of his cousins, coming toward the river.
Amara's eyes widened. She grabbed her basket and stepped back. "You should go," she whispered.
Chinedu hesitated, but the sound of footsteps grew louder. He turned, his heart racing.
When he looked back, Amara was gone as she vanished into the trees.
His cousin reached him, smiling. "What are you doing here alone?"
Chinedu forced a smile. "Just walking."
But inside, his thoughts were tangled. He could still feel the weight of Amara's gaze and the warning in her voice. And he knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.