The Seed of Doubt
The night brought an unusual stillness to Umunnechi. No crickets chirped. No wind rustled the leaves. Even the firelight in the village homes seemed dimmer, as if the very air was holding its breath. It was as if the village itself sensed the tension building up, the weight of the unseen battle growing heavier with each passing moment.
Nneka lay awake in her simple bed, her eyes staring at the ceiling. The words of Mama Nwakego echoed in her mind, along with the faces of those who still clung to the old ways. She had always known there would be resistance—how could there not be? The darkness had wrapped its tendrils around the village for so long. But she had never expected it to feel so heavy, so personal.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on her door.
"Mama Nneka," a voice whispered urgently. It was Ifunanya again, the young girl from earlier. "Please, come quickly. My mother is worse."
Nneka jumped out of bed, her heart already racing. She had been expecting this. The village was waking up to the truth, but not all were ready to accept it. Some, like Ifunanya's mother, had become vulnerable to the powers that ruled the village. The fear was eating away at them, consuming them.
"I'll be there in a moment, child," Nneka called, quickly throwing on a cloth and grabbing a small satchel of herbs and oils. She didn't know if they would help, but she couldn't let the girl down.
The night was cold as Nneka stepped outside, the earth beneath her feet firm with each step. The village was quiet, the only sounds the distant rustling of leaves and the faint murmurs of the river. Ifunanya was waiting for her at the edge of the village, her face pale, her eyes wide with worry.
"Mama Nneka," Ifunanya said, tears brimming in her eyes, "please... she's not waking up. I don't know what to do."
Nneka placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "It's alright, child. Take me to her."
They walked through the village, past darkened homes and silent paths, until they arrived at a small, rundown hut at the farthest edge of the village. The air around it felt heavier, colder. It was as if something dark clung to the walls of the house, pressing down on the very air inside.
Nneka entered the hut, her eyes immediately falling on Ifunanya's mother, a woman no older than thirty, lying still on a mat in the center of the room. Her face was drawn with fear, her body unnaturally still, as if she were trapped in a dream she could not escape. The scent of smoke and burnt herbs lingered in the air, the telltale signs of an offering made in desperation.
Nneka knelt beside the woman, her hands steady as she checked her pulse. There was nothing physically wrong with her, nothing to explain the deep exhaustion that seemed to drain the life from her. It was something deeper, something spiritual. She could feel it in the air, the weight of the rituals and the fear that had been placed upon the woman's soul.
"This is not just sickness," Nneka said softly, more to herself than to Ifunanya. "This is fear. Fear placed on you by others."
Ifunanya knelt beside Nneka, her eyes searching her face. "What can we do? My mother has always followed the elders' ways. She never questioned them."
"That is the problem," Nneka murmured, her voice calm but filled with conviction. "When we bow to fear, when we let the shadows control us, we lose ourselves. We let the darkness grow within us."
Nneka reached into her satchel and pulled out a small vial of oil—sacred oil, a gift from her grandmother, infused with the power of prayer and the strength of light. She anointed the woman's forehead, her hands moving with a grace that spoke of deep belief.
"Ifunanya, you must understand," Nneka said, her voice gentle but firm. "The rituals of the past are not the way to salvation. The fear that they bring is a lie. We are not meant to live in fear. We are meant to walk in the light, no matter how small that light may seem."
For a moment, nothing happened. The woman lay still, her face frozen in fear. But then, slowly, the tension in the room began to ease. The heaviness that had hung in the air began to lift. The woman's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and the light in her eyes slowly returned.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ifunanya's mother opened her eyes. She blinked several times, as if she were waking from a long, troubled sleep. Her gaze met Nneka's, and for the first time in a long while, there was clarity in those eyes.
"Mama Nneka," she whispered hoarsely. "What have I done? I've been so lost in the old ways... I didn't know where else to turn."
"You've been led astray," Nneka said softly, her voice full of compassion. "But the light is always there, waiting for you to find it."
The next morning, the voice of the town crier pierced the quiet dawn. He walked the village with his iron gong, his voice loud and firm.
"Hear me o, hear me o! A cleansing is taking place in Umunnechi. From today, no one is to wear slippers. Let every foot touch the earth! All must go barefoot until the cleansing is complete!"
The message echoed through the streets, from hut to hut. Soon, women with tired eyes and determined hands began setting up their mats at the market square. Freshly plucked vegetables—ugu, olubu, okazi, nchanwu (scent leaves), and mounds of white abacha—were laid out for sale. Smoke from small fires rose into the air, mingling with the earthy scent of leaves and wet ground.
Mama Nneka, already preparing her morning herbs, looked up. "Nneka," she called, "quickly go and buy Ugba before the best ones finish."
Nneka obeyed but hesitated. A painful cut under her foot throbbed with every step. She couldn't walk barefoot. Not wanting to disobey the order, yet unable to leave her foot bare, she wrapped fresh leaves around her injured leg.
She reached the market quickly. The air smelled of fresh vegetables and wet earth. Women were already arranging their wares—scent leaves in woven baskets, slippery okazi, red palm oil, and bundles of yellowish abacha. Just as she stepped toward one of the sellers, someone gasped.
"Look at her legs!" a market woman shouted, her voice high and sharp. "She's disobeying the cleansing order!"
Heads turned. One woman dropped her tray of ugu, her eyes blazing. Another rushed forward, her wrapper swaying.
"It's that girl—ajọ nwa!" someone hissed under her breath.
That word again. Ajọ nwa. Evil child.
Nneka froze. She could feel their eyes burning holes into her skin, as though the leaves around her feet were proof of something dark living inside her.
"She thinks she's too holy to let her feet touch the ground!"
"She'll bring another curse!"
"She mocks our traditions—beat her!"
Before Nneka could explain, they had pounced on her. Slaps rained down. One grabbed her wrapper, another dragged her leaf-shod feet. They tore the leaves away and pushed her into the sand, leaving her bruised and breathle
ss. Her cries for help were swallowed by the angry shouts around her.