I was born in a storm.
I've heard them say it many times. My mother, the villagers, even the priest—they always say the rain came, fierce and heavy, when I was born. That it wasn't just any storm, but one that seemed to rage in the heavens, almost as if it was angry with me for coming into the world.
My mother used to tell me that I didn't cry when I was born. Instead, I just stared. I could feel her voice trembling when she said it, like she wasn't sure whether it was something to be ashamed of or something she should be proud of. I wasn't sure, either.
"Ember…"
My mother would whisper it, late at night when the wind howled outside, when she thought I was asleep. "You were so quiet, not like other babies. You didn't even cry. You just… stared. Like you knew the world was never going to be kind to you."
She'd say it with this soft sadness in her voice, like she was asking me for forgiveness for something she hadn't done. Like somehow, I'd been wronged, and she couldn't protect me from it.
By the time I was six, I already felt it—how different I was. Different from my sister. Different from everyone else.
Ijeoma was everything I was not. Beautiful, soft, delicate. She was what the villagers adored. Her skin was like polished mahogany, her hair thick and curly, always kept neat and pretty, just like the other girls. Everyone loved her. The shopkeepers, the priests, even the old women who whispered in the market. They would always smile at her, give her sweets, make sure she was happy.
And then there was me. With my short hair, my clothes too big for me, and my eyes that were always too intense, too watchful. I was a shadow in a world where my sister shone like the sun.
"You look like a boy," Ijeoma would laugh, ruffling my hair—she always said it with a smile, but I knew she felt guilty.
"Mama says it's for your own good," she'd add softly, trying to make me feel better.
"From what?" I'd ask, even though I already knew the answer.
"From… yourself," she'd say, like it was some secret that no one could explain.
I didn't understand it. Why I had to be the one who was different, the one who couldn't even buy bread in the market. I wasn't ugly. I wasn't sick. I wasn't anything they said I was. And yet, no one would sell me a thing.
One afternoon, I walked through the market with a few coins clenched in my small hand. I didn't look at the other children. I kept my head down, like Mama always told me to. I approached the yam seller, the old man who always looked at me like I was a stain he couldn't wash away.
"You again?" His voice was like gravel scraping against stone.
"We don't sell to your kind."
"But I have money…" I felt my voice falter. I didn't know why it was so hard to speak.
He waved his hand dismissively. "Take it somewhere else, girl. We don't want your bad luck."
And just like that, I walked away. No food. No sympathy. Just a deep, gnawing hunger in my belly.
At school, I was invisible. I remember how the other kids would circle around Ijeoma, laughing, playing, while I stood off to the side. When they did acknowledge me, it wasn't with kindness.
"Don't touch her!" A girl sneered one day, her nose scrunched up in disgust.
"You'll get cursed, just like her."
"Why are her eyes like that? It's creepy."
"It's not normal."
I never told Mama what they said. It didn't seem worth it. Instead, I stayed quiet, the world around me buzzing like a distant storm. I kept my head low, tried to disappear into the walls of the classroom.
But one day, it was too much. Ijeoma was standing up for me, like she always did, and then one of the boys slapped her. I saw red. I heard my own voice crack, sharp and desperate.
"Don't touch her!" I screamed, my fists clenching.
"Or what?" The boy taunted, his eyes flashing with that cruel light.
The wind outside howled, and I felt something stirring inside me—something I couldn't control.
"Or I'll burn you," I whispered, my voice trembling with something I didn't understand.
That's when it happened. The boy's hand… it burned. His skin turned red, blistered, like fire was crawling up his arm. His scream echoed in the classroom, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't even understand what had happened.
That's when they came for me. The priests, the elders, the people who thought they knew everything.
"Your daughter is unnatural," the priest said, his face twisted in fear. "She is a danger to us all."
"She's just a child!" Mama protested, stepping forward. But her voice was trembling. She was scared.
"No, she's not. She's something else. Something dark. You must take her away."
I could hear Mama's breath hitching in the silence. Ijeoma was standing by the door, clutching my hand, her eyes wide with fear.
"Where would we go?" Mama's voice was almost a whisper, like she was begging for an answer.
They didn't care. They didn't want to care.
That night, as Mama packed our things, I asked her why we had to leave.
"Because," she said, her voice cracking, "no one will ever accept you here. Not after what you did."
"I didn't mean to…"
"I know, Ember. But they don't care. All they see is danger."
We left that night. With nothing but the clothes on our backs and a few coins that Mama had hidden away. And me. The girl who could burn the world with a thought.
I didn't know what we were running from. I didn't understand my powers. But I knew that somehow, this storm wasn't over.
💬 What to Expect Next:
Rejection. Magic. Hunger. A journey to find answers. And Ember, learning that the world doesn't just break you—it shapes you.
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