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Onakpa Digital Press, Karu (2026)

27/07/2026

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
A child has a strange way of changing a person's heart.

Sometimes before the child is even born.
The months passed slowly after my marriage.
The seasons changed.
The farms were planted.
The rains came.
The rains left.
And with every passing month, my stomach grew larger.

Inside me, another life was growing.
A life that knew nothing of grief.

At first, I felt frightened whenever I thought about becoming a mother.
I was still a child in many ways myself.
How could I guide another human being?
How could I teach someone else about life when I was still trying to understand my own?
Yet the child continued growing.
And slowly, so did my courage.

Sometimes I would place my hand on my stomach and feel movement.
A kick.
A turn.
A stretch.
Each movement felt like a secret conversation.
A message from someone I had never met.
Someone who already belonged to me.

The day labour began started like any other day.
The morning was ordinary.
The afternoon was ordinary.
Nothing seemed unusual.
Then shortly before sunset, I felt a strange tightening deep inside my body.
It lasted only a few moments.
Then disappeared.
I said nothing.

An hour later, it returned.
Stronger.
Longer.
This time I stopped what I was doing.
Another followed.
Then another.
Soon the elderly women knew.
"The baby is coming."

The words spread quickly through the compound.
By nightfall, several elderly women had gathered.
Experienced women.
Women who had delivered children.
Women who had helped deliver children.
Women whose knowledge had been passed from generation to generation.

Jacob arrived soon afterwards.
By then he was older and stronger than the frightened boy who had stood beside me at our parents' graves.
Yet the concern on his face reminded me that some things never change.

"You will be alright," he said.
I nodded.
Though I was not entirely sure.
The pains continued growing stronger.
Then stronger still.
Then stronger again.
Soon speaking became difficult.
Each wave of pain arrived without warning.
Like a storm rolling across the sky.
Then it would ease.
Only to return once more.
One elderly woman explained what was happening.

"The muscles of the womb are working."
At the time, I barely listened.
Pain made concentration difficult.
But years later, I came to appreciate her explanation.

The womb, she said, was the special organ where a baby grows before birth.
When the baby is ready to enter the world, powerful muscles squeeze and push.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Slowly helping the baby move toward birth.

It sounded simple.
Living through it felt anything but simple.
The contractions grew closer together.
Each one stealing my breath.
Each one demanding every ounce of strength I possessed.
The women supported me.
Encouraged me.
Guided me.
Meanwhile Jacob remained nearby.
Fetching water.
Running errands.
Doing anything he could to help.

I still remember seeing the fear in his eyes.
The same fear I had seen years earlier when we lost our parents.
The fear of losing someone you love.
Hours passed.
The night deepened.
The stars moved across the sky.
The pains became almost unbearable.
Finally, the women helped me into the bathing area outside.

It was simple.
Open to the night air.
Surrounded by walls for privacy.
Nothing like a hospital.
Nothing like the delivery rooms.
But it was where many village children entered the world.
Including mine.

The women formed a circle around me.
Some offered instructions.
Some offered encouragement.
Some offered prayers.
The contractions continued.
Stronger.
Closer.
More demanding.

Every part of my body seemed focused on a single task.
Bringing new life into the world.
Then came the final stage.
The moment when effort and pain meet purpose.
The women encouraged me to push.
Again.
And again.
And again.
My heart pounded.
My muscles burned.
My entire body trembled.
For one frightening moment, I thought I could not continue.
Then I heard one of the women shout.
"I can see the baby's head!"

Suddenly excitement spread through the group.
The women became more animated.
More focused.
More determined.
And somehow their energy gave me strength.
One final effort.
One final push.
One final struggle.
Then, a cry.
Sharp.
Loud.
Beautiful.

The sound sliced through the darkness.
The sound of a new human being announcing his arrival.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then smiles appeared everywhere.
Relief.
Joy.
Gratitude.
The elderly woman holding the child looked at me and laughed.
"A boy."
A boy.

The words echoed through my exhausted mind.
My child.
My son.
The child who had lived beneath my heart for months.
The child whose kicks I had felt.
The child whose future I had imagined.
A son.

As they gently placed him in my arms, I stared into his tiny face.
And for the first time in many years, something unfamiliar entered my heart.
Hope.
Small and fragile.
But alive.

Yet as I held my newborn son beneath the fading stars, I could not know what fate still had waiting for us.
Because in Ogugu, joy often arrived hand in hand with sorrow.
And this child, born into celebration, would soon become part of a story far larger than any of us imagined.

TO BE CONTINUED…
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27/07/2026

HAPPY NEW WEEK
New chapter dropping tonight 🔥

15/07/2026

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
It was sometime after midnight when the door finally opened.

The lantern inside the room had almost burned out.
Its weak flame trembled against the walls.
So did I.
Mr. Ufola stepped outside.
His face was unreadable.
Neither happy nor sad.
Neither excited nor troubled.
Simply calm.
As though a ceremony had been completed.
As though a transaction had been concluded.
As though a chapter had been closed.

The moment he emerged, movement erupted outside.
Voices.
Whispers.
Footsteps.
Women.
Many women.

I froze.
For a second, I could not understand what I was hearing.
Then the realization struck me.
The women had never truly left.
They had remained nearby.
Waiting.
Listening.
Observing.
Perhaps not every word.
Perhaps not every sound.
But enough.
Enough to know.
Enough to understand.
Enough to satisfy tradition.

A strange coldness spread through my body.
The women who had prayed for me.
The women who had adjusted my wrappers.
The women who had called me "my daughter."
The women who had urged me to be brave.
They had been there all along.
Just beyond the door.

And suddenly, I remembered every moment of that night.
Every fear.
Every hesitation.
Every tear.
Every silent plea inside my heart.
And they had done nothing.

Not because they were cruel.
Not because they hated me.
Perhaps because they believed they were protecting tradition.
Perhaps because they themselves had once passed through similar experiences.
Perhaps because suffering had become so normal that nobody recognized it anymore.
Yet the result remained the same.
They did nothing.

Mr. Ufola had given me a white piece of cloth to clean with.
They were blood stain on the bed spread.
And a little more on the white cloth I cleaned.
He went outside holding the little piece of cloth.
The women saw him holding it.
He nodded.
They smiled.

The celebration outside continued quietly.
Voices rose and fell.
Some women sounded pleased.
Others offered congratulations.
The sounds drifted into the room like echoes from another world.
A world from which I felt completely separated.

I remained seated.
Motionless.
Unable to join them.
Unable to smile.
Unable to celebrate.
My eyes burned.
My chest felt heavy.
Heavier than it had during the burial of my parents.
Heavier than it had when I left school.
Heavier than it had when I accepted the marriage proposal.

For the first time, I began questioning everything.
The elders.
The customs.
The promises.
The sacrifices.
All of it.
Had I truly chosen this path?
Or had it been chosen for me long before I ever agreed?
The answer frightened me.

Outside, people spoke of honour.
Inside, I felt defeated.
Outside, people spoke of tradition.
Inside, I felt trapped.
Outside, people spoke of blessings.
Inside, I felt abandoned.

The tears came slowly at first.
Then steadily.
Silent tears.
The kind that leave no sound behind.
I cried for my parents.
I cried for my lost education.
I cried for the classroom I would never return to.
I cried for the girl I used to be.
That girl seemed very far away now.
Almost like a stranger.

The deepest pain was not anger toward Mr. Ufola.
Nor even toward Uncle Matthew.
It was the feeling that my life had been carried away by a river whose current I could not fight.
Everyone else seemed to have a voice.
The elders.
The relatives.
The women.
The men.
Everyone except Agnes.

And so I sat there in silence.
Listening to the distant sounds of celebration.
Listening to the fading voices outside.
Listening to the quiet breaking of my own heart.

Many years later, people would ask me when I truly became old.
They expected me to mention wrinkles.
Or grey hair.
Or sickness.
But they were wrong.
I became old that night.
At sixteen years of age.
Because that was the night hope stopped feeling young.
And despair learned my name.

TO BE CONTINUED…
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13/07/2026

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
For several seconds, there was silence.
The lantern flame trembled gently.
So did my heart.
Then the door opened.

Mr. Ufola entered slowly.
For the first time that day, I saw him not as a visitor.
Not as a respected elder.
Not as a wealthy farmer.
But as the man who was now my husband.

He was sixty years old.
His shoulders were broad and heavy from decades of farm work.
His face carried deep lines carved by time and sunlight.
Grey hair covered his head.
More grey hairs sprouted from the edges of his ears and even from his nostrils.
His beard was neatly trimmed.
His movements were slow but deliberate.
A loose white cloth hung over one shoulder.

The lantern light cast long shadows across his face.
He looked powerful.
The sort of man villagers listened to.
The sort of man whose opinions settled arguments.
The sort of man whose wealth commanded respect.

Yet standing before him, I did not see power.
I saw age.
I saw years.
I saw the distance between sixty and sixteen.
A distance no amount of wealth could erase.

Mr. Ufola closed the door behind him.
The sound seemed louder than it should have been.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
He studied me quietly.
I lowered my eyes.
Not out of affection.
Not out of shyness.
But because I did not know where else to look.

Eventually, he spoke.
"You are afraid."

It was not a question.
It was a statement.
I remained silent.
He sighed.
Then slowly lowered himself onto a wooden chair nearby.
The chair creaked beneath his weight.

Outside, distant sounds of celebration still floated through the night air.
Laughter.
Drums.
Voices.
All of it felt very far away.

"This is a big day," he said.
Still, I said nothing.
He attempted a smile.
A kind smile.
At least I think it was meant to be kind.

"You will be comfortable here."
"You will not lack food."
"You will not lack clothing."

I stayed silent.
Each promise seemed to miss the place where my pain lived.
Because hunger was not my greatest fear.
Poverty was not my greatest fear.
The thing I feared most had no name.

It was the fear of becoming trapped inside a life I had never chosen.
Mr. Ufola continued speaking.
About his farms.
About the coming planting season.
About the goats he intended to place under my care.
About the future.
A future he seemed able to imagine clearly.
A future I could barely see at all.

At one point, he mentioned Jacob.
"The boy will benefit from the land."
For the first time, I looked up.
Jacob.
Always Jacob.
The name struck directly at my heart.

Mr. Ufola noticed.
And for the first time that night, he seemed pleased.
"As long as he works hard, the land will help him."
I nodded faintly.
That small nod became the only response I had given all evening.
The room grew quiet again.
The lantern burned lower.
Outside, the celebration was finally beginning to fade.
One by one, the sounds disappeared into the darkness.

Mr. Ufola rose from his chair.
The movement caused my stomach to tighten.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The walls seemed closer.
The air seemed heavier.
A chapter of my life had ended.
Another was about to begin.

Outside, the village slept peacefully.
Inside, a sixteen-year-old girl sat on the edge of an unfamiliar life.
And as the lantern flickered against the walls, she realized something she would never forget.

Sometimes the loudest cries are the ones nobody hears.

TO BE CONTINUED…
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10/07/2026

CHAPTER FIFTEEEN:
The morning arrived with noise.
So much noise.

Before sunrise, people were already moving about the compound.
Women fetched water.
Men arranged benches.
Children ran from one corner to another.
Visitors began arriving from neighbouring villages.
By midmorning, the celebration had fully begun.

If a stranger had walked into Ogugu that day, he would have thought a great festival was taking place.
Goats were slaughtered one after another.
Large pots stood over burning firewood.
Cassava meals were prepared in abundance.
Rice filled enormous cooking pots.
The smell of spices drifted through the air.
People ate until they were satisfied.
Then ate again.

Calabashes of palm w**e moved from hand to hand.
Burukutu flowed freely.
Laughter echoed through the village.
Traditional songs filled the air.
Drums spoke loudly beneath the afternoon sun.
The talking drums were in full swings.
“Ufola” and “Agnes” echoed through the forests of Ogugu.

Women danced.
Men danced.
Children danced.
Everyone seemed happy.
Everyone except me.

I sat among other women, dressed in my wedding attire.
People admired the fabrics purchased in Ankpa.
They admired the beads.
They admired the wrappers.
They admired the jewellery.

Again and again, visitors praised my good fortune.
"Agnes is blessed."
"Mr. Ufola has done well."
"She will never know hunger."
"She is entering a wealthy home."
I smiled when required.
I nodded when required.
But inside, my heart felt strangely distant.
As though I were watching somebody else's wedding.
As though I were a visitor observing events from afar.

Several times during the day, I searched for Jacob among the crowd.
Whenever our eyes met, neither of us smiled much.
We did not need words.
Both of us understood.
This day was changing everything.

As evening approached, the celebration only grew larger.
More palm w**e arrived.
More visitors arrived.
More songs were sung.
The village seemed determined to celebrate until exhaustion defeated everyone.
Then darkness finally descended.
Lanterns were lit.
Fires glowed across the compound.
The stars appeared overhead.
And with night came the final stage of the marriage.

According to tradition, a bride was not taken to her husband's house during daylight.
The journey belonged to the night.
So people waited.
Until the appointed hour arrived.
Then the women came for me.
My heart immediately began pounding.
The laughter around me suddenly sounded far away.
The songs sounded distant.
Everything felt unreal.
Several elderly women surrounded me.
Some carried lanterns.
Others carried gifts.
Others sang softly as we walked.

The procession moved slowly through the darkness.
Villagers watched from both sides of the path.
Some offered blessings.
Others waved.
Children followed behind until they were chased away.

Ahead of us stood Mr. Ufola's compound.
His zinc-roofed house reflected the lantern light.
The house looked larger than most others in the village.
Solid.
Impressive.
Respected.
Everything people admired.
Everything people pointed to as evidence that I was fortunate.
Yet as I approached it, my legs felt heavy.
Very heavy.

The gate opened.
The women led me inside.
The compound was filled with relatives and well-wishers.
More songs followed.
More prayers followed.
More blessings followed.
Then gradually, one by one, people began leaving.
The crowd became smaller.
The songs became quieter.
The voices became fewer.
Until eventually only a handful of elderly women remained.

They escorted me into a room.
The room that would now become mine.
Or so they said.
A bed stood at the centre.
A lantern burned softly nearby.
Everything appeared carefully prepared.
Then I noticed something.

A white cloth had been spread neatly across the bed.
Perfectly white.
Perfectly visible.
I stared at it.
One of the elderly women noticed.
She exchanged glances with the others.
Nobody explained anything.
They did not need to.
By then, I already understood.
The cloth was not there by accident.
It was waiting.
Watching.
Expecting.
A silent witness to the night ahead.

Suddenly, every warning.
Every instruction.
Every lesson about marriage.
Every discussion of Agalama.
Returned to my mind at once.
My mouth became dry.
The room seemed smaller.
The air seemed heavier.

One elderly woman squeezed my shoulder gently.
"Be strong, my daughter."
Another adjusted my wrapper.
A third offered a brief prayer.
Then they slowly turned toward the door.
One by one, they stepped outside.

The room grew quieter.
The lantern flickered softly.
The white cloth remained spread across the bed.
Waiting.
And as the last woman reached the doorway, she paused briefly before closing the door behind her.

The sound echoed through the room.
And for the first time that day, Agnes understood with absolute certainty that her old life had ended.
Outside, the celebration continued.

Inside, she sat alone.
Listening.
Waiting.
As footsteps approached from the darkness beyond the door...

TO BE CONTINUED…
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09/07/2026

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
The night before my wedding, I felt as though I was standing at the edge of a cliff, watching the last pieces of my freedom disappear into darkness.

The compound was unusually busy.
Lanterns glowed beneath the night sky.
Visitors came and went.
Elders gathered in groups.
Women moved about carrying trays and calabashes.
Voices filled the air.
Some cheerful.
Some serious.
Some ceremonial.

The marriage negotiations had entered their final stage.
I sat quietly in a corner with other women while the men deliberated.
As custom demanded, my presence was unnecessary.
My future was being discussed without me.
Again.

Every now and then, fragments of conversation drifted towards us.
Amounts.
Conditions.
Promises.
Agreements.
The language of marriage.
The language of transactions.
The language of adults.

At some point, a murmur of approval spread through the gathering.
People nodded.
Several elders smiled.
One old man even exclaimed, "Mr. Ufola has done well."

Curiosity eventually got the better of me.
Later, one of the women explained the details.
Mr. Ufola had formally transferred two acres of farmland to Jacob.
Good farmland.
Fertile farmland.
Land capable of producing substantial harvests.

When I heard the news, my heart softened.
I immediately thought of my brother.
Perhaps his life would improve after all.
Perhaps my sacrifice would not be entirely wasted.

The woman continued.
"Seven goats have also been given in your name."
Seven goats.
I had never owned even one.
Now I supposedly owned seven.
People spoke of it as though I should feel honoured.
As though goats could replace choices.
As though livestock could heal loneliness.

Then came another announcement.
Mr. Ufola had paid a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand naira.
The figure moved through the compound like a powerful wind.
People were impressed.
Very impressed.
Many described it as generosity.
Others described it as proof of serious commitment.
The praises continued long into the evening.
But it was not the money that frightened me.
It was what came next.

Much later, after several rituals had been completed, the elders gathered everyone for what they called the most important part of the night.

"Agalama".

The word carried weight.
Even before anyone explained it, I could sense its importance.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Conversations became quieter.
Faces became more serious.
Children were sent away.
Only adults remained.

An elderly man rose slowly to his feet.
His voice carried authority.
"A woman is not merely married into a family."
He paused.
"She is committed to it."
Several elders nodded.

The old man continued speaking about Agalama.
About loyalty.
About obedience.
About responsibilities.
About expectations.
As he spoke, I felt the invisible walls around my future growing taller.
One by one, the rules were explained.
A married woman belonged to her husband's household.
A married woman was expected to be faithful.
A married woman was expected to conduct herself carefully.

Then the rules became more specific.
Far more specific.

If another man approached her improperly, she must reject him immediately.
If a man repeatedly sought her attention, she was expected to inform her husband.
If she had significant dealings with another man, transparency was expected.
If she is involved in extra-marital relationship with another man, it is her certain death.
If the husband become aware and still eat food from her, he is certain to die.

Too many rules were listed. With all ending in certain death for the woman largely, and the man, if he is aware of the crime and refuse to publicly denounce the woman.

Then came another condition.
A married woman was not expected to give away valuable property, livestock, harvests, or possessions from her husband's household without his knowledge and express permission.
Even assistance to relatives was expected to be discussed openly and approval must be sought from the husband.
His "no" means "absolute no".

The elders spoke at length about trust, accountability, and respect within marriage.
Yet woven into those teachings were darker warnings.
Warnings that frightened me.
Warnings about terrible consequences.
Warnings about mysterious deaths, calamities, and misfortunes said to follow those who broke the covenant of Agalama.
The elders spoke of them with certainty.
The women listened with solemn faces.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody questioned anything.
Fear hung in the air like smoke.

As I listened, my hands grew cold.
I thought about Jacob.
The brother for whom I had agreed to this marriage.
The brother I loved more than anyone else in the world.
Would I now need permission before helping him?
Before supporting him?
Before giving him anything?

The thought felt like a chain wrapping itself around my heart.
Yet nobody seemed troubled by it.
To everyone else, this was simply tradition.
The way things had always been.
The way things should remain.

When the gathering finally ended, people appeared satisfied.
The agreements had been reached.
The rituals had been completed.
The marriage could proceed.
But as I lay awake later that night, staring into the darkness above me, I could not stop thinking about Agalama.
About promises.
About obligations.
About fear.
About how quickly a person's life could become governed by rules she never created.

Outside, the village slept peacefully.
Inside, my heart trembled.
Tomorrow, they said, I would become Mrs. Ufola.
Tomorrow, I would enter the zinc-roofed compound everyone admired.
Tomorrow, I would begin the life they had chosen for me.
And for the first time since accepting the marriage, I found myself asking a question I was afraid to answer.

"What if the price of saving Jacob was losing myself?"

The night offered no reply.
Only silence.
And the slow approach of dawn.

TO BE CONTINUED…
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07/07/2026

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
Three weeks after I accepted Mr. Ufola's proposal, preparations for the marriage gathered speed.

The village was excited.
Far more excited than I was.
Women spoke about fabrics.
Men discussed dates.
Children talked about the coming celebration.
Only I seemed to understand that this was not merely a wedding.
It was a farewell.
A farewell to the little life I still possessed.

One morning, Mrs. Matthew woke me before sunrise.
"My daughter, prepare yourself."
I rubbed my eyes.
"Prepare for what?"
"We are going to Ankpa."
At the mention of Ankpa, my heart stirred slightly.
I had not travelled anywhere in a long time.
The village had become my entire world.
The opportunity to leave, even for a day, felt strangely exciting.
Perhaps because it reminded me of the life I once knew.

By first light, we were on our way.
The road was dusty.
The vehicle old.
Passengers squeezed tightly together.
Yet I hardly noticed the discomfort.

For two hours, I watched the passing scenery.
Villages.
Farms.
Roadside traders.
School children walking in groups.
I found myself watching them more than anything else.
Some wore uniforms.
Some carried books.
Some laughed loudly.
Others chased one another along the roadside.

For a brief moment, I imagined myself among them.
Not as a bride.
Not as somebody's wife.
Simply as Agnes.
A schoolgirl.
A girl with a future.
Then the vehicle moved on.
And the dream vanished.

By late morning, we arrived in Ankpa.
The town felt alive.
Far busier than Ogugu.
Motorcycles buzzed through the streets.
Market women shouted from their stalls.
Traders displayed goods of every kind.
Colours seemed to dance everywhere.
Red fabrics.
Blue fabrics.
Yellow fabrics.
Shiny jewellery.
Plastic wares.
Household items.
Everything.

Mrs. Matthew appeared pleased.
"This is where we will buy your things."
Your things.
The words sounded strange.
Nothing truly felt like mine anymore.
Still, I followed her.

Mr. Ufola had provided the money.
And according to custom, preparations had to be made.
The shopping began.
The first stop was a fabric store.
Rolls of cloth lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
Mrs. Matthew examined them carefully.
"This one."
"No, not that one."
"What about this?"

The trader unfolded fabric after fabric.
Soon colourful materials piled up before us.
Wedding wrappers.
Blouses.
Head ties.
Cloths for special occasions.
Cloths for visitors.
Cloths for ceremonies.
The list seemed endless.
People kept asking my opinion.
"Do you like this one?"
"Does this colour suit you?"
"What about this design?"
I answered when necessary.
But my heart was elsewhere.
Far away from fabrics and celebrations.

Next came jewellery.
Necklaces.
Earrings.
Bracelets.
Decorative beads.
The trader praised each item as though it belonged in a palace.
Mrs. Matthew nodded approvingly.
"This will make you look beautiful."
I forced a smile.
The irony was painful.
Everyone seemed concerned about how beautiful I would look.
Nobody seemed concerned about how unhappy I felt.

The shopping continued.
Plates.
Bowls.
Cooking pots.
Buckets.
Storage containers.
A kerosene stove.
Mats.
Household items of every description.
One by one they were purchased.
One by one they were packed.
One by one they became symbols of a life waiting for me.
A life I had not chosen.

At some point during the afternoon, Mrs. Matthew led me into another shop.
A mirror hung on one wall.
While she negotiated prices, I found myself staring at my reflection.
For several moments, I hardly recognized the girl looking back.
She appeared older.
Not because of age.
But because of sorrow.

Her eyes carried burdens no sixteen-year-old should carry.
Her smile had become rare.
Her dreams had become fragile.
I continued staring.
And suddenly, a thought entered my mind.

Perhaps this was exactly how my mother looked when she was sixteen.
Perhaps she too had stood before a mirror wondering about the future.
Perhaps she had imagined grandchildren.
Success.
Happiness.
Everything a mother wishes for her children.
Would she recognize me now?
Would she be proud?
Or would she weep?

The thought hit me so hard that I quickly looked away.
Tears were beginning to form.
That evening, after the shopping was completed, our purchases were loaded into a vehicle.
The pile looked enormous.
Clothes.
Jewellery.
Pots.
Plates.
Household items.
Enough to convince the village that I was entering a prosperous home.

People would admire the gifts.
They would praise Mr. Ufola's generosity.
They would point to the items as evidence of my good fortune.
What they would never see was the cost.
The real cost.
My dreams and aspirations.

As the vehicle carried us back towards Ogugu, I sat quietly beside Mrs. Matthew.
The sun was setting.
The sky glowed orange.
Passengers chatted around us.
But I heard very little.
Because somewhere deep inside, another realization had begun to settle.

The journey to Ankpa had not been a shopping trip.
It had been something else.
It had been the final preparation for leaving behind the last pieces of my old life.
And with every mile that brought us closer to Ogugu, the wedding drew nearer.
So did Mr. Ufola.
So did the life waiting for me behind the zinc roof of his compound.
A life from which there would be no easy return.

TO BE CONTINUED…
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06/07/2026

CHAPTER TWELVE:
Many people attempted to convince me about marrying Mr. Ufola.
First, it was an old woman.
Then another woman after another.
Soon it seemed every elderly woman in the village had become an ambassador for my marriage.

They came in groups.
They came alone.
They came while I fetched water.
They came while I peeled cassava.
They came while I sat beneath trees.
Every conversation somehow found its way back to Mr. Ufola.

"My daughter, God has blessed you."
"You should be grateful."
"Many girls are praying for such an opportunity."
"Do not reject your fortune."
Fortune.
The word followed me everywhere.
Yet it never felt like fortune.
Fortune should bring joy.
This proposal brought fear.

One afternoon, three elderly women visited Uncle Matthew's compound specifically to see me.
Their faces carried the confidence of people who believed they were helping.
One of them sat close and held my hand.
"My daughter, listen carefully."
I remained silent.
She continued.
"A woman does not marry age."
The others nodded.
"A woman marries security."
Again they nodded.
"Mr. Ufola can provide for you."
I lowered my eyes.

The old woman leaned closer.
"Can school provide for you?"
The question stung.
Not because it was true.
But because I knew what she wanted me to believe.
"Can dreams provide food?"
Silence.
"Can books build a house?"
More silence.
The women exchanged knowing glances.
As though they had already won the argument.

Then another woman spoke.
"You are thinking only about yourself."
The words pierced my heart.
Myself?
For years I had thought of little else except Jacob.
Every sacrifice.
Every disappointment.
Every humiliation.
Jacob was always part of it.

Then the woman delivered the sentence that changed everything.
"Do you know what Mr. Ufola has promised?"
I looked up.
"What?"
"He is going to give your brother two acres of farmland."
The room suddenly felt quiet.
Very quiet.
Even my breathing seemed louder.

The woman continued.
"Good farmland."
Another nodded.
"Very fertile land."
The third smiled.
"Land that can produce enough crops every season."
I said nothing.

They pressed harder.
"Your brother is becoming a man."
"He needs a future."
"He needs something to stand on."
"Without land, how will he survive?"
Then came the final blow.
A blow aimed directly at the weakest part of my heart.

"With the proceeds from that farm, Jacob can return to school."
For a moment, the world disappeared.
I saw only my brother.
Jacob carrying books again.
Jacob wearing a school uniform again.
Jacob sitting in a classroom again.
Jacob becoming the engineer he once dreamed of becoming.
The dream I had watched die years earlier.
A dream buried beside our parents.

The old women kept talking.
But their voices sounded distant now.
My mind was elsewhere.
With Jacob.
Always Jacob.

That evening, I sat alone beneath a tree until darkness arrived.
Thinking.
Remembering.
Hurting.

I thought about my own dreams.
The classroom I never returned to.
The examinations I never wrote.
The life I never lived.
I thought about the years already lost.
Then I thought about Jacob.
My little brother.
The boy who had stood beside me at our parents' graves.
The boy who worked on farms instead of solving mathematics problems.
The boy who still occasionally stared at school children passing by.
As though looking at a life that belonged to somebody else.

That night, he found me sitting outside.
"Agnes?"
I wiped my eyes.
"Yes?"
"You have been crying."
I forced a smile.
"No."
He sat beside me.
For several minutes neither of us spoke.

Then I asked a question.
"Jacob, if you had the chance to return to school, would you go?"
His answer came immediately.
"Yes. Definitely."

The certainty in his voice broke my heart.
Because it revealed something I already knew.
The dream was still alive.
Wounded.
Fading.
But alive.

I looked away before he could see my tears.
The next morning, I gave my answer.
Not because I loved Mr. Ufola.
Not because I wanted to marry him.
Not because I believed the marriage would make me happy.
I agreed because I believed it might save Jacob.
I agreed because I believed one life should not be wasted if another could still be rescued.
I agreed because I was sixteen years old and desperate enough to sacrifice myself for my brother.

When Uncle Matthew heard my decision, he smiled.
The elders smiled.
The old women smiled.
The village smiled.
Only Jacob did not.

When he learned the reason behind my decision, he shook his head.
"No."
His voice trembled.
"No, Agnes."
I tried to reassure him.
"It is alright."
"No."
"You will return to school."
"No."
"You will have a future."
He stood up.
Anger and tears fighting inside him.
"I don't want it."
I smiled through my own tears.
"You will understand one day."

But even as I spoke those words, something deep inside me whispered a terrible truth.
Some sacrifices do not save anyone.
Some sacrifices simply create another victim.
And as preparations for my marriage began, I prayed that my sacrifice would be different.

I prayed that losing my future would help Jacob find his.
I prayed that one broken dream might be enough.
I had no idea that fate was not finished with either of us.

TO BE CONTINUED…
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