Whispers of the Ancients
The sun rose slowly over Umunnechi, casting a warm golden glow on the village nestled among ancient trees and rolling hills. The villagers had already begun their day, though most still lived in the shadow of the ama ọdụ ọha (community shrine)—an imposing structure of carved stone and twisted roots, where the elders performed rituals no one dared question.
Nneka stepped quietly outside her parents' mud house, her bare feet brushing against the cool earth. She was still a young teenager, barely old enough to be called a woman, yet there was something unusual about her. From the moment she could walk and talk, she had displayed a quiet wisdom beyond her years.
Everyone in Umunnechi agreed—Nneka was different.
She didn't own a garden, as she still lived under her parents' roof, but somehow, she knew the secrets of the soil. She could point out herbs that healed, leaves that soothed, and roots that broke fevers. Her knowledge was not taught in any school, nor passed down by any elder. It's simply… was.
"She's blessed," the old women would murmur, watching her fingers crush leaves with precision.
"She carries a light," others would say. "The gods cannot explain her."
The custodians of the ama ọdụ ọha had tried. The chief priest once threw cowries to understand her path, but the pieces scattered in confusion. The shrine's oracle offered no answers. The spirits were silent.
"The gods do not speak of her," the priest said with a frown. "She is touched by something higher... or something we cannot name."
Despite all this, Nneka lived quietly. She fetched water, helped her mother with chores, and offered herbs to those who came knocking in secret. Some said she had the gift of healing. Others believed she saw things hidden. But no one truly understood the source of her strength.
And yet, she never visited the shrine.
She wore no charms.
She bowed to no idol.
"She is too bold," the villagers whispered.
"She is proud."
"She will not last."
But the years passed—and still she stood.
One morning, as the village stirred to life and smoke rose gently from cooking fires, a girl named Ifunanya approached. She and Nneka were of the same age—both in the early stretch of their teenage years. Ifunanya's feet were dusty from the path, and her hands gripped a small basket filled with herbs.
She shifted nervously. "Nneka," she said quietly, "can I talk to you?"
Nneka looked up and smiled, nodding. "Of course."
"My mother is sick," Ifunanya whispered, her voice catching. "The healer says it might be... something placed on her. They've tried everything, but she's not getting better."
For a moment, there was silence between the girls. Nneka looked into her friend's eyes, not with fear, but with a quiet understanding.
"I don't know how to do all the things the elders do," Nneka said slowly, "but... sometimes I pray. And sometimes... the answers come."
Ifunanya blinked. "But—how? Who do you pray to?"
Nneka looked toward the hills beyond the village. The wind stirred gently between them.
"I speak to the One who made the hills," she replied softly. "The One they no longer talk about in the village."
Ifunanya's brows furrowed. She had heard whispers of this God Nneka believed in. A God who asked for no sacrifices. A God who could not be carved or carried.
"But will your kind of prayer help her?" she asked.
Nneka didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached into her small pouch and pulled out a few crushed leaves, handing them gently to Ifunanya.
"Take these," she said. "And tell your mother to rest. I will pray tonight. Not just with words... but with faith."
Ifunanya nodded slowly, unsure of what it all meant, but somehow comforted by Nneka's steady voice. She turned and walked away, the basket swinging at her side.
As she disappeared into the morning mist, Nneka remained still. She lifted her eyes to the sky, where the clouds were gathering like a curtain drawn across the heavens. Her heart stirred again—that quiet sense that she had been born for more than this village could understand.
She was still a child, yes. But her spirit had already begun to shine.
And when true darkness comes, she knew, only the pure would shine.