ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD) 

A Yoruba village story written by Mr Ezy (BRENY TV)

📘EPISODE 3📘

The rooster had barely crowed when Aunt Tinuola tied her wrapper tight across her waist and dragged Abíké by the wrist out of the compound. Her grip was like iron, and the girl stumbled, trying to keep up.

“Auntie, please… where are we going?” Abíké whispered, her thin voice shaking.

Tinuola did not answer. Her jaw was set like stone, her eyes blazing. When they reached the large open square beneath the ancient ìrókò tree—the very tree where the elders had entrusted Abíké into her care—she stopped, turned, and shoved the girl to the ground.

“Ẹ̀yin ará Ìkòrè!” (People of Ìkòrè!) she shouted, her voice sharp and commanding. “Gather here and see what shame this child has brought upon my household!”

Villagers, curious, left their chores and gathered. Farmers with hoes on their shoulders, women with firewood on their heads, children with bare feet—all came closer.

Abíké knelt in the dust, her wrapper slipping off her thin shoulders. Her heart raced as whispers spread around her.

“What has she done?” one woman asked.

“Maybe she was caught stealing,” another murmured.

Tinuola raised her hand dramatically.

“This girl, this so-called niece of mine, has stolen my daughter’s gold earrings! My own child Kehinde cried bitterly last night when she discovered them missing. And who was in the house? Only this orphan!”

Gasps rose from the crowd. Some villagers shook their heads. Others looked at Abíké with pity, but most with suspicion.

Kehinde and Bola stepped forward, feigning innocence.

“Yes, mother,” Kehinde said, her face calm but her eyes sly. “We saw her near the calabash where the earrings were kept. Who else could it be?”

Bola added, “She’s always sneaking around. Maybe she wanted to sell them in the market.”

The crowd murmured louder now.

“Àbí gbogbo ọmọ aláìní ló máa jẹ́ olè ni?” (Is every orphan destined to be a thief?) one man scoffed.

“Ọmọ tí kò ní ìyá, òun kò ní ẹ̀tọ́,” (The child without a mother has no right), another muttered.

Abíké burst into tears, her small body trembling. She lifted her hands, her voice breaking.

“Ẹ jọ̀wọ́, ẹyin àgbà (Please, elders), I did not take anything. I swear on my mother’s grave, I am innocent! Believe me!”

But her cries fell on hardened hearts.

Tinuola hissed and grabbed a whip.

“Crocodile tears! If I don’t correct you now, you will become a disgrace to all of us. Today, the village will see that I do not harbor thieves!”

She raised the whip high. Phash! It struck across Abíké’s back. The sound cracked like thunder.

“Ahhh!” Abíké screamed, her voice piercing the air. Tears streamed down her face.

Again the whip came down, and again, until her skin burned and her body shook.

Some villagers winced but said nothing. Who would dare confront Tinuola, a woman known for her sharp tongue and fierce temper?

Only Mama Abeni, the kind neighbor, stepped forward.

“Tinuola, e má ṣe bẹ́ẹ̀! (Don’t do this!) The girl is only a child. She has lost her mother—what gain is there in flogging her before everyone?”

But Tinuola spat on the ground.

“Let her mother’s ghost come and save her then.

Her words sliced through Abíké’s heart like a knife. She collapsed, clutching her chest, whispering through sobs:

“Ìyá mi… where are you?”

The villagers dispersed slowly, some murmuring, some silent. In the dust of the square, Abíké lay broken, her body aching, her soul bruised.

That night, when she lay in the smoky kitchen with welts on her back, the air shifted. The flames of the firewood bent strangely, and suddenly—her mother’s ghost appeared.

Her wrapper glowed like moonlight, her face sorrowful.

“Ọmọ mi (my child), I am here. Every lash that touched you, I felt too. Do not despair.”

Abíké reached out, sobbing. “Ìyá mi, I am tired. Everyone hates me. How long must I endure this pain?”

Her mother’s ghost knelt, her voice firm yet tender.

“Truth never hides forever, Abíké. Endure. A day is coming when your tears will turn to strength. But you must walk through fire before you shine.”

The spirit vanished, leaving Abíké trembling but strangely strengthened, her whisper fading into the night:

“Iyá mi… don’t leave me.”

The days that followed felt heavier for Abíké. Kehinde and Bola found joy in tormenting her.

“Thief!” Kehinde would whisper whenever Abíké passed.

“Orphan beggar!” Bola laughed, pushing her as she carried firewood.

Abíké learned to swallow her tears, but inside, her heart was bleeding.

One hot evening, after hours of chores, she sat washing dishes by the kitchen. The clay pots were stacked high, slippery with soap. Her hands, sore and tired, trembled—and then crash! One pot slipped and shattered on the floor.

The sound echoed across the compound.

Tinuola rushed out, her eyes blazing like fire.

“Ọlọ́run má gbà! (God forbid!) You have broken my pot?!”

Abíké fell on her knees instantly.

“Auntie, I’m sorry… it was a mistake!”

“Ìdílé yìí kò ní jẹ̣́ nítorí rẹ! (This household will not prosper because of you!)” Tinuola screamed. “First, you steal. Now, you destroy my property? Enough! Get out of my house!”

Abíké gasped. “Auntie, please… where will I go? I have no one!”

But Tinuola’s eyes were hard. She grabbed the girl’s thin arm, dragged her to the gate, and shoved her outside.

“Better you suffer outside than bring curses into my home. Leave!”

Kehinde and Bola clapped their hands and laughed.

“Yes, go! No one wants you! Even your dead mother left you!”

Their mocking voices followed Abíké as she stumbled down the dusty road, clutching her wrapper tightly around her thin body.

Darkness fell. The moon was high, casting silver light on the village paths. Dogs barked in the distance. The air was cold, biting into her skin.

Abíké wandered aimlessly, her feet bare, her stomach empty, her body weak. At last, she reached the edge of the stream. The water glistened under the moonlight, mist rising softly above it.

She collapsed to her knees, hugging herself. Her tears fell into the soil.

“Ìyá mi… I have no home. No food. No love. What will become of me?”

Suddenly, the mist thickened, swirling into shape. Slowly, the figure of her mother emerged—her spirit glowing, beautiful yet sorrowful.

“Abíké,” the ghost said, her voice like the rustle of wind through palm trees, “tonight marks the beginning of your wandering. You will taste hunger, pain, and rejection. But remember—my eyes follow you.”

Abíké stretched out her hand, trembling.

“Take me with you, Ìyá mi! I cannot bear this life. I want to go where you are!”

But the spirit shook her head gently.

“No, ọmọ mi (my child). Your journey is not over. Destiny is molding you. Like fire molds iron, pain will mold your strength. You cannot follow me—not yet.”

Abíké sobbed, her cries echoing across the stream. The spirit bent close, whispering like a lullaby:

“You will walk in darkness, but you will also see light. Hold on, Abíké.”

Then the ghost faded into the mist, leaving the girl alone in the night—shivering, broken, but strangely alive with a flicker of unseen hope.

And so, the motherless child became the chased child abandoned, wandering, but watched by a spirit that would never leave.

TO BE CONTINUED………

Prev Episode   Next Episode