ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD) 

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

📘EPISODE 4📘

That same night, Abike walked without direction, tears soaking her face. The moon hung above her like a watchful eye, casting shadows on the narrow paths.

Her stomach growled painfully—she had not eaten since morning. She wrapped her thin arms around herself, whispering:

“Ìyá mi, e gbami (My mother, help me).”

As she walked, she passed houses where warm light flickered through raffia windows. She could hear laughter, the clatter of dishes, children calling for food. Her heart sank deeper.

“Why is my life different? Am I not a child like them?” she murmured, her voice cracking.

At the market square, she found a corner and curled up, trying to sleep. But sleep refused her. Hunger gnawed at her belly like a wild animal.

By dawn, traders began arriving at the market with baskets of yam, peppers, smoked fish, and palm oil. Abíké’s eyes followed every tray of food. Her mouth watered, but shame held her back.

At one stall, an elderly woman selling roasted corn noticed her.

“Ọmọ kékeré (young child), why are you sitting there like a lost goat? Have you eaten?”

Abíké lowered her eyes, ashamed. “No, ma.”

The woman’s heart softened. She broke a roasted corn in half and handed it to her.

“Eat, my dear. Hunger kills faster than sorrow.”

Tears filled Abíké’s eyes as she whispered, “Ese ma (thank you, ma).”

But just as she began to eat, two market women approached, whispering loudly enough for her to hear.

“Is that not the orphan Tinuola accused of stealing earrings?”

“Yes, it is. They say thieves don’t change their ways.”

The words pierced Abíké’s heart. She quickly finished the corn, dropped the cob, and ran from the market square.

By evening, she wandered back to the stream. The mist rose again, curling like fingers. Suddenly, her mother’s ghost appeared, luminous and sorrowful.

“Ọmọ mi (my child), hunger is your first enemy, but it will not kill you. Every tear you shed waters the seed of your destiny.”

Abíké fell on her knees.

“Iyá mi, why must I suffer like this? Why did you leave me?”

The ghost touched her gently. “The yam must go through fire before it is sweet. Endure, Abíké. The world will one day know your name.”

Then the spirit faded, leaving only the whisper of wind in the trees.

Abíké wept herself to sleep by the streamside, the croaking frogs singing a lullaby she did not want.

The following morning, Abíké rose weakly and wandered along the dusty road that led to the farmlands. She had no shoes, no food, and no home. Her feet were blistered, her wrapper dusty.

A kind farmer, Baba Ojo, spotted her sitting beneath a palm tree. He carried a hoe across his shoulder and a basket of yams.

“My child, who are you? Why are you here alone?” he asked.

Abíké bowed respectfully, her eyes filled with tears.

“I have no home, sir. My mother is gone, my aunt chased me away.”

The old man sighed deeply, shaking his head.

“Àìní òun tí kìí jẹ́ kó mọ ẹni tó ní ọmọ (Lack often makes one forget they have a child).”

He handed her two roasted yams and a calabash of water.

“Eat, daughter. The road is long, but kind people still exist.”

Abíké ate gratefully, whispering prayers for him.

The Dangerous Stranger

But as fate would have it, not all strangers bore kindness. That evening, as Abíké wandered farther, she met a tall young man by the roadside. He wore tattered clothes but had a sly smile.

“Pretty girl,” he said smoothly, “what are you doing alone in the night? Don’t you know it’s dangerous?”

Abíké shifted uneasily. “I… I have nowhere to go.”

The man’s smile widened.

“Then come with me. I will give you food and a place to sleep.”

His voice was sweet, but his eyes were dark. Something inside Abíké trembled with fear. She remembered her mother’s words: “Not every hand stretched toward you comes in kindness.”

Still, hunger and exhaustion pressed her. She hesitated.

As she followed him slowly down a narrow path, the mist suddenly rose again, and her mother’s ghost appeared between the trees. Only Abíké could see her.

“Ọmọ mi, beware! This man’s heart is like the scorpion’s sting. Do not follow him into the dark.”

Abíké froze. Her heart pounded. She stepped back.

“Sir… thank you, but I cannot go with you.”

The man’s smile vanished. His eyes narrowed.

“You stupid orphan! Do you think you’re too good for my help?” He reached for her arm, but Abíké broke into a run, her bare feet slapping against the dust road.

She ran until her lungs burned, until her legs gave way. She collapsed in the bush, her body trembling.

In the silence, her mother’s voice echoed:

“You listened, Abíké. You escaped danger. But greater trials await. Be strong, my child.”

Abíké buried her face in her palms, her tears wetting the soil. She was alive, but her future still stretched before her like an endless road.

And so, Abíké’s wandering continued—between kindness and danger, between despair and hope, between the world of the living and the whispers of the dead.

TO BE CONTINUED……………………….

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Oh my lillte Abike. Honestly I couldn’t hold back my tears 😭 while I was preparing this episode. I just imagined myself in her shoes 👠 like it’s a true life story. I know 1 or 2 persons following this story might have had such experience, perhaps even more……My prayer 🙏 is that we shall all grow old and train our children, guiding them through the right path.