ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)  

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

📘EPISODE 6📘

She turned sharply. Nothing but shadows and trees. She bit her lip, forcing herself to keep walking. But the sound returned—slow, deliberate, following.

Her heart quickened. She began to walk faster, her bare feet thudding against the earth. Then came a voice, low and mocking:

“Ẹwà ọmọ… (beautiful girl), why are you walking so fast? Don’t you know the night is dangerous?”

Abíké froze. From the shadows, three men emerged. Their bodies reeked of palm wine, their eyes glistened with a predator’s hunger. They were no strangers—village drunkards, hunters of shame rather than game.

The tallest of them, with a jagged scar across his cheek, laughed. “Ah! Is this not the orphan girl that disgraced herself in the market today? Who will care if we enjoy her tonight?”

The others chuckled wickedly, circling her like hyenas around wounded prey.

Fear rooted Abíké to the ground. She whispered, “Iyá mi, save me…” but her voice was swallowed by the rustle of leaves.

The men drew closer. One reached out to grab her wrist. Instinct exploded inside her—she twisted free and ran.

Barefoot, wrapper flying, she sprinted into the night, her breath ragged. Branches slapped her skin, stones cut her soles, but she did not stop. Behind her, the men shouted and cursed.

“Catch her!”

“She cannot escape!”

“She’s ours tonight!”

Their laughter thundered through the dark. Abíké stumbled, her knees scraping the earth, but she forced herself up again. Her lungs burned. Her heart felt like it would burst. She could already feel their presence closing in.

“Iyá mi!” she screamed. “Don’t let them take me!”

The forest answered with silence—then with a sudden gust of icy wind.

The clouds shifted. Moonlight spilled across the path, and mist began to curl around the trees. Abíké stumbled into a small clearing, gasping for air. The ground trembled slightly under her feet. She turned—and saw them again, the three men, grinning, advancing.

But something was different.

The mist thickened, swirling between her and them. And then, out of the mist, her mother’s ghost appeared.

She was radiant, her white wrapper glowing like lightning, her eyes like burning coals. Her presence filled the clearing with power, silencing even the crickets.

The men froze.

“What… what is that?” whispered one, his voice trembling.

The tallest spat, trying to mask his fear. “It is trickery. The girl has called a witch to protect her!”

But when the ghost stepped forward, her feet not touching the earth, the men stumbled back. Her voice rang out, cold as iron:

“Ẹ má ṣe! (Do not!) Leave my child alone.”

Her words were like thunder, echoing through the forest. The drunkards fell to their knees, their bravado vanishing. One covered his face, muttering prayers, another crawled backward into the bush. The tallest tried to stand his ground, but when the ghost raised her hand, a sudden blast of wind hurled dust into his eyes. He screamed, blinded, and fled with the others, their shouts fading into the night.

Abíké collapsed to the ground, sobbing with relief. The ghost turned to her, her face softening. She knelt beside her daughter, though no weight pressed the grass.

“My child,” she said gently, “the world will not pity you. But I will walk with you until your destiny is fulfilled.”

Abíké looked up, tears glistening in her wide eyes. “Iyá mi, I cannot endure this. Every day brings new pain. How long must I suffer?”

Her mother’s ghost stroked the air near her cheek, as if caressing her though she could not touch.

“As long as destiny demands, ọmọ mi (my child). You carry more than sorrow. You carry a fire the world fears. That is why they chase you.”

Abíké’s heart ached with confusion. “But I am weak, Iyá. I have nothing. I am just an orphan.”

The ghost’s eyes shone brighter. “Even an orphan can become a legend. But you must endure the nights of pain before the dawn of purpose.”

The mist swirled again, wrapping around her like a shroud. Her voice faded into the wind:

“Remember, Abíké: you are never alone.”

And then she was gone.

Abíké sat trembling, the forest still heavy with silence. She felt small, broken, but a strange strength had kindled in her heart. She wiped her tears, rose slowly to her feet, and whispered to the stars that peeked through the clouds:

“If destiny demands, then I will endure. But Iyá mi, don’t leave me.”

The night was not over. Danger still prowled, hunger still gnawed, and shame still followed her steps. Yet as she walked again into the shadows of Ìkòrè, one truth remained like a flame within her chest:

Her mother’s spirit was watching.

And for the first time since her loss, Abíké dared to believe that survival might yet lead her to something greater.

When morning came, the sky was pale and the harmattan breeze scratched her lips dry. Birds chattered in the palm trees as if mocking her misery. Abíké wandered along a narrow footpath leading to a cluster of huts at the edge of Ìkòrè. Her wrapper clung to her thin frame, dust covering her feet.

At the far end of the path lived Aunty Morenike, a widow known in the village for her sweet smile and sharp tongue. She had once been kind to Abíké’s mother, bringing vegetables during sickness. Though distant, she was blood—cousin to Abíké’s late father. Abíké thought, might mean refuge.

Her voice shook as she called softly at the entrance of the compound.

“Aunty… Ẹ kúrọ̀lé o. (Good evening, ma).”

A plump woman with piercing eyes appeared, balancing a calabash of water on her hip. She squinted, then widened her eyes in surprise.

“Ha! Is this not the daughter of Aina? Abíké?”

“Yes, ma,” Abíké whispered, lowering her gaze. “It is me.”

Aunty Morenike studied her—dusty, thin, exhausted. She sighed. “Ayé ò sàn fún ọmọ yìí (Life has not been kind to this child). Come in, come in.”

Relief flooded Abíké’s heart. She followed the woman inside, greeted Morenike’s children, and was offered a small bowl of cold yam porridge. The food tasted like heaven; tears stung her eyes as she ate.

“Don’t cry, Abíké,” Morenike said, patting her shoulder. “As long as you are under my roof, no one will harm you. I am not Tinuola. I am not wicked.” The words were balm to Abíké’s ears. That night, for the first time in weeks, she lay on a raffia mat inside a hut, warm and safe. She whispered into the darkness:

“Thank you, Iyá mi, for guiding me here.”

Days turned into weeks. Abíké helped Morenike fetch water, sweep the compound, and roast corn at the roadside to sell. At first, her life seemed to be stitching itself back together. People in the village still whispered, but behind Aunty Morenike’s walls, she felt sheltered.

Yet not all was well.

Morenike’s eldest son, Kazeem, a boy of nineteen with restless eyes, watched Abíké too closely. When she bent to sweep, his gaze lingered. When she fetched water, he followed with excuses. Abíké noticed but kept silent, afraid to stir trouble.

One evening, as she washed plates under the orange glow of the sunset, Kazeem approached.

“You’re beautiful, Abíké,” he said, leaning on the wall.

She froze, her hands trembling in the soapy water. “Don’t say that, brother. It is not right.”

Kazeem smirked. “Brother? Do not call me that. We are not blood. I can give you gifts. Food, clothes… You’ve suffered enough, haven’t you?”

Abíké shook her head, fear flashing in her eyes. “Please, Kazeem. Don’t speak like this. If your mother hears—”

“She won’t,” he cut in sharply. “Unless you want her to.”

That night, Abíké prayed silently, begging her mother’s spirit to protect her again.

The next week, fate struck with cruelty.

At the market, while Morenike was selling groundnut oil, a wealthy palm-wine tapper named Alhaji Basiru approached. He was a man in his forties, known for his greed and temper. His eyes fell on Abíké as she arranged firewood nearby.

“Who is this girl?” he asked Morenike, his tone heavy with interest.

“My late cousin’s child,” Morenike answered casually.

Alhaji Basiru grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “She will make a fine wife. I want her.”

Morenike laughed nervously. “She is too young, Alhaji. Barely fifteen.”

But Alhaji’s eyes darkened. “Do not deny me. I will pay handsomely. Ten bags of rice, a fat goat, and cowries to line your purse.”

Morenike’s lips tightened. She thought of her debts, of her hungry children. She thought of Kazeem’s constant complaints that the family had nothing. And in that moment, her heart hardened.

That night, she called Abíké to her hut. The fire crackled as shadows danced on the mud walls. Morenike’s face was serious.

“Abíké, tomorrow you will go with Alhaji Basiru. He has chosen you as his wife.”

The words fell like thunder. Abíké’s heart stopped.

“Aunty! No, please! I cannot! He is old, he is—”

“Silence!” Morenike snapped. “Do you think food falls from heaven? Do you think I can feed you for free? This is your chance to have a home, to escape shame. Do not be ungrateful!”

Tears streamed down Abíké’s face. “Aunty, I beg you. I will work harder. I will farm, fetch water, sell firewood. Anything but this!”

Morenike’s eyes burned. “You are going. If you refuse, then leave my house tonight and never return!”

Abíké dropped to her knees, clutching Morenike’s wrapper. “Ẹ jọ̀ọ́! (Please!) Don’t sell me like a goat. I am not merchandise.”

But Morenike shoved her away, her decision final.

That night, Abíké fled to the back of the compound, her soul heavy. She cried into her hands, whispering to the wind.

“Iyá mi, why? Why must betrayal follow me everywhere? Am I cursed to suffer at the hands of those I trust?”

As she wept, the air grew cold. The moon slid from behind the clouds, painting the ground silver. And then she felt it—the presence.

Her mother’s ghost appeared, her white wrapper glowing faintly, her face both stern and sorrowful.

“My child,” she said softly, “your trials have only begun. But remember: even betrayal can shape destiny. Do not fear the path of pain, for it carves strength.”

Abíké sobbed harder. “I am tired, Iyá. They want to sell me. They want to use me. I want to die.”

The ghost’s eyes softened. “Death is not your destiny. You must live. You must endure. For through you, justice will rise, though the road is paved with tears.”

And just as quickly, she faded into the night.

The next morning, Alhaji Basiru arrived with his gifts. Villagers gathered, gossip buzzing. Morenike stood tall, smiling as she displayed the rice and goat. She called for Abíké, but Abíké did not come.

The crowd whispered. “Where is the girl?”

“Has she run away?”

Morenike’s smile faltered. Inside her chest, guilt and fear warred. Kazeem searched the huts, calling her name. But Abíké was gone—vanished into the morning mist, carrying only her mother’s whispered words and the determination not to be caged.

Her journey, now darker than ever, had only just begun.

TO BE CONTINUED……………….

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