ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)  

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

📘EPISODE 10📘

Abíké and Adigun continued their journey, her small frame wrapped in a faded wrapper. Her bare feet pressed into the damp soil, leaving faint prints that the wind quickly erased. Though her face young, her eyes held stories no child should know.

The forest path twisted ahead, narrow and ancient. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the trees, painting the world in gold and shadow.

Adigun carried a bow across his shoulder and a calabash of water by his side. He walked slightly ahead, clearing branches with his machete. “We must reach the hill before dusk,” he said gently, glancing back at her. “The forest spirits are calm by day, but they do not welcome strangers after dark.”

Abíké nodded, clutching the small charm Mama Abeke had given her. Around her neck, it glowed faintly — a sign that her mother’s spirit walked close.

As the hours passed, the forest grew thicker. Strange birds shrieked from afar, and once, they heard the low growl of something unseen. Abíké’s hand trembled, but she whispered softly:

         “Iyá mi… má jẹ́ kí wọn fi ọwọ́ búburú kan mí (Mother, do not let evil hands touch me).”

A soft wind stirred the leaves in response. The fear eased. 

Adigun noticed and smiled faintly. “You speak to her often.” 

She never left me,” Abíké said. “Even when I think I’m alone, I hear her voice in the wind. She… she saved me from Kazeem that night.”

Adigun slowed his pace. “Then her spirit is strong and merciful. You carry a light most people will never understand.”

Abíké looked at him. “And you, for the second time, why are you kind to me?”

He paused, then smiled. “Because the world hasn’t been kind enough.”

By noon, they reached a clearing where an ancient baobab stood, its roots coiling like the arms of time. They rested beneath it, sharing roasted yam wrapped in leaves.

Abíké chewed slowly, her eyes wandering to the forest edge. “Adigun,” she said after a long silence, “do you think the gods remember children like me?”

He turned to her. “The gods forget no one. But they test those they love most.”

Her eyes dimmed. “Then I wish they loved me less.”

Adigun’s heart ached. He said nothing, only reached out to hand her water. When she drank, the calabash shook in her small hands.

Then a whisper. Soft, tender, maternal.

 “Ọmọ mi… (My child…)”

The air around them shimmered. A faint figure appeared near the baobab, a woman in white, her face half-veiled in mist. Her eyes were full of warmth, her presence calm and radiant.

Abíké gasped, dropping the calabash. “Iyá mi…”

Adigun froze, his eyes wide. The spirit smiled gently at her daughter.

 “You have walked far, my child. Do not fear the road. Every thorn has its purpose.”

Tears streamed down Abíké’s cheeks. “Iyá, I am so tired… I want to rest. I don’t want to see death anymore.”

The spirit’s voice was soft, like the hum of the wind. 

 “You will rest soon, my heart. But first, you must climb the hill of truth. At its peak waits your healing and your destiny.”

Abíké reached out, but her hand touched only air.

“Iyá, will I see you there?”

The ghost smiled sadly.

 “When the river meets the sea, you will know. Till then, let the man beside you be your shield.”

Her eyes turned to Adigun. For a heartbeat, he felt warmth flood through him, a blessing, silent and deep.

Then the spirit faded, leaving behind only the faint scent of jasmine and the sound of wind.

Abíké sobbed quietly. Adigun placed a hand over her small trembling fingers. “She is proud of you,” he said. “You must hold on to her words.”

She nodded slowly. “I will.”

By evening, they reached the foothills of Òtítọ́, a sacred place where mist danced like spirits and the air shimmered with unseen energy. The villagers had spoken of it in whispers: that those who came with pure hearts found healing, and those who came with deceit never returned.

The climb was steep. Adigun helped her up the rocky path, his arm steady around her. Her steps were small but determined.

Halfway up, she stumbled. He caught her, his strong hand gripping hers firmly.

“I can’t” she began.

“Yes, you can,” he said softly. “You’ve walked through fire before. This is only stone.”

His voice steadied her. She nodded, pushing forward.

When they reached the top, the sun had begun to set, bathing the hills in gold. There, standing before a pool of glistening water, was an elderly woman dressed in white cloth, her head wrapped in coral beads. Her eyes shone like the moon.

She smiled as if she had been expecting them.

 “Welcome, child of grief and fire,” she said. “And you, the hunter whose heart is bound to fate.”

Abíké bowed, trembling. “Are you the priestess of Oṣun?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. The river told me you would come. The gods have watched you, Abíké, the girl with a mother who defied death.”

Abíké’s eyes widened. “You know my mother?”

The priestess stepped closer, her voice soft. “I know her love. It is the reason you still draw breath.”

She turned to Adigun. “And you, your path is woven into hers. Protect her, but beware… not all spirits that walk with light remain pure.”

Adigun frowned. “What do you mean?”

The priestess’s eyes clouded. “The world beyond this hill stirs. Shadows follow her name, those who think she carries a secret worth killing for.”

Abíké’s blood ran cold. “What secret?”

The old woman looked toward the fading sun. “That, my child, you must remember for yourself.”

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, though the sky was still clear. The priestess gestured toward the pool. “Come. The river of truth awaits. Step into it, and the gods will show what your mother could not.”

Abíké’s breath trembled. She looked at Adigun. He nodded gently.

“I’m here.”

And as the first stars appeared above, Abíké stepped into the shimmering pool, her reflection breaking into ripples of light. The water glowed beneath her feet, whispering voices rising all around her.

Then she gasped, the water turned golden, and visions swirled before her eyes: her mother, a crown of white light, standing before a temple; men in black robes bowing; and a newborn baby being carried away in the night.

She screamed, clutching her head. “Iyá! What is this?!”

The priestess’s voice echoed through the wind.

 “The truth, Abíké. You are not just a child of sorrow. You are the blood of prophecy.”

Lightning cracked across the horizon. Adigun rushed forward, shouting her name…….

“Abíké!”

But the pool swallowed her whole in a flash of golden light.

The wind howled, and the priestess whispered, almost in awe…….

 “Her awakening has begun.” 

TO BE CONTINUED ………………………………..

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Pls share, like and comment on our stories, to get more engaging episodes.