ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)  

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

📘EPISODE 12📘

The road from Òtítọ́’s pool to Ilépa was long and silent.

The forest no longer seemed cruel, it breathed around her, alive and watching. Each step Abíké took stirred whispers in the wind, as if unseen spirits bowed in her passing. The mark on her forehead glowed faintly beneath the morning sun, hidden beneath strands of her hair.

She walked barefoot, feeling the earth pulse softly beneath her soles. The trees swayed, their leaves murmuring:

“Daughter of light… daughter of light…”

By the time she reached the edges of Ilépa, smoke still hung in the air, black scars against the sky. The once-lively village was quiet now, broken and weary. Roofs caved in, ashes where laughter once lived. The scent of burnt wood clung to everything.

Abíké stood at the entrance and whispered, “Ẹ̀ṣù má ṣe o…”

(Eshu, may mischief not find me.)

Children peeked out from behind fallen walls, their faces thin with fear. Old women whispered her name, some crossing themselves, others bowing low. They had seen her carried away by raiders, returned with Adigun and now she walks alone, radiant with strange light.

“Is it truly her?” one woman murmured.

“Or her spirit come back to haunt us?”

Abíké said nothing. She only kept walking.

When she reached Mama Abeke’s hut, her heart ached. The roof was gone, replaced with palm leaves and the smell of herbs. Inside, the old woman lay on a mat, her leg bandaged. She looked up as Abíké entered, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Abíké?” she whispered.

Abíké knelt quickly beside her, tears spilling. “Ìyá mi… it’s me.”

Mama Abeke reached out, trembling. “The gods are merciful! I thought the river had taken you.”

“It almost did,” Abíké said softly, “but the river gave me back.”

Mama Abeke’s eyes filled with wonder. She touched Abíké’s cheek gently. “You’ve changed, my child. There’s something in your eyes now—like moonlight that refuses to fade.”

Abíké smiled faintly. “The gods spoke, Ìyá. They showed me truth… and purpose.”

Mama Abeke blinked, too weak to rise. “Then perhaps Ilépa still has hope.”

Abíké looked around. “Where is Adigun?”

The old woman’s smile faltered. “Ah… my son lies in the back room. His wounds run deep. We have tried herbs, but he does not wake.”

Abíké’s chest tightened. She rose swiftly and went inside.

The small inner hut was dim, the air thick with the scent of blood and leaves. Adigun lay on a raffia mat, his chest wrapped in cloth darkened by dried blood. His skin, once bright with strength, had turned pale. Each breath came slow and shallow, like the whisper of dying fire.

Abíké knelt beside him, trembling. “Adigun… it’s me. It’s Abíké.”

There was no response. Only the weak rise and fall of his chest.

Tears blurred her vision.

She took his hand, it was cold.

Her heart clenched as memory flooded back: the way he had smiled beneath the iroko tree, the way his eyes had softened whenever she laughed.

Her mother’s voice echoed faintly within her soul:

“There is one who still bleeds because of you. Find him. Heal him.”

Abíké’s tears fell on his palm. “Iyá… show me how.”

As if in answer, the mark on her forehead began to glow, softly at first, then brighter, pulsing with rhythm like a heartbeat. Her hands warmed, and she heard it again: the ancient song from the river, the one her mother had sung in the vision.

It rose from deep within her chest, trembling at first, then flowing like wind through leaves.

                             Song 🎵 

“Omi ìyá, wash away sorrow,

Ase òrun, breathe upon flesh,

Àánú Olódùmarè, heal the broken heart…”

The hut filled with faint golden light. The air shifted. Mama Abeke, watching from the doorway, gasped softly, clutching her chest.

Abíké’s hands glowed where they touched Adigun’s chest. The cloth beneath them grew warm, and the scent of herbs was replaced by something sweeter, like fresh rain on parched ground.

The glow deepened, spreading from her palms into his skin. His breathing steadied. The wound on his chest stopped bleeding. Then, with a soft groan, Adigun’s eyes flickered open.

“Abíké…?”

She froze, her song dying on her lips.

He blinked weakly, his gaze struggling to focus. “I thought I was… in the afterlife.”

Abíké’s tears spilled freely. “No, Adigun. You’re here. You’re with me.”

He tried to sit up, groaning. She supported him gently.

“I saw your face in my dream,” he whispered. “You were surrounded by light. You told me to wait.”

Abíké smiled through tears. “Maybe that was the gods speaking through me.”

He stared at her, awe dawning in his weary eyes. “You healed me… didn’t you?”

She looked down shyly. “Not me. The river. My mother. The gods.”

Mama Abeke shuffled forward, tears in her eyes. “Child… you carry the spirit of mercy itself. The gods truly walk with you.”

But Abíké only shook her head. “No, Ìyá. They walk with all who love without fear.”

Outside, word spread quickly: Adigun the hunter has risen!

Villagers gathered around, murmuring blessings, their disbelief melting into joy.

By sunset, a cool breeze swept through Ilépa—the first in many weeks. The air felt lighter, as if the earth itself exhaled relief.

That night, the villagers lit a small fire by the iroko tree. They sang softly, songs of survival, of gratitude. Abíké sat beside Adigun, the flames reflecting in their eyes.

He turned to her, his voice low. “You risked everything to come back.”

“I couldn’t leave without knowing you lived,” she said quietly.

He smiled faintly. “The gods brought you to us, Abíké. Maybe you were meant to mend what this world broke.”

She stared into the fire. “If only the world would let itself be mended.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and saw not the scared girl he’d found by the stream, but someone transformed.

“Whatever you become,” he said softly, “I will walk beside you.”

Abíké’s lips trembled. “Even if darkness returns?”

He nodded slowly. “Even then.”

For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to smile.

As the villagers sang, a soft golden light flickered above the flames, unseen by all but her. It took the shape of her mother’s face, smiling, proud, and peaceful.

And in the whisper of the wind came her voice, gentle as ever:

“The river flows through you now, my child. Protect it well.”

Abíké closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Somewhere deep within her, the song stirred again, soft, sacred, and eternal.

For the girl who once ran from pain was now the one who would heal it.

And Ilépa, broken as it was, began to breathe again.

TO BE CONTINUED ………………………………..

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How do you feel now Abike had returned, full of life and made to know that she’s a gifted child?