ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)  

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

📘EPISODE 13📘

The dawn after the healing came soft and gold, washing over Ilépa like a promise reborn.

Smoke no longer rose from the ashes, instead, children’s laughter slowly returned, timid at first, then brighter. The birds sang again. Women swept the earth before their huts. Life, after all, had a stubborn way of finding its rhythm.

Abíké stood by the stream where Adigun had once found her. The water shimmered like glass under the morning sun, and she could see her reflection clearly, the mark on her forehead faint but glowing.

She whispered to herself,

“Omi ìyá, river of my mother, show me what lies ahead.”

But the river stayed silent. Only the ripples answered.

Behind her, footsteps approached. Adigun’s voice broke the quiet.

“You’ve been standing here since dawn,” he said softly. “You’ve hardly eaten.”

Abíké turned, smiling faintly. “The river listens when the world sleeps. I needed to thank it.”

He moved closer, carrying a small calabash of water. “You’ve done more for this village than anyone ever could. Even the elders are speaking of you. They say the gods have returned to Ilépa through you.”

She shook her head gently. “No. The gods never left. We just forgot how to hear them.”

Adigun studied her. There was something different about her now, calm, yet powerful. The timid girl he once met had become someone larger than her fears.

They sat together by the stream in silence, listening to the music of the forest. But somewhere deep within the trees, something else listened too, something old, something dark.

The same breeze that carried their laughter twisted suddenly cold.

That night, Ilépa slept under a sky of restless stars. The wind howled faintly, and the trees swayed as if murmuring secrets.

Abíké lay awake in Mama Abeke’s hut. Sleep would not come. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard faint whispers, voices like those of children crying in the distance, or the rustle of footsteps that never reached the door.

She sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. “Iyá…?” she called softly. But the room was empty. Mama Abeke was asleep. 

Then, a faint light flickered across the wall — pale, cold, like moonlight filtered through smoke.

The whisper came again, clearer this time.

“Abíké…”

Her blood ran cold.

That voice was not her mother’s.

She rose slowly, her body trembling. The air felt heavy, the smell of ash and decay sneaking in through the open doorway. She stepped outside. The night was still, the moon veiled behind clouds.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

The darkness shifted, and from behind the old tree, a figure emerged.

It was a woman, but her eyes glowed red, her movements slow, unnatural. Her wrapper was tattered, her hair loose like dry grass. The scent of palm oil and rot clung to her.

Abíké froze. “Aunty Morenike…”

The figure smiled, a smile that was too wide, too wrong.

“Ah, little Abíké. You live. The gods favor you, don’t they?”

Abíké took a step back. “You’re not Aunty Morenike. What are you?”

The woman tilted her head. “I was your aunt. But when you left me to shame, something found me. It promised me power, power to rewrite what the gods wrote wrong.”

Her voice deepened, turning guttural. “And now, child of light, you will share my curse.”

Before Abíké could move, the woman raised her hand. Shadows leapt from the ground like snakes, coiling around Abíké’s legs. She gasped, struggling, but the darkness clung to her, cold and strong.

Adigun’s voice cut through the night. “Abíké!”

He ran from the other hut, spear in hand, eyes wide with fury.

The spirit turned, snarling. “You again, hunter. Always standing in the way of fate.”

Adigun threw his spear, it passed through her like smoke. The spirit laughed. “Flesh cannot pierce shadow.”

Abíké closed her eyes, remembering Òṣun’s words:

“You cannot fight darkness with fear. Only love and truth can banish it.”

She took a shaky breath. The mark on her forehead pulsed. “You were once my blood,” she said, her voice trembling. “You fed me when I was small. You sang me to sleep. That part of you still lives. I will not hate you.”

The spirit hissed, retreating slightly as the light from Abíké’s skin grew. “Stop it! Stop!”

Abíké stepped forward, tears streaming. “Aunty Morenike, if any piece of your soul remains, remember love. Remember family.”

The light swelled, golden and fierce. The shadows cracked like dry bark. With a final cry, the spirit shrieked and burst into a thousand embers that vanished into the night air.

Then there was silence. Only the sound of wind through the palms.

Adigun rushed to her side, catching her as she stumbled. Her skin was cold, her breathing shallow. “Abíké! Look at me!”

She opened her eyes weakly. “It wasn’t her fault. The spirit used her… fed on her pain.”

Adigun held her close. “You could’ve been killed.”

She smiled faintly, exhausted. “If love cannot heal, what power can?”

By morning, the news spread. Some said the spirit had been seen flying out of the village like smoke, wailing into the hills. The elders came to Mama Abeke’s hut and bowed before Abíké.

“You have driven out the darkness,” one said. “You are the daughter of Òṣun indeed.”

Abíké shook her head humbly. “I am only a vessel. The river heals through me.”

Mama Abeke smiled, pride glistening in her tired eyes. “Even a river needs a path, my child. You are that path.”

Later, Abíké walked alone to the udala tree, the same place her mother’s spirit had told her to return. The morning light filtered through the branches, and the air felt alive, sacred.

She knelt and whispered a prayer of peace for Morenike’s lost soul.

Then she began to sing, her mother’s song again, gentle and strong.

🎵

“Àánú Olódùmarè, let hearts remember,

The river flows where mercy dwells,

No night can swallow dawn eternal…”

🎵

As her voice carried through the air, a soft wind stirred. The ground beneath the udala tree glowed faintly, and from it rose a single drop of golden water, pure and bright. It hovered for a moment, then sank into the soil.

And from that very spot, a small green shoot sprouted, new life, born from sorrow.

Abíké smiled through tears. “Rest now, Iyá. Rest, Morenike. The river still flows.”

In the distance, Adigun watched quietly, his heart full of reverence. He whispered to himself, “She is no longer a child. She is the dawn the world forgot.”

As the sun climbed higher, its rays fell upon Abíké’s face, turning her tears to light.

And somewhere beyond the clouds, the voice of her mother echoed softly, proud, gentle, eternal:

“My daughter, your journey has just begun.”

TO BE CONTINUED ………………

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

“Ọ̀run ń gbọ́… the heavens listen.”

As the moon weeps over Ilépa, Abíké’s light clashes with darkness itself.

Her mother’s spirit rises once more — but is it protection… or prophecy?

What do you think💭the glowing mark on Abíké’s forehead truly means?