She went bathing and this happened

For 10 long years, Nuan Yimma carried emptiness in her womb. 10 seasons of rain and drought, 10 harvests watched from afar, 10 years of lullabies sung by other women, while her own hut remained silent. She was married young, hopeful, her waist still slim, and her laughter full. On the night she entered her husband’s house, the elders had blessed her with colonut and palm wine, saying, “May your womb be like a calabash that never runs dry.

” But the calabash stayed empty. At first the villagers were patient. Children come in their own time, they said. After 3 years, the whispers began. After five, the whispers became laughter. After 10, she was no longer a woman in their eyes. Whenever she passed the village square, conversation stopped. Old women clicked their tongues.

 Children asked careless questions. Why does Mama Wan Yimma not carry a baby on her back? Some said she was cursed. Some said she had offended the ancestors. Some said she was not a real woman at all. At the stream where women gathered to fetch water, they gave her space as if baronness could leap from skin to skin. During naming ceremonies, she sat at the back, clapping softly, smiling painfully while tears burned behind her eyes.

 Even her husband, once gentle, grew quiet. His eyes lingered on other women. Women with heavy breasts and laughing babies tied to their backs, though he never sent her away. Silence settled between them like a cold third presence in their hut. But Nuan Yimma did not give up. She walked dusty paths to distant villages, visiting medicine men, herbalists, and divers whose names were spoken in hushed tones.

 She drank bitter roots that scorched her throat. She bathed in leaves boiled under the full moon. She sacrificed white fowls, black goats, even her last rapper once. Each healer promised hope. Each treatment ended in disappointment. Her womb remained quiet. One night, after returning from yet another failed ritual, she collapsed on the earth and floor of her hut and wept until her voice broke.

 Am I not human?” she cried. Did the earth not make me like other women? No one answered. Then came a market day, a day sacred in the land, when spirits were believed to walk closer to the world of humans. Before the first crowed, before the village stirred, Nanima rose. Her eyes were swollen from tears, but her heart felt strangely calm, as if something unseen was guiding her.

 She wrapped herself in a simple cloth and stepped out as the sun began to rise, painting the sky in soft gold and red. Instead of heading toward the market like everyone else, she walked toward the river. This river was old, older than the village, older than memory. It curved through the land like a living being, silent yet watchful.

 Elders warned people not to joke near it, for it was believed to be the dwelling place of a river goddess, one who listened more than she spoke. When Juan Yimma reached the riverbank, the mist hovered low over the water. The world was still. Even the birds were quiet. She knelt. Slowly, she removed her sandals and stepped into the cool water.

 It reached her ankles, then her knees. Her reflection trembled on the surface. With trembling hands, she pressed her forehead to the water and spoke. Not loudly, not with rehearsed words, but from the deepest part of her soul. Great mother of the river, she whispered. If I have offended you, forgive me.

 If I am being punished, tell me why. I do not ask for wealth. I do not ask for long life. Give me only a child, so I may know the warmth of motherhood before the earth claims me. Tears fell into the river, rippling outward. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the water stirred. The mist thickened. A gentle wind passed through the reeds, though the trees were still.

 From the depths of the river came a voice, soft like flowing water, yet powerful enough to steal the heart. Woman who has been mocked. Woman who has endured. Your tears have reached me. Nuan Yimma froze. Fear and awe gripping her. You have walked many roads, but you have come to the right one. Return home. Your womb shall carry light. Suddenly, the river became calm again as if nothing had happened.

Shaking, Nuan Yimma backed away, bowed deeply, and ran home without looking back. Weeks passed. Then one morning, she felt it. A strange heaviness, a warmth in her belly she had never known before. Days later, her body began to change. When the village healer examined her, his hands trembled. “She is with child,” he announced.

 The village gasped. Some refused to believe it. Some said it was a trick. Some said it was impossible. But her belly grew. Month after month, undeniable and radiant. The same women who mocked her now watched her with fear and wonder. The same tongues that cursed her now struggled to bless her.

 When the time came, labor seized her like a storm. Thunder rumbled in the sky, and rain fell softly, as if the heavens themselves were watching. At dawn, as the first light touched the earth, a child was born, a girl. She was unlike any child the village had ever seen. Her skin was light and glowing, as though kissed by moonlight.

 Her hair was black and thick, curling softly against her head like river reads after rain. When she opened her eyes, they shone with quiet wisdom. The baby did not cry immediately. Instead, she let out a soft sound, almost like a sigh, before finally wailing, strong and clear. The elders exchanged uneasy glances. “This child,” one whispered, “is not ordinary.

” Nanima held her daughter close, tears streaming down her face, not of sorrow this time, but of fulfillment so deep it hurt. She named her Ephuna Miri, the love of the river. From the day Ephuna Mamiri was born, her mother Nuan Yimma made a vow no one else understood. She never bathed the child.

 Not with river water. Not with rainwater. Not even with warm water from the hearth. The old women protested. A child must be washed. They warned. Dirt invites sickness. Spirits cling to unclean skin. But Nanima only shook her head. This child, she said quietly, belongs to the river as much as she belongs to me. Instead of bathing her, Nuan Yimma wiped her daughter gently every morning with soft leaves warmed by the sun, mixed with scented oils and herbs the river goddess had revealed to her in dreams.

The girl never smelled foul. Her skin remained radiant, smooth, glowing, untouched by blemish. and Ephana never fell sick. As she grew, strange things followed her. When she cried, water jars nearby trembled. When she laughed, fish leapt at the river’s surface. At night, she often spoke in her sleep, whispering words no one understood, words that sounded like flowing water over stones.

Nuanima guarded her fiercely. “Never let water touch your full body,” she warned her daughter again and again. Not until the day the river itself calls you. Ephuna obeyed. On Ephana’s 18th birthday, the sky darkened before noon. Ranima had been coughing for days, a deep cough that rattled her bones. That morning, she called her daughter close, her voice weak but urgent.

PART2:

 “My child,” she whispered, gripping her hand. The river gave you to me and the river will one day take you back. Tears spilled from Ephana’s eyes. You must remember this. Nuanima continued. No matter who comes into this house after me, do not let them bathe you. Water is not your enemy, but it is your truth. With those words, Nanyma exhaled and never inhaled again. The wind howled.

The river swelled that night, rising higher than it had in years. The village mourned, the woman once mocked, now revered. But mourning does not last forever. Ifa’s father did not remain alone long. Loneliness bends men toward poor choices. Within a year, he married Obia Gaye, a woman with a sweet smile and a bitter soul.

 Her voice was honeyed in public, but sharp as broken calabash at home. From the moment Obiagali entered the compound, she hated Ephanana. The girl was too beautiful, too quiet, too different. Villagers whispered that Ephania’s skin glowed even brighter as she matured, light like ivory, hair black like midnight water. Men stared, women grew jealous.

Obiagali’s hatred fermented. She turned Ephuna into a servant, scrubbing floors, pounding yam till her arms shook, fetching firewood under the burning sun. Ephuna never complained. She endured, as her mother once had, but one thing she refused. Bathing. I clean myself, she said calmly. I do not bathe.

 This angered Obie beyond measure. What kind of madness is this? She sneered. Do you think you are a goddess? The villagers murmured. Some began to agree with the stepmother. Perhaps the girl is hiding something, they said. Obiagali waited. One afternoon when’s father traveled to a distant village, Obiagali struck. She ordered hot water fetched.

 She brought out strong soap, harsh and bitter smelling. She locked the compound gates. today,” she said coldly. “You will bathe like every other woman.” Fear flooded Ephuana’s eyes. “Please,” she begged, falling to her knees. “My mother warned, “Slap!” Obiagali silenced her. She dragged the girl to the back of the compound where a large basin waited.

 As the first splash of water touched Ephuana’s skin, the air changed. The wind rose violently. The sky darkened. The ground trembled. Ephuna screamed, not in pain, but in recognition. Her skin shimmerred. Scales began to bloom where water touched her. Her legs fused slowly, painfully, into a glistening tail.

 The soap slipped from Obiagal’s hands. “What have I done?” she cried. “But it was too late.” Before her eyes, the girl transformed, half human, half fish, eyes glowing like deep water under moonlight. The river roared in the distance. If Nana did not curse her stepmother, she only looked at her once sadly. Then she leapt. Return to the river.

 She ran, not walked, toward the river, her tail gliding effortlessly across the earth. Villagers followed in terror and awe. As she reached the riverbank, the water rose to meet her, opening like welcoming arms. The river goddess’s voice echoed across the land. You have been returned. What was borrowed is reclaimed. If Ana slipped into the water and vanished, the river calmed.

Aftermath, Obiageli lost her voice that day. Some say guilt stole it. Others say the river did. If Ana’s father never smiled again, he spent his days by the river bank calling a name that never answered. But sometimes on quiet eek mornings, fishermen swear they see a beautiful fish with human eyes watching from the surface before disappearing into the depths.

 And elders still warn their children, not all children are meant to stay on land. Respect promises made to the spirits or the river will come to collect what is hers. The end.