The Barren Woman Who Stole A Baby From The Shrine.
The air was cold despite the morning sun. Adalo walked until her legs trembled, pushing through thorns that tore at her skin. She was looking for the shrine of the forgotten where it was said the deity resided. In a clearing she saw it. The shrine was a small terrifying hut made of mud and palm frrons surrounded by white chalk markings.
And there sitting at the foot of the shrine was a woven basket. Ado’s breath hitched. She rushed forward dropping her machete. Inside the basket lay a baby. It was a girl. The child was awake, staring at the canopy of leaves with eyes that were too bright, too knowing. Her skin was the color of polished camwood. She was beautiful.
But there was an unnatural stillness about her. She did not cry. She simply looked at Adogo and cooed. Ado did not ask whose child this was. She did not ask why a baby was left at a shrine for spirits. Was it a gift, a trap, an outcast, an abomination? It didn’t matter. “My chi has saved me,” Adalgo whispered, her hands shaking as she untied the cloth padding from her own stomach and threw it into the bush.
She scooped up the baby. The child felt unnaturally light yet warm against her skin. She smeared dirt on her face, disheveled her hair, and rubbed the baby with some of the fluid from a snail she crushed to mimic the birth. Then she began to scream, “Help! Help my baby. She ran back towards the village path, clutching the child.
By the time she reached the outskirts of the farm, women were running toward her. Obina was leading them, his face pale with fear. They found Adal Go sitting by the roadside, exhausted, holding the baby wrapped in her head tea. “Adal Go!” Obina cried, falling to his knees. “What happened?” I I went to gather wood. Adalgo panted, the light tasting like ash in her mouth.
The labor pain hit me like a thunderbolt. I couldn’t move. I thought I would die there. And who delivered the baby? Mama asked, looking at the clean cut of the umbilical cord. An old woman, Adalgo said quickly. She came out of nowhere. She had white hair like wool and walked with a staff. She helped me push. She cut the cord.
When I looked up to thank her, she was gone. The villagers gasped. It was an ancestor, one woman shouted. A spirit helper. “It is a miracle!” Mama screamed, dancing around them. “My enemy has been shamed. My son has a child.” Obina held the baby as if she were made of glass, tears streaming down his face. “We will call her a zini,” he whispered.
the good mother, for she has wiped away my tears.” Adawu smiled, but her heart was cold. She had stolen a child from the gods, and she knew that a stolen yam never digests peacefully. 7 years passed. Azine grew into a breathtaking beauty. She was tall for her age, with hair that was thick and black as the night, but there were things about her that made the villagers pause.
When a Zen walked, the dust did not rise. When she sat under the Udara tree, fruits would fall even when there was no wind, and most disturbing of all was her laughter. It was the sound of water flowing over stones, beautiful yet cold. Ado loved her daughter with a fierce consuming fire. She braided her hair, bought her the finest beads, and shielded her from the harsh sun.
But Adao lived in perpetual fear. She noticed that Azin never slept deeply. At night, the girl would sit up and stare at the corner of the room whispering in a language Adalgo did not understand. Who are you talking to? Nay. Adalgo would ask, her voice shaking. Izzine would turn those bright ancient eyes to her mother and smile.
My playmates, mama. They say it is time to come home. They say the lender is asking for his debt. Adalgo’s blood would turn to ice. Tell them you are home. You are here with me. The twists of fate began in the dry season of the seventh year. It started with the livestock. One by one, Obinaz goats began to die.
They would be found in the morning stiff and cold with no mark on them. Then the crops in their farm withered while the neighbors farms flourished. Mamauugo, ever the hawk, began to watch Izzin closely. One afternoon, Adalgo returned from the market to find Mamugo screaming at the gate of the compound. I said it.
I said there is something wrong with this child. the old woman yelled, pointing a gnarled finger at Azini, who stood calmly in the center of the compound. Mama, what is it? Adalgo dropped her basket, rushing to shield her daughter. She was talking to a python. Mama shrieked. A giant royal python. It was coiled around her leg, and she was stroking it like a pet.
When I shouted, the snake vanished into the ground. In um the royal python was sacred, a messenger of the water goddess for a child to command it was unheard of. It was just a lizard. Mama Adal Gol hugging is in tight. Your eyes are failing you. My eyes see clearly. Mama go spat. This child is not of this world. She is an oangi or something worse.
We must call the Dibia. Obina, usually the peacemaker, looked troubled. He had seen things, too. He had seen how the rain seemed to avoid Azin when she walked outside. He loved his daughter, but the fear was creeping into his bones. Adalgo, Obina said that night, his voice low. We must seek answers. The calamity befalling my house is too much.
No, Adalgo snapped, panic rising in her throat. She is just a child. Leave her alone. But the decision was not hers to make. The elders summoned Dia Ikim, a powerful spiritualist known for eyes that could see the bottom of the ocean. The day Diaikim arrived, the sky turned a bruised purple. A heavy wind blew through the compound, stripping the palm trees of their fronds.
The dia was a small man draped in leopard skin carrying a staff topped with red feathers. He stepped into the compound and stopped. He did not look at Obina. He did not look at Mamugo, his eyes locked onto Azini, who was sitting on a mat playing with stones. The diaat trembled. He took a step back, fear etched on his face.
“Abonation?” he whispered. “What do you mean, wise one?” Obina asked, stepping forward. “You have a thief in your house,” the dia said, his voice thundering. He turned to Adalgo. “Woman, where did you get this child?” The compound went silent. You could hear a pin drop. Adalgo felt her knees give way. I I gave birth to her.
She stammered, clinging to the lie she had told seven years ago. In the forest, the old woman. Lie. The Dia roared, striking his staff on the ground. There was no old woman. There was only the shrine. This child belongs to a Gumiri. She is a dedicated child, a sacrificial lamb left at the shrine to appease the deity for the sins of a past generation.
She was not meant to live among humans. You stole from the gods. The revelation hit Obina like a physical blow. He staggered back, looking from the dibat to his wife. Adalgo, what is he saying? You told me the old woman. Adalgo collapsed into the dust, weeping. The lie had finally crumbled. I wanted a child, Obina.
I wanted to give you a child. My womb was dead. I padded my stomach. I lied. I went to the forbidden forest and I found her. I just wanted to be a mother. You interrupted a covenant, the dyak countered, his voice shaking the earth. Because you stole what belongs to the spirit, the spirit has come to collect its due. The death of the goats was a warning.
The death of the crops was a warning. Now the deity demands a life for a life. Whose life? Mama asked, her voice trembling. The Dia pointed his staff at Obina. The head of the house. Unless the child is returned to the shrine by midnight tomorrow, your husband will die. A scream tore from Adalgo’s throat.
She looked at Obina, who stood frozen, his face pale. Then she looked at Azini. The girl was no longer plain. She stood up, her seven-year-old face bearing an expression of ancient sorrow. She walked over to Adalgo and wiped the tears from her mother’s face. “Don’t cry, mama. I told you the lender was asking for his debt.
” The night that followed was the longest of Adalgo’s life. Obina fell ill immediately after the Dia left. He burned with a fever that no water could cool. He tossed and turned, calling out names of ancestors long dead. Adalgo sat by his bedside holding his burning hand. In the other room, Azin slept or appeared to sleep.
Adalgo Obina rasked his eyes barely open. Take her back. I can’t. Adalgo sobbed. She is my daughter. I nursed her. I raised her. She is real to me, Obina. She is not a spirit. She is my child. And I am your husband, Obina whispered. Will you trade me for a stolen dream? The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Adalu left the room and went to wherein lay. The child opened her eyes.
Mama is in said papa is in pain. I know Adalgo wept. If I stay, he dies. If I go, I die. I sat up. But I love you, mama. You were the only one who wanted me. The people who left me at the shrine, they didn’t want me. You wanted me. This broke Adalgo. She grabbed the child and held her, rocking back and forth. This was the tragedy of her sin, that in her selfishness, she had created a bond of love that was now demanding a sacrifice of blood.
The next evening, as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of blood orange, Adalgo made her choice. She bathed Ezin and dressed her in a white wrapper. She did not speak. Her heart was a stone in her chest. She carried a Zin on her back just as she had when she was a baby. She walked out of the compound past the weeping Mamago, past the sick bed of her husband.
She walked towards the forbidden forest. The journey was difficult. The roots seemed to grab at her ankles and the wind howled her name. Adalgo, thief. Adalgo, thief. When she reached the shrine of Eyeebama, the atmosphere was heavy. The air smelled of ozone and wet earth. The basket was no longer there, but the presence of the deity was palpable.
Adalu knelt, putting Izzin down. Great Ougiri, she cried out, her voice cracking. I have returned what is yours. I am the thief. Punish me, but spare my husband. Silence answered. Azine stood before the shrine. She turned to look at Adalgo one last time. Tears filled her child’s eyes.
Human tears, not spirit tears. Goodbye, mama, she said. Thank you for being my mother. Isin, no. Adalgo lunged forward to hug her one last time, but a sudden gust of wind, violent and cold, threw her back. Mist swirled around the child. The trees seemed to bend down. From the shadows of the shrine, a large python slithered out, circling the girl.
Azin did not run. She placed her hand on the snake’s head. Then the mist thickened, swallowing the girl and the snake. “Ezin!” Adalgo screamed, clawing at the earth. “Ezin!” But when the mist cleared, the girl was gone. Only a single white cowry shell remained where she had stood. Adalgo collapsed, wailing until her voice was gone.
She lay there for hours until the moon rose high. When she finally stumbled back to Umu, she found the house quiet. Her heart stopped. Had she been too late? She rushed into the hut. Obina was sitting up on the bed drinking water. The fever had broken. He was weak, but he was alive. “Adalgo?” Obina asked, seeing her disheveled appearance, mud staining her wrapper.
“Where is she?” Adalgo did not answer. She sank to the floor and wept. Life in Umu returned to normal. But Adalgo was never the same. Obina recovered fully and interestingly the love between him and Adogo grew stronger forged in the fire of their shared tragedy. They never spoke of his in to outsiders. Mama humbled by the near loss of her son and the supernatural events stopped her mockery.
She became quiet treating Adalgo with a strange fearful respect. She no longer asked for a grandchild, fearing what Adalgo might bring home next. 3 years later, the impossible happened. Adalgo missed her flow. She felt the morning sickness. This time, it was real. When the midwife confirmed it, the village was stunned. At the age where women prepare for menopause, Adalgo was with child.
9 months later, she gave birth. It was a girl. The baby was beautiful with skin the color of polished camewood. Adalgo held the child with trembling hands, checking her fingers and toes. “What shall we name her?” Obina asked, looking at the baby with wonder. Ado looked into the baby’s eyes. They were bright, knowing eyes.
As the baby looked up at her, Adalgo saw a flash of recognition, a memory of a forest, a shrine, and a sacrifice. The baby’s hand curled around Adalgo’s finder, gripping it tight. Adalo smiled, tears streaming down her face. “The gods were terrible, yes, but sometimes they were merciful to those who had learned their lesson.
” “We will call Hang Kiti,” Adalgo whispered. the one God has given.” And as she spoke the name, the wind outside rustled the palm trees. And for a fleeting moment, the laughter of a 7-year-old girl echoed through the compound, light, happy, and
