Chapter Eight

I woke to the sound of the village stirring.

Not the sharp honking of impatient drivers or the distant rumble of generators like in Lagos, but the soft, rhythmic sounds of Agulu waking up—the crowing of roosters, the distant laughter of women fetching water, the slow, deliberate sweeping of sand against the compound floor.

The air smelled of burning firewood and fresh earth, the kind of scent that clung to everything—the clothes, the skin, the very breath.

I turned on my side, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the small window. Dubem and Somadina were already up, stretching lazily on their beds.

Obinna groaned from the other side of the room. "What time is it?"

"Time to wake up," Dubem answered, swinging his legs off the bed. "Papa Ukwu is outside."

I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Papa Ukwu.

The memory of his deep, steady voice from last night settled in my chest. His presence alone carried the weight of history, as if his silence held stories older than all of us combined.

I reached for my slippers and stepped outside.

---

The morning sun was still gentle, casting a golden light over the compound. Papa Ukwu sat on the veranda, his wooden staff resting against the arm of his chair. He was already dressed—a white singlet tucked into a wrapper, his feet bare against the cool earth.

He turned slightly at the sound of my footsteps. "Ahamefula," he said, his voice as deep as ever. "You woke early."

I hesitated, then sat on the wooden stool near him. "Good morning, Papa Ukwu."

He nodded once, his gaze steady. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, Papa Ukwu."

A small silence settled between us. It wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy—like the quiet before rain.

Finally, he spoke. "Your mother says you are like me."

I looked up.

"You observe," he said simply. "You do not rush to speak. You watch before you move."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

Mama had said it once before, in passing—something about how I carried the same quiet weight as my grandfather, the same way of thinking deeply without needing to explain.

Now, sitting beside him, hearing it in his voice, I understood what she meant.

"I don't know," I said finally.

Papa Ukwu let out a small, quiet chuckle. "You will."

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his staff. "Do you know the meaning of 'Ebe onye dara ka chi ya kwaturu ya'?"

I frowned slightly, thinking. "Where a man falls is where his god pushed him?"

He nodded. "Yes. It means sometimes, the very thing that brings us down is meant to teach us how to stand. Do you understand?"

I swallowed. "I think so."

He studied me for a moment, then asked, "What kind of man do you want to become?"

I hesitated. Nobody had ever asked me that before. Not like this. Not as if the answer carried weight.

"I… I don't know yet," I admitted.

He tapped his staff against the ground. "Then your work is to find out."

His voice was steady, certain—as if there was no greater duty than understanding oneself.

I nodded slowly. "Yes, Papa Ukwu."

He leaned back, satisfied. "Good."

---

Dubem and Somadina were waiting when I stepped back inside.

"Let's go," Dubem said.

"Where?" Nonso asked, yawning.

"The stream," Somadina answered. "We need to fetch water."

Obinna groaned. "Why? There's water here."

Dubem smirked. "You think borehole water is the only water?"

Somadina handed us empty gallons—big, solid 25-liter containers, their plastic slightly worn from use.

"We don't do buckets here," he added, grinning. "Only strong men carry gallons."

Nonso and Obinna muttered something under their breath, but we followed anyway.

The path to the stream was narrow, winding through trees thick with green, the air damp with the scent of wet earth.

When we reached the stream, women were already there—laughing, filling their own containers, calling out greetings in fast, effortless Igbo.

Dubem bent low, dipping his gallon into the water. "Aham, try."

I crouched, feeling the coolness of the stream lick against my fingers. I filled my gallon, lifted it slightly—and nearly dropped it.

It was heavier than I expected.

Somadina laughed. "Lagos boy, this is not bottled water!"

I gritted my teeth, adjusting my grip.

The walk back was worse. The weight of the gallon pressed into my palm, my arms burning with every step. Dubem and Somadina walked ahead with ease, as if the gallons were nothing.

I exhaled sharply, shifting the weight against my leg.

Dubem glanced back, smirking. "Aham, do you want us to call Kosi to help you?"

I shot him a glare and kept walking.

By the time we reached the compound, my arms felt like lead. I dropped the gallon with a loud thud, flexing my fingers.

"Not bad," Somadina said. "Next time, you won't feel it."

I wasn't sure there would be a next time.

---

Not long after, we heard Adaora's voice from the entrance.

"Finally! You people didn't tell us we would trek to get here."

The girls had arrived—Adaora, Kosi, Kosisochukwu, and Chiemelie.

Nne Ora clapped her hands. "Good! Now all my granddaughters are here."

Kosisochukwu grinned. "Nne, I hope you kept food for us."

Nne Ora rolled her eyes. "Why wouldn't I? Do I want you to faint?"

She uncovered steaming bowls of yam porridge, thick with palm oil, garnished with smoked fish and bitterleaf.

"Nri abali di oku!" (Lunch is hot!) she called, motioning for us to eat.

Adaora rolled her eyes. "This is breakfast, Nne."

"Here, we eat real food in the morning," Nne Ora said, scooping a portion onto a plate. "Not cornflakes and milk."

I took a bite. The yam was soft, soaking up the deep flavor of the oil, the fish smoky, the bitterleaf adding just the right amount of sharpness.

"This is good," Nonso admitted.

As we ate, Nne Ora smiled. "Adaora takes after me in face. And Kosi takes after me in behavior."

Kosi grinned. "That means I will be a good cook too."

Nne Ora laughed. "We shall see."

The room warmed with laughter. For a moment, the world outside didn't exist.

But in the distance, a drum sounded—a quiet reminder that the festival was coming.

---

Afternoon settled over the compound like a warm blanket, thick with the scent of dust and the slow hum of insects. The world had grown quiet—the type of stillness that only came after a heavy meal, when bellies were full, and the air was too hot to do anything but rest.

Nne Ora, Mama, and Aunty Bianca had left for the market, their voices trailing behind them as they disappeared down the narrow village road. Papa Ukwu and Papa had also left, summoned by the elders for a village meeting.

The compound felt empty without them, as if their absence had carved out a space too large to fill.

Inside the main house, the sitting room was cool, shaded by the wide verandah that kept the worst of the afternoon sun at bay. The windows were open, letting in a slow, lazy breeze that carried the scent of dried palm fronds and the distant smoke of cooking fires.

I stretched out on one of the sofas, my head resting on the curved armrest.

From the bedroom, the soft murmur of sleep drifted in—Nonso and Obinna sprawled across their beds, Dubem and Somadina stretched out on mats, their breathing deep and even.

Somewhere outside, Kosi and Kosisochukwu were talking in low voices, their conversation punctuated by occasional laughter.

I stared up at the ceiling, watching as the slow-moving blades of the ceiling fan cut through the warm air. The generator had been turned off after lunch, so the fan moved sluggishly, its rhythm uneven, as if it, too, were tired from the weight of the heat.

The stillness of the room wrapped around me, pressing gently against my skin.

I thought about the morning, about Papa Ukwu's words, his question lingering in my mind like a tune I couldn't forget.

"What kind of man do you want to become?"

I had no answer yet. But here, in the hush of the afternoon, I felt the weight of the question settle deeper, as if it had found a place inside me, waiting for the right time to unfold.

I closed my eyes, letting the silence drift around me.

Outside, the village breathed—slow, steady, ancient.

And I let myself breathe with it.