Chapter 3: Abomination.

Adanna's grip on him remained firm, her body trembling against his as though she feared he would slip away if she let go. Chijioke—no, Obinna—held her a moment longer, allowing himself to adjust to the weight of her grief.

He could feel the warmth of her skin, the rapid beat of her heart against his chest. She was real. This moment was real.

"I thought I lost you," she whispered, voice hoarse from crying. "When they brought you back unconscious, I thought—" She shook her head violently, as if trying to ward off the painful memory.

Chijioke swallowed, mind racing as he tried to find the right words. He didn't have the full picture of what had happened to Obinna, only fragmented memories—battle, pain, darkness.

"I… I don't know what happened," he finally admitted, voice steady but cautious. "I remember the fight. The Ogurugu warriors, the pain and then… nothing."

Adanna pulled back slightly, searching his face with wide, wary eyes. Her fingers trembled as she reached up to touch his cheek, as if to confirm he was truly there.

"But you were dead, Obinna," she insisted, voice barely above a whisper. "They all claimed to have seen you fall."

Chijioke frowned. He needed to tread carefully. If he denied what they saw, they would see him as a liar. If he leaned too heavily on the miraculous, they might consider him cursed.

He exhaled through his nose, lowering his gaze as if in thought. "Perhaps the gods were not done with me," he said carefully. "Perhaps there is still a fight left in me."

Her lips parted slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze. Then, she suddenly pressed her forehead against his, squeezing her eyes shut.

"If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up," she murmured a silent prayer.

A strange pang went through Chijioke's chest. He barely knew her, and yet, through Obinna's memories, he did.

He saw flashes of their childhood—running through the fields, sneaking roasted yams from their mother's kitchen, whispering stories by the fire. The fierce love she had for her brother was undeniable.

He sighed, lifting a hand to squeeze her shoulder. "I am here, Adanna," he repeated.

She sniffed, wiping her eyes before finally stepping back. Her expression shifted from relief to worry as she glanced toward the doorway.

"The elders…" she started, voice heavy.

Chijioke narrowed his eyes. "What about them?"

She hesitated, glancing toward the entrance before lowering her voice. "They are debating what to do with you."

He stilled. "What?"

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her wrapper, her nervous energy evident. "Obinna, they said you died. They saw you die. And now you are here, alive." She swallowed hard. "They fear you are Arụ."

The word sent a jolt of realization through him.

Abomination.

Obinna's memories sharpened, rushing to the forefront of his mind. The Igbo people held deep beliefs about life and death. To return after dying was unnatural, a sign of interference by the spirits—something feared, sometimes even punished.

His jaw tightened.

Of course. How could he not have seen this coming?

He wasn't just a man returning from war. He was a man who had died and was now walking among them. To the elders, this was something that needed to be dealt with—whether through exile, purification rituals, or worse…

Adanna grabbed his arm, shaking her head fiercely. "I don't believe it, nwanne-m (my brother). I know you are my brother. I know this is you. But the others…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "Many are afraid. Some say you must be cast out. Others think you should be taken to the dibia (spiritual healer) for cleansing."

Chijioke frowned, mind racing. How was he supposed to convince them that he was no abomination? That he was still Obinna?

His heart pounded.

This was bad.

He needed time. Time to gain their trust. Time to prove he was still one of them. But how?

Before he could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps outside the hut made him tense. Adanna's eyes widened in alarm, and she quickly wiped her face, stepping back just as the curtain was pushed aside.

Three young men stepped in, their expressions unreadable. They wore simple wrappers tied around their waists, their bare chests lined with sweat and dirt from a long day's work.

The one in the center, a tall man with broad shoulders and piercing eyes, crossed his arms. "Obinna."

Chijioke straightened. "Nduka." The name slipped easily from his lips—another memory filling in the blanks. Nduka had been Obinna's childhood friend, his wrestling partner.

Nduka's gaze lingered on him, cautious, as if unsure of what he was seeing. Then, he cleared his throat. "The elder council has summoned you."

Chijioke didn't react immediately, keeping his expression calm even as tension coiled in his gut.

So soon? He had hoped for more time.

Still, he couldn't refuse.

Adanna clenched her hands into fists. "Nduka, they—"

Nduka held up a hand, his tone gentle but firm. "Adanna, this is not up to us."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing.

Chijioke exhaled slowly before nodding. "Then let's not keep them waiting."

Nduka studied him for a moment before stepping aside, gesturing toward the entrance.

Chijioke cast one last glance at Adanna, who looked at him with barely concealed fear. He gave her a small, reassuring nod before stepping forward.

As he walked out of the hut, the cool evening air hit his skin, carrying the scent of firewood and distant rain.

The village was quiet. Too quiet.

Eyes peered at him from doorways, from the shadows between huts. Women whispered behind cupped hands. Children, normally playful at this hour, stayed close to their mothers.

The weight of their stares pressed down on him, but he kept his head high.

This was it. His first true test.

And he was not about to fail.

…

The walk to the Obi ndiichie(council hut) was heavy with tension. The rhythmic crunch of feet against dry earth was the only sound as Eze and the other young men led Chijioke forward.

The village that was usually alive with evening activities, was eerily quiet. Women huddled in doorways, their eyes darting toward him with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

Children peeked out from behind their mothers' wrappers, their usual laughter replaced by hushed whispers.

Chijioke felt the weight of their stares pressing down on him, but he kept his head high.

He knew how Obinna carried himself in the village, he knew how one's perception of themselves affected how others saw him. There was no way he was about to look like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

By the time they neared the council hut, he could already hear the heated voices spilling out from within. The elders were deep in debate, their words carrying into the night air.

"This is arụ! (an abomination!)" one voice bellowed, filled with conviction. "A man does not die and return to the land of the living! This is the work of dark forces!"

A murmur of agreement followed, but another voice quickly cut in.

"We do not know that! Obinna bu nwa ala anyi! (Obinna is a son of our land!) He fought for us, bled for us. Do we now cast him aside like a cursed thing?"

"Taa! (Shut up!)" another elder snapped. "Do you not hear yourself? If the gods willed him to live, why did they not spare him in the first place? Ozugbo nwuru, nwuru! (Once a man dies, he is dead!) What walks among us now is not our son, but something else in his form."

A loud scoff followed. "Then let us kill him again and send him back to the spirits where he belongs."

Chijioke clenched his fists. His blood boiled at their callous words. They spoke of his life—his existence—as if it were something to be tossed around and debated over like a broken pot.

He had barely been given a chance to understand what had happened to him, and now these men, who were supposed to be the wisdom of the village, were already deciding his fate.

It took everything in him not to storm in and demand answers.

Another voice, calmer but firm, interjected. "Are we so eager to spill the blood of our own? This is not some stranger that washed up on our shores. This is Obinna, son of Mazi Okafor, warrior of Umuaku. Have we so quickly forgotten the boy who trained in the ilo mgba (wrestling ring) with our sons? The man who fought alongside his brothers to protect this land?"

Silence followed that statement. A tense, waiting silence.

Then, a sharp breath.

"We have not forgotten," an elder admitted. "But what do we do? If we allow him to stay, we risk the wrath of the gods. If we cast him out, we may be sending away an innocent man."

The arguing resumed, voices overlapping, emotions running high.

Chijioke exhaled sharply through his nose, his rage simmering beneath the surface.

They debated his life like it was a mere inconvenience, a matter of philosophy rather than flesh and blood. Did none of them consider what he thought? What he felt?

Just as he was about to push forward, a strong voice rang out.

"Ndi ichie, ha abịago." (Elders, they have arrived.)

The voice belonged to Eze, the eldest of the warriors and the one responsible for maintaining order in the village.

The hut went silent.

Chijioke felt every muscle in his body coil in anticipation.

Then, a rustling sound—perhaps the elders shifting, gathering themselves.

A moment later, a voice, older and steadier than the rest, called out.

"Bia n'ime. (Come inside.)"

Nduka gave Chijioke a meaningful glance before stepping aside, gesturing toward the entrance.

Chijioke inhaled deeply, steeling himself.

Then, with confident strides, he walked into the lion's den.