Chapter 14: Blessing

I turned toward the voice and paused for a moment.

It was my mother.

She stood near the entrance to our compound, hands on her hips, expression torn between relief and something sharper.

She was a tall, lean woman with deep brown skin and sharp, observant eyes that missed nothing.

Her face was framed by neatly woven plaits adorned with small carved beads. Though not physically imposing, there was a quiet strength in the way she held herself—steady, unshaken, and commanding without effort.

She hadn't been around much and had recently gone to trade, and by the time she returned, I was already gone.

She must've heard all there is to hear about my situation.

Before, I might have braced myself—lowered my gaze, prepared an explanation, stumbled through words to reassure her.

Before, I might have felt small under her stare.

But I wasn't the same as before.

So I stood my ground.

She reached me in a few quick strides, her eyes scanning me for any sign of harm.

"Are you hurt? Did anything happen?" She barely waited for my answer before looking past me at the others. "And you—did you all come back in one piece?"

"We're fine, Mama," I said with a smile. My voice was steady.

Although it wouldn't have mattered how she felt about this entire thing, it was good to know she still cared for me and my friends.

She squinted at me, as if trying to find the lie. But before she could press further, her gaze shifted past me, past Nnamdi and Ekene, until it settled on Onwudiwe.

She hadn't noticed him before.

But now that she had, I saw the moment her instincts kicked in.

Her shoulders tensed, her expression flickering not in fear or alarm, but awareness.

She probably didn't know why and couldn't name it.

But she felt it.

Spirit.

Just like I had.

Onwudiwe, to his credit, didn't shift under her gaze. He didn't bow. He didn't offer an immediate explanation.

He simply stood.

A younger version of me might have resented that, the quiet composure, the presence that made others pause without a word.

But I understood it now.

And, more importantly, I understood what my mother was feeling.

Before, I might have rushed to fill the silence, to reassure her.

But now, I let it hang.

"…And who is this?" she asked finally.

She wasn't asking like a mother curious about her son's friend. She was asking like someone who had lived long enough to know when something wasn't normal.

I held her gaze.

"A friend," I said. "He'll be staying with us for a while."

The words came out easily. No hesitation. No awkwardness.

Before, I would have fidgeted.

Before, I might have spoken too fast or too slow, trying to match a version of myself that didn't fit.

But I wasn't that person anymore.

And my mother—sharp as ever—noticed, but she didn't argue.

But she also didn't look away from Onwudiwe.

"…I see."

Her sharp gaze locked onto Onwudiwe for a long moment. It wasn't fear or curiosity. No, it was something deeper, like when you recognize the smell of rain before it falls.

She didn't know why, but she felt something about him. I could see it in the way she stood, ready to act if needed.

My mother had always been like that. She trusted her instincts, and right now, those instincts were screaming that Onwudiwe was not just any man.

She let out a small breath, then turned toward the entrance of the compound.

"Come inside," she said simply, stepping aside.

I didn't hesitate. I gestured for Onwudiwe to follow, and he did, his footsteps silent.

Behind us, Nnamdi, Ekene, and Ikenna exchanged looks—the kind of looks that said, Are we really doing this?—but they followed anyway.

My mother was that intimidating. But then again, which Igbo woman wasn't?

As soon as we stepped in, my mother's voice rang out, sharp and clear. "Adanna!"

A moment later, my sister emerged. When her eyes landed on me, she blinked, like she wasn't sure if she was seeing right.

Understandable. I hadn't exactly left under normal circumstances, and my return had been… let's just say dramatic.

"Fetch water for them," my mother instructed. "They need to clean up before anything else."

Adanna nodded, disappearing as quickly as she'd come. My mother didn't miss a beat before turning back to Onwudiwe.

"You carry something with you." She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a puzzle she was trying to solve.

Onwudiwe met her gaze without flinching. "I do."

That was it. That was all he said. And somehow, that single sentence carried the weight of an entire conversation.

I wasn't sure what understanding passed between them, but I knew my mother well enough to know she wouldn't push—at least not now.

Instead, she shifted her attention back to me.

"I've heard all there is to hear," she said. "About what happened."

I met her gaze evenly. "Then you know why I brought him here."

A brief silence stretched between us before she gave a small nod. "I do."

Right then, Adanna returned, carrying a large calabash filled with water. She set it down carefully, stepping back like she didn't want to be in the middle of whatever was happening here.

Smart girl.

My mother gestured toward the water.

"Clean yourselves."

I didn't argue. I crouched, scooped up the cool water with both hands, and let it run over my face. The dust, the exhaustion, the weight of everything, I let it all wash away, at least for a moment.

There was something grounding about it, something that made me feel like I had truly returned. This was more than just a habit. It was a ritual, a way to shed the outside world before stepping fully into home.

One by one, the others followed my lead.

Onwudiwe was last. Unlike us, his movements was slow. He didn't just wash himself; he cleansed, as if the water was more than just water to him.

I watched him, and it seemed like I understood something. This wasn't just about washing off dust. It was about balance, about realigning oneself with the space they were entering.

Water carried memory, washed away burdens, and in that moment, Onwudiwe wasn't just removing dirt. He was acknowledging something unseen, something only he could fully grasp and I could feel it.

Interesting.

Once we were done, Nnamdi stretched, rolling his shoulders like a man who'd just survived a battle. "We should go," he said. "It's been a long day."

Ekene nodded. "Yeah, our families will be waiting."

Ikenna turned to me. "We'll come by tomorrow."

I gave them a small smile and nodded. "I'll be expecting you."

And with that, they were gone, leaving only me, Onwudiwe, my mother, and Adanna. I watched them disappear, a small sigh slipping past my lips.

Truth be told, I was glad they left. The journey had been too much, too many changes, too many things I hadn't fully processed yet.

I preferred it this way. Quiet. Less eyes on me. Less questions I wasn't ready to answer.

My mother turned to me again, her eyes still carrying that sharpness, that knowing.

I braced myself.

Here we go.

"What happened?" She simply asked

I met her gaze, steady, unwavering.

"I died."

The words settled between us heavily. My mother didn't react the way most would.

No sharp intake of breath, no wide-eyed disbelief.

Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if weighing my words against whatever truth she had already begun to piece together.

"And yet, you stand before me," she said.

"Yes," I replied simply.

Adanna shifted beside her, glancing between us, confusion plain on her face. She opened her mouth, perhaps to ask a question, but a single glance from our mother silenced her.

This conversation wasn't for interruptions.

"How?" she asked. Not in the way someone demands an explanation they refuse to believe, but in the way of someone who has seen too much of life to dismiss the impossible outright.

I gave her the same answer I gave the elders.

"I don't know."

Her eyes gleamed as though searching my face for falsehood.

She wouldn't find any. I had spent every moment since my return trying to make sense of it myself. I wasn't about to pretend I had answers I did not.

A long silence stretched between us before she finally exhaled.

"And what now?" she asked.

Now?

That was the real question, wasn't it? The past was set, unchangeable. But the future? That was mine to shape.

"I have plans," I said firmly

"Plans." She repeated the word slowly, like she was rolling it over in her mind, feeling its weight.

"I won't waste this second chance," I continued. "I've seen too much to live as I did before. Things must change. For me. For all of us."

She crossed her arms. "What kind of change?"

I glanced at Onwudiwe, who stood silent but present, watching the exchange with the same quiet intensity as always.

"Our people think small," I said. "They trade, they farm, they fight amongst themselves, but they do not build. They do not prepare. We live as though tomorrow will always look like today, as though the world beyond us doesn't shift and grow in ways we cannot see."

She said nothing, but I could tell she was listening and I continued.

"That needs to change. We need to be stronger. Smarter. More united. Not just warriors, not just traders, but something more. A people that cannot be ignored, cannot be taken lightly."

"And you think you can do this?" she asked, one brow raised.

"I know I can," I said.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips, though it was gone as quickly as it came.

"Bold words," she mused.

"Necessary ones," I countered.

She studied me for a long moment, then turned to Onwudiwe once more.

"And what is your role in all this?" she asked him.

Onwudiwe, as ever, was calm.

"I am here to guide," he said.

That was all. No embellishments, no grand declarations. And yet, it was enough.

My mother nodded once, then turned back to me.

"You always did dream big," she said.

I held her gaze "And now," I said, "I will make those dreams real."

She exhaled through her nose, then finally, she nodded.

"Then let us see what you can do."

It wasn't an outright approval. But it wasn't rejection either. And from my mother, that was enough.

What greater blessing was there than a mother's?