Chapter 18: -----

With our stomachs full and the warmth of the meal settling over us, a comfortable silence stretched between us.

The only sounds were the occasional scrape of a bowl being set aside and the distant hum of the night beyond our home.

The fire had burned lower now, its glow flickering lazily against the walls, casting long, shifting shadows.

Adanna stretched with a satisfied sigh, leaning back on her hands. "That was good," she murmured. "I'll never understand how you don't get tired of Mama's cooking, Obinna."

I shot her a look. "Why would I? It's food made with love." I clasped my hands together in mock reverence. "I am merely a humble servant of mama's kitchen."

Mama chuckled as she rose to gather the empty bowls. "A humble servant who does not lift a finger to help," she remarked, arching a brow at me.

I placed a hand over my heart. "Mama, you wound me. My contributions are of a higher nature—thinking, strategizing, pondering the mysteries of the universe."

Adanna snorted. "Pondering how to escape chores, more like."

Onwudiwe, ever polite, dipped his head. "Thank you, Mama Nnenna. Your kindness is too great."

I turned to him, unimpressed. "You're setting the bar too high, Onwudiwe. Now she'll expect us to start saying that every time."

Mama rolled her eyes, swatting my shoulder lightly as she passed. "Maybe he should be the one I call my son instead."

Adanna cackled at that, clearly pleased by my misfortune.

I sighed, shaking my head. "Betrayed by my own blood."

I leaned back slightly, letting the moment settle until Onwudiwe finally broke the quiet, his voice quieter this time. "You said the spirits gave you a quest."

I swallowed a bit, nodding. "Yes."

I hesitated, glancing at Adanna. She was listening, though pretending not to.

I turned back to Onwudiwe. "To reshape Nsibidi into something more."

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn't look surprised. If anything, there was something almost expectant in his expression. "And you will do it."

It wasn't a question.

I met his gaze. "I will."

A slow nod. "Then you will have my support, however I can offer it."

Nnenna, who had been silent, set down the last bowl and frowned. "Reshaping Nsibidi?" She glanced between us. "What are you two plotting?"

I smirked. "Something grand."

She eyed me, unimpressed. "You always think everything you do is grand."

"Because it is."

Adanna scoffed. "Because you refuse to be normal."

"Normal is boring."

Mama sighed, shaking her head. "At least try not to neglect eating while you're off being 'grand,'" she muttered, wiping her hands before reaching for a cloth to cover the remaining food.

Adanna, meanwhile, leaned forward, her sharp eyes glinting. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

I gave her a lopsided grin. "Have I ever not been serious?"

She didn't answer right away, just watching me the way she did when she thought too much about things.

I could see the flicker of skepticism, but beneath it, something else. Something like belief.

Finally, she huffed. "Well, don't burn the house down experimenting."

"No promises."

Nnenna pinched the bridge of her nose. "Spirits help me."

The weight of the day settled over me, but beneath it, something lighter…something expectant.

The path was before me.

Now, all that was left was to walk it.

…

I stirred awake in my obi, the woven palm fronds above me rustling slightly in the morning breeze.

In our tradition, each member of a household had their own obi, built within the ụlọ(compound) to reflect both individuality and family unity.

Mine was modest but sturdy, with hardened mud walls and a thatched roof that kept out the worst of the elements.

I sat up, stretching the stiffness from my limbs before stepping outside. The cool morning air greeted me, carrying the scent of earth and distant woodsmoke.

I took a deep breath, feeling something cleanse me from within before exhaling slowly.

It was a habit ingrained in me, something I never truly thought about, yet it always left me feeling lighter.

Without thinking, I moved to wash up, my body following the motions out of sheer muscle memory. I fetched water from the ite mmiri(clay pot), splashing it over my face and arms, scrubbing away the remnants of sleep.

The coolness sent a small jolt through my skin, waking me up fully.

By the time I finished and turned back toward my obi, my senses were sharp again—sharp enough to catch Onwudiwe waiting for me, standing with that same unreadable expression.

I stopped in my steps, blinking. "Do you not sleep?" I muttered, shaking my head.

"You took longer than expected," he replied, voice as steady as always.

I clicked my tongue but didn't bother responding. Knowing Onwudiwe, he had probably spent the night communing with the spirits again. I briefly entertained the thought of asking before deciding against it.

"Ndewo," he greeted formally.

"Ndewo," I returned before glancing toward the rest of the ụlọ.

The early morning quiet shattered as a distant creak signaled a door being opened. Soon enough, the familiar sounds of the household waking up followed.

Mama stepped out of her obi first, stretching her arms over her head. She caught sight of the two of us and raised a curious brow. "You two are up early."

I smirked. "And you are not?"

She scoffed. "I have been up longer than you, biko."

Not long after, Adanna emerged as well, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Mama, ndewo," she greeted before her face twisted in mild irritation as she spotted us. "Why are you both standing there like spirits waiting to deliver bad news?"

I grinned. "Maybe we are."

Nnenna, who had just responded to her daughter's greeting, shot me a flat look, unimpressed. "If you are, then go and deliver it elsewhere. There is work to be done."

I chuckled, stepping aside as she moved toward the nsi to check on the morning meal.

The air carried the scent of yams, mixed with the lingering traces of last night's firewood smoke. It settled something deep in my bones, familiar and grounding.

Adanna, on the other hand, had no such sentimental thoughts. She yawned again before plopping onto a bench without grace. "If there is work to be done, then why are we talking?"

I smirked. "Because your legs refuse to carry you to the work."

She shot me a glare, but before she could retort, Nnenna turned back to us. "Obinna, fetch more water from the pot. Adanna, go and gather dry wood."

Adanna groaned but stood nonetheless, muttering under her breath.

You would have to be born with two heads to wake up in an Igbo household and not work before you ate. And despite having lived two lives, I wasn't gifted with a second head.

Onwudiwe, still standing nearby, watched us with what could almost be called amusement—at least, as much amusement as his face was capable of showing.

I caught the look and shook my head, taking the clay pot and making my way toward the ikwe, the large clay pot where we stored water.

As I walked, the ama around me stirred fully to life.

Voices called out greetings from neighboring compound, the sound of knife striking wood echoed in the distance as someone prepared to carve something new, and the steady rhythm of a mortar and pestle sounded from another hut.

I had grown up with these sounds, but today, they felt different, more vibrant and urgent.

Maybe it was the task ahead of me. Or maybe it was the weight of something unseen pressing at the edges of my thoughts.

Whatever it was, I pushed it aside.

First, I would finish my morning tasks.

Then, I would begin shaping the future—after having my morning meal.

…

Onwudiwe's Thoughts on Obinna

When I first met Obinna, I expected another young warrior filled with ambition but lacking wisdom.

His reputation had reached even me—bold ideas, grand claims, and a knack for persuasion.

But words were cheap.

Many had come before them, dreaming of change, only to be swallowed by the weight of tradition.

Yet, in those first moments, I sensed something different. Not because of his words, but because of the way he listened.

In Akaibute, while others spoke in circles, Obinna observed and when he did speak, it was not to impress but to understand, to test the edges of an idea.

That was rare.

He did not come as a warrior demanding allegiance but as a man planting seeds, patient enough to wait for them to take root.

Even more intriguing was his relationship with Nsibidi.

When he spoke of it, there was no hesitation, no doubt.

He believed, utterly, that it could become something greater.

That belief unsettled me at first. Nsibidi was not just a script—it was the language of the spirits, the record of our ancestors.

To reshape it was to challenge what had been passed down for generations.

And yet, as I watched him, I saw no recklessness in his approach. He was no blind fool rushing toward destruction. He was careful and deliberate.

His knowledge of numbers and symbols was unlike anything I had encountered.

When he taught me, I glimpsed the vastness of what he saw—a world where knowledge could be shaped, expanded, made into something new.

It was humbling.

That night, as we sat in his home, I realized something else.

His family did not see him as a leader. To them, he was still their mischievous brother, their lazy son who avoided chores.

He let them see him that way, despite the weight he carried. Perhaps that was his greatest strength.

A man who can laugh even while carrying burdens others cannot see is not easily broken.

And so, when he told me his path, I did not question it. I simply said, "You will do it." Because I believe he will.

He is not simply dreaming of change. He is building it. And I will help him lay the foundation.