chapter one

Adaora's POV

"Mama, tell Chuka to stop touching my bag!" I snapped, yanking my backpack away from my younger brother.

"I just wanted to see if you brought snacks," Chuka whined, folding his arms. He was only ten, but he had the attitude of a grown man.

"Snacks that you'll finish before we even reach the village?" I scoffed.

"Both of you, stop fighting," my older sister, Ifunanya, said, rolling her eyes. At seventeen, she thought she was too mature for our "childish" arguments.

The old bus rattled as it sped down the dusty road leading to Ụmụnze, our father's village.

Chuka huffed and slumped against the seat, then turned to Papa. "Papa, why are we even going to the village?"

Papa glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Because it's the holidays, and you need to know where you come from."

Mama sighed, adjusting her headscarf. "And your grandmother misses you."

I bit my lip, staring out the window as trees blurred past. I loved Mama's village, but something about Ụmụnze always made me uneasy. It was old, almost too quiet, like it held secrets in its soil.

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Arrival at Ụmụnze

By the time we arrived, the sky had deepened into a dusky orange. The scent of burning firewood filled the air, mixing with the distant laughter of villagers.

I stepped out of the car, stretching my cramped legs when I heard it—

"Nkem! Bịa, get the bags from the boot!"

I froze.

My father's voice rang through the compound, loud and clear.

Ifunanya snickered. "He called you Nkem."

Chuka burst into laughter. "She hates that name!"

I shot them both a glare. "Shut up."

I didn't mind my Igbo name, but Nkem felt too personal, too… possessive. Like I belonged to someone.

Papa always said it with pride, though. "Nkem—my own."

Before I could complain, the wooden door of the house creaked open, and my grandmother stepped out.

"Ụmụ m! Nnọọ! Welcome, my children!"

Her voice was warm, but her sharp eyes scanned over us, as if checking if we had changed since the last time she saw us.

She hugged Ifunanya first, then Chuka, who melted into her embrace. But when she reached me, she paused, tilting her head.

"Nkem…" she murmured, a strange look crossing her face.

A shiver ran through me, but I quickly smiled and hugged her.

Inside the House

The air inside the house was thick with the familiar scent of camwood and palm oil. Mama immediately busied herself in the kitchen, while Ifunanya and I headed to the back to bathe. The cool water soothed my skin as I poured it over my head, washing away the dust from the journey.

By the time I came out, Mama had already set the table with steaming plates of jollof rice and fried plantain. I sat down, my stomach rumbling, but before I could take a bite, Chuka appeared, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Move, let me sit there," he demanded, pointing at my seat.

"Go and sit somewhere else, abeg," I muttered, shoveling rice into my mouth.

"I said move!" He reached out to tap my arm, but I jerked away.

"Papa!" I shouted dramatically, clutching my arm as if Chuka had just broken it.

Papa, who had just entered the room, gave us both a sharp look.

"Unu kwụsị!" he commanded in Igbo. "You children, stop!"

I pointed an accusing finger at Chuka. "It was Chuka! He hit me!"

Papa turned to my brother, his brows furrowed.

"Gịnị mere gị? Gịnị kpatara i ji-eti nwanyi aka? Ezigbo nwoke anaghị eti nwanyi aka!"

"What is wrong with you? Why would you hit a woman? A real man never hits a woman!"

Chuka gaped at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He hadn't even hit me, but I smirked as he rolled his eyes and stomped away.

Papa sighed. "Nọkwanụ. Move on."

I returned to my food, satisfied.

That evening, my cousin Uche dragged me along to where the village children gathered. The warm glow of a lantern flickered over the small group sitting in a circle, all eyes fixed on an old woman in the center.

Her face was lined with age, but her eyes were sharp, like she had seen too much of the world.

"Unu nuru?" she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Have you heard?"

The children leaned in.

"The water people exist. They are not myths, not stories to scare children at night. They are real, and they walk among us."

A hush fell over the group.

"They are beautiful, more beautiful than any human, but they are not like us. They do not love the way we do. When they take an interest in you, they never let go."

I shivered as the old woman continued.

"That is why you do not go to the river carelessly. Not every pair of eyes watching you from the water is human."

When we got home I went to sleep immediately. 

The night in the village was different quieter, deeper. The kind of silence that made you feel like something unseen was listening. I lay on the small wooden bed, staring at the open window. The stars were clearer here, scattered across the sky like shattered glass. The moon was full, casting silver streaks through the trees.

I sighed. I miss the city… There, the nights hummed with distant music, passing cars, and the laughter of my friends. Here, it was just the rustling of palm trees and the occasional hoot of an owl.

From the other room, voices broke the stillness.

"Ifunanya, leave me alone!"

"You're the one who started it, Chuka!"

I smirked. Chuka and his troubles. That boy could argue with a wall if given the chance.

I turned away from the window, letting my eyes close. The wooden bed creaked beneath me, and the air smelled of kerosene from the lantern outside. My last thought before drifting off was, How long before I get bored here?

The Next Day

The village woke early. Before the sun had fully risen, the rooster's crow rang through the compound, and I groaned, pulling the wrapper over my head.

By the time I got up, the house was already alive with movement. My cousins were sweeping the yard, the sound of the broom scratching against the dry earth filling the air. Smoke curled from the kitchen hut, the scent of woodsmoke and boiling yam thick in the morning breeze.

I grabbed a small broom and joined in, lazily sweeping while watching a small goat nibble on a discarded banana peel.

After chores, we cooked together. The large pot of egusi soup bubbled over the fire, filling the air with the rich scent of melon seeds and spicy palm oil. Ifunanya chopped vegetables, Chuka pretended to help but mostly just stole pieces of dried fish when no one was looking.

"Chuka, I swear, if you take one more fish, I will slap you!" I warned.

He just grinned, stuffing the stolen fish into his mouth.

Evening came with a lazy orange sky, the sun stretching its last fingers of warmth over the rooftops.

Chuka and I clashed again this time over something stupid.

"I said drop that plate, Adaora!"

"Go and drop it yourself, lazy boy!"

"You're so annoying!"

"And you're ugly!"

His face scrunched up in annoyance. I smirked, satisfied.

Papa's deep voice suddenly boomed through the house.

"Unu atụgharị isi? Ụmụaka a, kwụsị nsogbu!" (You children have no sense? Stop disturbing this house!)

I quickly pointed at Chuka. "Papa, it was him! He hit me again"!

Papa turned to him, his brows furrowed.

"Gịnị mere? I metụrụ nwaanyị aka? Nwoke n'ewepụta ike ya na nwanyị?" (Why would you hit a woman? A real man does not raise his hand against a woman.)

Chuka glared at me, knowing fully well I was exaggerating. He hadn't actually hit me. He rolled his eyes and stormed off. I bit back a laugh.

Papa sighed. "Move on before I reset all of you."

I needed air. The house suddenly felt too small, too loud.

Walking through the village, I let the evening breeze cool my skin. The market was still busy, voices rising and falling as people haggled over the last goods of the day.

A toothless woman yelled at a seller, her voice sharp and dramatic.

"Taa, come down! You want to cheat me? I will not buy again!"

The seller groaned, rubbing his forehead. I chuckled. Village life was too funny.

But as I made my way back home, something shifted.

The road was… too quiet.

The distant sounds of laughter, the clanging of pots everything faded. The trees stood still, the leaves no longer swaying in the wind.

A strange shiver crawled up my spine.

Then, I saw it.

Just ahead, beneath the wooden bridge, water shimmered under the fading sunlight. A deep, endless blue. It stretched out like a mirror, smooth, untouched.

Something pulled at me.

I stepped forward, my heart quickening.

The river was waiting.

My sandals sank into the damp soil as I inched closer. A cool breeze kissed my skin, whispering something I couldn't understand.

What am I doing?

I glanced around. No one was nearby.

Hesitantly, I slipped off my sandals.

I dipped a toe in. The water was ice-cold at first, then strangely warm. Inviting. Safe.

A sigh escaped my lips as I waded in further, letting the water embrace me. It slid over my skin like silk.

I laughed softly, splashing it onto my face, running my fingers through it. It felt different from any water I had ever touched before—thicker, heavier, almost… alive.

Then, for the briefest moment, I thought I heard something.

A whisper.

Low. Deep.

Calling.

The water rippled around me, though there was no wind.

My breath hitched.

I turned sharply, my heart thudding against my ribs.

The river was empty.

Yet, somehow, I felt a presence. Watching. Waiting.

I stepped back slowly. The water swirled around my ankles, reluctant to let me go.

The wind picked up.