The Curse of Ogamba

Fanta woke before dawn, her eyes heavy from a near-sleepless night crowded with fragmentary nightmares. She lay on a thin straw mat in her mother's hut, ears catching the muffled gossip of neighbors through the clay walls. Memories of yesterday's troubles at the river—where curious looks and muttered insults had dogged her—still made her heart pound. She recalled the hollow dread creeping over her whenever villagers stared like she was some bizarre omen, best avoided entirely.

All night, Mojono's proclamation hovered in her mind: We must remove the curse. The rumor that these words were repeated at a recent elders' council weighed oppressively on Ogamba. It felt like everyone now believed Fanta—graceful to the point of suspicion, sweet-scented to the point of menace—had to go.

She breathed in shakily. Nearby, Anayara still dozed in the corner, drained from brewing fresh perfumes far into the night. Over the years, her mother's fragrances had concealed Fanta's own natural aroma—so reminiscent of ripe berries that villagers shuddered. But no disguise could entirely quell their superstitions; each passing day, small cruelties seemed to sharpen into open hostility.

Pressing a hand against her face, Fanta recalled the mortifying scene at the well the day before: children mocking her, eager to label her a pariah. Worse encounters loomed just out of sight. The hush outside felt thick with promise—unpleasant promise, like the hush before a thunderstorm. She considered fleeing into Okiya Forest, that rumored realm of restless spirits, but she refused to abandon her mother or the fragile life they still clung to in Ogamba.

Eventually, she forced herself upright, reminding herself that chores never paused. Dawn had barely broken, the sky a faint swirl of pink and purple, the sun not yet over the horizon. The village lanes lay mostly empty; only a handful of men had risen to tend goats or prepare for the fields. She decided to head to the river early, hoping to avoid trouble. Maybe the hush could work in her favor.

Careful not to wake Anayara, she knotted her wrap dress securely, scooped up a clay jug, and slipped outdoors, a pang of guilt nicking her heart as she noted her mother's exhaustion. Anayara often worried about leaving her unprotected, but Fanta had learned to cope with scorn in her own silent way. Besides, she had no choice.

A faint chill lingered in the morning air—a small mercy before Ogamba's heat descended. She hurried along, jug pressed to her side, dodging half-stray dogs sniffing for scraps. A man paused by his hut, looked her way, and instantly dropped his gaze, as though meeting hers would jinx him. She swallowed the reflexive ache in her throat.

She distracted herself by echoing lines from the battered dictionary she read secretly—English phrases rolling through her mind, though she wouldn't dare speak them aloud here. Too many had already accused her of chanting demon spells. A bitter twinge flickered inside her. She wished desperately for a place where she could speak in that foreign tongue without fear.

Beyond the huts, she glimpsed the path to the river, and relief tugged at her fraying nerves: only a few figures hovered by the bank. Judging from their nets, they were older men prepping to fish. Despite their cautious glances, they didn't confront her. The tension in her chest loosened a fraction as she descended to the water's edge, finding a quiet spot.

For a handful of moments, Fanta savored the cool hush. Kneeling, she plunged the jug into the current, the surface shimmering with early sunlight. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, noting those eerie eyes the villagers scorned, then pushed the thought away. With the jug full, she slowly got to her feet, her ankle twinging from yesterday's near skirmish—a small bodily reminder that real danger was never far.

The older men didn't speak, merely watched from a distance. She avoided eye contact, turning to climb the slope. For an instant, a gentle calm teased her senses, as though maybe she'd pass the day in relative peace.

Yet her heartbeat remained jittery, mindful of how Ogamba had twisted into a gauntlet for her. Each yard of dusty ground felt like stepping across fragile eggshells. She recalled a line from a missionary Bible about walking through valleys of shadows, concluding wryly that Ogamba was precisely that: a place saturated with silent menace, choking any sense of home.

By the time she drew near the village center, the sun had fully claimed the sky. Small knots of villagers gathered, exchanging rumors. Some openly stared at her, almost perplexed she'd returned from the river unscathed. She lowered her gaze, jug bruising her hip, fighting off the urge to tell them she wasn't out to poison their water or hex their goats.

"Look, she's back," one voice muttered, grudging surprise evident. "Hasn't she learned to keep away?"

Another hush consumed the group. Fanta gritted her teeth, forging ahead. She vowed to stash the water at home, then maybe attempt gathering a few herbs for Anayara. If she stayed busy, perhaps the day's harshness would slip by faster.

Outside the hut, she paused for breath, setting down the jug. A spike of dizziness swirled over her, nerves frayed from the morning's tension. Then she heard laughter in the distance—one that pricked her instincts like a needle. She peeked around the corner and spotted Basima and Chinwe, two of Handuza's fiercest companions. Both scanned the lane, obviously on some mission. Fanta's stomach fluttered in warning. Usually, they only stirred this early if they had an unpleasant goal in mind.

She ducked back hastily, planning to retreat indoors, but glimpsed Nabunjo stepping from an alley. She stiffened, heart pounding. If all three were out, that meant Handuza wasn't far behind. Panic crackled up her spine, but she forced it down, slipping through her door. Anayara, stirring a pot of herbs, turned sharply at Fanta's pallid face.

"What is it?" her mother asked, concern taut in her voice.

Fanta set the jug down, her arms quivering. "Handuza's girls," she managed hoarsely. "They're prowling around. I think… they might be looking for me."

Anayara's brow furrowed. "Then stay inside. Let me handle any chores."

Fanta bit back her protest. She didn't want her mother exposed to their cruelty, but she also couldn't deny the truth: stepping out might put her right in their path. She nodded grudgingly, though dread churned in her stomach, uneasy with how quickly fate had cornered her.

Yet midday arrived with an unwanted twist: Anayara lacked certain herbs crucial for a new perfume mixture. This specific vendor only sold them briefly, near the forest's fringe. Fanta insisted on fetching them, determined not to hide forever. Her mother's wide eyes reflected doubt, but Fanta's resolve held firm. She couldn't cower if they were to endure in Ogamba at all.

So again, she left, hugging the edge of huts, vigilant for bright cloth or the faint murmur of mocking voices. She reached the old woman's stall panting from heightened anxiety, but the transaction passed without incident. Her pulse eased, a fragile surge of hope blossoming in her chest—maybe she'd slip home without confrontation.

But as she turned down a winding alley, hope evaporated. Nabunjo blocked one end, Basima and Chinwe sealed the other. Panic screamed inside her head: They orchestrated this. She clutched the herbs to her chest, scanning for a way out among the clay walls and shuttered windows. None appeared.

"So, we found you again," Nabunjo purred, stepping closer, each word laced with sadistic glee.

Despite her terror, Fanta mustered a shaky defense. "I'm just running errands."

Basima sneered. "Your errands can wait. We have business with you."

Fanta's instincts screamed: run. But there was nowhere to go. Fear hammered her heart. Memories of humiliation and pain flashed vividly—taunts, stones, near-attacks. She tried to reason, voice trembling, but their menacing circle closed in. Dust whipped into the air as they grappled, each mocking word dripping with hostility.

By the time Handuza finally appeared, Fanta's trembling reached a fevered pitch. The sight of Ogamba's self-styled princess, hands on hips, eyes glowing with malicious satisfaction, drove a frigid spike of dread through Fanta's core.

Everything in her wanted to bolt, but shock held her pinned, herbs scattering at her feet. She wondered if she'd even see her mother again—if this was the moment her life in Ogamba ended for good.