Chimamanda

The sun was up, casting a bright glow throughout Nkemmiri. It was past noon, a time when tired men returned from the farms, when wrapper-clothed women prepared meals, and children indulged themselves in childish fantasies that seemed endless.

Chimamanda walked briskly along the stony road that led to the stream, trying to balance her udu calabash securely on her head. It was a race against time, a moment she had been waiting for, a moment when she would finally get to play “Mummy” in the popular game of Mummy and Daddy, a dream she had carried in her heart for weeks.

The road to the river felt unusually long. The air smelled of dry bushes, dry and brittle, and there was something else — a thick, almost tangible tension that hung over the path and made her shoulders stiffen with unease.

It was an unspoken rule that nobody fetched water in the afternoons, especially not on days this hot. It was either mornings or evenings, but the unusual warmth in her father’s eyes had encouraged her to ignore it. She walked along the deserted road, clad in nothing but her mother’s wrapper and a round, single-row necklace made out of cowries and animal skulls — one that every girl in her family wore.

“How will I lift it since it’s just me?” she had asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper, afraid that if she spoke too loudly the warmth in her father’s eyes would vanish.

“The men at the riverbank will,” he replied, his tone edged with finality, a quiet urging that left her with no choice but to continue.

The water was clear, untainted by the footprints of those who had come before.Calm. Still. Almost warning-- Almost. It stood in stark contrast to her own racing heart, a heartbeat she could not explain.

Across the riverbank, seated in a canoe, were three able-bodied men with strange red marks carved into their chests. They sized her up from head to toe and back again, their gazes sharp enough to make the hairs on her arms rise. She knew immediately that they were not from her village, the foreign tribal marks on their faces confirming her suspicions.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a question lingered. How had her father known the men would be there at the precise moment she came to fetch water for him? Was it coincidence, or had he somehow predicted this moment?

“Ehihe ọma"( good afternoon),she greeted, bending slightly at the final step, trying to appear calm despite the tight coil of fear in her stomach.

The men did not answer. They only stared, almost unblinking, their eyes fixed on her as if measuring her every movement.

Chimamanda bent down lightly and scooped water into the large pot, careful to fill it only to a capacity she could carry home. The pot was heavier than what she usually carried, and she noted the coincidence quietly to herself.

“Please, can you help me lift my water pot?” she asked, speaking in perfectly formed Igbo.

Instead of answering, the men slowly paddled the canoe toward her, an acknowledgment, a silent signal of understanding.

Chimamanda smiled, a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

As they drew closer, she noticed a mixture of smells — dust from the riverbank, the sharp tang of the tabba her father often snuffed, and something else, something metallic, almost pungent, that made the hairs on her skin stand on end. Her subconscious screamed at her to run, to stop them from coming closer, but she forced herself to remain.

Her father had looked at her with warmth today, after fourteen years of seeing nothing but disdain in his eyes, eyes that had once loved her mother who was she supposedly killed during childbirth. She wanted to preserve that warmth, wanted to keep seeing it in his eyes.

So she stayed.

Dismissed the warnings of her subconscious and watched as the men came closer.

Two of them stepped down from the canoe and began walking toward her.

She bent slightly, positioning herself to ensure the pot could remain balanced on her head. She convinced herself that she would return safely to her father with the water and then rejoin her friends for evening playtime.

Then one of the men crouched and, instead of taking the calabash, gripped her wrist — not tightly, but firmly enough that escape was impossible.

Chimamanda felt her heart hammering in her chest. Confusion, fear, and anger collided within her all at once. She kicked, twisted, and turned, movements sharp and desperate, making her spine ache.

The men lifted her toward the canoe — one holding her hands, another securing her legs, while the third followed swiftly behind.

She tried to convince herself that she would return before nightfall, early enough to join the rest of the Ojukwu compound — seven huts in all, her father, his three wives, and nine children — for dinner.

Rumors had reached her ears, whispers traveling from Onudu and along the roads as travelers passed. Stories that were far too untrue, far too unbelievable to be spoken aloud — rumors of children and wives sold to ghosts, men who were far too pale to be considered human, people her father referred to as “the white men.” Men who could kill without cutlasses or arrows, ghostly men who burned firewood in their mouths and spoke a language that only ghosts could understand.

She struggled, unwilling to give up, because somewhere deep inside her, she knew, knew that this might be the last time she saw the warmth in her father’s eyes. The last time she would receive roasted yam cuts from Mama Akweke, and maybe,unless something miraculous happened,she might never get to play Mommy and Daddy again.

But the men would not budge, holding the fourteen-year-old down as if she weighed nothing.

From between the cracks in the canoe,Chimamanda watched the only home she had known for fourteen years disappear into nothingness, the waves failing to soothe her troubled nerves.

And at that moment, it sank in.

She was-------for the first time in her entire life------going far from home.