THE GIFTED CHILD
The Child with Red Eyes
The night Ada was born, the rain refused to stop.
Thunder rolled like a drum of warning in the sky, and lightning tore through the clouds as if heaven itself wanted to see this new child. The midwife, an old woman with trembling hands, shouted that the baby had come with her eyes open. “Ha! This one is seeing the world already!” she exclaimed.
Her mother, weak but smiling through her tears, stretched her arms to hold her child. But when the woman saw the streak of grey hair glinting among the black curls, she gasped. And when the baby opened her eyes — red, glowing like the last ember in dying fire — everyone in the room took a step back.
One of the old women spat into her wrapper.
> “Ogbanje,” she whispered. “Spirit child.”
But her grandmother — calm, wise, and filled with faith — took the baby and pressed her to her chest.
> “No,” she said softly. “This one came with light. Her eyes only burn because she carries God’s fire.”
They named her ADAOLISA — the daughter of God. And even as a baby, she rarely cried. She only watched. Watching, as if she already understood what awaited her.
As she grew, the signs did not fade. When she turned five, she began to speak of things that hadn’t happened yet — a neighbor’s illness, a visitor’s death, a storm that would destroy the market stalls. At first, people were amazed. Then, they became afraid.
The whispers began again. “She is not normal.”
But Ada only smiled, quiet and thoughtful.
Sometimes, at night, she would wake from her dreams trembling, saying she had seen angels fighting shadows. Her mother would hold her tight, praying aloud. But deep down, Ada always felt it — that her gift was both her crown and her cross.
Ada’s earliest memories were not of toys or laughter, but of eyes — eyes watching her wherever she went.
The women at the stream whispered when she fetched water. The children refused to share their calabash with her. Even her brothers treated her with a mix of awe and unease. She was the only girl among them, slender, dark, and quiet — her eyes always searching for something unseen.
She spent most of her time in the small church at the end of the village road. She loved the sound of hymns, the feel of cool cement under her bare feet, and the echo of her voice when she sang alone. Her favorite song was “It Is Well With My Soul.”
Every Sunday, she sang louder than anyone, her voice lifting until it filled the rafters like wind. People would pause, eyes closed, hands lifted — until one elder muttered,
> “Be careful. Spirits sing too.”
But Ada never stopped singing.
She sang to feel close to the God who never judged her.
By twelve, her visions had grown stronger. She would wake and tell her mother not to travel that day, or warn her brothers to avoid the river. When her words came true, people began coming secretly to her family compound. They would kneel before her, asking, “What did you see for me, Ada?”
And each time she spoke, it was as if something else — something holy and heavy — spoke through her.
But soon, even her mother began to fear the gift.
“Maybe you should stop talking about these things,” she whispered one night. “People are beginning to say things.”
Ada wanted to obey, but how could she silence what came from within?
Sometimes, she would sit under the mango tree and ask the sky why she felt so empty, so alone. She loved God deeply, but she couldn’t understand why He made her so different.
Then came the day that would change everything.
Her hair — long, thick, and crowned with that single streak of grey — was her pride. It was her confidence, her beauty, her connection to the divine. But one afternoon, in a fit of cruelty and superstition, a neighbor — convinced Ada was a witch — seized her and cut off her hair while others watched.
Ada screamed until her voice broke.
She fell to the ground, clutching the severed hair as if she had lost a piece of her soul.
And then, before sunset, the man who cut her hair was dead.
Some said it was coincidence. Others said Ada’s spirit had avenged her. But Ada herself only cried.
> “My hair,” she whispered, rocking back and forth. “My gift… my confidence.”
From that day, she stopped speaking for weeks. She stopped singing. Her eyes grew dull, her laughter vanished.
Her grandmother’s words returned to her mind:
> “Every gift from God must be tested by fire.”
And Ada began to understand — that her fire had just begun.
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