The water stored inside the old woman's earthen jar had most likely come from the Nworie River, the lifeblood of Umudibia.
Every morning before sunrise, women and young girls made their way to its banks with clay pots balanced effortlessly upon their heads. It was the village's only reliable source of drinking water, and because of its importance, strict customs governed its use.
A section of the river had been carefully enclosed with large stones, forming a small collecting basin where only clean water was allowed to flow. Anyone fetching drinking water had to do so gently, for stirring up the mud forced everyone else to wait until the water settled again.
That sacred portion of the river was never used for bathing, swimming, or washing.
Anyone who violated that rule faced severe punishment, including being forbidden from drawing water there again.
Laundry, cooking utensils, and hunting equipment were washed only downstream.
Even hunters understood the sacredness of the river.
After killing an animal, they never cleaned it directly in the flowing water. Instead, they filled calabashes, carried the water well away from the bank, and washed the carcass there.
To stain the river with blood was considered a grave offense—not only against the villagers but also against the river's guardian deity.
Nworie offered far more than drinking water. Its waters teemed with fish that fed countless families throughout the year.
Wooden canoes carved from iroko trunks glided across its surface, carrying traders and travelers to neighboring villages. Those unable to afford large canoes lashed together thick bamboo stems into sturdy rafts that served the same purpose.
The river also provided clay from its depths.
When mixed with generous amounts of salt, shaped into small balls, and left beneath the scorching sun to dry, the mixture hardened into a pale grey edible chalk known as nzu.
Pregnant women often craved it.
Children loved it.
Whenever a woman gave birth, relatives distributed pieces of nzu among family and neighbors as part of the celebration.
So common was the custom that children frequently teased expectant mothers with the playful question,
"When will we come and lick your nzu?"
The river also served as the village's bathing place.
To preserve modesty, nature itself seemed to have divided it into two.
Tall reeds, shrubs, and overhanging trees formed a thick natural barrier between one side of the river and the other.
Women and girls bathed on one side.
Men and boys used the opposite bank.
The vegetation was so dense that seeing through it was nearly impossible.
Crossing into the wrong section, however, was no laughing matter.
Any man foolish enough to wander into the women's bathing area faced immediate justice.
Every woman present would descend upon the unfortunate intruder with whatever lay within reach—hands, sticks, buckets, or wet cloths.
Should he somehow escape, his identity would quickly become known, and the matter would be reported to the Eze, whose punishment was usually far harsher than the beating itself.
Despite the risk, some reckless young men occasionally claimed to have "lost their way" to the women's side.
Their stories afterward were always the same.
"The sight was worth seeing once," they would boast.
"But the beating..."
"...never again."
The tale had become village legend.
Another story told of a foreign messenger who unknowingly entered the women's section while searching for the village.
The women attacked without hesitation, beating him until he collapsed unconscious.
Realizing he no longer moved, panic replaced their anger.
They hurriedly fetched water in calabashes and poured it over him until he regained consciousness.
Only then did they discover he had come bearing an urgent warning from the neighboring kingdom of Umuarim about an approaching war.
The poor man had nearly died—not from battle...
But from ignorance.
Curiously, when women accidentally wandered into the men's side of the river, the reaction was entirely different.
The men usually scattered in embarrassment.
Those already bathing hurried behind trees.
Others plunged beneath the water to conceal themselves.
The few still clothed politely escorted the bewildered woman back to the proper path without causing her shame.
Beyond its practical importance, Nworie was regarded as sacred.
The villagers believed the river was watched over by Ọta Mmiri, a powerful water deity.
Unlike many spirits feared throughout the land, Ọta Mmiri was considered kind to the people of Umudibia.
Those who honored the river and obeyed its laws had nothing to fear.
Many believed that even someone unable to swim would never drown in its waters.
The goddess herself, they said, would gently carry the person back to shore.
Foreigners, however, enjoyed no such protection.
Before entering the river, visitors were expected to present offerings and seek the deity's blessing.
Failure to do so was regarded as an invitation to death.
No amount of skill in swimming could overcome the anger of Ọta Mmiri.
At least...
That was what the people believed.
*
Darkness had completely settled over the forest. Returning to Umudibia was no longer possible.
Even had daylight remained, Ego doubted she possessed the strength to make the long journey home after spending the entire day searching for herbs.
Seeing her exhaustion, the old woman insisted she stay the night.
"I have more than enough room," she said kindly.
"There is no need to risk the forest after sunset."
Ego gratefully accepted.
Not long afterward, the comforting aroma of freshly prepared food filled the little hut.
The old woman served steaming ofe ona with soft balls of eba.
Ego ate with genuine delight.
Every mouthful reminded her of something her mother used to say.
"No one cooks like an old woman."
Years of practice gave their hands a wisdom younger cooks rarely possessed.
By the time she finished, not a morsel remained.
She smiled contentedly.
"Nne..."
"That was one of the finest meals I have eaten in a long time."
The old woman chuckled softly.
"You deserve the thanks more than I do."
She looked thoughtfully into the fire.
"Many people have passed me in that forest over the years."
"Most never even greeted me."
"None ever offered to carry my firewood."
"But today..."
"You carried my burden."
"And now you sit here keeping an old woman company."
"I cannot even remember the last time that happened."
Ego lowered her head modestly.
"It was nothing."
"My conscience would never have allowed me to leave you struggling with that heavy load."
The old woman smiled.
Then, after a brief silence, she asked,
"What is your name, my daughter?"
"I am called Ego."
"And I come from Umudibia."
The old woman nodded slowly.
"That is quite a long journey."
"Will your family not worry that you failed to return tonight?"
For a moment, Ego remained silent.
Then she answered quietly.
"I live alone."
The old woman looked at her in surprise.
"Alone?"
"You are not married?"
"My husband died several years ago."
The old woman's expression softened immediately.
"Ah..."
"What a cruel fate."
"So young..."
"And already a widow."
She shook her head sadly.
"Why did you never marry again?"
Ego stared into the dancing flames.
"I never wanted another husband."
The old woman frowned gently.
"But why?"
"You are still young."
"You are beautiful."
"I find it hard to believe men are not asking for your hand."
"Did your husband have no brothers?"
"He did."
"But I wish to live the rest of my life on my own terms."
She paused before continuing.
"I no longer wish to belong to any man."
"I can feed myself."
"I can take care of myself."
"Why should I marry simply because society expects it?"
A faint sadness entered her voice.
"And besides..."
"I am barren."
"What man willingly chooses a wife who cannot bear children?"
She smiled sadly.
"I was fortunate once."
"Nnanna never blamed me."
"He never spoke harshly."
"He always believed the gods would bless us in time."
"I do not believe another man could ever love me with such patience."
The old woman watched her carefully.
"So..."
"You never had children at all?"
Ego slowly shook her head.
"I never even conceived."
The words came out almost as a whisper.
Tears shimmered in her eyes, reflecting the firelight.
The old woman remained quiet for several moments.
Then she asked gently,
"So after losing your husband..."
"You have carried every burden alone?"
Ego nodded.
"Yes."
"I have done everything by myself."
She tried to smile.
But the smile trembled before it fully formed.
The old woman studied her face in silence.
The fire crackled softly between them.
Outside, the forest had grown strangely still.
And somewhere beyond the walls of the lonely hut...
Something unseen listened.