Chapter One: Echoes of the Village Fire
Ugochukwu stirred in his sleep. A faint sound teased at his ears, barely distinct yet oddly familiar. It returned—sharper now, edged with authority.
"Ugochukwu!"
"Sir," he mumbled groggily, blinking through the darkness to identify the voice. It was unmistakably his father's—Mazi Agbu.
Startled fully awake, he realized he had been lying on the bare clay floor. He and Emeka had planned to share the narrow wooden bed that his father had purchased for him during the first term holidays. Built from mahogany planks and propped on blocky legs, it stood proudly in the corner of the room—more than a piece of furniture, it was Mazi Agbu's way of marking his son's progress. From bamboo mat to wooden bed, and, if all went well, onward someday to a spring-loaded iron bedframe. That was the dream.
But Emeka, sleeping like a displaced prince, had somehow sprawled across the full width of the bed during the night, forcing Ugochukwu onto the floor. He rubbed his arm, sore from the hard surface, then stepped out into the courtyard, guided only by instinct and the flicker of his father's oil lantern.
"Sit down," Mazi Agbu said, pointing to the long wooden bench under the thatch of the obi.
Ugochukwu sat, still dazed.
"Amara must have told you she came home two days ago?" Mazi Agbu's tone was probing, neutral but expectant.
Ugochukwu blinked. "She's home?"
"You didn't know?" His father tilted his head slightly, as if trying to detect deception. "Hmm... Let the wind carry that aside for now."
It was said too casually. Mazi Agbu had noticed his son's spark of excitement and had drawn his own conclusions. The boy's face had betrayed a little too much. So, there was something between them after all—though perhaps nothing calculated.
"Tell me again," he said, folding his hands across his wrapper. "Why exactly did you return from school now, and with that half-caste boy in tow?"
Ugochukwu hesitated, carefully constructing the lines of a tale that wouldn't fracture under questioning.
"We're here so that Emeka can live an Igbo life... to learn our ways," he said, echoing the line they had rehearsed with Wale.
"And that's why you abandoned your studies... for two whole Sundays?"
"Papa, we didn't abandon anything. The school gave us permission. They want him to experience our culture. He's been struggling to fit in. You see, his mother is white American, and he grew up abroad. The school felt he'd benefit from spending time in a village."
Mazi Agbu narrowed his eyes. "But didn't you tell me earlier it was a mid-term break?"
Ugochukwu swallowed. "Yes... I said that so Emeka wouldn't feel embarrassed. He... he broke some rules. Nothing serious. But instead of punishing him harshly, the school thought a short cultural immersion would be better. Since I'm his only real friend, they asked me to bring him here."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Hmm," said Mazi Agbu finally. "So you're going back in two weeks?"
"Yes, Papa. Just a short time."
"Tell your half-caste friend we'll help him as best we can. But he must accept us as we are. We won't twist ourselves to suit foreign ways."
Ugochukwu nodded gratefully. "Thank you, sir."
As he made his way back into the room, his mind burned with excitement. Amara was home. Could it be coincidence? He doubted it. But the thought that she might be only a few compounds away lifted his mood like the morning sun.
He wished it had been his mother, not his father, who had woken him. She would have chatted a while. Maybe even spilled some gossip about Amara's return. With his father, everything was solemn—like a town crier announcing a funeral.
He sat briefly on the edge of the bed. Emeka shifted, freeing just enough space. Ugochukwu eased himself onto the bed's edge, letting the moonlight from the window trace silver lines across the dusty room.
He thought of sending Amara a note—just something short. Adaobi could deliver it. Or he might find a reason to visit her family's compound by mid-morning. She had to know he was here. That mattered most.
Emeka turned again in his sleep, muttering something in his half-American dream language. Ugochukwu smiled. Taking him to Ndikelionwu had been unthinkable just two days ago. How could he risk such embarrassment?
But Wale had persuaded him otherwise.
"Listen," Wale had said the night after the announcement of their suspension, "this isn't the end. You've been dealt a blow, yes—but you'll recover. Even the boy who's now School Captain was once suspended. What matters is how you rise."
And then Wale had offered provisions—bread money, tins of milk, a packet of sugar, even his last can of Ovaltine.
"You'll need these to play host," he'd said. "Take Emeka with you. He'll learn more in your village than he ever would sitting in isolation."
As if coordinated, Mr. Meniru—the VPGC himself—had turned up that morning before they departed.
He had called them aside privately, just before they left.
"You two are not bad boys," he said. "But you've made a mistake. We believe in giving second chances. Especially to boys who show promise."
He looked at Emeka then, and his expression softened.
"You were raised differently," he said. "But we're not trying to strip you of who you are. We just want you rooted. Strong trees grow only when they hold to the earth."
He gave them both transport money and a final piece of advice: "Respect your culture. But don't be ashamed of your past."
When Emeka had agreed to follow Ugochukwu home, he had done so with unexpected enthusiasm.
"I've always wanted to see the real Igbo life," he said, his eyes gleaming with boyish curiosity. "Back in America, everything they told us about African villages sounded like jungle tales. This is my chance to see the truth."
And truthfully, Emeka had handled the first night well—much better than expected.
Ugochukwu had delayed their arrival, wandering the markets of Onitsha longer than necessary so that darkness would mask the rural contrast. It worked. Emeka had been more amused than shocked.
He found the smoky kitchen fascinating. The palm husk burner delighted him. He tried—and failed—to pronounce the local name for it: mgbivuadu. The women laughed. Not mockingly, but with warmth. Even the compound children found his accent enchanting.
Now, lying awake, Ugochukwu was grateful. Maybe this trip wouldn't be a disaster after all. Maybe, just maybe, it could change both of them in ways neither expected.
His final thought before sleep returned was of Amara. Her eyes, that playful smirk, the way her handwriting curved on the edges of her letters...
Tomorrow, he would find her. Somehow.
Chapter Two: Whispers Beneath the Mango Tree
Ugochukwu had barely opened his eyes when he thought he heard his name echo through the dim morning light. The voice was low but firm—undeniably his father's.
"Ugochukwu!"
"Sir," he responded groggily, rising from the bare floor, confused at first about where he was.
The wooden bed he had shared with Emeka the previous night was now fully occupied by the latter, who had sprawled across it as though he owned it. Ugochukwu's back ached from sleeping on the cold ground. That bed, handcrafted from seasoned mahogany and topped with a straw mattress, was one of his father's proudest purchases—a symbol of academic success and forward progress. From bamboo to wood, and perhaps one day to an iron frame with springs.
In the central hut—the obi—Mazi Agbu was waiting, seated on a cane chair that had seen generations.
"Sit," he commanded with a nod.
Ugochukwu did so, still trying to gauge the mood in the room.
"You must have heard that Amara came home two days ago?"
Ugochukwu's heart fluttered. "Is she… is she here now?" he asked, failing to mask his excitement.
His father's eyes narrowed slightly, then he brushed aside the question. "Let's focus on you. Why are you here with this foreign boy, without warning, in the middle of the term?"
Ugochukwu swallowed. "We came so he can learn the Igbo way, Papa. So he can live among our people."
"Is that what the school said?"
"Yes, sir."
"But when you arrived yesterday, you said it was a special mid-term break."
A tangle of silence followed. Ugochukwu weighed the truth against dignity. He could not bring himself to reveal the suspension—not yet. In two weeks, they would return, and no one here would be the wiser.
"Papa, I said that to protect Emeka. He is not used to our ways. The school thought it best to let him stay in an Igbo village—to understand the roots of his father's culture."
Mazi Agbu stared at his son for a long moment.
"Did the school pick you for this responsibility?"
"Yes, sir. He is my friend. I was there when he… well… misunderstood some rules."
His father leaned back. "So long as you are returning to school in two weeks to continue your studies, I will not press further."
Ugochukwu exhaled, "We will return, Papa. That's a promise."
"Good. But tell your friend to accept us as we are. We will not change to suit him."
As Ugochukwu left the obi, his mind was already drifting. Amara was in town. Could it be fate? He had to see her before she left. First light would bring that opportunity.
By dawn, the compound was immaculate. The pit latrine had been scrubbed; the makeshift seat cleaned with ash and water. Mama Agbu had sprinkled powdered disinfectant and izal around the bathroom enclosure.
Ugochukwu noted it all with pride as he prepared Emeka for the day. There might be no tiled bathrooms or flush systems here, but the cleanliness was undeniable.
They arrived at Amara's compound to a dramatic welcome.
"Ugochukwu!" Amara's mother cried, hand clutching her chest. "My heart jumped out when I saw you. You are not on holiday?"
"Pattern," Ugochukwu saluted. "No, Ma. Not officially."
Her eyes flicked toward Emeka and softened with concern.
"This is my friend and classmate, Emeka. He grew up in America. His father is Igbo, but his mother is white. Our school asked me to bring him here, to learn village life."
The explanation rolled off Ugochukwu's tongue more fluidly with each telling.
The woman clapped her hands together gently. "So of all the boys in that prestigious school, they chose you?"
"Yes, Ma."
"Keep going, my son. Keep holding your head high. Who knows—one day this friend may take you to America!"
Then she asked, almost as an afterthought, "Did you know Amara is here?"
Feigning surprise, Ugochukwu responded, "No, Ma. I had no idea."
But before he could say more, the door behind her opened and Amara emerged like a vision. She ran toward him and embraced him, a moment so electric it made Emeka blink.
"This is Emeka," Ugochukwu introduced, when he found his voice. "My classmate and friend."
"And this," he said proudly to Emeka, "is Adanna—known around here as Amara squared for a reason."
Amara bashfully pinched his arm.
Emeka tried to kiss her cheek, but she gently pulled back, offering only her fingers. Undeterred, Emeka beamed.
Amara soon returned with two bowls of fruit salad—perfectly diced pawpaw, pineapple, banana, and citrus. The freshness of the ingredients mirrored her thoughtfulness.
"No whispering in any barbaric language!" Emeka cried playfully when she leaned in to explain in Igbo.
"But it's your father's language," Ugochukwu teased.
"Not mine," Emeka replied. "Still, I withdraw the word. Just… find me my own Amara."
They laughed together, the three of them, like old friends on a porch in spring.
Later that evening, Ugochukwu sneaked into the pit latrine—the only private place he could read Amara's letter. She had discreetly slipped it into his pocket when Emeka wasn't looking.
It was thick, and as he unfolded the sheets, her delicate handwriting flowed before him like a melody.
She began with her health. The headaches had worsened since the last term. They struck most violently during tests. No medicine seemed to help—Western or otherwise.
A sympathetic teacher had advised a visit to a Hausa spiritual healer in Ibagwa. Her mother had taken her there, and from there, the journey had shifted to Orji, near Owerri, where they met a dibia who shocked them with his knowledge of Amara's school life and challenges.
He connected her condition to an incident in her early childhood, when she had gotten into a quarrel with a classmate who later developed epilepsy and died tragically in a fire. The dibia believed the spirit of that girl had latched onto Amara out of revenge, hoping to drag her into darkness.
The ritual had been elaborate—white animals, sacred pots, specific salts, and a symbolic burial. They stayed for two nights.
Now she felt better—clear-headed, hopeful. She wanted to return to school for a test that Monday, to measure the success of the dibia's intervention. She concluded with a question: "Do you still think everything old is foolish?"
Ugochukwu folded the letter slowly. The pit latrine no longer stank; it felt like a confessional booth. His mind was torn between what he'd been taught at Government College and what his heart wanted to believe.
He remembered how Amara had looked that day—radiant, stronger. Something had shifted.
Maybe, just maybe, Dibia Ozo and all the ways of the old world were not so foolish after all.