The red-earth road to Umudia shimmered under the late afternoon sun, long and quiet except for the buzz of cicadas and the distant bleating of goats. On one side of that endless road stretched the farmlands of Umudia, with its yam ridges and cassava mounds lined neatly like soldiers at attention. On the other side, across the low hills and thickets of palm trees, began Ikot Oblogo, a cluster of houses whose tin roofs flashed silver when the sun leaned westward.
Between the two villages lay an invisible border—a line no one could see but everyone could feel. It was not marked by fences or rivers, but by silence, suspicion, and stories.
For as long as anyone could remember, the Okorons of Umudia and the Etims of Ikot Oblogo had been enemies. The origin of their feud had become something like a village folktale, told around fires and at moonlight gatherings. Some said it began when a goat from Ikot Oblogo wandered into Okoron farmland and was slaughtered; others swore it started when an Okoron man accused an Etim woman of witchcraft. But the version Amara Okoron grew up hearing most often was the story her father told—the one about stolen land within the boundary line.
"Those Etim people are cunning," Chief Okoron would say each evening as he sat on the veranda, a bowl of groundnuts beside him. He would shell them slowly, the cracking sound punctuating his words. "Never trust them, Amara. Never speak to them." And Amara, obedient and curious, would nod, though she never fully understood why.
Their compound stood at the edge of the village, near the palm grove that marked the disputed boundary. Beyond those trees, everyone said, lay the land the Etims had stolen. But when Amara was little, she used to climb a mango tree near that same grove and watch the other side. She saw no thieves—only children her age running, laughing, chasing goats, or balancing calabashes of water on their heads. Sometimes she waved. They never waved back.
Life in Umudia followed its familiar rhythm. In the mornings, the air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke as women fetched water and men went to the farms. Amara, the second daughter of Chief Okoron, often helped her mother, Mama Ifeoma, sweep the compound or pound yams. Her elder brother, Chidi, was already learning the family trade—palm oil production—and spent his days hauling palm fruits and shouting orders at labourers.
Amara was not like Chidi. She preferred quiet things—painting, sketching, sitting by the stream with her sketchpad, and sometimes helping the children at the mission school. Her father often frowned at her drawings. "These colours," he would say, lifting one of her paintings of the sunset over the palms, "they are too bright. The world is not so kind."
She would smile and say softly, "But Papa, it could be."
He would wave her off and return to his newspaper.
Despite his sternness, Amara loved her father deeply. Chief Okoron was a man of stature, respected and feared. He was a member of the village council, a man whose words carried weight during meetings at the town hall, especially when it came to land issues. People said that in his youth, he had fought tooth and nail to keep the Etims from taking more than their share of farmland. He wore that history like armour, and expected his children to do the same.
So, when Amara once asked, "Papa, what if the Etims are not as bad as people say?" the old man's face hardened.
"Don't let your tongue betray your blood," he snapped. "You are an Okoron. We do not ask such foolish questions."
That night, she could not sleep. The crickets chirped loudly outside, and the moonlight filtered through her mosquito net, silver and restless. She wondered what it would be like to cross that border her father hated so much—to walk into Ikot Oblogo and see it for herself.
One Sunday, Aunty Ngozi arrived from Uyo, her laughter and perfume filling the compound like sunlight through dust. She was Chief Okoron's younger sister, a trader who sold fabrics at Itam Market. She loved to tease Amara, saying, "My dear, with your fine face, you should come to Uyo and help me. You will see life!"
Amara giggled but shook her head. "Papa won't allow it."
"Ah, leave that man," Aunty Ngozi said, rolling her eyes. "He still thinks Uyo is the bush. Come, spend the holiday with me. You'll help in my shop and see how city people live."
To Amara's surprise, her father agreed. Perhaps it was because the house had been quiet since Chidi left for the neighbouring village to supervise a new palm mill. Or maybe he wanted Amara to learn "responsibility" from her aunt.
"Go," he said gruffly. "But remember who you are. And keep away from strangers, especially anyone from Ikot Oblogo."
Amara nodded. "Yes, Papa."
She didn't know it then, but those words would echo in her mind weeks later—words that would lose their power the day she met Ekanem Etim.