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LOVER BIRD, London (2026)

28/10/2025

MORTICIAN'S SECRET

EPISODE EIGHT

Things moved fast after that.

Dinners turned to sleepovers.
Mornings started with shared cups of coffee.
Ebuka began waking up without nightmares.

But every time Ngozi asked, “What really happened after you dropped out of school?” he changed the subject.
And every time she asked, “Why do you always go back to the morgue after midnight?” he lied.

He said, “Paperwork.”
He said, “Cleaning up.”
He said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

And part of him feared… she would.

---

One evening, after a long shift, Ebuka walked into his apartment and found Ngozi waiting on the couch.

Her face was pale. Lips tight.

“I came by the mortuary this evening,” she said.

His blood froze.

“I forgot my ID in your room. I thought I’d surprise you…”
She paused.
“…but you weren’t there. I thought you might be in the back, so I walked in.”

His heart pounded in his chest.

Ngozi continued. “I saw something.”

“What?” he asked, barely breathing.

“A body. Half-open. With a label on the kidney. A surgical tray beside it. I saw a metal container sealed and packed in a bag.”

Ebuka couldn’t speak.

Ngozi stood. “What’s going on, Ebuka? Are you… selling body parts?”

He opened his mouth—but no words came.

Her voice cracked.
“Please tell me I’m wrong.”

He looked at her.
And said nothing.

---

That silence said everything.

Ngozi took a step back.
“You lied to me.”

“I was protecting you,” he whispered.

“From the truth? Or from the blood on your hands?”

Ebuka stepped forward. “It’s not what you think—”

She slapped him.
Hard.

Tears welled in her eyes. “I loved you.”

He stood there, still.

She turned and walked out.

---

That night, he returned to the mortuary alone.
He didn’t work.
He just sat in the dark.

Surrounded by bodies.
Surrounded by silence.

And for the first time in years, the silence felt like punishment.
Not peace.

---

The next morning, Seyi found him asleep in the embalming room.
He woke him gently.

“She knows,” Ebuka whispered.

Seyi looked startled. “Who?”

“Ngozi. She saw… everything.”

“What will you do?”

Ebuka stood slowly.
“I don’t know. But if she talks… we’re finished.”

Seyi’s face went pale.
“Do you think she will?”

Ebuka stared at the body on the table.
“I would, if I were her.”

---

That afternoon, a new message arrived.
A buyer.

High-profile.
Urgent request.
₦3.5 million.

Target: Male. 37. Gunshot wound. AB+. Liver and heart.

The body would arrive that night.
And so would the courier.

Ebuka’s hands shook as he read the note.

Because just as he finished, his phone buzzed again.

It was Ngozi.
One message:

> “Meet me. One last time. Come clean. 7 p.m. Under the old bridge.”

---

Ebuka stared at the screen.

Everything he had built—his secrets, his money, his twisted redemption—was slipping away.

But maybe, just maybe…
If he told her everything…
He could be saved.

Or destroyed.

TO BE CONTINUED…

28/10/2025

MORTICIAN'S SECRET 🤐🤐

EPISODE SEVEN

Love wasn’t something Ebuka believed in anymore.
Not after Chigozie.
Not after Mathias.
Not after the list, the deaths, the blood, the shame.

He had locked that part of himself away, buried it under scalpel blades and refrigerated drawers. For years, he moved through life like one of the co**ses he worked on—cold, functional, and alone.

Until Ngozi walked into the mortuary.

---

She arrived on a rainy Tuesday, in her nurse uniform, soaked from the downpour, her umbrella flipped and broken. She had been sent from Saint Anthony’s Hospital to verify a body.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice breathy but bold. “I’m Nurse Ngozi. Here to confirm the identity of a patient we lost this morning.”

Ebuka barely looked up. “Name?”

“Chibundu Nnenna. Fifty-eight. Cardiac arrest. We sent her body over at 7:00 a.m.”

Ebuka nodded, opened his logbook, and gestured for her to follow.

---

Inside drawer 3 lay the body in question—covered neatly, respectfully.

As Ebuka pulled the sheet back, Ngozi gasped softly and stepped forward.
She stared at the co**se for several seconds, eyes moist but professional. Then she nodded. “Yes… that’s her.”

Ebuka covered the woman again.
He expected Ngozi to leave.
But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked around the room, at the stainless steel tables, the glinting scalpels on the tray, the faint scent of disinfectant in the air.

“How do you work here?” she asked suddenly.

Ebuka looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I see death every day too… but here, it feels different. Colder. Like the walls remember every scream.”

Ebuka stared at her. Her eyes were intelligent, her voice calm—but beneath it, he sensed a tremble.

“You get used to it,” he replied.

She tilted her head. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer.

---

They met again two days later—this time at the hospital’s loading dock. Ebuka had come to collect documents for a transfer.

Ngozi waved at him.

He hesitated, then walked over.

“You again,” she smiled.

“You talk too much,” he replied.

“And you’re always scowling,” she said.

That made him smirk. Just barely.

---

They started texting. Then calling. Then talking late into the night.

He found out she was thirty-two, a nurse for almost a decade. She had grown up in Aba, lost her father in the Biafra riots as a child, and raised her younger brother through nursing school. She was fierce, funny, and full of questions.

Ebuka found himself smiling again.

He told her things. Not everything—but enough.

He told her about medical school, about Chigozie’s death. About dropping out. About Mathias.

But never about the trade.
Not that.
Never that.

---

One Sunday evening, they met at a quiet buka down the road. She had worn a yellow dress that glowed against her brown skin, her braids tied back in a red scarf. She looked at him with eyes that peeled away his layers.

“So,” she said, “do you ever let anyone in?”

Ebuka stirred his drink. “What’s the point?”

“Because carrying death alone will eventually kill you.”

He looked up sharply.
She didn’t flinch.

He wanted to tell her everything then.
The organs. The money. The screams in his dreams.

But he stayed silent.

“I like you, Ebuka,” she said quietly. “Even if you’re carrying something you don’t want to share yet.”

He looked at her, something aching in his chest.

“I like you too,” he whispered.

---

For the first time in over a decade, Ebuka felt seen.
Not as a mortician.
Not as a monster.
But as a man.

TO BE CONTINUED...

25/10/2025

MORTICIAN'S SECRET

EPISODE SIX

By afternoon, the mortuary was empty.

He wore his gloves slowly, like a priest preparing for ritual. The lights flickered, casting pale reflections on the cold steel.

He walked to the back, past the rows of freezers, and pulled out Drawer 7.

Inside lay Ifeoma.

There were no visible injuries. Just a few scrapes, some bruises along the neck. Her features were soft, as if she had just drifted off mid-thought.

Ebuka stared at her face for a long time.

He remembered her voice in the lecture hall. How she once helped him pass an anatomy exam by whispering answers while the lecturer’s back was turned.

He remembered the day Chigozie died, and how she was the only one who didn’t say “Sorry”—instead, she said, “What do you need? Let me help.”

Now she needed him.

And what he was about to do… was not help.

---

His hands hovered over her chest.

The first incision would go just below the ribcage.

But he couldn’t move.

He dropped the scalpel. It clattered on the tray like a gunshot.

His breath quickened. He backed away, stripping off his gloves, pressing his palms to his eyes.

“No,” he muttered. “Not this one. I can’t. I won’t.”

He turned and left the room.

For the first time in years, Ebuka refused an order.

---

By nightfall, he sat alone on the back steps of the mortuary, the buyer’s list crumpled in his hand.

The wind carried the scent of diesel from the nearby generator and the faint sound of a street preacher on a megaphone, shouting about fire and brimstone.

He didn’t notice the black SUV pull up until the headlights hit him in the face.

A tall man in a dark coat stepped out.

Ebuka recognized him.

He was one of the collectors. Silent. Efficient. Dangerous.

The man said nothing at first. Just stood there, arms crossed.

Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white envelope.

He held it out.

Ebuka didn’t move.

The man raised a brow.

Ebuka shook his head.

> “Not this time,” he said quietly. “I can’t do it. She’s… she was someone I knew.”

The man’s eyes remained blank. He dropped the envelope on the ground and turned to leave.

Before getting into the SUV, he spoke one sentence.

> “If you don’t do it, someone else will. And that someone won’t be so kind to your memory.”

The vehicle drove off into the night.

Ebuka picked up the envelope.

Inside was a photo.

Not of Ifeoma.

But of his mother.

Standing at her market stall.

Smiling.

Unaware.

---

The message was clear.

Refusal was not an option.

Not anymore.

Ebuka sat beside Ifeoma’s body the entire night, tears carving silent lines down his face.

By dawn, he was wearing gloves again.

The scalpel in his hand no longer trembled.

And when he made the incision, he didn’t look at her face.

Not even once.

TO BE CONTINUED

24/10/2025

MORTICIAN'S SECRET

EPISODE FIVE

THE BUYER’S LIST....

The mortuary clock ticked in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Each tick sounded louder than usual as Ebuka sat alone in the embalming room, the soft hum of the freezer in the corner accompanying his thoughts.

In front of him was a clipboard—clean white paper with a list scribbled in shorthand. His shorthand.

Not names.
Just cold data:

> “M-29, Gunshot, B–, Liver
F-18, Drowning, AB+, Corneas
M-43, Cardiac, O+, Kidney (left)
F-32, Stroke, B+, Lungs”

This was the buyer’s list.

It came to him every Friday, encrypted and forwarded by a proxy. He never met the sender. Never spoke a word on the phone. He would simply receive the list—and once he confirmed the availability, the courier would appear. Always silent. Always on time.

And for years, Ebuka had followed the rhythm like a dance he could do in his sleep.

Until now.

Until her.

---

Three days had passed since Adaora's body left his table, hollowed and sewn, with her parents none the wiser. Yet her image lingered. That warm smile. That laugh from a distant memory. The way she once offered him free boli and teased, “You look like someone who carries too many secrets.”

She was right.

And now, her death sat like an anchor in his chest.

His hands had begun to tremble when he held a scalpel. Not because he was afraid of what he was doing—but because a small part of him was starting to feel again.

And feeling meant remembering.

And remembering meant guilt.

---

That morning, as the town woke up to birdsong and rusted buses honking along the muddy roads, a text arrived.

It was short, just like always:

> “Delivery in 24 hours. F-35. Vehicle accident. Blood group A+. Urgent match. Heart. Corneas. Kidneys. Bonus ₦1 million if complete.”

Ebuka's eyes paused on one word.

Bonus.

He had seen it before, and it always meant one thing—rich client, time-sensitive, no room for failure.

He sighed, opened his drawer, and pulled out the mortuary’s incoming report file.

He flipped through until he found the next incoming body:

> Name: Nnaji, Ifeoma
Age: 35
S*x: Female
Cause of death: Blunt trauma from vehicle collision
Time of arrival: 8:15 a.m.
Condition: Stable remains
Status: No family present yet

He dropped the file.

Ifeoma.

Not just another name.

She had once been his classmate at UNN. Medical school. Top of her class. Brilliant. Fearless. The girl who stood up to lecturers. The one who raised money to send a sick janitor’s daughter abroad for surgery.

That Ifeoma.

Now she was lying on a stretcher, lifeless, in his morgue.

Ebuka slumped in his chair.

“God…” he whispered, “why are you bringing them all back to me now?”

---

👉 TO BE CONTINUED…

23/10/2025

MORTICIAN'S SECRET

EPISODE FOUR

For days, Ebuka couldn’t sleep.

He kept imagining his brother lying in that hospital bed, waiting. Hoping.

Would Chigozie have lived if someone had made a different decision?

Was it really murder to take from the dead and give life to the living?

One night, Mathias showed him a box.

Inside: a liver, packed in cold gel, sealed in sterile wrapping.

> “You don’t have to touch anything,” he said. “Just help me carry the box.”

Ebuka nodded.

And the descent began.

---

Soon, the jobs became routine.

Bodies were screened. Organs assessed. Instructions came in encrypted texts. Names were never used. Only age, blood type, and the parts required.

Sometimes the organs were shipped out of state. Other times, they were picked up in black cars with tinted windows.

Ebuka never asked questions.

He told himself he was saving lives.

He told himself this was justice—for all the children like Chigozie, for all the mothers in newspaper obituaries.

But justification is a fragile thing.

And soon, he started getting comfortable.

---

The money changed everything.

Within a year, Ebuka had moved into a better apartment. Bought new clothes. Started sending money to his mother—who believed he was working in a private hospital lab in Lagos.

She was proud of him.

And he let her believe it.

But pride is also a fragile thing.

One phone call almost shattered it.

---

It was late, nearly midnight, when Ebuka's phone rang. He recognized the voice immediately.

Simeon, his childhood friend.

They hadn’t spoken in years.

> “Ebuka, please—I know you work in a hospital. My wife… she’s dying. Liver failure. Please, I’ll pay. Just help me find a donor.”

Ebuka froze.

It was as though fate was staring him in the face.

He could help. He had access. He knew a match when he saw one.

But it wasn’t that simple.

> “I’ll see what I can do,” he whispered.

And that was the first time he crossed the line from observer to broker.

---

He told Dr. Mathias.

Mathias grunted. “We don’t do friends.”

Ebuka insisted. “I’ll handle it. Just one.”

The organ was sourced quickly. Too quickly.

Ebuka didn’t ask where it came from.

He didn’t want to know.

Three days later, Simeon’s wife got her transplant. She lived. The family praised God. Simeon cried and hugged Ebuka over the phone, promising to never forget him.

And Ebuka—Ebuka felt like a god.

But gods bleed too.

---

A week later, the body of a sixteen-year-old girl came through the mortuary.

Gunshot wound.

No ID.

No relatives claimed her.

Ebuka looked at her chart.

Blood type: B+. Liver removed.

He stared at her lifeless body for nearly an hour.

And then he vomited in the corner of the room.

He tried to tell himself it was coincidence.

But deep down, he knew.

Simeon’s wife had lived… at the cost of this girl’s death.

He didn’t eat for two days.

But the money came anyway.

And he didn’t return it.

---

Years passed.

Mathias died of a stroke.

The clinic shut down.

But Ebuka was already known by the right people—and feared by the wrong ones.

They moved him to Ogidi. Gave him a clean morgue, a good salary, and a silent job.

Now he worked alone.

No witnesses. No assistants.

Just him, the dead, and the weight of choices that couldn’t be undone.

---

But that weight was growing heavier.

And lately, the dead had begun to whisper.

TO BE CONTINUED

22/10/2025

MORTICIAN'S SECRET

EPISODE 3 :ORIGINS OF THE TRADE

The soft rustle of newspaper pages filled the narrow room. A kerosene lamp flickered beside the table, its orange glow casting long shadows on the cracked walls. Ebuka sat still, staring at a black-and-white photo in the obituary section.

The face was unfamiliar, but the story beneath it mirrored too many he had read lately.

> “Young mother of two dies from liver failure. No matching donor found. Doctors blame hospital delay and lack of available organs.”

Ebuka dropped the paper.

His chest tightened, breath shallow, hands trembling—not from fear, but rage.

Rage that came not with fists or fury—but with a deep, bitter silence.

How many lives would continue to be lost while the system made excuses? How many Chigozies would be buried before something changed?

But the world didn’t care about the poor. Not unless their pain made good headlines.

And so, Ebuka did what most desperate men do.

He adapted.

He learned to live in the dark.

---

It had been almost six years since Chigozie’s death. And still, the memory clung to him like smoke. The sound of the boy’s labored breathing, the wheezing, the endless blood tests, the false hope.

The hospitals said they would find a donor.

They never did.

Every knock on the door brought his mother running, hopeful. But the door never opened to salvation—only bills, empty promises, and finally, the white van that took her son away.

That day, something inside Ebuka broke.

He never returned to medical school.

Instead, he disappeared.

---

Ebuka had wandered through the streets of Enugu with nothing but a backpack and a heart full of anger. For weeks, he slept under unfinished buildings, ate from street vendors, and survived on the kindness of strangers.

Then, one rainy afternoon, he stumbled upon Mathias Memorial Clinic.

A worn-out building at the edge of town, half-painted, with rusted gates and dusty windows.

There was a handwritten note on the door: “Morgue Assistant Wanted. Inquire within.”

Something told him to walk away.

But hunger pulled him in.

---

Dr. Mathias was a man of few words.

Old, stern, with thick glasses and a voice that sounded like gravel. He looked Ebuka over and asked only one question:

> “You afraid of dead bodies?”

Ebuka shook his head.

> “Good. Start tomorrow.”

That was it.

No interviews. No forms.

Just death, waiting to be dressed.

---

The work was heavy.

Physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Ebuka cleaned bodies, stitched wounds, removed blood, and prepared coffins. But he was good at it. His hands were steady. His eyes, sharp. And he never flinched—not even when the co**ses were mangled beyond recognition.

In less than a month, Dr. Mathias doubled his pay.

And two months later, he let him in on the real business.

---

It started with a whisper.

One night, as they stood over a young co**se—an accident victim—Dr. Mathias paused.

> “Healthy heart,” he muttered, more to himself than to Ebuka. “Young lungs. Strong kidneys.”

Ebuka looked at him, confused.

Mathias turned slowly.

> “Do you know how much a kidney costs on the private market?”

Ebuka didn’t answer.

> “Three million naira, if it’s fresh. Six abroad.”

Ebuka stared at the body. The man was maybe twenty-three. His face was still intact, but blood caked the corners of his mouth.

Mathias placed a hand on Ebuka’s shoulder.

> “We bury the body anyway. Why not let someone else live first?”

Ebuka pulled away.

But the seed had been planted.

TO BE CONTINUED

21/10/2025

THE MORTICIAN’S SECRET

EPISODE TWO

Dr. Mathias ran a small, questionable clinic on the outskirts of Enugu.

It was here that Ebuka found work embalming bodies.

Mathias was the one who introduced him to the underground trade.

“People are dying every day,” the doctor had said. “But others are dying to live. If the system won’t help them, we will. And we’ll make money doing it.”

Ebuka resisted at first.

But after months of poverty, pain, and watching families cry over lost loved ones because there weren’t enough transplants or donors, something in him snapped.

---

It started slowly.

A liver here. A kidney there.

He told himself they were already dead.

That he was giving someone else a chance to live.

That it wasn’t a crime—it was a service.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that.

It was survival.

And now, it was addiction.

---

Adaora’s chest cavity lay open now.

Ebuka worked quickly, his hands steady even as his heart raced.

He placed the extracted organs carefully into ice-lined containers, sealing them with clinical precision.

The hum of the mortuary’s refrigerator was the only sound in the room.

When he was done, he sat beside the body.

For the first time in years, he let himself cry.

Not loud sobs—just quiet, shivering tears that slipped down his face as he stared at her lifeless form.

He didn’t even hear the back door creak open.

---

A woman stepped in, dressed entirely in black.

Her face was hidden under a scarf, but her posture was familiar.

She placed a black leather bag on the stainless steel trolley beside him and opened it silently.

Bundles of ₦1,000 notes.

Neatly arranged. Thick enough to fill a small backpack.

₦1.3 million.

Just like the message promised.

She didn’t speak.

She never did.

Ebuka wiped his eyes quickly and nodded.

She nodded back, turned, and walked out.

Just like always.

No names. No questions.

Just death and money.

---

By morning, Adaora’s body was stitched back together.

Her face cleaned. Her hair brushed.

Her lips tinted faintly to make her look asleep.

Her parents came in around 10 a.m.

The mother screamed when she saw her.

The father collapsed onto a chair, gripping the armrests like they could anchor him from drowning.

They thanked Ebuka.

They thanked him.

And he smiled sadly, nodding in respect—knowing what he had done.

He was their comfort. Their healer.

The man who made their daughter look peaceful, even in death.

If only they knew…

---

Later that day, Ebuka sat behind the mortuary’s small office, sipping a cup of bitter coffee.

His phone buzzed.

A new message had come in:

> “Next of kin. Male. 32. Gunshot victim. Liver and corneas. Delivery in 2 days. ₦2 million.”

He sighed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily.

He didn’t know the name yet.

He didn’t care to.

What did names matter?

He had learned to stop remembering faces.

To stop listening to families.

To stop asking “what if?”

Because in his world, there was no if.

There was only when.

And how much.

---

But that night, sleep wouldn’t come.

Adaora’s face haunted him.

That smile from years ago.

The plantain she’d handed him.

The way her fingers brushed his when she gave him change.

What would she think now, if she could see what he’d become?

Would she still call him “too serious”?

Would she spit in his face?

Or worse—would she forgive him?

Ebuka turned in bed, whispering, “I didn’t mean for this to become my life…”

But there was no one to hear.

Just shadows.

And regrets.

And secrets

TO BE CONTINUED

21/10/2025

THE MORTICIAN’S SECRET

EPISODE ONE

The air inside the mortuary was always cold, but tonight, it felt colder than usual.

Not because of the temperature—Ebuka had grown used to that—but because of what lay before him on the steel table.

The body of a young woman, no more than twenty-five. Her skin was pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, her mouth slightly open, as though frozen mid-sentence.

The tag on her toe read: “Nwadiuto, Adaora – 24 – Car Accident.”

Ebuka swallowed hard.

He hadn’t expected her.

She wasn’t just another body.

She was once the girl who sold roasted plantains at the junction of his street.

Her laughter had danced on the wind—loud, carefree, teasing. She had once given him an extra portion without charge, whispering, “Because you’re always too serious.”

But now, she was silent. Cold. Stiff.

And he had a job to do.

---

By daylight, Ebuka Okafor was a respected man.

Tall, soft-spoken, and always neatly dressed in dark trousers and clean shirts.

In the small southeastern town of Ogidi, he was known as the man who gives the dead dignity.

He was a mortician—one who prepared the departed for their final journey. A man people feared, but also respected.

But by night…

He was something else.

Something darker.

---

He reached for his gloves, pulling them over his fingers like a ritual he had mastered over the years.

He clicked the overhead lamp closer to Adaora’s torso, letting the light flood her still body.

There was a deep gash across her forehead, and her left arm hung broken at the elbow.

The doctors had done their best to stitch her up, but she hadn’t survived the crash.

He stared at her chest for a long moment.

He didn’t want to do it.

Not this one.

But the message he received that morning was clear:

> “24-year-old female. Blood Type B+. Lungs and kidneys. High priority. ₦1.3 million. Tonight.”

The buyers didn’t care about names or histories.

They cared about organs—fresh, healthy ones.

And Ebuka, the quiet mortician, was their supplier.

He gritted his teeth and whispered, “I’m sorry, Adaora.”

Then, he picked up the scalpel.

---

Fifteen years earlier, Ebuka had been a completely different man.

He had once dreamed of becoming a surgeon.

Bright, ambitious, and compassionate, he was the pride of his village when he got admitted into the University of Nigeria, Nsukka.

But in his second year, everything changed.

His younger brother, Chigozie, fell terribly ill.

Diagnosis: renal failure.

The doctors said he needed a kidney transplant urgently, but there was no match in the family.

The hospital kept delaying.

Ebuka watched his brother weaken day by day until one night, he simply stopped breathing.

Ebuka never forgave the system.

Never forgave the world.

In his grief, he dropped out of school.

He couldn’t bring himself to cut open another human being in a world where the rich could afford organs and the poor died in silence.

He wandered aimlessly for years.

Until he met Doctor Mathias.

To be continued...

20/10/2025

NEVER SHARE YOUR GOOD NEWS WITH YOUR FRIEND'S, BE WARNED 😭😭😭😭

EPISODE 10

The witch’s laughter echoed through the air, sharp and cruel. The ground trembled under their feet as waves from the river crashed violently against the rocks. Na pulled Cassie close, shielding her from flying debris.

“Stay behind me!” Adah shouted, stepping forward with courage blazing in her eyes. Her hair whipped around her face as the wind grew stronger, carrying the scent of wet earth and thunder.

King Obi drew his sword and stood beside her. “We face this together,” he said firmly.

The witch sneered. “You think your love can save you? You think forgiveness will protect you? Foolish queen!” She slammed her staff into the ground, and a dark mist rose from the river, twisting and forming shadowy creatures that hissed and clawed at the air.

Adah took a deep breath and raised her hands toward the heavens. “O gods of the river, hear me!” she cried. “You witnessed my pain, my suffering, and my deliverance. Stand with me now, that evil may fall!”

A flash of white light burst from her palms, cutting through the mist. The shadow creatures screamed and dissolved into smoke. The witch staggered back, clutching her chest.

“No! This cannot be!”

Tibo, the old man, stepped forward, tears streaming down his face. “End it, my queen. Destroy the staff. That is her power!”

Adah nodded and ran toward the witch, but the old woman raised her staff again, sending a blast of energy that knocked Adah to the ground. King Obi rushed to her side, his sword raised.

“You’ll not harm her again!” he roared, striking the staff. The blade shattered the top of it, and a piercing scream filled the air.

The witch fell to her knees, her voice trembling with fury. “You think this ends me? My curse lives as long as the river flows!”

Adah struggled to her feet, her eyes glowing with light. “Then I’ll cleanse the river itself.”

She stepped into the water, her gown floating around her like silk. The river began to glow again — first faintly, then brighter and brighter until it shone like molten gold.

The witch screamed, shielding her eyes. “No! You’ll destroy us both!”

Adah’s voice rose, strong and unwavering. “Then so be it. Let the river choose justice!”

A blinding light exploded from the water, swallowing everything. The earth shook violently, trees bent, and thunder roared across the sky. Na screamed, covering Cassie as the world disappeared into light.

Then, slowly, the brightness began to fade. The river calmed. The air stilled.

Na opened her eyes, trembling. “Cassie… are you all right?”

Cassie nodded weakly. “I’m fine, Mama.”

They both looked toward the river — and gasped. The witch was gone, her staff shattered into pieces. The dark mist had vanished completely. The water flowed clear and calm, shining under the morning sun.

Adah stood in the middle of the river, her gown glistening with golden light. She turned and walked toward them, each step gentle and radiant. King Obi rushed forward and caught her in his arms.

“It’s over,” she whispered. “The curse is broken forever.”

Na and Cassie fell to their knees, tears of joy streaming down their faces.

The old man Tibo bowed deeply. “You have done what no one else could. The river is pure again.”

Adah smiled at him. “Thank you for your courage, Tibo. The gods will forgive your past.”

He lowered his head. “I only wish to serve goodness in what time I have left.”

As the sun rose fully, its golden rays bathed the land in warmth. Birds sang in the trees, and the kingdom that had once been shadowed by darkness came alive once more.

When they returned to the palace, the people cheered louder than ever before. They threw flowers at the queen’s feet, chanting her name. “Adah! Adah the Blessed!”

King Obi stood beside her, his arm around her shoulders. “Our land is free again, thanks to your bravery and mercy.”

Adah turned to Na and Cassie, who stood shyly at the edge of the crowd. “Come forward,” she said.

They approached hesitantly. Adah smiled. “These two souls saved me when I was nothing but a creature in the water. Because of them, I live. Because of their kindness, the river flows pure. From this day forward, Na will be known as the Guardian of the River, and Cassie as the Child of Light.”

The crowd erupted in joy. Flowers rained from the balconies as the people bowed deeply.

Na’s eyes filled with tears. “My queen… I am unworthy.”

Adah took her hands. “You are more than worthy. You showed me what true kindness means.”

Cassie looked up at her with admiration. “Aunt Adah, will you ever leave the palace again?”

Adah smiled gently. “I will visit the river often, to honor what was lost and what was found.”

That night, as the palace celebrated with music and feasting, Adah slipped quietly to the balcony once more. The moon hung full and bright above the river, its reflection glimmering like liquid gold.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Lami, I forgive you again. May your soul find peace where envy cannot reach.”

A soft wind blew, and for a moment, she thought she heard a faint voice — Lami’s voice — carried by the river. “Thank you, Adah.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled. The pain had finally lifted.

When she turned, King Obi was standing behind her, smiling warmly. He took her hand and kissed her forehead. “Come, my queen. The people await their queen of mercy.”

Adah nodded, her heart light and full. Together, they walked hand in hand into the grand hall, where laughter and joy filled every corner.

Outside, the river flowed peacefully under the moon, whispering stories of love, betrayal, and redemption — a reminder that even after darkness, the light always returns.

And so ended the tale of Queen Adah, the woman who became a golden fish and rose again, not with vengeance, but with forgiveness that healed an entire kingdom.

THE END

LOVER BIRD

28/10/2025

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