19/11/2025
HER WICKED STEPMOTHER SENT HER TO THE FOREST TO GET FIREWOOD EVERYDAY
EPISODE 2
The morning sun was still shy, hiding behind clouds as Amarachi walked toward the forest path. Every step seemed to awaken memories buried deep inside her.
Amarachi was born in Ogwuta Village. Her father, simply known as papa Uche, was one of the most successful farmers in the village, married to two women, Ngozi and Nkem, with Ngozi, Amarachi’s mother, being the first wife.
Ngozi was a very beautiful and kind woman, loved by all. The second wife also had Oluchi, her daughter of about the same age with Amarachi.
The two girls grew like twin seedlings — inseparable, chasing goats across the compound and fetching water from the stream. Everything seemed perfect. Amarachi was the apple of her mother’s eyes. However, life had other plans
Amarachi was only 10 when her world came crashing down. It was a rainy night. Nkem had travelled to her mother’s hometown with Oluchi, her daughter. Everyone had retired to their rooms when Ngozi suddenly screamed from her room. Papa Uche, her husband who was tidying up after the day’s work, rushed into the room to find his wife, lying motionless, her body cold.
He called her name severally, shook her violently but there was no response. She was gone. By dawn, the news of her demise had gone round the village, shaking the villagers to their bones.
She was laid to rest, one month later.
After that day, Papa Uche was never the same. He missed Ngozi dearly. Nkem however, played the role of the dutiful wife — bringing him food, comforting words, and helping with the harvest. She kept the house running, cared for Amarachi the same way she cared for her own child
Life gradually returned to the normal rhythm, though Amarachi missed her mother dearly. But then, when Amarachi turned fourteen, disaster struck again.
It was a bright morning during planting season. Papa Uche had joined his workers on the farm. He was talking to the head of workers when he suddenly collapsed.
He was still breathing but couldn’t move. His eyes were open, but his tongue was heavy. They carried him home, called healers, but none could heal him. He became completely paralyzed.
Nkem took full control after that. She managed his farmlands and money, making sure everyone in the village saw her as the good wife. Yet inside the house, Amarachi became the servant of the house, doing all the house chores and solely caring for her father.
Every day, she fed him, cleaned him, and prayed that one day he would wake and call her name again. But he never did.
The memory burned behind Amarachi’s eyes as she finally reached the edge of Umu-Nta Forest. She lifted her machete, and began to cut and gather woods.
By the time she gathered the last bundle of firewood, the sun had begun to sink behind the trees, painting the forest in shades of orange and shadow. She wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her arm, her wrapper clinging to her damp skin.
The pile of wood she had cut was larger than usual. Her arms trembled as she lifted it onto her head, but she managed.
Fetching firewood had long stopped being a chore; it was a routine. The village children nicknamed her “the firewood girl”. Every two days, she went to the forest, sometimes returning at nightfall. Her step mother never thanked her. Rather, she had one thing or the other to complain about the kind of wood she returned with.
As she walked back through the bush path toward the village, she quickly wiped her tears that had refused to stop falling.
When she reached their compound, Nkem was sitting on a wooden chair, legs crossed, fanning herself lazily. Oluchi sat beside her, giggling at a story her mother was telling.
Nkem’s eyes caught Amarachi at once. “So you finally remembered you have a home?” she said, voice sharp. “Or did you sleep in the forest?”
Amarachi dropped the firewood gently by the wall and bent her knees in greeting. “Good evening, Mama.”
“Don’t you dare call me that!” Nkem snapped, standing abruptly. “I am not your mother! Your mother is lying beneath the ground behind that mango tree. Go and greet her instead!”
The words hit Amarachi like stones. She bit her lip, fighting back tears. “I’m sorry… ma,” she said as she began to sob gently
Nkem leaned back in her chair and continued, “And remember, Amarachi — whatever happens in this house stays in this house. Don’t you dare go running your mouth to anyone in this village. If I ever hear you’ve been telling people stories, I’ll make sure those lips never open again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes ma,” Amarachi said again, her voice trembling.
That night, Amarachi sat behind the hut with her knees pulled to her chest. She stared at the stars, remembering how her mother used to tell her that each star carried a person’s prayer. She whispered softly, “Mama, can you still hear me? Do you see me crying every day?”
But the night wind only answered with silence.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Written by Hilda's Forum
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