18/09/2025
ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)
A Yoruba village story written by Mr Ezy (BRENY TV)
📘EPISODE 1📘
The sun was sinking into the western skies of Ìkòrè village, its golden rays painting the palm trees in fiery colors. Drums echoed faintly from the faraway square where young men practiced their bata dance. Goats bleated, children ran barefoot in the red earth, and the smell of roasted corn filled the air.
Inside a modest mud house roofed with palm leaves, Abíké, a bright-eyed girl of twelve, sat on a small mat, plaiting palm fronds into toys. Her laughter rang like bells as her mother, Ìyá Abíké (Modúpẹ́), hummed a Yoruba lullaby and stirred a pot of ẹ̀gúsí soup.
“Ìyá mi,” Abíké said suddenly, her eyes sparkling. “Kí ni máa ṣe tó bá dàgbà?” (Mother, what will I become when I grow up?)
Her mother smiled, setting down the spoon. She squatted beside her, pressing Abíké’s chin gently.
“My child, ọ̀mọ mi, you will grow into a woman whose name will never die. Your hands will feed many, your voice will bless many, and even if I am no longer here, my spirit will walk beside you.”
Abíké frowned slightly.
“Ṣé ìwọ máa lọ síbi kan ni, Ìyá mi? (Are you going somewhere, Mother?)”
Her mother chuckled, hiding the pain in her eyes. Unknown to the girl, Modúpẹ́ had been battling a hidden illness that drained her strength each day.
“Abíké, ayé yìí kò lọ́dọ̀ wa ní gbogbo ìgbà. But know this—no matter what happens, ìfẹ́ mi fún ẹ kò ní parí (my love for you will never end).”
The words sank into Abíké’s young heart, heavy yet mysterious.
That night, as the moon cast silver light through the raffia roof, Abíké lay beside her mother. She listened to her breathing, slow and weak, yet comforting.
Suddenly, Modúpẹ́ whispered, “Ọmọ mi, Abíké… promise me you will always be strong. Promise me you will not fear the night, for even in the darkness, your mother’s eyes will see you.”
Tears welled in Abíké’s eyes though she didn’t fully understand. She held her mother tightly.
“Mo ṣe, Ìyá mi. (I promise, Mother.)”
THE NEXT DAY
The c**k crowed, villagers stirred, but inside the little hut, silence reigned. Abíké woke up and shook her mother gently.
“Iyá mi… Iyá mi, ẹ jọ̀wọ́, dìde! (Mother, please, wake up!)”
But her mother’s body was still, her lips pale, her spirit gone like smoke into the morning sky.
A piercing cry tore from Abíké’s throat, echoing across Ìkòrè village.
“Iyá mi ooo! Ẹ má bínú, ẹ má fi mi sílẹ̀! (My mother! Don’t be angry, don’t leave me!)”
Neighbors rushed in, wailing, women beating their chests. Old women shook their heads in sorrow.
“Ọmọ tí ìyá kú, ẹ má bàjẹ́ fún un o! (Do not let the child of a dead mother be destroyed!)” one of the elders lamented.
But in the shadows, unseen by others, the faint silhouette of Modúpẹ́’s spirit lingered near the doorway, watching her daughter weep. Her ghostly lips moved in silence:
“Abíké, ọmọ mi… “I am not far. “
The morning after Modúpẹ́’s burial, the village square of Ìkòrè was filled with sorrowful murmurs. The wailing of women had barely faded when the family elders gathered to decide the fate of the young orphan, Abíké.
Under the big ìrókò tree, where palm-wine tappers often rested, old men with grey beards and women with wrappers tied high above their breasts sat in a circle. The air was thick with kola nut powder and the smell of hot palm-wine.
One elder, Bàbá Alárá, cleared his throat.
“Ẹ̀yin ará Ìkòrè, ọmọ tí ìyá rẹ̀ kú kò gbọ́dọ̀ jẹ́ asán. Who among the family will take responsibility for this child?”
The crowd murmured. Some shook their heads, unwilling. Raising a child meant more mouths to feed. Times were hard—farms were drying, the river had shrunk, and hunger loomed.
Just then, a woman stepped forward. Tinuola, Modúpẹ́’s younger sister. She was well-dressed, with coral beads on her wrist and an expensive wrapper tied tightly around her waist. Her face bore a smile, but her eyes gleamed with something hidden.
She knelt dramatically before the elders.
“Ẹ̀yin àgbà, e jọ̀wọ́. Allow me to take Abíké. After all, she is my late sister’s blood. I will care for her as my own child. I will clothe her, feed her, and send her to school. Let no one say Modúpẹ́’s child was abandoned.”
A wave of relief passed through the villagers. Some women nodded approvingly.
“Ẹ se o, Tinuola,” said Mama Abeni, the kind neighbor who often brought yam to Modúpẹ́. “You have shown that blood is truly thicker than water.”
Abíké, sitting quietly on the dusty ground, lifted her tear-stained face. Hope flickered in her heart. She thought, Maybe my aunt will love me like Mother did. Maybe I will not be alone.
The elders blessed Tinuola, placing kola nut on her palm. “Kí Ọlọ́run bù kún ọ́,” they chorused. (May God increase you.)
But as Tinuola helped Abíké to her feet, her grip was tight, almost painful. She whispered under her breath, words only Abíké could hear:
“You will work for every morsel you eat in my house. Don’t think you’ve found another mother.”
Abíké froze. A shiver ran through her. She looked into her aunt’s eyes—and for the first time, she saw something cold, sharp, and dangerous.
ARRIVAL AT AUNTY TINUOLA’S HOUSE
Tinuola’s compound was larger than Modúpẹ́’s humble hut. Clay pots lined the veranda, a goat tied at the side bleated, and two well-fed children ran about—Kehinde and Bola, Tinuola’s daughters.
As they spotted Abíké, they wrinkled their noses.
“Who is this dirty girl?” Kehinde asked.
Bola giggled. “Is she going to live with us? She looks like a beggar.”
Abíké’s heart squeezed. She clutched her small bundle of clothes and whispered, “I am not a beggar. I am your cousin.”
But the girls only laughed harder.
That night, Abíké was not given a mat in the main house. Instead, Tinuola pointed to a small corner near the kitchen, where smoke from the firewood stung her eyes.
“You will sleep there. Tomorrow, you will begin helping with chores. This house is not for lazy children.”
Abíké nodded silently, fighting tears. She lay on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling. The laughter of Kehinde and Bola from their soft mats echoed through the walls.
THE FIRST NIGHT
Midnight. The compound was silent except for the distant hoot of an owl. Abíké tossed restlessly, her heart heavy with fear and longing.
Then, a gentle breeze swept through the kitchen, though the windows were shut. The flames of the dying fire flickered.
And suddenly—she saw her mother.
Not in flesh, but in a shimmering glow, standing just by the door. Modúpẹ́’s face was calm, her wrapper flowing like mist.
“Ìyá mi…!” Abíké gasped, sitting up.
Her mother’s ghost raised a finger to her lips.
“Shhhh. Ọmọ mi, don’t be afraid. I am here.”
Tears streamed down Abíké’s cheeks. “Why did you leave me? Auntie does not love me… her eyes are sharp like a knife.”
The ghost knelt, though her feet did not touch the ground. She touched Abíké’s head, and though her hand was spirit, Abíké felt warmth.
“My child, the road ahead will be filled with thorns, but you must walk it. Every tear you shed, I see. Every pain you feel, I feel. But remember—ọmọ tí ìyá rẹ̀ kú, ẹ̀mí ìyá máa gbé e. (The child whose mother has died, the spirit of the mother will lift her.)”
A sudden creak of the door interrupted them. The ghost vanished. Tinuola stepped in, holding a lantern. Her eyes scanned the room.
“Who are you talking to, girl?” she barked.
Abíké froze, trembling.
“No one, Auntie… I was only praying.”
Tinuola narrowed her eyes suspiciously, then hissed.
“Pray harder, for you will need it in this house.”
She left, slamming the door.
Abíké hugged herself tightly, whispering into the darkness:
“Ìyá mi… don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
“And so began the journey of Abíké—the motherless child, destined for pain, but also for something greater”
TO BE CONTINUED…………..
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