02/09/2025
Pregnant for Five Years – The Dark Truth - Episode 5
The night after the river incident, silence swallowed the entire village. Nobody came to our compound. No knock, no gossip, no laughter from neighbors. Only the sound of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl filled the air.
I sat on the mat, wrapped in two wrappers, shivering though the night was warm. My belly still glowed faintly, as if a lantern had been hidden inside me. Each movement inside my womb felt sharper than before, like a restless being fighting to come out.
My husband, Chijioke, paced the room endlessly, biting his nails. “Nkem, this thing pass me,” he muttered. “What did we bring upon ourselves? The whole village now sees you as… as something else.”
I glared at him, my eyes swollen from tears. “So now you regret marrying me? After five years, when I need you most, you call me a thing?”
He stopped pacing, his face softening. “No, my love. I’m just scared. Even I don’t understand what’s happening anymore. But I swear on my life—I won’t leave you.”
Before I could answer, my mother’s voice came from the doorway. “You both must prepare. The elders are calling a secret meeting tomorrow. They want to decide your fate.”
My heart skipped. “Mama, what fate again? Haven’t they humiliated me enough?”
She sat heavily on a stool, her hands trembling. “Daughter, you don’t understand. The villagers are divided. Some say you’re cursed and must be cast out. Others believe you’re chosen, that if they harm you, calamity will be worse. They want the council of elders to decide.”
I broke down in tears. “Mama, I’m tired! I can’t carry this anymore. Let them kill me if they want.”
She slapped my thigh gently. “Tufiakwa! Don’t talk like that. A person who still breathes has not lost the battle.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. My belly kept shifting violently. At times, I felt claws. Other times, I felt a heartbeat—two heartbeats—thumping inside me.
By morning, the compound was tense. No rooster crowed. Even the air felt heavy. Mama tied her scarf firmly and held my hand as we made our way to the square again. Chijioke walked beside us, silent like a broken man.
The council of elders sat in a circle, their red caps shining under the sun. In the middle was Ogbu Agu, the chief priest, his eyes sharp as a hawk. He rose, pointing at me.
“Daughter of Onyebuchi, last night the goddess revealed herself. You defied her, yet she spared you. This is not ordinary. The council demands to know: Who are you serving?”
The crowd behind the elders murmured. Some shouted, “She’s cursed!” Others cried, “She’s chosen!”
I stood, my voice shaking. “I don’t know who I am anymore. All I know is that I never asked for this. I never begged to be pregnant for five years. I only want peace.”
An elder with grey beards, Papa Idu, leaned forward. “Peace cannot come until the truth is revealed. Nkem, we must open your womb.”
The words struck me like lightning. “Open my womb? How?”
Ogbu Agu lifted a small gourd tied with feathers. “The ritual of unveiling. If your pregnancy is human, a child will be born. If it is spirit, the truth will manifest, and the land will be free.”
The crowd roared. Some clapped, others screamed in fear.
My mother rushed forward, kneeling before the elders. “Please! Don’t do this to my daughter. You don’t know the danger you’re inviting!”
But Ogbu Agu’s eyes blazed. “The danger is already here! Three children dead in one night, farms destroyed by floods—shall we keep silent until the whole village perishes?”
The elders nodded in agreement. The decision was sealed. The ritual would be done that very night.
Fear gripped my chest like iron. My knees weakened. I turned to Chijioke, but he looked away, unable to meet my eyes.
Later that evening, they brought me to the shrine. Torches lined the path, drums boomed, and the air reeked of burning herbs. My wrists were tied with white cloth, my feet bare on the cold earth.
The villagers gathered, eyes wide with fear and curiosity. Mama wept uncontrollably, held back by women of the council. Chijioke stood apart, fists clenched, torn between love and fear.
Inside the shrine, I was laid on a mat before a carved wooden idol. Cowries and blood-stained feathers surrounded it. My heart hammered against my chest.
Ogbu Agu raised the gourd, chanting strange words. The drums grew louder, faster, like a heartbeat racing toward doom.
Suddenly, my belly began to glow brighter, the light pulsing through the cloth of my wrapper. The villagers gasped, stepping back in terror.
Ogbu Agu poured the contents of the gourd on my stomach. It burned like fire. I screamed, thrashing against the ropes. The drums stopped. Silence fell.
Then it happened.
A voice, not mine, burst from my lips, echoing through the shrine:
“Leave me! She belongs to the Living God, not to you!”
The villagers screamed, some fleeing into the night. My eyes rolled back, my body convulsed. My mother fainted where she knelt.
Ogbu Agu staggered backward, his staff dropping. “This… this is not possible…”
The ropes that bound my hands snapped on their own. I sat up, panting, my eyes blazing with light I didn’t understand.
The idol before me cracked loudly, splitting into two. A cloud of smoke rose, filling the shrine.
The voice spoke again, but this time it came from above, shaking the earth:
“The truth is near. Her pain will reveal it. The time is short.”
The smoke cleared. Everyone stared at me in horror. Some fell on their faces, others whispered, “She is not human!”
But I, trembling, weak, and confused, could only clutch my stomach as another violent contraction shook me. My water broke, spilling onto the shrine floor.
The elders gasped.
“It has begun!” Ogbu Agu shouted.
The villagers wailed and screamed. My mother was revived by women fanning her, but when she saw me, she screamed louder.
I lay back, sweating, crying, my belly glowing like the sun. My body writhed, and the voice inside me whispered again:
“Tonight, Nkem… the world will see what you carry.”
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