StoryHaven

02/07/2025

The Song of Aduke

Long ago, in the green and mighty Aje Kingdom, a girl named Aduke was born—humming. The midwife who delivered her stood up, healed from a sickness that had kept her near death for years.

By age ten, the villagers had learned: Aduke’s voice could heal, bless, and bring good fortune—but only when she was happy.

When young Prince Folarin fell into a mysterious coma, no cure worked. Until Aduke sang. Softly. Gently. The prince opened his eyes mid-song and whispered, “I heard you… in my dream.”

From then, Aduke was a legend.

But her gift came with danger. Aduke had a temper—sharp, sudden. And when she sang in anger, the skies darkened.

Storms. Failed crops. Sick animals. Miscarriages.

The village tiptoed around her. Praised her. Spoiled her. But no one can pretend forever. Aduke, tired and lonely, sang more in sorrow than in joy.

And the land suffered.

One day, the villagers decided: she had to go.

They came to her hut with empty hands and trembling hearts.

“You don’t want me here anymore,” Aduke said softly.

No one answered.

She walked barefoot into the forest.

That was the last they saw her.

At first, they celebrated. Then came the true silence.

No rain.
Empty rivers.
Dead fish.
Crying mothers.
Hollow stomachs.

They searched for her. Built statues. Prayed. Nothing worked.

Some say she became a spirit.
Some say she waits for someone brave enough to sing her happy again.

But no song has ever returned to Aje.
Only silence.
And ruin.

Thanks for reading ❤️❤️

30/06/2025

Title: Ashes Beneath Silence – The End
(Justice for the Forgotten)

It wasn’t easy.

Court after court, petition after petition, rejection after rejection—but Amaka and Mama Ebuka did not stop. Newspapers began to write about the boy who was wrongfully killed in custody. Activists joined. A human rights group stepped in. The case, once buried in silence, roared into the public.

And finally—justice came.

The court ruled in Ebuka’s favor. The system had failed him. Mama Ebuka was compensated with millions. A sum too large for her to ever imagine.

The village celebrated. Cameras flashed. Her name was spoken on radio, TV, and in government halls. People praised her strength, her endurance.

But when she sat alone in her quiet new bungalow, with a fridge humming and a flat-screen TV she barely watched—she felt nothing.

No Okafor.
No Ebuka.
No laughter. No “Mama, I’m hungry.”

Just silence.

What was the money for, if not to feed her son? What use was comfort when all she loved was lost?

But one morning, as she stood by the window, the wind carried a memory—Ebuka’s voice:

"Mama… help others. So no one suffers like I did."

And so, she did.

She built a foundation: The Ebuka Okafor Foundation for Justice.

She funded lawyers to fight for prisoners with no voice. Paid school fees for children whose parents died like her son. Bought sewing machines, farm tools, small shops—anything that gave hope.

She fed hungry children.

She clothed the forgotten.

She sat with mothers who had lost, and told them they were not alone.

Mama Ebuka became more than a widow.

She became a legacy.

Not rich by luxury—but rich in purpose. And every time she saw a boy smile or a girl walk free from false charges, she whispered:

"Rest now, my son… your death gave others life."

And that, was justice.
That, was love.
That, was the end.
.. The end
Thanks U guys for reading ❤️❤️

28/06/2025

28/06/2025

Ashes Beneath silence– Part Three
(Her Last Strength)
It was midday in Umuokwe, and Ifeoma was in the bush, bent over, gathering firewood with hands already bruised from years of struggle. Her wrapper was dusty, her back aching, but this was survival. This was all she knew.

A voice called out behind her.

“Madam… Mama Ebuka?”

She turned slowly to see a young woman in a clean black suit, sweating in the village heat. She looked out of place—like Lagos had spit her out here by mistake.

“My name is Amaka. I’m a lawyer. I came about your son… Ebuka.”

Ifeoma’s face darkened. “You’re late. My son is gone.”

Amaka nodded gently. “I know. Someone who was in the same jail with him told me everything. I helped him get justice. When I heard about Ebuka, I couldn’t ignore it. I want to help.”

But Ifeoma only shook her head.

“I don’t have time for stories. Life hasn’t favoured me before. I don’t expect it to now. Please.”

She turned back to her bundle of firewood.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. The wind howled. The candle flickered. She saw her son again in her dreams—standing, smiling, eyes filled with hope.

By morning, her pillow was wet with tears.

So when Amaka returned, she didn’t turn her away.

“I have nothing to give,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “But I’ll give you the last strength I have. For my son. For justice.”

Amaka smiled.

“Then we’ll fight. Together.”

And so, the firewood was left unburned.

But something new began to burn—

Hope.

26/06/2025

Title: Ashes Beneath Silence– Part Two
(Justice for the Lost)

The village of Umuokwe moved on, as villages often do. Laughter returned to the market square. Drums echoed at weddings. Babies cried into life. But in one small mud house, the silence remained thick and bitter.

Ifeoma—Mama Ebuka—barely spoke now. Her eyes were always distant, her frame thinner. Neighbors whispered, bringing her food she barely touched. Some said her mind was gone. Others believed she still saw her son.

Because she did.

On the third night after the strange visitors, a wind swept through her room. The air grew cold. Her kerosene lamp flickered, then steadied.

And there he was.

Ebuka.

Not the pale, strange figure that returned the week before—but this time, clear. Real. As though he’d just stepped in from the city. Dressed in the jeans he left with. A wound on the side of his neck that wouldn’t close. But his face… his face was calm.

“Mama,” he said gently.

Ifeoma froze, then fell to her knees. “Ebuka… my son…”

He sat beside her on the mat, the smell of damp earth clinging to him.

“I need you to know the truth.”

And then he spoke—his voice like wind rustling dry leaves.

He had been hustling—selling second-hand phones on the streets of Lagos. One day, a gang cornered him. Forced him into a job. A robbery. Just a quick phone sn**ch.

“Just this once,” they said.
He was hungry. Mama needed money. He agreed.

But the police were already watching.

They arrested him. Beat him. Labeled him a criminal. No trial. No explanation.
He died in a police cell. Quietly. Unnoticed. His body dumped into the morgue like a stray dog.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Mama,” he said, tears glistening in his dead eyes.
“I only wanted to help. I didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Ifeoma wept—loud, deep, wordless sobs. She reached to touch him, but her hands passed through.

Before fading, he knelt beside her and whispered, “Pray for justice. For me. For others like me.”

And then he was gone again.

For days, Ifeoma stayed locked in her room. Then one Sunday, she appeared at church. Not in mourning black, but in white. Head raised. Bible clutched tight.

“I will not be silent,” she said to anyone who would listen. “They killed my son. And many more. But their blood will cry out.”

She wrote letters. Spoke in town meetings. A pastor invited her to a radio station in the next town. People began to listen. Other mothers joined her.

She became a voice—not just for Ebuka—but for every son who left home to hustle and never came back.

And though her heart remained broken, Ifeoma walked with fire in her steps. Every night, she lit two candles by the window—one for her son, and one for justice.

And sometimes, when the wind blew soft and the night was still, she swore she heard him whisper,

"Thank you, Mama."

Ashes Beneath Silence– Part Two
(Justice for the Lost)

The village of Umuokwe moved on, as villages often do. Laughter returned to the market square. Drums echoed at weddings. Babies cried into life. But in one small mud house, the silence remained thick and bitter.

Ifeoma—Mama Ebuka—barely spoke now. Her eyes were always distant, her frame thinner. Neighbors whispered, bringing her food she barely touched. Some said her mind was gone. Others believed she still saw her son.

Because she did.

On the third night after the strange visitors, a wind swept through her room. The air grew cold. Her kerosene lamp flickered, then steadied.

And there he was.

Ebuka.

Not the pale, strange figure that returned the week before—but this time, clear. Real. As though he’d just stepped in from the city. Dressed in the jeans he left with. A wound on the side of his neck that wouldn’t close. But his face… his face was calm.

“Mama,” he said gently.

Ifeoma froze, then fell to her knees. “Ebuka… my son…”

He sat beside her on the mat, the smell of damp earth clinging to him.

“I need you to know the truth.”

And then he spoke—his voice like wind rustling dry leaves.

He had been hustling—selling second-hand phones on the streets of Lagos. One day, a gang cornered him. Forced him into a job. A robbery. Just a quick phone sn**ch.

“Just this once,” they said.
He was hungry. Mama needed money. He agreed.

But the police were already watching.

They arrested him. Beat him. Labeled him a criminal. No trial. No explanation.
He died in a police cell. Quietly. Unnoticed. His body dumped into the morgue like a stray dog.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Mama,” he said, tears glistening in his dead eyes.
“I only wanted to help. I didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Ifeoma wept—loud, deep, wordless sobs. She reached to touch him, but her hands passed through.

Before fading, he knelt beside her and whispered, “Pray for justice. For me. For others like me.”

And then he was gone again.

For days, Ifeoma stayed locked in her room. Then one Sunday, she appeared at church. Not in mourning black, but in white. Head raised. Bible clutched tight.

“I will not be silent,” she said to anyone who would listen. “They killed my son. And many more. But their blood will cry out.”

She wrote letters. Spoke in town meetings. A pastor invited her to a radio station in the next town. People began to listen. Other mothers joined her.

She became a voice—not just for Ebuka—but for every son who left home to hustle and never came back.

And though her heart remained broken, Ifeoma walked with fire in her steps. Every night, she lit two candles by the window—one for her son, and one for justice.

And sometimes, when the wind blew soft and the night was still, she swore she heard him whisper,

"Thank you, Mama."

26/06/2025

Ashes Beneath Silence– Part Two
(Justice for the Lost)

The village of Umuokwe moved on, as villages often do. Laughter returned to the market square. Drums echoed at weddings. Babies cried into life. But in one small mud house, the silence remained thick and bitter.

Ifeoma—Mama Ebuka—barely spoke now. Her eyes were always distant, her frame thinner. Neighbors whispered, bringing her food she barely touched. Some said her mind was gone. Others believed she still saw her son.

Because she did.

On the third night after the strange visitors, a wind swept through her room. The air grew cold. Her kerosene lamp flickered, then steadied.

And there he was.

Ebuka.

Not the pale, strange figure that returned the week before—but this time, clear. Real. As though he’d just stepped in from the city. Dressed in the jeans he left with. A wound on the side of his neck that wouldn’t close. But his face… his face was calm.

“Mama,” he said gently.

Ifeoma froze, then fell to her knees. “Ebuka… my son…”

He sat beside her on the mat, the smell of damp earth clinging to him.

“I need you to know the truth.”

And then he spoke—his voice like wind rustling dry leaves.

He had been hustling—selling second-hand phones on the streets of Lagos. One day, a gang cornered him. Forced him into a job. A robbery. Just a quick phone sn**ch.

“Just this once,” they said.
He was hungry. Mama needed money. He agreed.

But the police were already watching.

They arrested him. Beat him. Labeled him a criminal. No trial. No explanation.
He died in a police cell. Quietly. Unnoticed. His body dumped into the morgue like a stray dog.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Mama,” he said, tears glistening in his dead eyes.
“I only wanted to help. I didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Ifeoma wept—loud, deep, wordless sobs. She reached to touch him, but her hands passed through.

Before fading, he knelt beside her and whispered, “Pray for justice. For me. For others like me.”

And then he was gone again.

For days, Ifeoma stayed locked in her room. Then one Sunday, she appeared at church. Not in mourning black, but in white. Head raised. Bible clutched tight.

“I will not be silent,” she said to anyone who would listen. “They killed my son. And many more. But their blood will cry out.”

She wrote letters. Spoke in town meetings. A pastor invited her to a radio station in the next town. People began to listen. Other mothers joined her.

She became a voice—not just for Ebuka—but for every son who left home to hustle and never came back.

And though her heart remained broken, Ifeoma walked with fire in her steps. Every night, she lit two candles by the window—one for her son, and one for justice.

And sometimes, when the wind blew soft and the night was still, she swore she heard him whisper,

"Thank you, Mama."

22/06/2025

Ashes Beneath Silence

The night Okafor died, the sky mourned with a heavy downpour. His wife, Mama Ebuka—real name Ifeoma—sat by his lifeless body, soaked in rain and disbelief. By morning, Okafor’s brothers came like vultures circling a fresh carcass.

"You are only a woman," they declared.
"This house, this land, even his clothes—belong to us."

They took it all. The goat. The farmland. The battered radio. Even the old rusted bicycle Okafor used to ride to the market. By dusk, Ifeoma and her only son, Ebuka, were left with nothing but the leaky roof over their heads and grief in their bones.

Ebuka, just 23, felt the sting of poverty each day as he watched his mother struggle to eat. So he left the village for the city.

“I'll hustle, Mama. I’ll send something home,” he promised, eyes filled with desperation and resolve.

Months crawled by, then one day—he returned.

It was a Thursday.

“Mama,” he called from the dusty path, carrying a black nylon bag filled with small food items.
He looked thinner, darker. His walk was strange—like each footstep was unsure. His voice echoed slightly, as if from a distance. He smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

Still, Ifeoma rejoiced. She cooked bitterleaf soup, served it hot, but Ebuka barely touched it.

"You no hungry?" she asked.
“I eat already, Mama,” he said.

Each day of that week, he left the house before dawn and returned with money. Not much—but more than they had seen in months.

Yet Ifeoma watched. He didn't eat. He never sweated, even under the scorching sun. He didn't sleep—just lay down and stared at the ceiling, whispering words she couldn't hear.

One night she found his mat cold. He sat by the window, unmoving.

"Ebuka, you dey okay?"

He turned slowly, face pale. “I’m fine, Mama. Just thinking.”

On the eighth day, just as the morning mist was clearing, three men arrived.

“Madam… Are you the mother of Ebuka Okafor?”

Her heart raced. “Yes? What happened?”

“We’re sorry to inform you… your son died in Lagos. Robbery attack. Three weeks ago. We just identified his body.”

She dropped the broom in her hand. “No… no, no. You’re lying. He’s here. He’s inside. He just left this morning to buy food!”

They exchanged looks of pity and confusion.

She ran down the dusty path calling his name.

“Ebukaaaa!”

Then she saw it—by the mango tree. A plastic bag of garri, groundnut, and dried fish… dropped carelessly.

“Ebuka?”

But there was no one.

The villagers gathered as she knelt by the groceries, arms shaking.

They searched for him. Called. Prayed. Asked questions.

But he never returned.

Later, a priest whispered what many feared to say aloud.

“For one week, she housed his spirit.”

From that day on, Ifeoma stopped lighting the lantern at night. She left the window open, mat untouched. Sometimes, neighbors heard her talking alone.

They say grief can make the living mad.

But Ifeoma knew better.

Her son came back.

Just to say goodbye.

17/06/2025

Title: Adaobi, the Warrior Girl
Chapter 3: The Giant Who Wanted a Bride
It was on a market day that Agụ, the feared giant, returned.

He had terrorized the village once before, demanding food, gold, and respect. But this time, he came with a demand that made every face pale.

“I want a bride,” he growled, voice thick like thunder. “Your finest maiden. Or I burn this place to the ground.”

The elders were silent. The warriors avoided his eyes. No one dared to challenge him.

When Adaobi stepped forward, her mother gasped.

“I will fight him.”

“You will what?” Mama Nneka clutched her wrapper, falling to her knees. “Adaobi, he is not a man—he is a beast!”

“I am not a girl—I am my father’s daughter.”

The villagers murmured.

“She’s just a woman.”

“She’ll die for nothing.”

But Chuka stepped out of the shadows. “She will not fight alone.”

The next morning, as the sky burned with dawn, Adaobi faced Agụ in the village square. The giant towered above her, muscles like carved stones, his laugh echoing through the trees.

“This is your champion? A girl with a toy?”

Adaobi lifted her father’s sword.

“I am the flame you mocked. And today, you’ll feel its heat.”

The battle was fierce. Adaobi struck fast, dodging his heavy blows. But Agụ was strong—too strong. Her blade trembled. Her knees buckled.

Then, Chuka appeared—spear in hand, rage in his eyes.

“You’ll have to go through me too!”

Together, they fought like the spirits of thunder and wind. Adaobi’s blade found its mark. With one final cry, she plunged it deep into Agụ’s chest. The giant roared, staggered, and crashed to the earth.

Silence.

Then, a cry rose. Cheers. Drums. The people shouted her name.

“Adaobi! Adaobi the Warrior!”
To be continued

Thanks for reading ❤️❤️

07/06/2025

Chapter 2: Not Meant for Wrappers

After Odogwu died in battle, the whole village mourned. But Adaobi did not shed a tear in public. She held her father’s blade close and made a silent vow by his grave.

“I will carry your name. I will not be caged.”

As she blossomed into womanhood, her beauty became legendary. Her skin glowed like polished bronze, her eyes sharp as eagle’s wings, and her voice—calm but firm—drew attention.

“You are the kind of woman men fight over,” said one of the elders during market day.

“But I’m not looking for a husband,” she replied, her tone polite but final.

Suitors lined up—young warriors, rich traders, even old men with missing teeth. All were turned down.

In secret, Adaobi trained at night in the forest. Her only ally was Chuka, her childhood friend and one of the village’s best warriors.

“You're stronger than most of us,” he said after she pinned him to the ground one night during sparring.

She smirked. “Because I’m not fighting for glory. I’m fighting to be free.”

Chuka looked at her, silent. His chest rose and fell with something deeper than breath. But he said nothing. His feelings, like her sword, were hidden.

Mama Nneka, on the other hand, never stopped pleading.

“Adaobi, marriage is not a punishment. You are a woman!”

“And women can fight too, Mama.”

“It’s not our place!”

“Then let me make a place.”

That was the night she tied her father’s blade to her waist and whispered, “Let them watch.”

To be continued.

02/06/2025

Episode 14

---
The night was cold, and the moon hung heavy in the sky, casting long shadows over the village. Chidera stood by the river, her mind still wrestling with the decision she knew she had to make. She couldn’t keep sneaking around to see Ifeanyi, not forever. The risk was too great, especially with the king’s warning hanging over her head like a sword ready to fall.

She couldn’t forget the way Ifeanyi had held her, his warmth seeping into her skin, making her feel alive in a way she hadn't in years. But then, there was the lingering truth—the truth that threatened to tear them apart. Ifeanyi’s father was the man who had killed her mother, and Chidera didn’t know if she could live with that knowledge, let alone love the son of the murderer.

Her feet moved before she could stop them, and before she knew it, she was standing at the edge of the village again, facing the familiar path that led to Ifeanyi’s temporary home. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

She didn’t want to stop. She couldn’t stop.

---

Inside his room, Ifeanyi sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the small candle flickering in the corner. His thoughts were a whirlwind, tangled and confusing. He knew what he was risking by being with Chidera—he knew , the pain it carried. But what could he do? He had never felt anything like this before. Her presence was like a balm to his soul, healing parts of him he didn’t even know were broken.

The truth about his father had haunted him ever since he’d first stepped into the village. what if it's true his father killed chidera's mother?What if Chidera’s visions were right? His mind refused to accept it. How could he, a man with his own heart, his own soul, be tied to a past he had no control over?

The knock on the door startled him, and when he opened it, he found Chidera standing there, her eyes shadowed with uncertainty.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I know I shouldn’t be here, Ifeanyi. But I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Ifeanyi’s chest tightened, and he stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. He didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want to think about the consequences. He needed her as much as she needed him.

“You should go, Chidera,” he said softly, though every part of him rebelled against the idea. “The king… he’s right. We can’t keep doing this. But I don’t know how to walk away from you.”

Her fingers brushed his chest as she pulled back slightly to look up at him. “I don’t know either,” she murmured. “But what if we’re too late? What if the curse has already claimed us?”

---

Back at the palace, the king paced in his chambers, a storm brewing in his mind. He could feel that something was coming, something he couldn’t control. Chidera’s growing attachment to Ifeanyi had not gone unnoticed, and with every passing day, his suspicion grew stronger. The boy was too much like Uche, and the gods weren’t silent on that matter.

Obinna, his son, stood silently in the corner of the room, watching his father with wary eyes.

“Father, do you think it’s him?” Obinna asked quietly, his voice full of concern.

The king paused, his gaze distant. “I don’t know. But I can’t let this continue without finding out the truth. Ifeanyi must be tested. I will know for certain if he is Uche’s son. Until then, I will keep Chidera away from him.”

Obinna nodded, though he knew it wouldn’t be easy. The love between Chidera and Ifeanyi was becoming undeniable. And he feared the consequences when the truth finally came to light.

---

Chidera pulled away from Ifeanyi, her heart heavy. “I can’t do this, Ifeanyi. I can’t keep pretending like nothing is wrong. I don’t know if I can love you. Not when the truth is so heavy. What if you’re the son of the man who killed my mother? What if everything we feel is just a lie?”

Ifeanyi’s eyes were filled with sorrow, and he stepped back, his hand brushing through his hair. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose who my father is. But I swear, I would never hurt you. I don’t care about my bloodline, Chidera. I care about you.”

But her words stung. “But what if that’s not enough, Ifeanyi? What if we’re trapped in something we can’t escape? You deserve more than this… than me.”

Ifeanyi moved toward her, but she held up her hand, stopping him.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep doing this. I need answers. We both need answers.”

---

Despite their growing love, the fear and doubt that loomed over Chidera and Ifeanyi were too strong to ignore. Neither of them could escape the curse, and neither could stop wondering if they were already doomed.

And so, despite the king’s decree, they both found themselves sneaking around, finding small, secret moments to steal away and be with one another, knowing full well the consequences of their actions.

But even in their love, there was an undeniable truth—they were treading on dangerous ground. With every kiss, with every touch, they were pushing further away from the safety of the truth. And somewhere deep inside, both knew that no matter how much they tried to escape their fate, they couldn’t outrun the past forever.

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TO BE CONTINUED...