Breny TV

10/05/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

A Yoruba village story written by Mr. Ezy (BRENY TV)

📘EPISODE 8📘

The forest swallowed the screams of Ilépa.
Fire crackled in the distance, and smoke painted the stars gray. The raiders moved swiftly through the bush paths, dragging their captives behind them. Among them was Abíké—her wrists bound, her eyes swollen with tears, her body trembling with fear. The rope cut into her skin with every step, yet she dared not resist.

The night smelled of sweat, fire, and blood.

She stumbled once, fell to her knees, and was yanked upright by a harsh hand. A cruel laugh followed.
“Move, girl! Before I drag you like a goat!”

Her captor was tall, with scarred cheeks and red cloth tied around his head. But the face that haunted her most was Kazeem’s. He rode beside them on a horse stolen from Ilépa, his smirk twisted, his eyes glowing faintly with madness.

Abíké couldn’t believe it. The same boy she once called brother was now her captor.

When dawn broke, the raiders reached their camp, a clearing deep within the forest. Rough tents made of animal skin surrounded a smoky fire pit. Men sharpened machetes, others roasted stolen yam. The captives, mostly women and children, were herded into a corner, guarded by two men.

Abíké sank to the ground, her mind spinning. Mama Abeke’s cries still echoed in her ears, and she didn’t know if Adigun was alive or dead. Her heart bled with guilt.

She whispered softly, “Iyá mi, where are you? Why have the gods forsaken me again?”

Kazeem approached her later that evening, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The other raiders cheered his arrival, he was clearly one of their leaders now. He crouched beside her, the smell of palm wine on his breath.

“So,” he sneered, “the little bird who thought she could fly away has returned to the snare.”

Abíké looked up weakly, tears brimming. “Why, Kazeem? Why are you doing this? You once called me sister.”

He laughed, cruel and hollow. “Sister? You were nothing but a thief of peace. You brought shame to my mother’s house. Do you know how she suffered after you left? People mocked her, saying she sold you like a goat. Do you think I’ll let that go unpunished?”

Abíké’s voice cracked. “You were there! You saw what she did! You know I didn’t want to leave!”

But he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You should have died quietly, Abíké. Instead, you ran. Now the gods have brought you back to me.”

He stood and barked an order. “No one touches this one. She’s mine.”

Laughter erupted around the campfire.

Abíké curled into herself, the words burning like acid. The rope around her wrists had rubbed her skin raw. She longed for her mother’s presence, for the warmth of Adigun’s quiet smile, for peace, but peace was a story she no longer believed in.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. The forest was alive with howls and whispers. Owls hooted. The raiders snored. But beneath the chorus of night, she heard something else, a soft distant hum.

It was a woman’s voice. Familiar.

She turned her head slowly toward the darkness beyond the campfire’s reach. The mist thickened, and from it, a faint light glowed. The voice grew stronger.

“My daughter…”

Her heart skipped. “Iyá mi?”

The ghost of her mother appeared once more, half veiled in mist. Her white wrapper shimmered faintly, and her eyes glowed with both sorrow and fierce love.

“Do not give in to fear,” the spirit whispered. “You must endure this, for light still awaits beyond the torment.”

Abíké’s lips trembled. “I’m tired, Iyá. They’ve taken everything from me. They’ll hurt me again.”

The ghost’s gaze softened. “Even in the hands of monsters, destiny breathes. Remember, Abíké—ọ̀run ń gbọ́ (Heaven listens). You are not forgotten.”

Tears ran down Abíké’s cheeks. She reached out, but the spirit vanished into the mist.

Moments later, a torch flared nearby, Kazeem was approaching.

“Still talking to your ghosts?” he mocked. “Maybe they’ll save you.”

Abíké said nothing. He squatted before her again, this time quieter, his smirk fading into something almost human.

“I never wanted to become this,” he muttered. “But life has no mercy for the weak. The world takes or you get taken. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand pain,” Abíké whispered, voice barely audible. “But not cruelty. Not betrayal.”

Kazeem’s jaw tightened. “Betrayal?” He looked away, then suddenly stood and shouted to the others, “We move at sunrise!”

When he was gone, Abíké sank against the wooden post behind her and wept silently until dawn.

By sunrise, they marched again. The raiders led the captives through winding trails toward a new village rumored to trade slaves for livestock. The sun beat down fiercely, turning the earth red and hot.

At midday, the group stopped to rest beneath a large baobab tree. Abíké’s body ached, her lips cracked from thirst. When a young boy beside her fainted, she tore a strip from her wrapper to fan him weakly.

Kazeem saw it from afar. Something flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe—but he turned away.

When they resumed their march, a sudden sound echoed through the forest, a deep, rhythmic thudding. Hooves.

The raiders froze. “Horses! Riders!”

Before anyone could react, arrows whistled through the air. One struck a raider in the throat, another fell screaming. The captives scattered in panic. From the trees burst a group of hunters—bows raised, eyes fierce.

And at their head was Adigun.

“Let the captives go!” he roared, loosing another arrow.

The forest exploded into chaos. Raiders and hunters clashed in brutal combat. Abíké, still bound, fell to the ground, trying to crawl away as machetes flashed above her.

She saw Kazeem fighting Adigun—steel against steel, hatred against love.

Kazeem swung wildly. “You should have stayed dead, hunter!”

Adigun dodged, his face smeared with dirt and blood. “You’re the one who died long ago, Kazeem, when you betrayed your own soul!”

Their weapons locked. Abíké screamed as Kazeem broke free and raised his blade. But before he could strike, lightning cracked across the sky. The sudden thunder made both men pause.

A gust of wind swept through the forest, carrying a faint whisper—“Ọmọ mi…”

Abíké looked up through the storming clouds. Her mother’s ghost appeared again, her form towering above the battlefield, her eyes blazing like fire.

“Enough!” the spirit’s voice thundered. “No more blood of the innocent!”

The raiders froze. Even the hunters lowered their weapons in awe.

Kazeem stumbled backward, his face pale. “Wh—what is this?!”

The ghost turned her gaze on him. “You betrayed blood for greed. The gods have weighed your soul and found it wanting.”

With a scream, Kazeem dropped his blade, clutching his chest. His body convulsed, then went still—lifeless on the red earth.

The forest fell silent. The wind died.

Abíké sobbed, collapsing onto the ground. Adigun rushed to her, cutting her ropes free. She fell into his arms, trembling.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

But Abíké shook her head weakly. “No… nothing is ever over. Not for me.”

They buried Kazeem at the edge of the forest before returning to Ilépa. The village lay in ruins—charred huts, broken pots, ashes of what once was home. Survivors gathered around the returning hunters, weeping and embracing.

Mama Abeke survived, her leg wounded but her spirit unbroken. She hugged Abíké tightly. “My daughter, the gods have carried you through the storm. You are chosen for something greater.”

Abíké looked at Adigun. Their eyes met, heavy with shared pain.

“I should have died,” she said softly. “Why do I keep surviving when everyone around me suffers?”

Adigun touched her shoulder gently. “Because your spirit carries light, Abíké. Even in darkness, it refuses to die.”

Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time they were not just from grief—they carried the weight of love, fragile but real.

As the sun sank behind the hills, Abíké stood before the ashes of Ilépa. The ghost of her mother appeared one last time, faintly smiling through the orange haze.

“My daughter,” she said, “your suffering is the seed of your destiny. Do not curse it. From pain will rise purpose.”

Abíké whispered through tears, “Will I ever find peace?”

The ghost’s smile faded slowly into the wind. “Peace will come… when you forgive.”

Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of rain and the sound of a heart learning, slowly, painfully, to hope again.

TO BE CONTINUED………………….

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Happy beautiful Sunday to you………I hope you enjoyed this engaging episode. Do not forget to LIKE, COMMENT AND SHARE.

10/04/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)
EPISODE 8
dropping Sunday 5th @11:00AM

10/03/2025

I got over 5,000 reactions on my posts last week! Thanks everyone for your support! 🎉

09/30/2025

🎉 Facebook recognized me as a consistent reels creator this week! Thank 🙏 you guys for all your support...... ❤️ ❤️

09/30/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

A Yoruba village story written by Mr. Ezy (BRENY TV)

📘EPISODE 7📘

The rooster crowed thrice. The voices of hawkers drifted into the air—“Ewa! Ewa onígbá! (Beans for sale!)”—mingling with the laughter of children. But on the far edge of the village, beyond the swaying palm trees and the whispering stream, a different story unfolded.

Abíké walked barefoot along a dusty footpath, each step heavy with grief. Her wrapper was torn at the hem, her face pale from sleepless nights. She had left Aunty Morenike’s house under the cloak of darkness, carrying nothing but the memory of her mother’s warning and the weight of betrayal. Every rustle in the bush made her heart leap. Every crow’s cry echoed like judgment.

She whispered as she walked:
“Iyá mi… give me strength. Show me where to go.”

The harmattan wind stung her cheeks, but she pressed on.

By mid-morning, she reached a small clearing near the stream. The water gurgled softly, reflecting the sun like fragments of broken glass. Abíké knelt to drink, cupping her hands. As she raised the water to her lips, she saw her reflection—a girl with tired eyes, carrying sorrow beyond her years.

She burst into tears.
“Why do they hate me, Iyá? Why must I suffer? Did you not love me? Why did you leave me so soon?”

The wind rustled through the raffia palms, and for a moment she felt the chill of a presence. But no ghost appeared. Only silence, only the song of birds.

Exhausted, she lay by the stream until sleep took her.

When she awoke, shadows had stretched long across the earth. The sound of footsteps startled her. She sat up quickly, heart pounding. Emerging from the forest was a young hunter. He was tall, with broad shoulders, his skin the color of polished ebony. A bow hung across his back, and a bundle of grass satchel carried antelope meat.

Their eyes met. His were gentle, filled with curiosity rather than suspicion.
“Ẹ kú ọjọ́, ọmọbìnrin (Good day, young girl),” he greeted. “What are you doing here alone?”

Abíké trembled, unsure if she should trust him. “I… I lost my way.”

The hunter studied her torn wrapper, her swollen eyes. He set down his load and crouched beside her.
“My name is Adigun. I hunt for my people in Ilépa, not far from here. You do not look like one who belongs to the forest. Who are you?”

Her lips quivered as she spoke. “I am Abíké. My mother is dead. My father too. My aunt betrayed me. Nowhere is safe.”

Adigun’s brow furrowed. He reached for his calabash and offered her water. “Drink. You look faint.”

As Abíké drank, tears mixed with the water. Adigun sat quietly, giving her time. When she finished, he asked gently:
“Will you come with me to Ilépa? My mother is kind. She will not cast you out. You cannot stay here alone. The night spirits wander, and they devour the lonely.”

Abíké hesitated. She had trusted before, only to be betrayed. But something in his voice carried sincerity. She nodded slowly. “I will go.”

Ilépa was smaller than Ìkòrè, a village of farmers and hunters, its huts clustered around a large iroko tree. Children ran barefoot through the dust, their laughter echoing. Women with clay pots balanced gracefully on their heads greeted Adigun with smiles.

When they saw Abíké, their smiles faded into whispers. “Who is she? Another stray? Look at her eyes, like she has seen the dead.”

But Adigun ignored them. He led her into a compound of three huts, where an elderly woman pounded yam by the fire. Her face was kind, lined with years, her eyes alive with warmth.

“Ìyá mi,” Adigun called, “see who I found by the stream.”

The woman looked up, her pestle pausing. She set it aside and approached Abíké, wiping her hands on her wrapper.
“My child,” she said softly, “come.” She drew Abíké close, studying her face. “You have suffered.”

At that, Abíké broke down again, sobbing into the old woman’s chest. The woman stroked her hair.
“You are safe now. My name is Mama Abeke. You will eat, you will rest. Tomorrow we will talk.”

And so, for the first time in many moons, Abíké slept in peace.

Days turned into weeks, and Abíké began to heal in Ilépa. She helped Mama Abeke with cooking, joined the other women to fetch water, and slowly earned smiles instead of whispers. Children followed her when she told moonlight tales, her voice soft but steady.

But more than anything, Adigun was near. He would return from the forest with wild yam or antelope, and they would sit under the iroko tree sharing roasted meat with yam. He was patient, never pressing, never staring with hunger in his eyes like others before.

One evening, as the sun bled red across the horizon, Abíké asked him, “Why did you help me, Adigun? You could have walked past.”

He smiled faintly. “Because I saw more than sorrow in your eyes. I saw strength. And because my father taught me: ‘Ọmọ ènìyàn lásán ni ẹni tí a bá kọ́ láàyè láìnífẹ́ (A human is nothing if they live without compassion).’”

Her heart stirred—an unfamiliar warmth. For the first time, she felt what it meant to be seen, not as a burden or curse, but as a person.

Yet peace is fragile.

One moonless night, when crickets sang and the air was thick with stillness, a scream tore through the village. Abíké woke with a start. Villagers rushed out, torches flickering. In the distance, drums of alarm echoed.

“Ègún! Ègún! (Raiders! Raiders!)” someone shouted.

Men with painted faces and machetes stormed into Ilépa, setting huts ablaze, grabbing livestock, and dragging women by their hair. Panic spread like wildfire.

Adigun grabbed his bow, shouting, “Stay inside, Abíké!” But she refused. The chaos around her felt too familiar—loss, fire, death. She clung to Mama Abeke, helping the old woman stumble toward safety.

Then, in the smoke and dust, she saw him—Kazeem.

Her heart froze. It was impossible, but there he was, Morenike’s son, among the raiders. His eyes burned with greed as he pointed at her.
“There! That girl! Take her!”

Terror surged through her veins. She clutched Mama Abeke, but rough hands seized her, dragging her toward the shadows. She screamed, “Adigun!”

The hunter fought fiercely, arrows flying, but the raiders outnumbered him. One struck him across the head, and he fell.

Abíké kicked, clawed, screamed, but they bound her wrists. In the distance, flames consumed Ilépa. The night reeked of smoke and blood.

And in the chaos, her mother’s ghost appeared once more—only this time, her face was streaked with tears.

“My child,” the spirit whispered above the fire, “love and tragedy walk hand in hand. Hold on to hope, even as darkness closes in. For your story is not ending—it is only becoming.”

Abíké’s scream echoed into the burning night as the raiders dragged her away, her destiny tangled now with love lost, betrayal renewed, and the cruel hand of fate.

TO BE CONTINUED…………………………..

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09/29/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

📘EPISODE 7📘

dropping tomorrow Tuesday 30th, @11:00Am.

Stay tuned and enjoy another face of ABIKE’S life journey.

09/27/2025

09/27/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

A Yoruba village story written by Mr. Ezy (BRENY TV)

📘EPISODE 6📘

She turned sharply. Nothing but shadows and trees. She bit her lip, forcing herself to keep walking. But the sound returned—slow, deliberate, following.

Her heart quickened. She began to walk faster, her bare feet thudding against the earth. Then came a voice, low and mocking:

“Ẹwà ọmọ… (beautiful girl), why are you walking so fast? Don’t you know the night is dangerous?”

Abíké froze. From the shadows, three men emerged. Their bodies reeked of palm wine, their eyes glistened with a predator’s hunger. They were no strangers—village drunkards, hunters of shame rather than game.

The tallest of them, with a jagged scar across his cheek, laughed. “Ah! Is this not the orphan girl that disgraced herself in the market today? Who will care if we enjoy her tonight?”

The others chuckled wickedly, circling her like hyenas around wounded prey.

Fear rooted Abíké to the ground. She whispered, “Iyá mi, save me…” but her voice was swallowed by the rustle of leaves.

The men drew closer. One reached out to grab her wrist. Instinct exploded inside her—she twisted free and ran.

Barefoot, wrapper flying, she sprinted into the night, her breath ragged. Branches slapped her skin, stones cut her soles, but she did not stop. Behind her, the men shouted and cursed.

“Catch her!”
“She cannot escape!”
“She’s ours tonight!”

Their laughter thundered through the dark. Abíké stumbled, her knees scraping the earth, but she forced herself up again. Her lungs burned. Her heart felt like it would burst. She could already feel their presence closing in.

“Iyá mi!” she screamed. “Don’t let them take me!”

The forest answered with silence—then with a sudden gust of icy wind.

The clouds shifted. Moonlight spilled across the path, and mist began to curl around the trees. Abíké stumbled into a small clearing, gasping for air. The ground trembled slightly under her feet. She turned—and saw them again, the three men, grinning, advancing.

But something was different.

The mist thickened, swirling between her and them. And then, out of the mist, her mother’s ghost appeared.

She was radiant, her white wrapper glowing like lightning, her eyes like burning coals. Her presence filled the clearing with power, silencing even the crickets.

The men froze.

“What… what is that?” whispered one, his voice trembling.

The tallest spat, trying to mask his fear. “It is trickery. The girl has called a witch to protect her!”

But when the ghost stepped forward, her feet not touching the earth, the men stumbled back. Her voice rang out, cold as iron:

“Ẹ má ṣe! (Do not!) Leave my child alone.”

Her words were like thunder, echoing through the forest. The drunkards fell to their knees, their bravado vanishing. One covered his face, muttering prayers, another crawled backward into the bush. The tallest tried to stand his ground, but when the ghost raised her hand, a sudden blast of wind hurled dust into his eyes. He screamed, blinded, and fled with the others, their shouts fading into the night.

Abíké collapsed to the ground, sobbing with relief. The ghost turned to her, her face softening. She knelt beside her daughter, though no weight pressed the grass.

“My child,” she said gently, “the world will not pity you. But I will walk with you until your destiny is fulfilled.”

Abíké looked up, tears glistening in her wide eyes. “Iyá mi, I cannot endure this. Every day brings new pain. How long must I suffer?”

Her mother’s ghost stroked the air near her cheek, as if caressing her though she could not touch.

“As long as destiny demands, ọmọ mi (my child). You carry more than sorrow. You carry a fire the world fears. That is why they chase you.”

Abíké’s heart ached with confusion. “But I am weak, Iyá. I have nothing. I am just an orphan.”

The ghost’s eyes shone brighter. “Even an orphan can become a legend. But you must endure the nights of pain before the dawn of purpose.”

The mist swirled again, wrapping around her like a shroud. Her voice faded into the wind:
“Remember, Abíké: you are never alone.”

And then she was gone.

Abíké sat trembling, the forest still heavy with silence. She felt small, broken, but a strange strength had kindled in her heart. She wiped her tears, rose slowly to her feet, and whispered to the stars that peeked through the clouds:

“If destiny demands, then I will endure. But Iyá mi, don’t leave me.”

The night was not over. Danger still prowled, hunger still gnawed, and shame still followed her steps. Yet as she walked again into the shadows of Ìkòrè, one truth remained like a flame within her chest:

Her mother’s spirit was watching.

And for the first time since her loss, Abíké dared to believe that survival might yet lead her to something greater.

When morning came, the sky was pale and the harmattan breeze scratched her lips dry. Birds chattered in the palm trees as if mocking her misery. Abíké wandered along a narrow footpath leading to a cluster of huts at the edge of Ìkòrè. Her wrapper clung to her thin frame, dust covering her feet.

At the far end of the path lived Aunty Morenike, a widow known in the village for her sweet smile and sharp tongue. She had once been kind to Abíké’s mother, bringing vegetables during sickness. Though distant, she was blood—cousin to Abíké’s late father. Abíké thought, might mean refuge.

Her voice shook as she called softly at the entrance of the compound.
“Aunty… Ẹ kúrọ̀lé o. (Good evening, ma).”

A plump woman with piercing eyes appeared, balancing a calabash of water on her hip. She squinted, then widened her eyes in surprise.
“Ha! Is this not the daughter of Aina? Abíké?”

“Yes, ma,” Abíké whispered, lowering her gaze. “It is me.”

Aunty Morenike studied her—dusty, thin, exhausted. She sighed. “Ayé ò sàn fún ọmọ yìí (Life has not been kind to this child). Come in, come in.”

Relief flooded Abíké’s heart. She followed the woman inside, greeted Morenike’s children, and was offered a small bowl of cold yam porridge. The food tasted like heaven; tears stung her eyes as she ate.

“Don’t cry, Abíké,” Morenike said, patting her shoulder. “As long as you are under my roof, no one will harm you. I am not Tinuola. I am not wicked.” The words were balm to Abíké’s ears. That night, for the first time in weeks, she lay on a raffia mat inside a hut, warm and safe. She whispered into the darkness:
“Thank you, Iyá mi, for guiding me here.”

Days turned into weeks. Abíké helped Morenike fetch water, sweep the compound, and roast corn at the roadside to sell. At first, her life seemed to be stitching itself back together. People in the village still whispered, but behind Aunty Morenike’s walls, she felt sheltered.

Yet not all was well.

Morenike’s eldest son, Kazeem, a boy of nineteen with restless eyes, watched Abíké too closely. When she bent to sweep, his gaze lingered. When she fetched water, he followed with excuses. Abíké noticed but kept silent, afraid to stir trouble.

One evening, as she washed plates under the orange glow of the sunset, Kazeem approached.
“You’re beautiful, Abíké,” he said, leaning on the wall.

She froze, her hands trembling in the soapy water. “Don’t say that, brother. It is not right.”

Kazeem smirked. “Brother? Do not call me that. We are not blood. I can give you gifts. Food, clothes… You’ve suffered enough, haven’t you?”

Abíké shook her head, fear flashing in her eyes. “Please, Kazeem. Don’t speak like this. If your mother hears—”

“She won’t,” he cut in sharply. “Unless you want her to.”

That night, Abíké prayed silently, begging her mother’s spirit to protect her again.

The next week, fate struck with cruelty.

At the market, while Morenike was selling groundnut oil, a wealthy palm-wine tapper named Alhaji Basiru approached. He was a man in his forties, known for his greed and temper. His eyes fell on Abíké as she arranged firewood nearby.

“Who is this girl?” he asked Morenike, his tone heavy with interest.

“My late cousin’s child,” Morenike answered casually.

Alhaji Basiru grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “She will make a fine wife. I want her.”

Morenike laughed nervously. “She is too young, Alhaji. Barely fifteen.”

But Alhaji’s eyes darkened. “Do not deny me. I will pay handsomely. Ten bags of rice, a fat goat, and cowries to line your purse.”

Morenike’s lips tightened. She thought of her debts, of her hungry children. She thought of Kazeem’s constant complaints that the family had nothing. And in that moment, her heart hardened.

That night, she called Abíké to her hut. The fire crackled as shadows danced on the mud walls. Morenike’s face was serious.
“Abíké, tomorrow you will go with Alhaji Basiru. He has chosen you as his wife.”

The words fell like thunder. Abíké’s heart stopped.
“Aunty! No, please! I cannot! He is old, he is—”

“Silence!” Morenike snapped. “Do you think food falls from heaven? Do you think I can feed you for free? This is your chance to have a home, to escape shame. Do not be ungrateful!”

Tears streamed down Abíké’s face. “Aunty, I beg you. I will work harder. I will farm, fetch water, sell firewood. Anything but this!”

Morenike’s eyes burned. “You are going. If you refuse, then leave my house tonight and never return!”

Abíké dropped to her knees, clutching Morenike’s wrapper. “Ẹ jọ̀ọ́! (Please!) Don’t sell me like a goat. I am not merchandise.”

But Morenike shoved her away, her decision final.

That night, Abíké fled to the back of the compound, her soul heavy. She cried into her hands, whispering to the wind.
“Iyá mi, why? Why must betrayal follow me everywhere? Am I cursed to suffer at the hands of those I trust?”

As she wept, the air grew cold. The moon slid from behind the clouds, painting the ground silver. And then she felt it—the presence.

Her mother’s ghost appeared, her white wrapper glowing faintly, her face both stern and sorrowful.

“My child,” she said softly, “your trials have only begun. But remember: even betrayal can shape destiny. Do not fear the path of pain, for it carves strength.”

Abíké sobbed harder. “I am tired, Iyá. They want to sell me. They want to use me. I want to die.”

The ghost’s eyes softened. “Death is not your destiny. You must live. You must endure. For through you, justice will rise, though the road is paved with tears.”

And just as quickly, she faded into the night.

The next morning, Alhaji Basiru arrived with his gifts. Villagers gathered, gossip buzzing. Morenike stood tall, smiling as she displayed the rice and goat. She called for Abíké, but Abíké did not come.

The crowd whispered. “Where is the girl?”
“Has she run away?”

Morenike’s smile faltered. Inside her chest, guilt and fear warred. Kazeem searched the huts, calling her name. But Abíké was gone—vanished into the morning mist, carrying only her mother’s whispered words and the determination not to be caged.

Her journey, now darker than ever, had only just begun.

TO BE CONTINUED……………….

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I won’t stop✋ appreciate everyone who has been following our stories, thereby liking, commenting, sharing and supporting us in every way. Honestly it encourages me to write ✍️ more interesting stories.

09/26/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)
EPISODE 6
dropping tomorrow 11:00AM

09/25/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

A Yoruba village story written by Mr. Ezy (BRENY TV)

📘EPISODE 5📘

The sun rose lazily over Ìkòrè village, casting golden fingers of light across the clay huts and narrow paths. The cries of roosters mingled with the rhythm of pestles pounding yam in mortars, while the scent of palm oil frying akara floated through the air. Abíké stirred from the corner where she had slept the night before, her stomach tight with hunger. The ground was cold beneath her wrapper, her lips dry, but her spirit still clung to a fragile thread of hope.

She whispered softly, “Iyá mi… ma jẹ́ kí n kú níbi àníyàn yìí o.” (My mother, do not let me die in this suffering.)

With trembling legs, she walked toward the marketplace. The market of Ìkòrè was always alive—women spreading mats of peppers, heaps of tomatoes shining in the morning sun, men unloading firewood, and children carrying baskets of kola nuts. It was a place where laughter and gossip lived side by side with suspicion and rivalry. For Abíké, it was also a place of shame, for people had begun to whisper her name whenever coins went missing or a fruit disappeared.

She reached the center of the market, where roasted corn was already filling the air with smoke. Her eyes locked on the cobs stacked high, her mouth watering. She had not eaten since the night before, when she had begged for crumbs from a stranger’s doorstep.

But just as she stood staring, a sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
“Ìwọ̀ ọmọ yìí, ṣe o wà níbí láti rà tàbí láti jí?” (You child, are you here to buy or to steal?)

It was Ìyá Òṣùnwálé, the yam seller, her thick arms folded, suspicion burning in her eyes. Several heads turned.

Abíké stammered, “Mo wà níbí… kí ni mo lè ṣe? Ẹ jọ̀ọ́, mo fẹ́ ra akara… but I have no kobo.”

Her voice cracked as she admitted her lack of money. The crowd murmured, some shaking their heads, others glaring.

Before the tension could dissolve, a piercing cry shattered the air.
“My money! My money is gone!” shouted a woman selling dried fish. She clutched her wrapper, her eyes frantic. “Àwo mi! My bowl of cowries is missing!”

Instantly, the entire market shifted its attention. Suspicion moved like fire through dry grass.

“Where was it?”
“Who came near your stall?”
“Ehn… that orphan girl was just standing there!”

Abíké froze as accusing fingers pointed at her. The words felt like daggers.
“Thief!”
“Didn’t I say it? She has the eyes of a thief!”
“Yes, is it not her mother who died like a poor wretch? Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”

The humiliation stung worse than hunger. Abíké shook her head violently, tears springing to her eyes.
“No! I did not take anything! Ẹ jọ̀ọ́, ẹ gbà mí! (Please, help me!) I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not steal!”

But the mob was merciless. A tall young man stepped forward, anger boiling in his voice.
“Let us search her now. If she is clean, then so be it. But if we find one coin, we shall drag her to the elders!”

Hands grabbed at her wrapper, rough and unkind. Abíké cried out, struggling as the women’s sharp nails dug into her skin. A circle had formed around her; whispers and curses mixed with the sound of goats bleating nearby.

“Ẹ jẹ́ ká rí inú àwọ̀ rẹ!” (Let us see what she hides!)
“Àjẹ́kú ọmọ. Shameless girl.”

Abíké’s heart hammered in her chest. Shame was swallowing her alive. She thought of her mother, of the gentle hands that used to shield her from this cruelty.

And then it happened.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the market. Raffia roofs rattled. Dust rose in spirals, covering baskets of yam and pepper. Traders held their wrappers tight, confused. The air grew cold, unnatural for a morning sun.

Abíké lifted her tear-stained face, and there by the shade of the old palm tree, she saw it.

Her mother.

The ghost stood tall, clothed in a white wrapper, her face glowing faintly. Her eyes, sad but fierce, locked on Abíké. No one else seemed to see her. The crowd only shivered, sensing something unseen.

The ghost’s voice filled Abíké’s ears, though her lips did not move.
“Ọmọ mi, fear not. Truth walks slowly, but it always arrives.”

Abíké’s trembling stopped. A strange calm washed over her.

At that very moment, a child’s voice shouted from the crowd.
“Mama! Mama, here’s your money! It fell near the pepper basket!”

Gasps filled the market. All heads turned. A little boy held up the missing cowries, his face innocent.

The woman snatched her coins, muttering, “Ha! How did it roll there?”

Silence fell. Eyes that had burned holes into Abíké now looked away in shame. The tall young man who had called for her search loosened his grip, embarrassed.

“Ó dàbí pé àṣìṣe ni.” (It seems it was a mistake.)

But the damage was done. Abíké stood in the center of the crowd, her wrapper dusty, her pride shattered. No one apologized. No one offered comfort. Instead, they drifted away, pretending nothing had happened.

She looked back toward the palm tree, but her mother’s ghost had vanished, carried away by the same cold wind.

Alone, Abíké whispered to the empty space, “Iyá mi… if truth walks slowly, will it ever reach me before I am destroyed?”

The market noise resumed around her, but to Abíké, the world had changed. Trust was gone, innocence was gone. All that remained was the cruel certainty that in Ìkòrè, she was nothing but a thief in their eyes.

And as the day wore on, she realized something deeper: hunger might wound the body, but shame could wound the soul.

Evening descended on Ìkòrè like a tired bird folding its wings. The sun slid into the horizon, leaving streaks of crimson across the sky. Traders packed their goods; mothers called for children to come home. Fires were lit in clay stoves, and the smell of roasted yam drifted into the air. But Abíké had no home to return to, no fire waiting, no bowl of food steaming in her honor.

She sat at the edge of the market, the shame of the day still clinging to her skin like sweat. Though the missing money had been found, though her name had been cleared, the villagers’ eyes had branded her forever. She could still hear their whispers: thief… orphan… disgrace.

Her stomach growled, but hunger was not her greatest pain that night. It was the loneliness.

Slowly, she rose and began to walk the dusty path out of the market. The moon was veiled behind clouds, and crickets sang from the bushes. Her feet dragged, her shoulders drooped, but her mind burned with questions.

“Why me, Iyá mi? Why must I suffer so much? Is it a curse? Or is it my destiny?”

The wind rustled through palm fronds as if answering, but she only felt more afraid. The path ahead stretched long and empty, leading past the old palm grove before branching into the thick forest. She quickened her steps, hoping to find a place to rest before night swallowed her whole.

But then, she heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft at first, then louder. Someone was behind her.

TO BE CONTINUED……………………….

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