https://www.youtube.com/@Ezekieleze1

Breny TV, Texas City, TX (2026)

12/19/2025

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for all of your support! Congrats for being top fans on a streak 🔥!

12/19/2025

The greedy Tiko

12/19/2025

MY DISPATCH BOYFRIEND (PART 1)

10/31/2025

🎉 Facebook recognised me for starting engaging conversations and producing inspiring content among my audience and peers!

10/31/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

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

📘EPISODE 13📘

The dawn after the healing came soft and gold, washing over Ilépa like a promise reborn.
Smoke no longer rose from the ashes, instead, children’s laughter slowly returned, timid at first, then brighter. The birds sang again. Women swept the earth before their huts. Life, after all, had a stubborn way of finding its rhythm.

Abíké stood by the stream where Adigun had once found her. The water shimmered like glass under the morning sun, and she could see her reflection clearly, the mark on her forehead faint but glowing.
She whispered to herself,
“Omi ìyá, river of my mother, show me what lies ahead.”

But the river stayed silent. Only the ripples answered.

Behind her, footsteps approached. Adigun’s voice broke the quiet.
“You’ve been standing here since dawn,” he said softly. “You’ve hardly eaten.”

Abíké turned, smiling faintly. “The river listens when the world sleeps. I needed to thank it.”

He moved closer, carrying a small calabash of water. “You’ve done more for this village than anyone ever could. Even the elders are speaking of you. They say the gods have returned to Ilépa through you.”

She shook her head gently. “No. The gods never left. We just forgot how to hear them.”

Adigun studied her. There was something different about her now, calm, yet powerful. The timid girl he once met had become someone larger than her fears.

They sat together by the stream in silence, listening to the music of the forest. But somewhere deep within the trees, something else listened too, something old, something dark.

The same breeze that carried their laughter twisted suddenly cold.

That night, Ilépa slept under a sky of restless stars. The wind howled faintly, and the trees swayed as if murmuring secrets.

Abíké lay awake in Mama Abeke’s hut. Sleep would not come. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard faint whispers, voices like those of children crying in the distance, or the rustle of footsteps that never reached the door.

She sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. “Iyá…?” she called softly. But the room was empty. Mama Abeke was asleep.

Then, a faint light flickered across the wall — pale, cold, like moonlight filtered through smoke.
The whisper came again, clearer this time.
“Abíké…”

Her blood ran cold.
That voice was not her mother’s.

She rose slowly, her body trembling. The air felt heavy, the smell of ash and decay sneaking in through the open doorway. She stepped outside. The night was still, the moon veiled behind clouds.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

The darkness shifted, and from behind the old tree, a figure emerged.

It was a woman, but her eyes glowed red, her movements slow, unnatural. Her wrapper was tattered, her hair loose like dry grass. The scent of palm oil and rot clung to her.

Abíké froze. “Aunty Morenike…”

The figure smiled, a smile that was too wide, too wrong.
“Ah, little Abíké. You live. The gods favor you, don’t they?”

Abíké took a step back. “You’re not Aunty Morenike. What are you?”

The woman tilted her head. “I was your aunt. But when you left me to shame, something found me. It promised me power, power to rewrite what the gods wrote wrong.”

Her voice deepened, turning guttural. “And now, child of light, you will share my curse.”

Before Abíké could move, the woman raised her hand. Shadows leapt from the ground like snakes, coiling around Abíké’s legs. She gasped, struggling, but the darkness clung to her, cold and strong.

Adigun’s voice cut through the night. “Abíké!”
He ran from the other hut, spear in hand, eyes wide with fury.

The spirit turned, snarling. “You again, hunter. Always standing in the way of fate.”

Adigun threw his spear, it passed through her like smoke. The spirit laughed. “Flesh cannot pierce shadow.”

Abíké closed her eyes, remembering Òṣun’s words:
“You cannot fight darkness with fear. Only love and truth can banish it.”

She took a shaky breath. The mark on her forehead pulsed. “You were once my blood,” she said, her voice trembling. “You fed me when I was small. You sang me to sleep. That part of you still lives. I will not hate you.”

The spirit hissed, retreating slightly as the light from Abíké’s skin grew. “Stop it! Stop!”

Abíké stepped forward, tears streaming. “Aunty Morenike, if any piece of your soul remains, remember love. Remember family.”

The light swelled, golden and fierce. The shadows cracked like dry bark. With a final cry, the spirit shrieked and burst into a thousand embers that vanished into the night air.

Then there was silence. Only the sound of wind through the palms.

Adigun rushed to her side, catching her as she stumbled. Her skin was cold, her breathing shallow. “Abíké! Look at me!”

She opened her eyes weakly. “It wasn’t her fault. The spirit used her… fed on her pain.”

Adigun held her close. “You could’ve been killed.”

She smiled faintly, exhausted. “If love cannot heal, what power can?”

By morning, the news spread. Some said the spirit had been seen flying out of the village like smoke, wailing into the hills. The elders came to Mama Abeke’s hut and bowed before Abíké.

“You have driven out the darkness,” one said. “You are the daughter of Òṣun indeed.”

Abíké shook her head humbly. “I am only a vessel. The river heals through me.”

Mama Abeke smiled, pride glistening in her tired eyes. “Even a river needs a path, my child. You are that path.”

Later, Abíké walked alone to the udala tree, the same place her mother’s spirit had told her to return. The morning light filtered through the branches, and the air felt alive, sacred.

She knelt and whispered a prayer of peace for Morenike’s lost soul.
Then she began to sing, her mother’s song again, gentle and strong.

🎵
“Àánú Olódùmarè, let hearts remember,
The river flows where mercy dwells,
No night can swallow dawn eternal…”
🎵

As her voice carried through the air, a soft wind stirred. The ground beneath the udala tree glowed faintly, and from it rose a single drop of golden water, pure and bright. It hovered for a moment, then sank into the soil.

And from that very spot, a small green shoot sprouted, new life, born from sorrow.

Abíké smiled through tears. “Rest now, Iyá. Rest, Morenike. The river still flows.”

In the distance, Adigun watched quietly, his heart full of reverence. He whispered to himself, “She is no longer a child. She is the dawn the world forgot.”

As the sun climbed higher, its rays fell upon Abíké’s face, turning her tears to light.

And somewhere beyond the clouds, the voice of her mother echoed softly, proud, gentle, eternal:
“My daughter, your journey has just begun.”

TO BE CONTINUED ………………

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Ọ̀run ń gbọ́… the heavens listen.”
As the moon weeps over Ilépa, Abíké’s light clashes with darkness itself.
Her mother’s spirit rises once more — but is it protection… or prophecy?

What do you think💭the glowing mark on Abíké’s forehead truly means?

10/24/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

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

📘EPISODE 12📘

The road from Òtítọ́’s pool to Ilépa was long and silent.
The forest no longer seemed cruel, it breathed around her, alive and watching. Each step Abíké took stirred whispers in the wind, as if unseen spirits bowed in her passing. The mark on her forehead glowed faintly beneath the morning sun, hidden beneath strands of her hair.

She walked barefoot, feeling the earth pulse softly beneath her soles. The trees swayed, their leaves murmuring:
“Daughter of light… daughter of light…”

By the time she reached the edges of Ilépa, smoke still hung in the air, black scars against the sky. The once-lively village was quiet now, broken and weary. Roofs caved in, ashes where laughter once lived. The scent of burnt wood clung to everything.

Abíké stood at the entrance and whispered, “Ẹ̀ṣù má ṣe o…”
(Eshu, may mischief not find me.)

Children peeked out from behind fallen walls, their faces thin with fear. Old women whispered her name, some crossing themselves, others bowing low. They had seen her carried away by raiders, returned with Adigun and now she walks alone, radiant with strange light.

“Is it truly her?” one woman murmured.
“Or her spirit come back to haunt us?”

Abíké said nothing. She only kept walking.

When she reached Mama Abeke’s hut, her heart ached. The roof was gone, replaced with palm leaves and the smell of herbs. Inside, the old woman lay on a mat, her leg bandaged. She looked up as Abíké entered, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Abíké?” she whispered.
Abíké knelt quickly beside her, tears spilling. “Ìyá mi… it’s me.”

Mama Abeke reached out, trembling. “The gods are merciful! I thought the river had taken you.”

“It almost did,” Abíké said softly, “but the river gave me back.”

Mama Abeke’s eyes filled with wonder. She touched Abíké’s cheek gently. “You’ve changed, my child. There’s something in your eyes now—like moonlight that refuses to fade.”

Abíké smiled faintly. “The gods spoke, Ìyá. They showed me truth… and purpose.”

Mama Abeke blinked, too weak to rise. “Then perhaps Ilépa still has hope.”

Abíké looked around. “Where is Adigun?”

The old woman’s smile faltered. “Ah… my son lies in the back room. His wounds run deep. We have tried herbs, but he does not wake.”

Abíké’s chest tightened. She rose swiftly and went inside.

The small inner hut was dim, the air thick with the scent of blood and leaves. Adigun lay on a raffia mat, his chest wrapped in cloth darkened by dried blood. His skin, once bright with strength, had turned pale. Each breath came slow and shallow, like the whisper of dying fire.

Abíké knelt beside him, trembling. “Adigun… it’s me. It’s Abíké.”

There was no response. Only the weak rise and fall of his chest.

Tears blurred her vision.
She took his hand, it was cold.
Her heart clenched as memory flooded back: the way he had smiled beneath the iroko tree, the way his eyes had softened whenever she laughed.

Her mother’s voice echoed faintly within her soul:
“There is one who still bleeds because of you. Find him. Heal him.”

Abíké’s tears fell on his palm. “Iyá… show me how.”

As if in answer, the mark on her forehead began to glow, softly at first, then brighter, pulsing with rhythm like a heartbeat. Her hands warmed, and she heard it again: the ancient song from the river, the one her mother had sung in the vision.

It rose from deep within her chest, trembling at first, then flowing like wind through leaves.

Song 🎵
“Omi ìyá, wash away sorrow,
Ase òrun, breathe upon flesh,
Àánú Olódùmarè, heal the broken heart…”

The hut filled with faint golden light. The air shifted. Mama Abeke, watching from the doorway, gasped softly, clutching her chest.

Abíké’s hands glowed where they touched Adigun’s chest. The cloth beneath them grew warm, and the scent of herbs was replaced by something sweeter, like fresh rain on parched ground.

The glow deepened, spreading from her palms into his skin. His breathing steadied. The wound on his chest stopped bleeding. Then, with a soft groan, Adigun’s eyes flickered open.

“Abíké…?”

She froze, her song dying on her lips.
He blinked weakly, his gaze struggling to focus. “I thought I was… in the afterlife.”

Abíké’s tears spilled freely. “No, Adigun. You’re here. You’re with me.”

He tried to sit up, groaning. She supported him gently.
“I saw your face in my dream,” he whispered. “You were surrounded by light. You told me to wait.”

Abíké smiled through tears. “Maybe that was the gods speaking through me.”

He stared at her, awe dawning in his weary eyes. “You healed me… didn’t you?”

She looked down shyly. “Not me. The river. My mother. The gods.”

Mama Abeke shuffled forward, tears in her eyes. “Child… you carry the spirit of mercy itself. The gods truly walk with you.”

But Abíké only shook her head. “No, Ìyá. They walk with all who love without fear.”

Outside, word spread quickly: Adigun the hunter has risen!
Villagers gathered around, murmuring blessings, their disbelief melting into joy.

By sunset, a cool breeze swept through Ilépa—the first in many weeks. The air felt lighter, as if the earth itself exhaled relief.

That night, the villagers lit a small fire by the iroko tree. They sang softly, songs of survival, of gratitude. Abíké sat beside Adigun, the flames reflecting in their eyes.

He turned to her, his voice low. “You risked everything to come back.”

“I couldn’t leave without knowing you lived,” she said quietly.

He smiled faintly. “The gods brought you to us, Abíké. Maybe you were meant to mend what this world broke.”

She stared into the fire. “If only the world would let itself be mended.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and saw not the scared girl he’d found by the stream, but someone transformed.

“Whatever you become,” he said softly, “I will walk beside you.”

Abíké’s lips trembled. “Even if darkness returns?”

He nodded slowly. “Even then.”

For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to smile.

As the villagers sang, a soft golden light flickered above the flames, unseen by all but her. It took the shape of her mother’s face, smiling, proud, and peaceful.

And in the whisper of the wind came her voice, gentle as ever:
“The river flows through you now, my child. Protect it well.”

Abíké closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Somewhere deep within her, the song stirred again, soft, sacred, and eternal.

For the girl who once ran from pain was now the one who would heal it.
And Ilépa, broken as it was, began to breathe again.

TO BE CONTINUED ………………………………..

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
How do you feel now Abike had returned, full of life and made to know that she’s a gifted child?

10/19/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

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

📘EPISODE 11📘

The forest was still.
Not a bird sang, not a leaf moved. Only the slow hum of eternity lingered where the sacred pool of Òtítọ́ had swallowed Abíké whole.

When the golden light first touched her skin, it had burned, then soothed, then carried her away into silence. Her body felt weightless, as though she floated between worlds, neither dead nor living, but suspended like a whisper on the breath of the gods.

She opened her eyes, and there was no forest anymore. Only light, vast, endless, and breathing. It shimmered like sunlight seen through water, and beneath her feet flowed a clear river, glowing faintly with silver ripples.

Abíké gasped.
“Where… where am I?”

The voice that answered did not come from one mouth, but from everywhere.
“You are where truth sleeps, child of sorrow. You are in Òdò Ìrántí, the River of Memory.”

The light around her thickened, and from it, a woman emerged, tall, regal, clothed in white that shimmered like moonlight on calm water. Her hair flowed like mist, and her eyes held both storm and peace.

Abíké’s knees weakened. “Iyá…?”

The woman smiled gently. “I am not the one who bore you, but I have walked beside her spirit since your birth. I am Òṣun, mother of the river, keeper of destinies yet unfulfilled.”

Abíké bowed low, trembling. “Great mother… I am afraid. They said I was cursed. That misfortune follows me. Even those I love suffer. Why, Mother? Why me?”

Òṣun moved closer, her feet barely touching the glowing water. She touched Abíké’s chin, raising her face.
“You are not cursed, ọmọ mi. You were born beneath a sign that men do not understand. The day you drew your first breath, the sky cracked with thunder though no rain fell. A flame of light marked your forehead. The elders called it ààmì ayé àti ọ̀run, the seal of both worlds.”

Abíké’s lips parted. “Both worlds?”

Òṣun nodded. “Your mother was chosen long before she met your father. She carried a seed from the realm of spirits, a promise made between heaven and earth. You, Abíké, are that promise.”

Abíké’s breath caught in her throat. “A promise? But I have known only pain.”

The river beneath them shimmered brighter. Within its depths, images began to form, scenes from her life. Her mother’s gentle smile. Aunty Morenike’s house. Kazeem’s laughter before it turned to malice. Adigun’s eyes filled with quiet strength. All of it played before her like the reflection of a dream.

“Pain,” Òṣun said softly, “is the path of the chosen. Fire does not destroy gold, it reveals it. Your tears were not wasted, Abíké. Every scar, every betrayal, was preparing your spirit for its purpose.”

Abíké wept silently. “But I am only fifteen. I know nothing of destiny. I only wanted peace.”

Òṣun’s voice softened, motherly. “Peace is not given, it is grown. You carry the gift of healing, Abíké. The same gift your mother had before envy silenced her. The gods preserved you because your spirit will bring balance to many.”

Abíké frowned slightly, confusion mixing with awe. “Healing? I do not understand.”

Òṣun raised her hand. The river stirred again, showing another vision, her mother kneeling by a sick child in their old village, singing softly as her palms glowed faintly with golden light. The child’s breathing steadied, and the crowd watching gasped.

“That was your mother’s gift,” Òṣun whispered. “Through song and compassion, she drew life back into broken bodies. But fear breeds cruelty, and men called her witch. They killed her light before its time.”

Abíké’s heart broke anew. “Iyá… she never told me…”

“She could not. The time was not ripe. But now, the seal has awakened in you. You must learn to use it, or it will consume you.”

A tremor rippled through the river, and the light dimmed. Distant thunder rumbled like the growl of an angry god.

Abíké looked around, frightened. “What is that?”

Òṣun’s gaze hardened. “The darkness that hunts you has felt your awakening. Even now, its shadow stretches from the mortal world. The spirit of envy that once lived in Morenike now moves freely, fed by bitterness, seeking to destroy what remains of your light.”

“Morenike?” Abíké whispered. “She still lives?”

“Her body lives, but her soul has become a vessel for the thing your mother once bound beneath the earth. That is why she turned against you. It was never only hatred, it was possession.”

Abíké’s skin prickled. “Then how do I stop it?”

“You cannot fight darkness with fear,” Òṣun said gently. “Only love and truth can banish it. When the moon returns to full strength, go to the ruins of Ìkòrè. Sing the song of your mother beneath the ancient tree. There, the river will rise for you again.”

Abíké swallowed hard, the weight of destiny pressing on her small shoulders. “Will I be alone?”

“No,” came another voice, soft, familiar, filled with love.

Abíké turned sharply. From the far bank of the river, her mother’s spirit appeared, clothed in white, her face radiant with peace. Her eyes glistened with pride.

“Iyá…” Abíké breathed, falling to her knees.

Her mother smiled through tears. “My daughter. My heart. I have watched you walk through fire and still not fall. You have carried your pain like a crown, though the world called it shame. Now rise, for your time is near.”

Abíké crawled closer, desperate to touch her. “I miss you. Every night I called your name.”

“I heard every call,” her mother said softly. “And I answered, through dreams, through the wind, through Adigun’s kindness. I have been with you always.”

The river brightened, surrounding them in warmth. For the first time since her mother’s death, Abíké felt truly safe.

“But Iyá,” she whispered, “I do not know how to heal. I do not even know how to forgive.”

Her mother’s smile deepened, tender and wise. “Then begin by forgiving yourself. You could not save me, nor Ilépa. But you lived, and that is enough. From your survival, light will flow again.”

Òṣun stepped forward. “Time is short. The world of men is calling you back.”

Abíké clung to her mother’s presence. “I don’t want to leave.”

Her mother cupped her face, her touch like cool breeze. “You must, Abíké. There is one who still bleeds because of you, one whose heart carries your name even in silence. Find him. Heal him. And you will find yourself.”

“Adigun…” Abíké whispered.

Her mother nodded. “Yes. The gods do not weave love without purpose.”

The river began to tremble, glowing fiercely now. Light enveloped Abíké’s body.

Her mother’s voice faded, carried by the wind:
“Remember the song, my child. When darkness closes in, sing and the river will answer.”

Abíké screamed, reaching for her, but the world exploded into brightness.

When the light cleared, she was lying by the pool again, the forest quiet except for the distant call of a bird. Her skin glowed faintly, the mark on her forehead shimmering gold.

She rose slowly, every breath heavy with wonder and dread.
The words of Òṣun echoed in her mind “Go back. Sing the song beneath the ancient tree.”

As she began to walk back through the forest, the wind whispered softly around her, like unseen hands guiding her path. Somewhere deep inside, the song of her mother stirred.

And though she was only fifteen, the spirit of a thousand mothers walked with her.

Abíké was no longer the hunted girl.
She was becoming the keeper of light.

TO BE CONTINUED ………………………………..

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I trust we enjoyed this episode. So do well to like, comment and share for more engaging episodes (Breny tv cares)

10/18/2025

Big shout out to my new rising fans! Ayomi Abdullah, Agbona Mabel, Midey Gold, Odun Ola, Amina Kassim, Ayenewo Ibironke, Ola Mide, Adedamola Olajide, Oluwayemisi Dorcas, Ojumirayo Duduyemi, Dzowoe Anita, Habeebat Ojumirayo, Mojisola Wumight, Abbie Glamor, Kehinde Mary, Motunrayo Adewale, Ainsha Amusa, Ayodele Oluwabukolami, Temitope Selimot, Sonia Chika Sonia Chika, Titilayo Awoyemi, Ariyike Lawal, Ade JO KE, Atilade Elizabeth Busayo, Oluwa Pamilerin, Bello Nafisat, Adenike Olaleye, Kehinde Sarah, Olaniyi Bukky, Abiona Funke, Chephy Mrloyal, Arikewuyo Fatimoh, Abolarinwa Alakaloko Folarin, Subuluike Harjike Ade, Prince Peace, Opemipo Oluwatosin, Omonike Orofinlu Ewatomi, Odunayo Oluwanifesimi, Oluwatimileyin Ajiwe, Modinat Agboola Shokunbi, Unbothered Odunayo, Umm Abidah Bint Abdulsalam, Adetoun Adeala, Abba Nadaraja, Kehinde Damilola Olaide, Mercy Aghoghovia, Awoye Mary Omowunmi, Oluwakemi Adenekan, Adebayo Rukayat Abiodun Ariyo, Ewa Tomi

10/16/2025

Thanks for being a top engager and making it on to my weekly engagement list! 🎉 Eni Ola, Gbemi Sola, Gift Good Day, Khadijat Maruf, Adeola Juwon, Bakare Olabisi, Jemilah Biodun Yusuf, Musliat Ajayi Tikare, Nana Pheer Daucee Harnike, Osadiaye Osasere, Folashade Oladapo, Fatima Olabisi, Aisha Abubakar, Kim Nana, Taiwo Victoria Odun, Becky Samuel Namo, He Ni Tan, Asha Bee, Oluwafunke Oyinlola, Linda Francisca, Et'z Wuraola Haryodeji, Yusuff Priscilla Folasade, Omonike Orofinlu Ewatomi, Modupeoluwa Àkàndé, Ramlat Ibrahim, Islamiyat Abdulazeez, Yunus Zulaiha Afolashade, Owoyemi Remi, Joyce Okeregwu, Babatunde Omomayowa, Florence Omondi, Adedamola Olajide, Folashade Akinkuotu Fatukasi, Fatima Funmilayo Awe Usman, Jessy Uduma, Jetoluwa Temitope Davies, Faith Mimi, Maryam Lukman Ade Ola, Bright Ekanem, Titilayo Awoyemi, Sunday Victor, Ijasanmi E. Oluwasaanumi, Deborah Adeniyi, Rofiat Olaide, Gift Rueben, Arikewuyo Fatimoh, Olori Adesogbon Abimbola Adekunle, Abdullahi Azeezat, Patience Francis, Sofiat Bolanle Kolawole

10/16/2025

ABÍKÉ – ỌMỌ ÌYÁ ÀÌSÍ (ABIKE THE MOTHERLESS CHILD)

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

📘EPISODE 10📘

Abíké and Adigun continued their journey, her small frame wrapped in a faded wrapper. Her bare feet pressed into the damp soil, leaving faint prints that the wind quickly erased. Though her face young, her eyes held stories no child should know.

The forest path twisted ahead, narrow and ancient. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the trees, painting the world in gold and shadow.

Adigun carried a bow across his shoulder and a calabash of water by his side. He walked slightly ahead, clearing branches with his machete. “We must reach the hill before dusk,” he said gently, glancing back at her. “The forest spirits are calm by day, but they do not welcome strangers after dark.”

Abíké nodded, clutching the small charm Mama Abeke had given her. Around her neck, it glowed faintly — a sign that her mother’s spirit walked close.

As the hours passed, the forest grew thicker. Strange birds shrieked from afar, and once, they heard the low growl of something unseen. Abíké’s hand trembled, but she whispered softly:

“Iyá mi… má jẹ́ kí wọn fi ọwọ́ búburú kan mí (Mother, do not let evil hands touch me).”

A soft wind stirred the leaves in response. The fear eased.

Adigun noticed and smiled faintly. “You speak to her often.”

She never left me,” Abíké said. “Even when I think I’m alone, I hear her voice in the wind. She… she saved me from Kazeem that night.”

Adigun slowed his pace. “Then her spirit is strong and merciful. You carry a light most people will never understand.”

Abíké looked at him. “And you, for the second time, why are you kind to me?”

He paused, then smiled. “Because the world hasn’t been kind enough.”

By noon, they reached a clearing where an ancient baobab stood, its roots coiling like the arms of time. They rested beneath it, sharing roasted yam wrapped in leaves.

Abíké chewed slowly, her eyes wandering to the forest edge. “Adigun,” she said after a long silence, “do you think the gods remember children like me?”

He turned to her. “The gods forget no one. But they test those they love most.”

Her eyes dimmed. “Then I wish they loved me less.”

Adigun’s heart ached. He said nothing, only reached out to hand her water. When she drank, the calabash shook in her small hands.

Then a whisper. Soft, tender, maternal.

“Ọmọ mi… (My child…)”

The air around them shimmered. A faint figure appeared near the baobab, a woman in white, her face half-veiled in mist. Her eyes were full of warmth, her presence calm and radiant.

Abíké gasped, dropping the calabash. “Iyá mi…”

Adigun froze, his eyes wide. The spirit smiled gently at her daughter.

“You have walked far, my child. Do not fear the road. Every thorn has its purpose.”

Tears streamed down Abíké’s cheeks. “Iyá, I am so tired… I want to rest. I don’t want to see death anymore.”

The spirit’s voice was soft, like the hum of the wind.

“You will rest soon, my heart. But first, you must climb the hill of truth. At its peak waits your healing and your destiny.”

Abíké reached out, but her hand touched only air.
“Iyá, will I see you there?”

The ghost smiled sadly.

“When the river meets the sea, you will know. Till then, let the man beside you be your shield.”

Her eyes turned to Adigun. For a heartbeat, he felt warmth flood through him, a blessing, silent and deep.

Then the spirit faded, leaving behind only the faint scent of jasmine and the sound of wind.

Abíké sobbed quietly. Adigun placed a hand over her small trembling fingers. “She is proud of you,” he said. “You must hold on to her words.”

She nodded slowly. “I will.”

By evening, they reached the foothills of Òtítọ́, a sacred place where mist danced like spirits and the air shimmered with unseen energy. The villagers had spoken of it in whispers: that those who came with pure hearts found healing, and those who came with deceit never returned.

The climb was steep. Adigun helped her up the rocky path, his arm steady around her. Her steps were small but determined.

Halfway up, she stumbled. He caught her, his strong hand gripping hers firmly.

“I can’t” she began.

“Yes, you can,” he said softly. “You’ve walked through fire before. This is only stone.”

His voice steadied her. She nodded, pushing forward.

When they reached the top, the sun had begun to set, bathing the hills in gold. There, standing before a pool of glistening water, was an elderly woman dressed in white cloth, her head wrapped in coral beads. Her eyes shone like the moon.

She smiled as if she had been expecting them.

“Welcome, child of grief and fire,” she said. “And you, the hunter whose heart is bound to fate.”

Abíké bowed, trembling. “Are you the priestess of Oṣun?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. The river told me you would come. The gods have watched you, Abíké, the girl with a mother who defied death.”

Abíké’s eyes widened. “You know my mother?”

The priestess stepped closer, her voice soft. “I know her love. It is the reason you still draw breath.”

She turned to Adigun. “And you, your path is woven into hers. Protect her, but beware… not all spirits that walk with light remain pure.”

Adigun frowned. “What do you mean?”

The priestess’s eyes clouded. “The world beyond this hill stirs. Shadows follow her name, those who think she carries a secret worth killing for.”

Abíké’s blood ran cold. “What secret?”

The old woman looked toward the fading sun. “That, my child, you must remember for yourself.”

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, though the sky was still clear. The priestess gestured toward the pool. “Come. The river of truth awaits. Step into it, and the gods will show what your mother could not.”

Abíké’s breath trembled. She looked at Adigun. He nodded gently.
“I’m here.”

And as the first stars appeared above, Abíké stepped into the shimmering pool, her reflection breaking into ripples of light. The water glowed beneath her feet, whispering voices rising all around her.

Then she gasped, the water turned golden, and visions swirled before her eyes: her mother, a crown of white light, standing before a temple; men in black robes bowing; and a newborn baby being carried away in the night.

She screamed, clutching her head. “Iyá! What is this?!”

The priestess’s voice echoed through the wind.

“The truth, Abíké. You are not just a child of sorrow. You are the blood of prophecy.”

Lightning cracked across the horizon. Adigun rushed forward, shouting her name…….

“Abíké!”

But the pool swallowed her whole in a flash of golden light.

The wind howled, and the priestess whispered, almost in awe…….

“Her awakening has begun.”

TO BE CONTINUED ………………………………..

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