The Curse of Ogamba

Fanta's "aura" haunted the villagers more than they liked to admit. It wasn't something that could be put into words easily—just a presence. If she stood in the midday sun, sweat never truly matted her clothes. If she trudged the same muddy path as the rest, the dirt on her dress seemed to brush off with a single pass of her hand. And her scent, subdued yet undeniably sweet, followed her around like a gentle breeze from a distant orchard.

Children teased each other with dares: "Touch Fanta's arm if you're brave," but none ever did. Even the older boys, who sometimes boasted of their courage, refused to go near her. A few tried to show off by picking fights or throwing stones, but one glance at her unwavering posture or her luminous eyes left them disarmed. It was easier to mock from afar.

No one truly revered her. Awe might have been the correct word, but it manifested as fear, suspicion, and hostility, not admiration. Some part of the villagers' hearts told them that she was something extraordinary, yet their minds couldn't handle that contradiction within the dusty, mundane life of Ogamba. They twisted that feeling into negativity, labeling her cursed instead of angelic.

At home, Fanta tried to ignore Okongo's perpetual refusal to acknowledge her existence. She'd see him weaving fishing nets or carving a wooden spear, his gaze never lifting if she approached. Sometimes she hovered by the door, hoping he might meet her eye just once. But it never happened.

She recalled once, when she was about nine, summoning the courage to say "Papa?" He didn't so much as twitch. Anayara, overhearing, rushed Fanta away with a gentle hand, tears brimming in her mother's eyes. She never tried again.

In her old books, she read of fathers cradling their children, imparting wisdom or reading bedtime tales. Each mention cut her more deeply with the realization: She would never know that kind of father's love. He was a statue in her life, a presence physically but not emotionally there, punishing her for an unspoken sin of being unlike everyone else.

The witch doctor, Mojono, remained Fanta's greatest external threat. He had been the first to label her a "curse incarnate," fueling villagers' fear whenever misfortunes struck: a disease among goats, a broken well, an unexpected hailstorm that ruined half the maize. "Fanta is the root of our sorrow," he proclaimed at village gatherings, brandishing a staff adorned with feathers and animal bones. "So long as she remains, Ogamba's hardships will only grow."

For years, Elder Mudia—the aging chief—resisted any extreme measures. He believed that children should not be condemned without proof. "We have had droughts before," he'd say. "We have faced sickness. Don't blame a girl for nature's cycles." But as time passed, Mudia's influence waned. The younger elders, spooked by mounting difficulties, leaned more toward Mojono's perspective. The ground was laid for something dire to happen.

Amid these tensions, Anayara's gentle presence remained Fanta's anchor. Each night, her mother would rub her shoulders, humming lullabies or teaching her new ways to blend perfumes. The fiasco about reading demon tongue worried Anayara deeply, yet she recognized that it gave Fanta comfort. "Just be careful," she would whisper. "Read when you must, but away from prying eyes." If Fanta pressed on, insisting how important the words were, Anayara only nodded with sad acceptance, "I know, child. The world is bigger than Ogamba. But your safety is precious."

Sometimes, Fanta wondered why her mother didn't reveal that her daughter had simply learned from old missionary texts. Then she remembered that in Ogamba, anything foreign was suspect, especially something that made no sense to their ears. The villagers might demand to see the books, accuse Anayara of harboring demonic knowledge. The entire matter was too risky.

By the time Fanta neared her eighteenth year, the village's hostility hung thick as dust in the air. Children who once merely avoided her now refused to even cross her path. Women at the market parted like a wave if she approached a stall, leaving her no chance to buy or trade. She'd stand there, heart heavy, shoulders squared, deciding whether to endure the silent condemnation or walk away. Usually, she walked away, ache lodged in her chest.

Each day, she carried out small chores for Anayara—fetching water, picking herbs. But she felt the stares on her back. She rarely lingered anywhere near the well for fear that the hateful gossip might boil over into violence. At night, she retreated to her reading, practicing English lines in hushed tones, her ear pressed to the door to ensure no one was listening. Then, if the urge to recite overcame her, she would slip out quietly, heading for the old tree, climbing to the highest branch. She would tilt her head toward the moonlit sky and read from the battered pages as softly as she could, letting the words fill her lonely soul.

One night, as she returned from the tree, she overheard low voices behind her mother's hut:

"We can't wait any longer," hissed a voice.

"Mojono says the next full moon is critical. The spirits need a sacrifice or a banishment."

"Fanta… she must be dealt with."

The words froze her in place. She didn't recognize the speakers, but they spoke with grim determination. Sacrifice. Banishment. Her heartbeat hammered. She backed away before they could sense her presence, slipping inside to find Anayara asleep. For hours, she sat there, awake in the darkness, pressing her trembling hands over her ears.