The Curse of Ogamba

The morning sun in Ogamba rose with fierce authority, painting the village in warm gold, exposing every crack in the weathered clay huts. It was unforgiving yet beautiful, illuminating the dusty paths that wound through the small settlement. Fanta stepped outside her mother's hut, feeling the dense, humid air wrap around her like a second skin. She hesitated momentarily, breathing deeply, aware of the invisible gazes piercing her from behind woven curtains.

Nightmares had stolen her sleep once again. Mojono's bitter whispers still echoed in her mind—"She is the village curse." The village's hostility was palpable, a constant shadow she could neither confront nor escape. But life moved forward, chores had to be done, water needed fetching, and normalcy demanded a façade.

Her mother, Anayara, had spent the night crafting protective perfumes, disguising Fanta's natural, alluring scent in a futile attempt to shield her from suspicion. Fanta had insisted Anayara rest, hoping that, alone, she'd blend more easily into the day's mundane chores. Yet deep down, she knew blending was impossible; she was a beacon of unwanted attention.

Stepping barefoot into the path, she felt the warm dust caress her feet, yet her legs remained mysteriously spotless—a subtle, haunting reminder of her uniqueness. She walked gracefully, attempting to diminish the elegance in her stride, yet every step radiated a delicate beauty that invited whispers and stares.

Passing a cluster of playful children, their laughter ceased abruptly, replaced by hushed murmurs and wide, cautious eyes. A small boy whispered "demon girl," nudging another who nodded solemnly. Fanta lowered her gaze, pushing the sting deep within, reminding herself she must not show vulnerability.

Approaching the river, she found it crowded today, villagers already gathering water or washing garments along the banks. A quiet ripple of tension spread quickly, silencing chatter and laughter. Eyes narrowed, mouths tightened. Fanta moved toward the water silently, dipping her jug beneath the cool surface, trying desperately to ignore the heavy silence that cloaked the gathering like a suffocating fog.

"Why must you come when we're here?" murmured a bitter voice. She glanced up and saw a stern-faced man approaching. His presence filled her heart with dread, his narrowed eyes accusing her silently of invisible crimes.

"Forgive me," she murmured softly, stepping aside, her head bowed submissively. Her humility did nothing to soften his stare.

He snorted disdainfully, moving past her, his words lingering sharply in the thick air. "Your beauty fools no one. We know you're the cause of our suffering."

She knelt by the river, heart trembling as she filled her jug, trying desperately to ignore the whispers and hostile glances. As her fingers dipped into the cool water, ripples danced gently away from her touch, almost sympathetically. Another small stone flew close, splashing softly beside her. She felt the eyes, cruelly curious, watching her reaction. She refused to give them satisfaction, her movements deliberately calm, though her heart raced painfully.

Walking back through the village felt like navigating a minefield. Whispers, stares, quiet laughter—it followed her every step. Near a group of teenage girls, she overheard Nabunjo's mocking voice.

"Is that sweet smell supposed to hide the evil in you, Fanta?" Nabunjo taunted loudly. Others laughed, emboldened by her boldness.

She quickened her steps, cheeks hot with embarrassment. But Nabunjo continued, loud enough for others to hear, her words a sharp knife piercing Fanta's carefully guarded dignity. "Just wait until Handuza hears you've been wandering alone."

At the mention of Handuza, Fanta's heart twisted painfully. The chief's granddaughter, the self-proclaimed leader of Ogamba's youthful beauties, had already marked her as a threat. The thought of confrontation with Handuza filled her stomach with dread.

Yet even as fear gripped her, she held tightly to fragments of courage she found within the pages of her grandmother's poetry books. She softly whispered words from a beloved verse, its English rhythm soothing her heart:

"Though shadows deepen, hope remains—still onward through the dark."

She lifted her chin, finding strength in the beauty of those distant words. But her courage faltered when, moments later, the laughter turned to hushed whispers filled with malice.

"She's probably casting spells right now," one voice murmured.

Fanta quickened her pace, her throat tightening painfully. Just as she reached her mother's hut, she turned briefly, catching sight of the villagers staring openly, their eyes brimming with disdain and suspicion. She closed the door gently behind her, leaning heavily against it, finally allowing herself to breathe deeply.

Inside, Anayara stirred, sensing her daughter's distress. "Fanta? Is everything alright?"

Fanta managed a shaky smile, forcing warmth into her voice. "I'm fine, Mama. Rest now."

But Anayara saw through the gentle lie, recognizing the brave facade her daughter wore. She reached out to gently stroke Fanta's violet hair, eyes filled with quiet understanding. "Stay strong, my child. This storm will pass."

Fanta smiled faintly, allowing the comfort of her mother's love to wash gently over her heart. Yet deep within, she sensed a storm had only just begun.