The evening sun cast its fading light over our village, the golden rays painting long shadows across the dusty ground. The aroma of fried yams lingered in the air and the sound of children playing echoed faintly from the nearby river. But inside our home, there was no laughter. Only silence, heavy and still, like the calm before a storm.

I sat by the fire, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. My husband, Chima, sat across from me, his face set in grim determination. It had been two years since Nnenna left us; since we buried her small body beneath the baobab tree that marked the edge of our village. Two years of peace, of thinking the nightmare was over and hoping for another child, one that would stay alive this time.

But I knew. I could feel it in the pit of my pregnant stomach, deep in my bones. Nnenna was coming back.

It wasn’t the first time. Nnenna had been born to us thrice before, each time, with the same birthmark on her right thigh, and each time, she died before her first birthday. The village elders had whispered among themselves, calling her an ogbanje, a spirit child who returns again and again, bringing suffering to the family that bore her. We had tried everything to stop it, from consulting the most powerful Chief Priest in our village to burying charms under our house. Nothing had worked. Each time, she was reborn, the same beautiful child with those hauntingly familiar eyes.

And now, she was coming back again.

“She’ll be different this time,” Chima said, his voice low. He had said the same thing last time too. “We’ll find her iyi-uwa and we’ll break the cycle.” I nodded, though my heart was heavy with doubt. We had searched for her iyi-uwa before, the object that bound her to the world of the living. But Nnenna’s spirit was very clever, hiding it where no one could find it.

The wind outside picked up, rattling the shutters. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. It was the middle of the dry season, yet the air was suddenly cold, a chill that seeped into my bones. The same chill I had felt the last time I gave birth to her.

“She’s coming,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Chima looked at me sharply, his eyes narrowing, “How do you know?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. We both knew. She was coming back again.

***

It started with the same pain. The kind that steals your breath and leaves you gasping, clutching at the earth beneath you for some kind of anchor. I had been in labour three times before, and each time, the pain had felt like this; a searing heat that ripped through my body and left me trembling, as though my bones were being shattered and reshaped.

I should have been joyful; childbirth is meant to bring new life, new hope. Instead, terror seized me. I prayed this moment would never come again, but deep down, I knew it was inevitable. I felt her stirring inside me for months, her presence undeniable. And now, she was returning.

The midwives bustled around me, their voices low and soothing as they encouraged me to push. Sweat poured down my face and I clenched my teeth, bracing myself for the inevitable. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to see her.

The moment the cries of my newborn baby filled the room, a chill crawled down my spine. My heart pounded in my chest and I turned my head to look at the child as the midwife cradled her head in her arms.

It was Nnenna.

I knew it before I saw the signs. Her small body, her delicate features, just as before. My heart ached as I stared at her, both drawn to and repelled by the sight. Slowly, the midwife wrapped her in cloth and brought her closer, and that’s when I saw it.

The birthmark.

A small, crescent-shaped mark on her right thigh. The same birthmark Nnenna had been born with three times before. And just as damning, the faint scar on her left breast, the one left by the Chief Priest during her last life, after he marked her before her death in a desperate attempt to prevent her from returning.

My breath caught in my throat. I had been hoping, praying that this child would be different. But now, with the undeniable signs staring back at me, I knew the truth.

My ogbanje had returned.

I wanted to scream, to push her away, but something inside me wouldn’t let me. No matter how many times she had come back, no matter the pain she brought, she was still my child. And I had to hold her.

“Give her to me,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

The midwife hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking to the scar on Nnenna’s chest before reluctantly handing her over. As I held the tiny bundle in my arms, I felt a wave of sorrow wash over me. Her eyes were closed, her small lips pursed in sleep. She looked so innocent. But I knew better.

***

It had been nearly four weeks since Nnenna was born. Four weeks of waiting, watching, and dreading the inevitable. As I healed from childbirth, I remained mostly indoors, following the customs of the village. The women in our community were not expected to return to the market or take on heavy work until their bodies had fully recovered. But during those weeks of confinement, I heard the whispers.

At first, they came only from my family, quiet murmurs between Chima and my mother, glances exchanged when they thought I wasn’t looking. They were worried, just as I was. They had seen the marks on Nnenna’s body, and though no one spoke of it openly, the truth hung heavily between us all.

By the time I was well enough to leave the house, the whispers had spread beyond our home. On my first visit to the market, I noticed it immediately. The moment I stepped foot on the dusty road leading to the stalls, the women fell silent. Eyes that had been filled with chatter and laughter moments before suddenly shifted toward me, their expressions clouded with unease.

I held my head high as I walked through the crowd, trying to ignore the weight of their stares. The vendors offered their goods half-heartedly, their hands trembling as they handed over small bags of spices or bundles of yam. But it was the whispers that bothered me the most.
“She has returned,” someone said under their breath as I passed.
“It’s the ogbanje,” another voice hissed, barely loud enough for me to hear. “The spirit child.”

I kept walking, my heart pounding in my chest. Word had spread faster than I could have anticipated. In a small village like ours, secrets never stay buried for long. They remembered Nnenna. They remembered how she had been born and died three times before, and now, they knew she had come back again. It felt like the weight of the entire village was pressing down on me, suffocating me with their fear and suspicion. I wanted to shout at them, to tell them that I had no control over this, that I hadn’t asked for Nnenna to return. But what could I say? The curse was real.

As I walked through the market, I tried to focus on the task at hand, gathering supplies for our household. But every step felt heavier than the last. When I reached the stall where palm oil was sold, the vendor, a woman I had known for years, turned her back on me without a word. My throat tightened, and I quickly moved on, refusing to let them see how much their rejection hurt.

By the time I returned home, my hands were shaking. I set the basket of goods down on the kitchen table, my eyes burning with unshed tears. Chima was there, watching me. “They’re talking, aren’t they?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“They always will,” he said, coming over to stand beside me. “But we can’t let them get inside our heads. We have to stay focused. We have to find her iyi-uwa before it’s too late.”

His words were meant to comfort me, but instead, they only reminded me of the enormity of what we had to do. Nnenna was no ordinary child, and we had been through this three times already. Each time, we had searched for her iyi-uwa and each time, we had failed to find it. I wanted to believe Chima, to believe that this time we could break the cycle. But deep down, a part of me knew that it wouldn’t be that easy.

***

As the months passed, I could feel the weight of time pressing down on us. Each day brought us closer to her first birthday, and I knew what that meant; another death. Every time Nnenna cried, every time she laughed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was hanging over us.

I watched her closely, desperately hoping for a sign, anything that might lead us to the object that could save her. But this time, Nnenna was different. There was an unsettling calmness about her, a watchful stillness in her eyes, as though she already knew how this would end. At night, I could hear her whispering softly in her sleep, words I couldn’t understand but which sent chills running down my spine. The tension grew unbearable, and finally, I went to see our Chief Priest, Ezemmuo.

The old man sat in the corner of his dimly lit hut, stirring a thick, pungent concoction in a clay pot. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and old earth. He didn’t look up as I entered, but I could feel his knowing gaze pierce me.
“The ogbanje child is growing,” I said softly, afraid that speaking the words aloud might somehow seal our fate. “This is the fourth time she has been born to us, and we are no closer to breaking the cycle.”
“You are running out of time, Adaora,” he said in a low voice, his hands still stirring the pot.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “The child… she is different this time. She knows more. She’s waiting.”
Ezemmuo nodded slowly, “The ogbanje is growing stronger. Her connection to the spirit world deepens with each birth. She is testing you.”
“How do we stop her?” I asked, my voice trembling with fear. “We’ve searched before. We’ve failed three times. How do we find her iyi-uwa this time?”
He finally looked up, his eyes dark and piercing, “You have been looking with human eyes, but the iyi-uwa is hidden in a place that belongs to the spirits.” His words chilled me to the core.
“Where is this place?”
“There is only one path before you,” he said, his voice low. “It lies deep in the forest, beyond the reach of the living. You and Chima must go there, but know this; the spirits do not take kindly to those who disturb their realm.”

I felt a cold chill creep up my spine. The forest. No one ventured deep into it without encountering something far worse than death. The spirits there were known to guard their secrets fiercely, punishing anyone who dared trespass.
“The forest is alive with their anger,” Ezemmuo said gravely. “The spirits will not give up the iyi-uwa easily. You will be tested. But if you do not find it before her first birthday, she will die again, and this time, she may take something of yours with her.”
I clenched my fists, the weight of his words settling heavily on me, “We’ll go.”

***

Chima and I set off before dawn when the village was still shrouded in darkness. We told no one of our journey, not even my mother, in whose care, we left Nnenna. As I kissed her goodbye that morning, her tiny hand reached up to stroke my cheek, her eyes wide and knowing.

“Are you ready?” Chima asked, his voice low but steady. I nodded, gripping the small charm Ezemmuo had given me, a protection amulet meant to shield us from the spirits of the forest.

The path to the forest was overgrown and seldom travelled. The trees rose like towers, their dark branches interwoven above, casting the ground below into a twilight gloom. As we ventured deeper, the forest seemed to swallow the light, the air growing colder with each step.
“This place feels… wrong,” Chima muttered, cutting through the thick vines with his machete. “Like it doesn’t want us here.” I nodded, unable to shake the sensation that we were being watched. Every rustle of leaves, every creak of a branch sent my heart racing. The spirits knew we were here.

As we pushed deeper, the path became twisted and confusing, like the forest itself was shifting, rearranging to keep us lost. Soon, we came upon a dense thicket that seemed impenetrable, the vines twisted together like writhing snakes. The ground here was soggy, and a foul stench rose from the earth as if something long dead lay beneath.
“This doesn’t look right,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Are we even going in the right direction?”
Chima stopped, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes darted nervously to the shadows between the trees, “We’re close. I can feel it.”
But as we tried to push forward, the forest seemed to resist. The branches clawed at our clothes, snagging and tearing at our skin. The ground beneath us shifted, sucking at our feet as though the earth itself wanted to drag us down. The deeper we went, the more the forest came alive, the trees creaking and groaning as their twisted limbs stretched toward us like skeletal fingers.

Suddenly, I heard a low, husky moan. It did not sound like any animal, but something far more sinister. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest as the moan echoed through the trees, growing louder, and closer.
“Chima…” I whispered, clutching his arm. “Do you hear that?”
Before he could answer, the air around us shifted. The ground trembled and dark figures began to emerge from the shadows. Their bodies were gaunt, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light.
“They’re coming!” Chima shouted, grabbing my hand and pulling me forward.
We ran, dodging through the trees as the spirits pursued us, their haunting cries filling the air. The forest fought back, branches whipping at our faces, the ground rising up to trip us as we stumbled through. No matter how fast we ran, the spirits were always just behind us, their presence pressing down on us like a suffocating weight.

Just when I thought we couldn’t go any further, we stumbled into a small clearing. In the centre stood a giant tree, dark and crooked, its bark like twisted fingers. The air around it was cold, colder than anything I had ever felt, and the ground beneath it was littered with bones.
“This is it,” Chima panted, his eyes wide with fear. “This is where the iyi-uwa must be.” I nodded, though dread filled me. The tree was wrong, unnatural, as though it had been born from the darkness itself. As we approached, the air seemed to thicken, growing heavy with malice. I could feel the spirits closing in around us, watching, waiting.

Chima dropped to his knees, digging frantically at the base of the tree. But the ground was hard, packed tight like stone, resisting every attempt to dig. Sweat poured down his face as he dug with his bare hands, his nails scraping against the rough earth.
“Hurry!” I cried, glancing over my shoulder as the spirits closed in, their twisted forms moving slowly but deliberately toward us.
“I’m trying!” Chima shouted, his hands raw and bleeding. But no matter how hard he tried, the ground refused to yield. I fell to my knees beside him, my heart pounding as I reached into the earth, desperate to find the stone. My fingers scraped against something hard, but as soon as I touched it, a cold, searing pain shot up my arm. I gasped, pulling my hand back, but the pain lingered, burning through my veins like ice.
“The iyi-uwa…” I whispered, staring at the dark stone partially buried in the roots, “it is here.” But the spirits were almost upon us, their glowing eyes fixed on the stone. If we didn’t take it now, we would lose everything. I reached for it again, my hand trembling, but the moment my fingers touched the stone, the ground beneath me gave way.

I gasped as the ground swallowed me whole, plunging me into cold darkness. The amulet given to me by Ezemmuo shattered to pieces. My heart pounded in my ears, the earth closed in around me, suffocating me. I could no longer hear Chima’s voice, only the relentless thrum of the spirits in the forest above, their whispers laced with anger. And then, just as quickly, I was free.

The ground spat me out, throwing me into the clearing where Chima still knelt, his eyes wild with fear and desperation. The stone, the iyi-uwa, was in his hands now, but it had changed. No longer the smooth, glowing object we had found, it was cracked and blackened, pulsating with a sickly light.
“Chima!” I called out, scrambling to my feet, but something was wrong. His hands were trembling, his eyes wide with horror as he stared at the stone.
“I can’t… let go,” he whispered, his voice thick with terror. The stone had latched onto him, its darkness crawling up his arms like vines. His face twisted with pain as the tendrils tightened around his skin, drawing his life force into the stone. I rushed forward, grabbing his arms, trying to pry the stone from his hands, but the moment I touched it, a terrible chill pierced through me, cutting to the core of my being.
“Stop! Don’t touch it!” he gasped, wrenching away from me, but it was too late.

The darkness seeped into me too, wrapping around my heart, and filling my mind with whispers. They were soft at first, but soon they grew louder, clearer, speaking in a child’s voice, Nnenna’s voice but sinister and hollow.
“You failed me, Mama.”
I fell to my knees, clutching my head as the voices filled my mind, echoing my deepest fears. The weight of the stone, the weight of our failure, pressed down on me, suffocating my thoughts. Nnenna’s voice echoed again, no longer the sweet voice of my daughter, but something far more ancient, far more cruel.
“I was never meant to stay.”
And then it hit me, this was never about saving Nnenna. The spirits had known all along. They had watched us struggle, watched us hope, but in the end, we were only playing their game.

Chima’s hands relaxed, the stone slipped from his grasp and fell to the earth with a dull thud. He crumpled beside it, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. His skin was pale, his eyes hollow, as though his life had been drained from him in a single instant. Then I heard a soft, fragile cry cut through the silence of the clearing, the sound of a baby. My breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly, my heart diving into an abyss of dread.

There she was, Nnenna, standing in the shadows, her small figure barely visible in the gloom. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes, those wide, knowing eyes, stared directly at me. Her face was pale, unnaturally still, and in her gaze, I saw something I had never noticed before. Something ancient. My blood ran cold.
“You…” I whispered, choking on the words, but Nnenna said nothing. She only watched, silent and unmoving. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she pointed at me. A cold, piercing pain shot through my chest, and I gasped, clutching at my heart. I felt the life draining out of me, not in a physical sense, but something deeper, something spiritual. It was as if she was ripping out a piece of my very soul.

I fell to my knees again, tears streaming down my face, “Nnenna… please…”
Her expression never changed. She turned to Chima, her gaze locking onto him, her finger pointing at him, and for a moment, he stirred, his lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. Then, just as suddenly, Nnenna turned away, walking back into the darkness of the forest. The shadows swallowed her up completely, and her small figure disappeared into the trees. She didn’t look back.

I stayed there on the ground, trembling, the pain in my chest throbbing as though a piece of me had been torn away forever. Chima lay beside me, unmoving, his breath shallow, his eyes staring blankly at the sky.

We had found the iyi-uwa, but we did not save her. The spirits had taken what they wanted; our hope, our child, and left us as nothing but cold and empty shells.

***

Days passed after the burial of our child, and nothing felt real. Chima was a ghost of himself, his body moving through the motions of life but his mind forever lost in that clearing. He barely spoke, his eyes dull, haunted by something neither of us could escape. He had lost more than just his daughter. He had lost a part of himself. And I… I wasn’t the same either. I could feel it; this emptiness inside me. Nnenna had taken something when she left. It wasn’t just the pain of her death, but a piece of my soul that had been ripped away. It left a hollow space in me, one that no amount of time could heal.

At night, I could still hear her whispering. The shadows in our home grew long and twisted, and in the quiet moments, just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I would hear her voice again, that soft, innocent sound laced with something darker.
“You failed me, Mama.”

The village people gave us space. Some pitied us, while others whispered that we were cursed, that the spirits marked us for something far worse than death. They weren’t wrong. We had been marked, and the curse was ours to bear. Chima never spoke of Nnenna again. His silence was a wound, festering between us, unspoken but ever-present. I watched him drift further and further away, his spirit dimming day by day. And I knew that something of his had died in that forest alongside Nnenna. Something that could never be recovered.

Sometimes I would stand at the edge of the forest, staring into its dark depths, wondering if her spirit was still there. But I never dared to go back in. The forest had already taken too much from us. And every time the wind rustled through the trees, I swore I could hear her laughter, faint and distant, carried on the breeze like a cruel reminder. We had failed her, and Nnenna had taken a part of us with her. That loss… that emptiness… it was a burden we would carry for the rest of our lives.

As the seasons passed, we decided not to have children again. I realised the truth; we were foolish to believe we could break the cycle. We had never heard of an ogbanje cycle being broken, so why did we think we would be different?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash