Excerpt: Palm Fronds in August by Ewere Alexsandra Ikuh

Diana heard a splash. She paused, her breath catching. The sound had been faint, swallowed by the hush of dawn, but it was there, and Diana wondered what was splashing in the stream so early in the morning. She stood still, her toes pressing into the damp earth, listening. 

The path stretched ahead, lined with trees that stood like silent sentries, their leaves beaded with dew, their shadows stretching over familiar farmlands of cassava and oka–corn. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed, breaking the fragile stillness. But the stream… the stream was never this restless at this hour. 

Another ripple spread across the water. Diana’s fingers tightened around the straps of her school bag. Had she left her house too early? These early hours belonged to spirits and creatures best left undisturbed. It was said that Idemili, goddess of the stream, bathed in the water before dawn, her presence marked by ripples that vanished as quickly as they came. A chill crept up Diana’s spine. Those who saw the gods barely escaped with their lives to tell the tale. 

She thought of the women in her village, of how they whispered Idemili’s name with both reverence and fear. The villagers might have opened up their arms to the Catholic Church, but they still honoured their traditions and Deities. Her mother had once told her of a girl who had drawn water from the stream at the wrong hour. By the time she returned home, her tongue had swelled so large she could no longer speak. The village elders had taken her back to the water’s edge, offering kola nuts and palm oil, pleading for her release. For days, the girl remained mute, her eyes darting wildly, her body trembling as if something unseen held her in its grip. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the spell lifted. The girl could speak again, but she never told anyone what she had seen. 

Diana shuddered. May her Chi not allow her to walk into her end, she prayed. 

A gust of wind stirred the branches overhead, and she wrapped her arms around herself, telling herself it was only the cold. She should turn back. Wait for the others. The school duty group would already be gathering under the ugba tree, still drowsy as they picked up their brooms and buckets. This group of 10 to 15 students, whose names appeared on the weekly duty roster— written and enforced by Sister Margaret—were tasked with sweeping the classrooms, washing the latrines, blackening the blackboard with charcoal, and fetching water for the headmaster and his Missus’s bath. Together, they would walk the four kilometres journey to school, their voices rising in chatter and singing. 

The thought comforted her. There was safety in numbers. She imagined the girls swinging their tin water containers over their shoulders, the boys kicking up dust with their bare feet, the way they teased one another about who would marry !rst and who would fail the next arithmetic test. 

Sister Margaret had written their names on the duty roster in neat, slanting letters and pasted the list on the staff’s office door, ensuring that every pupil saw it and did their part. No one dared to skip school duties, not unless they wanted to be sent to the headmaster’s office, where his long cane awaited. 

If Diana turned back now, she could still make it in time to join them. 

But then–another splash. Followed by laughter. 

Diana dropped into the bush, pressing her small frame against the taller grasses. 

Through the tangle of leaves, she saw him. Emeke. 

Emeke stood by the tree, unaware of her presence, dressed in his school uniform. Which was originally a white shirt and blue shorts, now a dull grey shirt, rumpled and patched with various fabrics, each patch telling a story of wear and repair, tucked haphazardly into his bleached school shorts. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, impatience evident in the way he constantly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though ready to spring into action. 

Bịa aben–come here! he called, his voice carrying over the water. 

From the riverbank, Ehigiator, Emeke.s childhood friend and partner in crime, jogged over, his long arms swinging at his sides, grinning. They had been playing, throwing stones into the stream to see whose stone would skip the furthest. But Diana knew they had other plans.. They were waiting. 

For her. 

Her stomach twisted. She had been careless. How had Emeke 3 Ewere Alexsandra Ikuh known she would take this road this morning? Had someone seen her leave? Had her eagerness betrayed her? 

And he had come out so early! Even before the ringing of the ngbirigban–bell by the Catholic Church, the big bell tied to an Iroko tree that was beaten to awaken the rest of the parishioners and villagers, signalling the beginning of the first mass. 

She searched for an escape. To the left, the farmland stretched bare, nothing but broken corn stalks and dust. To the right, the stream, dark and swift, whispering against its banks. No way out. 

Emeke had chosen the spot. Meticulously. 

Diana’s mind reeled back to the past few months, towards the end of the school year–the stolen chickens. The village headmaster had disciplined Emeke, and then the Obi summoned him to the village square, his voice stern, his cane sharp. Five strokes and a fine. His grandmother had paid the fine without a word, but Emeke had turned, eyes burning and scanning the crowd until they landed on her. 

Now, crouched in the bush, she heard his laughter curling through the air, Diana knew exactly why he was here. To deal with the person who reported his theft to the Obi. 

She clenched her jaw. She was not the one who reported him. But to people like Emeke, truth mattered less than belief. And Emeke–proud, reckless Emeke–would not let such an accusation go unanswered. 

She thought of the stories the old women told, of how grudges were settled in the quiet spaces between dawn and daylight. A boy who had wronged his neighbor might awake to find a dead lizard placed at his doorstep, its belly slit open, its insides scooped clean. A girl who had insulted a rival might suddenly find her hair falling out in thick, tangled clumps. And for those who had truly angered the wrong person? 

Diana’s mother had a saying: When a child lifts her hands, her enemy only waits for them to tire. The mist was lifting. The sun would rise soon. She could not stay hidden forever. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she searched for a way out.

Excerpt from PALM FRONDS IN AUGUST published by Agbalumo Publishing. Copyright © by Ewere Alexsandra Ikuh, 2025.

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