The Blind Seer

Everyone in Kowa village knew Abeni could not see, yet they still came to her hut at dawn.

Her eyes were pale and unfocused, always turned inward, as if watching a world no one else could enter. As a child, fever had stolen her sight, but it left something behind—an awareness that hummed beneath her skin like a distant drum.

Abeni never asked people to believe in her gift. She only listened.

When farmers came, she heard the way their footsteps dragged and knew the harvest would be poor. When lovers arrived, she sensed the pauses between their breaths and spoke of truths they were afraid to say aloud. She did not see the future as pictures or dreams; it came to her as feelings—warmth, tightness, silence, or sudden light.

One evening, the village chief visited her in secret. His voice was steady, but his heart was not.

“There is a storm coming,” Abeni said before he spoke. “Not of rain, but of choices.”

The chief frowned. “I have done nothing wrong.”

Abeni smiled gently. “No one ever does—at first.”

She told him of a decision he would soon face, one that would divide the village or bind it together. She did not name the choice. She never did. Abeni believed that seeing too clearly could make people blind in a different way.

Days later, conflict rose like dust in the marketplace. Voices sharpened. Anger spread. Remembering Abeni’s words, the chief chose patience over pride, listening over command. The storm passed.

Years went by. Abeni grew older, her hair silver, her steps slower. Children asked her what the future looked like.

She would laugh softly. “The future doesn’t need eyes,” she said. “It needs courage.”

When Abeni finally died, the villagers said the world felt darker. Yet somehow, they walked more carefully—listening, sensing, choosing wisely.

For though the seer was blind, she had taught them how to see.