The rust-colored dust rose behind Chima’s pickup truck as he drove through the old winding road of Owuma village. The sun casting gilded hues across the village, and the scent of the dust filled the air, it was dry, nostalgic, and harsh but tinged with memories, happy and sad. He left the village 10 years ago. The Iroko tree that stood at the entrance to the village was like a watchman. It was ancient, knotty, unyielding. Its branches were very wide, throwing shades on the shrine stone erected beneath it. As a little boy, Chima played around that tree. As a man, his secrets were buried beneath it. He slowed down as he passed the tree, his fingers unconsciously scratching his beards with the other hand on the steering wheel. Something trapped in the wind muttered his name.
The compound didn't really change. His father’s hut had a new zinc roof, and the mango tree he planted as a child now stands tall with no fruits. His younger cousin, Chidera, ran towards him barefoot, his eyes widened with unbelief. "Chima? Brother Chima?!" They hugged, a strained mix of joy and tension. His mother came out, stricken in age, thinner, her back somewhat bent. Her eyes became teary, but she didn’t spare a tear. “You...came back?!," she asked. “I had no choice, Mama.” He responded. She only nodded, without saying a word. They knew why he left, for the same reason, he stayed away. Later that night, as the kerosene lantern cast shadows on the walls, Chima sat outside alone, his singlet on his left shoulder. The village gradually turned into a town, yet everything felt frozen in time. He hadn’t forgotten Amaka.
Ten years ago, Amaka was the river girl. Amaka, with the laughter of neverending water and eyes like nightfall. They met at the stream, where boys swam, women washed their clothes, and girls fetched water and kept secrets. He had teased her about fetching water a lot. She dared him once to carry her pot of water on his head. He did. They became indivisible. But love in Owuma had its rules, ancient rules. Amaka was the child of a priestess, certain to serve the deity beneath the Iroko tree. Chima was the child of a farmer, no wealth, and no divine favour. They hatched the plan to run away. But fate can be cruel, and gods wicked. The night before their planned escape, Amaka vanished into thin air, no traces. Some said she drowned, because her wrapper was found by the river. But Chima never believed it.
After that night as he sat alone with his singlet he used to scare off mosquitoes, The next morning he visited the old oracle, Dibia Ebuka, who sat outside his hut. “Hmmm...You are back from the land of iron and smoke,” the old man said. “But the spirits never actually left.” “I need answers please,” Chima said. “Was it the gods that took Amaka?” The oracle faced, his eyes weak with age, but acute with vision. “It wasn't only love you buried beneath the tree, there is something more Chima. Remember the night you spilled blood!"
Chima was left startled. He tried to forget, but memories both good and bad are never really buried forever.
That night which was Amaka’s last, there had been a conflict. Her mother, Priestess Nwafor, had caught them. Words flew with the wind. Threats. A tussle. The priestess lost her footing and fell, hit her head and then blood. “It wasn't my intention,” Chima whispered. “She did not die,” the oracle said. “It didn't happen then. But something else did.” Chima had goosebumps as the air grew cold. “I don't understand you." The Oracle responded, “Before the rise of the new moon, you must be at the tree.”
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