Chapter 1: The Weight of Bride Price

The Okoye family's footsteps echoed in our compound, their bride price heavy as the future they carried.

The hot afternoon hummed with low voices drifting through the open window, mixing with the sharp scent of ogiri and the sweet smoke of firewood from the backyard. I sat quietly on the raffia mat in my mother’s room, my face calm, but inside, my thoughts spun like a harmattan whirlwind.

By right, I should have died already, at thirty-seven years old.

A cold shiver prickled down my spine. In our place, nobody talks about death just like that, but the truth pressed on my chest like a stubborn pestle. My eyes wandered to the long crack in the mud wall, tracing it as if it could reveal why God spun my story again.

For seven days, rain battered the whole local government. My husband, as council chairman, was so busy he barely remembered to eat.

The rain drummed on our zinc roof till the whole house vibrated. People whispered that the storms were a warning from above. I remembered Chukwuma darting around, phone glued to his ear, government files scattered across the table, brow tight as twisted rope.

Worried for her only son, my mother-in-law dragged me out in the rain, insisting we must climb the church hill and pray for blessings.

"Only sacrifice and prayer can protect a man when rain wants to carry everything away," she snapped, her voice slicing the air. I wanted to protest, but her words were like padlocks. So I tied my scarf and followed, my wrapper sticking to my legs within minutes. Each step up that muddy hill was heavier than the last.

Who could imagine that halfway up, our keke napep would be swallowed by a sudden flood?

Death does not send invitation with keke napep, but that day, the river turned mad. The driver’s eyes grew wide, and the whole world tilted as water crashed down the valley, scooping us up like stray chicks.

The current, thick with broken branches and sharp stones, roared down like a wounded animal and swallowed us whole.

I remember the cold grip of the water, the sound of metal and bone colliding, my hands flailing for anything solid. My heart raced. I tried to shout a prayer, but only water entered my mouth.

My mother-in-law’s panicked screams twisted and faded until they became my own mother’s gentle voice.

Somewhere between here and the ancestors, I heard my name the way only my mother said it—soft as evening breeze after harmattan.

"Chidinma, wake up. Don’t sleep."

Her voice was always gentle, even when the world turned to stone. In that moment, it wrapped me like a wrapper just brought in from the sun.

It was like a dream, not knowing if I was dead or alive.

I floated in empty darkness. No pain, no noise, only that warmth calling me home.

My eyelashes fluttered, struggling to open.

My body was heavy, my spirit dangling between yesterday and today. I held my breath, not sure if I should return or let go.

A face I both knew and didn’t know appeared—my young mother, clutching my hand, refusing to release it.

She looked just as in my childhood, her skin glowing, her eyes alive with hope. Her fingers squeezed mine, and I felt the love that had carried me through every storm.

"In the blink of an eye, my Chidinma has grown so big, already ready for marriage."

Her voice shook between pride and sadness. The old wardrobe against the wall, the faded sunflower curtain—everything was as I remembered.

"Today, the Okoye family is coming with bride price. Don’t sleep—get up and freshen up."

The world spun around me. My palm pressed hard against my chest, feeling the wild beat of my heart. Could this be happening again?

The Okoye family, bringing bride price?

The words echoed in my head. Had time twisted itself just for me?

The warm towel my mother pressed to my face finally pulled me back fully.

Her hands moved with old, practiced grace, her humming low and sweet. I watched her, trying to memorize every wrinkle, every smile.

I didn’t know if this was luck or wahala.

If it was a blessing, it came wrapped in thorns. My mind spun—was this another chance, or another trial?

I was seventeen again.

The old clock ticked above the door. My legs felt light, my skin smooth. I was truly young, standing at the edge of all my old choices.

Memories from my last life squeezed my heart as I gripped my handkerchief.

The white cloth was already damp in my fist. My chest ached with memories—sleepless nights, silent tears. Surely, I couldn’t do it all again the same way?

Such a long, tiring life—must I really walk the same road again?

My heart pounded. If God has written my path, will He let me choose a new one?