For 20 years, Johnny and his wife Binta lived in a quiet house by the riverside in the small town of Faju. They had been married for many, many years, but their house was quiet like a grave. No child, no laughter, no baby’s cry, only the sound of the river behind their house.
Every morning when the sun was still small in the sky, Binta would walk to the river slowly. She would kneel down, touch her stomach gently, and whisper, “Oh gods of the land, give me one child before I die.” She said it like a song, the same way every day, rain or shine, cold or hot. Her voice was soft, but full of pain.
Johnny would sit behind her, quiet. He no longer begged. He just looked at her and sighed like a tired wind. People in the town started talking. Some would whisper, “Her womb is locked with a padlock.” Others would say, “Maybe it’s Johnny. Maybe he eats his children in his dreams.” But Binta and Johnny never said anything. They just kept trying. They went from one hospital to another.
Doctors checked everything and shook their heads. “Medically, nothing is wrong,” they always said. Then they started visiting prayer houses. Prophets would pour oil on Binta’s belly, press her forehead, and shout, “Fire! Receive your baby now!” until Binta fainted and fell on the floor like a dry plantain leaf.
But nothing happened. Only headaches and fainting. Next they went to a native doctor. The man’s beard was long like a mop and his voice sounded like thunder. He gave them bitter herbs. He said, “This one opens a womb that is drier than breadfruit. Drink it.” Binta drank. Johnny drank.
Their mouths twisted like bitter leaf. They believed him. But after one month, Binta’s stomach was still flat like a river stone. Still no child. Then they were told to bathe at midnight in the river. They carried calabashes, chanted strange words, even walked backwards. The moon just looked at them and said nothing. People told them to sow a seed.
Johnny sold his only motorcycle, the one he used to carry firewood to the market. “God will see our sacrifice,” he told his wife. Binta went on a dry fast. No food, no water. Fourteen days. Her lips cracked, her hands shook, but she kept saying, “Maybe God wants more pain.” Year after year, the pain grew like grass in the rainy season. One day, in their 15th year of marriage, they met a man of God.
His robe was long. He looked at Binta and said, “The only way you can carry a baby is if you sleep with me. It is a spiritual covenant.” Binta’s eyes opened wide. She dropped to the floor and cried like a child. “No, I cannot. I will not.” That night she held Johnny and wept. They did not speak. They just sat by the river listening to the frogs sing. From that day they stopped visiting people.
By morning they packed their things and moved away. Far from people, far from noise, they built a small house beside the river. No more hospitals, no more prophets, no more shouting, just silence, just waiting. That is where they stayed.
Quiet, just the two of them, no laughter, no visitors, only hope and the sound of water flowing like time. In the town of Ekenzi, there was a girl called Amanda. Her skin was bright like the morning sun. Her hair was long like palm branches. When Amanda walked through the village, even goats stopped to look. Boys followed her with their eyes. Men whispered to themselves. Her friends always said, “Amanda, you are too fine.
Ah, if I had your face, I would marry a governor.” Even strangers in the market would say, “This one is not a village girl. She looks like city money.” Her parents loved her. Her mother cooked for her. Her father bought everything she needed. But Amanda did not feel it. They would tell her, “Amanda, sweep the compound. Amanda, go and fetch water.
Amanda, wash the plates.” She would hiss and say, “Am I a house girl? Why are they treating me like a slave?” She wanted freedom. She wanted to dress how she liked, do what she wanted, go where she wished. But at home, there were rules. One evening, her parents sat talking. They said something simple: “Our daughter.” But that small word entered Amanda’s heart like a thorn.
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