The village of Asenmu lay wrapped in a strange stillness, as if the very earth waited for something it did not understand. For one year and six months, Ama had carried the child in her womb—longer than any woman in the village had ever carried life. Some whispered it was a curse. Others feared it was a spirit-child who refused to enter the world. Even Ama's own relatives had withdrawn, murmuring that no good thing required such delay.
But on that night, something shifted.
Inside their small clay hut at the edge of the village—where the lantern's flame trembled though no breeze passed—Ama felt the first sharp wave tear through her. Her husband, Kofi, dropped the calabash he was holding and rushed to her side.
"It is time," Ama breathed.
Her voice was weak, yet there was a strange calm beneath it, as if she had expected this moment to be nothing ordinary.
Another pain seized her, stronger, urgent.
Outside, the villagers watched from afar. No one dared to draw close. They stood in clusters near the shadows, whispering about the long pregnancy, crossing their arms, spitting on the ground to cast away bad spirits.
But the hut glowed.
A faint, warm light leaked through its cracks—not from fire, not from lanterns, but something softer, fuller, like dawn forcing its way through midnight.
Ama screamed—once, sharply—and then the whole world seemed to exhale.
The baby's cry rose into the night.
Kofi caught her in trembling hands. She was small, warm, perfect. Her eyes opened at once—bright, clear, strangely steady for a newborn—and they reflected the flickering golden light that filled the room.
Ama stared at her daughter, tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Gyidie," she whispered. "We will call her Faith…"…"Kofi nodded. "Because only faith carried us through."
Outside, the villagers felt the warmth drift through the air, brushing their skin like the touch of a blessing. The oldest man in the clan, Nana Kwabena, stepped forward and murmured:
"A child who sleeps in the womb until her season has come…
Her path will not be ordinary."
And so it was on that night, under a quiet sky and a trembling earth, that Faith began her journey—born not just into the world, but into a destiny whispered long before she arrived.
The old man, Nana Kwabena, lifted the newborn gently into his wrinkled hands. The lantern's glow trembled against the mud walls, stretching his shadow long across the floor. Ama lay weak but awake, her breathing soft. Kofi knelt beside her, his forehead wet with worry and relief.
The baby girl stared up at the old man, eyes wide, calm — too calm.
Nana Kwabena frowned slightly.
"Ei… this child," he murmured, turning her slowly, checking her tiny chest, her tiny fingers.
Ama whispered, "Is she… is she fine?"
The old man nodded, but uncertainty weighed on his voice.
"She is breathing… strong. Heart steady. But she doesn't cry."
Kofi swallowed hard. "Should we… should we try—?"
"No," the old man said quickly. "Leave her. Some children cry late. Some cry small. It doesn't mean she is not alive."
He wrapped her in a clean cloth, tied the ends, and held her close to his chest.
The night pressed on, silent. The sky above the village still held its strange stillness — no wind, no rustle of leaves, no usual calls of night creatures.
Even the crickets had gone quiet.
Nana Kwabena stepped outside for a moment, holding Faith.
The moment he appeared at the doorway, a few villagers who had stayed out of curiosity shifted back.
"Ahu! The baby is out?" one woman whispered.
"Did she cry?"
"No."
"Ei, no cry? That one dier, not normal oo."
"Haaah!" another man clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "I said it. This pregnancy, it's not ordinary."
"Keep quiet," the old man snapped, voice low but firm. "She is alive. And she is fine. Go home."
But the people did not go home.
They only drifted back a few steps, whispering into each other's ears as the old man disappeared inside again.
The sky finally softened from black to deep blue, then to the pale grey of morning. A thin line of gold brushed the tops of the raffia roofs.
Birds returned first — one chirp, then another, then a whole chorus as if the world had been holding its breath and was finally allowed to speak.
By sunrise, news had traveled faster than fire on dry grass.
By the time Ama sat up weakly on the small mat, half the village had gathered outside their compound.
Women with headscarves tied tight, men with folded arms, children peeking from behind their mothers.
There were murmurs everywhere.
"Ei, I heard the baby no cry at all!"
"Pregnancy one and half year… you expect normal child?"
"Maybe she came with spirit."
"Hmm, these things, they don't end well."
But others defended gently:
"Ah, you people like to talk. Some babies cry later."
"Is it your child? Let them breathe small."
"Her mother suffered too much, let's not add more pain."
Inside the hut, Ama held her daughter properly for the first time.
Faith's eyes blinked lazily, quiet, peaceful.
"She is so calm," Ama whispered. "Too calm."
Kofi sat beside her. "Maybe God gave her quietness. A child born in struggle may grow with silence."
Before Ama could answer, a knock came at the door — not sharp, not loud, but curious.
Then another knock.
Then voices.
"Nana Kwabena, please… let us see the baby small."
"Just small!"
"We won't come inside, just stand outside."
The old man sighed. "Aah, these people."
He stepped outside, lifting his hand.
"All of you, relax. Why are you behaving like goats? It's only a child."
A man near the front shook his head. "Only a child? Old man, don't play. A child who stays in the womb that long… then no cry… hmm."
A woman lifted her hand to hush him.
"Shh. Let the old man talk."
Nana Kwabena cleared his throat.
"The child is fine. She is strong. Don't bring fear where there is blessing. Some births are quiet. Some come with noise. This one… she came with silence. That is all."
"But what is her name?" someone called from the back.
Ama, hearing it from inside, lifted her voice softly.
"Her name… is Faith."
The crowd went still for a moment.
Then a few murmured:
"Gyidie."
"Hmm. Good name."
"Maybe it will guide her."
"Maybe it will protect them."
The old man nodded firmly. "Her name suits her. Now go home. Let the mother rest."
Slowly, reluctantly, people began to drift away.
But as they left, many glanced over their shoulders — not with hatred, not with fear alone — but with a strange curiosity, as though they felt, deep inside, that this quiet child carried a story bigger than all of them.