I was twenty-five when the sky broke and the dam burst, when lightning rained like arrows from the hands of furious gods. I saw my village swallowed, our fields drowned, our homes scattered like dust. And yet, after the storm ended and the earth grew quiet again, I also saw something else: we still stood.
We buried the dead. We mourned. Then, little by little, we began to rebuild. The men cut wood from what trees remained, the women replanted cassava and maize, and the children carried stones with small hands, laughing again though their eyes still remembered fear. I worked until my body felt like it would give way—lifting, digging, mending walls. For months, the village became one heartbeat.
When our roofs stood again and smoke curled once more from cooking fires, there was joy, but also silence. Every night as I lay staring into the darkness, I felt it—a pull inside me. A voice, not loud, but steady. It told me this: What you did here, others need as well. Africa still weeps.
One evening, I went to the elders. They sat beneath the iroko tree, their faces carved with wisdom and worry. I spoke my heart:
"Our people live again, but beyond us are many more villages. They, too, have seen the wrath of the sky. I cannot rest knowing others suffer what we suffered. I must go to them."
A heavy silence fell. Elder Ojinaka leaned on his staff and shook his head.
"My son, the land beyond is unknown. Roads are broken, rivers swollen, spirits restless. You have seen what the gods can do—why risk your life wandering into their shadows?"
Another elder added, "Rebuilding a man's house is one thing. Facing what lies beyond is another. Do not chase death when you have already survived it."
But my heart was firm.
"I do not chase death. I chase life. If fear binds me here, then the storm wins again. I will not change my mind."
They looked at me long, as if weighing my soul against the dangers of the world. At last, Elder Ojinaka sighed.
"Go my son and may the gods of our land be with you."
The next days were filled with preparation. The hunters brought me dried meat, the women packed me gari and groundnuts, and the blacksmith gave me a blade hammered from the scraps of metal salvaged after the storm. Children clung to my arms, begging me to return with stories.
On the morning of my departure, the entire village gathered at the edge of the road. The sun rose behind them, painting their faces in gold. I felt my chest tighten—not with fear, but with a strange hope.
I bowed deeply and said, "This journey is not mine alone. I carry all of you with me."
My mother stepped forward and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Nnamdi nwam, your journey won't be easy as you're on the right path to greatness. May you be a spqrk of joy and happiness in the lives you touch and may Shango and Ogun be with you."
With tears rolling down my cheeks cause parting ways with the very family I've always known and grew up with was very hard but it was the only step needed for growth to manifest "Mama I will return and I will make you all proud"
And with their blessings, I stepped forward. The path stretched out, endless and unknown. Behind me was home reborn; before me was Africa wounded, waiting.
The storm had once scattered us, but now I carried its fire inside me.
I did not look back as I stepped into the great beyond with the future and dangers unknown but one thing is for sure—my destiny awaits—my people wait and the story that will change Africa forever has just begun.