Bound by ancestry - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

The days that followed were anything but peaceful. Though the Circle had been remade, the presence of the Obiri now loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon. The guardians remained in Umuguma, walking among the people, sharing ancient lessons, reinforcing sacred grounds—but their eyes were constantly on the hills.
Inside the sacred compound, Adaeze barely slept. Her dreams were no longer visions but warnings—glimpses of fire swallowing trees, of masked figures stalking the roads at night, of the village empty and silent. She woke one morning drenched in sweat, the seal pendant burning hot against her chest.
“It’s close,” she said aloud.
Chidubem entered carrying herbs from the forest. He had grown leaner, more focused. Since the night of the Circle’s renewal, his voice held a new clarity.
“The guardians feel it too,” he said. “They’ve begun carving protective symbols into the village stones.”
“And Mama Ukamaka?”
“Praying. Fasting. Preparing.”
They met Uzochi near the village center. The guardian was overseeing a group of elders reinforcing the soil with ash, salt, and charcoal—ingredients sacred to the land and once used in ancestral wards.
“What do we know of the Obiri?” Chidubem asked.
Uzochi placed a firm hand on a marked stone. “They were like us once—keepers of the land. But they betrayed the bond. They sought to become gods over men. When the seals were first carved, it was to imprison their hunger, not only to protect the guardians.”
Adaeze's eyes narrowed. “Then our return broke their prison.”
“Not fully,” Uzochi said. “But it cracked the door. They need something more to cross.”
That night, Igwe appeared again. He stood at the border of the village, his face grim.
“I saw one,” he said. “In the forest near Eziala. It wore no face, only ash and teeth. It was not walking. It was gliding.”
Adaeze nodded. “Then they’re moving.”
The village gathered by torchlight. Children sat close to their parents. Warriors—both young and old—listened as the guardians told them what to expect.
“They do not fight with weapons,” said Nkemjika, the guardian of wind. “They fight with fear. With whispers. With doubt.”
“They will come in the night,” Uzochi added. “Not as soldiers, but as memories. They will wear the faces of those you’ve lost. Do not follow them. Do not speak their names.”
Chidubem stepped forward. “What can we do?”
“Stay together. Keep the fire burning. And remember your names. That is your shield.”
The village built more fires. They formed circles around the flame. Elders retold stories of bravery, of ancestors who stood against spirits, who crossed rivers with only songs as weapons. They sang. They clapped. They remembered.
And still, the darkness moved.
It came on the third night.
Not as wind. Not as rain. But as silence.
The dogs stopped barking. The birds disappeared. Even the crickets fell quiet. Then came the knock—soft, three times—on the door of every home.
Chidubem rose. The knock had come to Mama Ukamaka’s door.
He opened it.
A girl stood there. She looked like his cousin who died five years ago. Same dress. Same braid. Same smile.
“Let me in, Dubem,” she whispered. “I’m cold.”
He gripped the staff tighter. “You’re not her.”
The smile faded. The eyes turned black. The form twisted into smoke and vanished.
In another hut, a woman called out to Adaeze in her father’s voice. “I’m proud of you, my daughter.”
Adaeze wept—but she did not move. She clutched the pendant and whispered a prayer. The voice dissolved.
Then the ground shook.
From the hills came the true form of the Obiri. Towering, skeletal, covered in ash and bone. Its mask cracked and ancient, its mouth stitched but still breathing smoke.
Uzochi stepped before it. “You are not welcome.”
The Obiri screamed—a sound that bent trees and shattered pots. Children screamed. Fires flickered.
But the Circle stood firm.
Adaeze raised the staff.
Chidubem laid the seals at her feet.
The guardians chanted. A circle of light formed around the square.
“We name you, Obiri!” Adaeze cried. “Twisted by greed, cast by truth, again by the voices of the land!”
The Obiri howled, but the light grew stronger. It stumbled. The spirits within the villagers—their memories, their prayers—pushed outward like wind.
With one final cry, the creature fractured into dust.
And the village fell silent once more.
The fires calmed.
The guardians exhaled.
Mama Ukamaka stepped into the square.
“The storm has passed. But the work continues. Let no one forget again.”