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They said the forest swallowed Okorie.
But the forest of Umu-Ọchịchịrị did not swallow men.
It kept them.
---
Chukwudi was seven years old the first time the forest called his name.
It happened at dusk, when the sun bled into the trees and shadows grew teeth. The other children had already run home, chased inside by their mothers' sharp voices.
"Bịa n'ụlọ! Come inside!"
"Night is not for children!"
But Chukwudi remained.
He stood at the edge of the village path, barefoot on red earth, holding a carved wooden toy someone had given him out of pity. The wind brushed past his ears, slow and deliberate.
Then he heard it.
"Chuu… ku… wu… di…"
His breath caught.
It was not loud.
It was not soft.
It came from everywhere.
From the trees.
From beneath the soil.
From inside his chest.
He took a step back.
The earth hissed.
"Tụfịa ya!" an old woman screamed from behind him. "Throw that child away!"
Chukwudi turned.
The woman crossed herself with trembling fingers, then spat on the ground. Others gathered, murmuring.
"His mother was agwọ."
"He is the child of the forest."
"Ihe ọjọọ… evil thing."
The dibia, Eze-Mmụọ, arrived late, leaning heavily on his staff. His eyes fixed on Chukwudi, sharp and afraid.
"Go inside," he said quietly. "Now."
Chukwudi obeyed.
But that night, he did not sleep.
---
The dream came like a sickness.
He was standing in the forest—older, taller—though he did not know how he knew. The trees bent inward, their branches twisting like ribs. The ground pulsed beneath his feet.
Then he saw her.
She rose from the roots of the silk-cotton tree, her body long and scaled, her upper half that of a woman, her eyes glowing green like his own reflection in water.
Nwanyị-Agwọ.
"Nwam…" she whispered. My child.
Chukwudi tried to run.
The ground wrapped around his ankles like coils.
"You were born of two worlds," she said, her voice layered—woman and serpent, mother and monster. "Blood called to blood. Earth answered."
Behind her, shapes moved.
Too many.
Eyes opened in the darkness—yellow, white, burning red. Mouths stretched wide, revealing fangs wet with hunger.
"Kwụsị! Stop!" Chukwudi screamed.
The forest laughed.
He woke up screaming.
---
The next morning, a goat was found dead at the shrine.
Its body was untouched—no claw marks, no blood spilled—but its eyes were gone, sockets burned black as charcoal.
The elders gathered immediately.
"Ala ewere iwe!" one cried. "The earth is angry!"
Eze-Mmụọ knelt by the carcass, sniffed the air, then recoiled.
"This is not sacrifice," he said. "This is a greeting."
The elders turned slowly.
Their eyes found Chukwudi.
The boy stood at a distance, silent, watching ants crawl over the cracked earth.
A snake slithered across his foot.
He did not move.
---
That night, the forest did not wait.
It came into the village.
Snakes poured from holes, rooftops, cooking pots. Long ones. Fat ones. Some with patterns no one had ever seen before. They moved without haste, without fear.
Women screamed.
Men grabbed fire.
Children cried, "Chukwu biko! God please!"
Chukwudi stood in the center of it all.
The snakes circled him.
Then they bowed.
A terrible silence fell.
From the edge of the forest, a voice rose—ancient, dry, hungry.
"Nwa nke Agwọ… laghachi.
Child of the Snake… return."
Eze-Mmụọ fell to his knees.
"This boy," he whispered, tears streaming down his face, "is not ours."
The ground cracked open slightly beneath Chukwudi's feet.
Warmth rose.
He felt it then—not fear, not confusion—but recognition.
The village screamed as the forest began to move closer, tree by tree, root by root.
And somewhere deep beneath the earth, something ancient stirred… smiling.