It was an unexpected occurrence.
Standing by the roadside, and trapped in my thoughts, I stood motionless, wondering how much longer I could endure the ill-treatment I had been subjected to.
“What happened to you? Oh goodness! Your school uniform is completely wet! But how did this happen, my boy?”
The unfamiliar voice jolted me back to reality.
I turned around and saw a woman standing behind me.
I blinked several times before lowering my gaze without answering her question.
The woman moved closer and, with pity in her eyes, placed her hands on my shoulders. She could immediately feel how soaked my uniform was.
“Why are you fetching water at this time when you’re supposed to be in school?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
“Look at me, boy. Go home and change into something warm, or you might get cold.” she said.
But I didn’t move.
I didn’t say a word.
My silence and strange behavior only seemed to deepen the woman’s concern.
“Are you sure you’re fine?” she asked again. “Are you afraid of going home because of the broken bucket? Don’t worry. Just go home. Your parents will understand.”
She kept talking, hoping I would eventually respond.
But I remained silent.
Her hands were still resting on my shoulders.
I had learned over time to avoid invading people’s lives, but there was one thing I could never control—what happened whenever someone touched me.
Even the simplest touch could trigger a flash.
A flash that revealed more than words ever could.
I wasn’t mute because of my predicament.
I was silent because I was battling with myself, wondering whether I should tell this woman about what I had just seen.
It had been a straight vision.
Clear.
Precise.
And frighteningly real.
“Hey, boy! I’m talking to you!” she shouted.
The woman’s sudden shout startled me. She patted my shoulder more firmly, trying to bring my attention back to her.
I finally looked up.
“Jessica,” I said.
Her expression changed instantly.
“It’s urgent that you call your husband now and tell him not to sign those contract papers. He should follow his instincts. His intuition is right.”
I deliberately called her by name as I delivered the message with all the seriousness I could muster.
The woman froze.
Slowly, she withdrew her hands from my shoulders and took several steps backward.
“Who are you?” she gasped. “Who told you my name?”
Her voice trembled.
The sudden exchange had already attracted the attention of a few passersby, who turned to see what was happening.
I couldn’t understand why people always asked me the same question.
“Who are you?”
Was that really necessary?
Besides, calling someone’s name had always been one of the easiest ways for me to make my revelations believable.
It erased the doubt in people’s minds—especially when we had never met before.
I watched as fear took hold of Jessica.
She hurried away, occasionally looking back at me as though she couldn’t decide whether to keep running or stop and ask more questions.
I simply stood there.
Once she was gone, I picked up the broken bucket and quietly began my journey home.
When I arrived at the gate, I saw Mrs. Susan standing outside the compound.
She was clearly waiting for me.
“Where is the water I sent you to fetch?”
Her voice echoed through the compound as soon as she saw me.
She stood akimbo, impatiently waiting for me to come closer.
I lowered my head and walked toward her without saying anything.
“After spending almost fifteen minutes away, you came back without water to fill the containers in this house?”
Her voice grew louder.
I stood before her.
Then her eyes narrowed as she examined me.
“Why is your school uniform wet?” she queried.
Before I could react, she aggressively pulled the broken bucket from my hand.
“What?! Ebuka—or whatever they call you—what happened to my bucket?”
She had finally asked the question I had been expecting.
I remained silent, my face still carrying the same frown.
“Hold on. Are you not the one I’m talking to?”
Anger flashed across her face.
Before I could say anything, she grabbed the bucket and struckkk me with it.
The bucket shattered.
I stood there, stunned but unmoving, trying to endure the pain.
“You’re proving toughh, right?” she yelled. “You want to show me you’re a strong boy?”
She continued lashhhhing out at me.
I raised my arms to shield my face.
“Can your mother buy this bucket?” she mocked. “Stup!d boy! Tell me, can she?”
She eventually stopped, breathing heavily.
“Go and kneelll down under that sun!”
She pointed toward an open spot in the compound.
“You’ll stay there for the rest of today. And don’t bother going to school!”
I obeyed.
I went down on my knees beneath the morning sun.
And then, unexpectedly, memories from my past came rushing back.
I remembered Uncle Emeka.
It was as though my past had returned to remind me that nothing had really changed.
Mrs. Susan sat outside to supervise my punishment, sorting the beans she intended to cook that day.
She wanted to make certain I completed every minute of the punishment.
And I did.
I spent the entire day under the scorching sun.
Eventually, her son returned from school.
Before he could ask questions, Mrs. Susan warned him sternly.
“Don’t tell your father that Ebuka didn’t go to school today.”
Title: Ebuka’s Story
