Mama Ejiro I am your husband. Mama Ejiro, I am your husband. I am your husband. Those were the words that froze the widow where she stood. Not from a dream, not from a ghost, but from the mouth of her goat. The same goat she fed and cared for since her husband’s death. For 3 years she thought he died of sickness, but that night when the goat spoke with his voice the truth she never imagined began to unfold.
A truth that would shake the entire village of Umutsu. Long ago in a small village called Umutsu there lived a poor widow named Mama Ejiro. She was a kind woman with a tired face. The kind of face that had seen both love and pain. Her husband had died 3 years ago after a strange sickness and since then life had not been easy.
Her small hut sat at the edge of the village beside the dusty path that led to the stream. She had no children, no farmland, and no close family. The only thing she had was a stubborn black goat named Obu. Obu was not like other goats. He was clever. He never ran away or chewed people’s crops. When Mama Ejiro went to fetch water Obu followed her.
When she sat by the fire Obu sat near her feet staring into the flames as if he too had something on his mind. Sometimes the villagers laughed when they saw them together. Mama Ejiro they teased. You treat that goat like your son. She would smile sadly and say Obu listens better than most people. Every morning Mama Ejiro woke up before the Sunday.
She would sweep the yard, light her fire, and talk to her goat like a friend. Obu she would say. Today we must find food or we will both go to bed hungry. And Obu would answer with a loud bleat. Me. It became part of her life. Her voice and the goat’s voice echoing through the early morning air like a little song. One hot afternoon Mama Ejiro went to the market to sell firewood.
She carried a small bundle on her head and Obu walked behind her. People stopped to laugh again. Eh eh Mama Ejiro is the goat your bodyguard? She laughed. Yes oh he protects me from loneliness. But that day she sold nothing. Nobody wanted firewood. They wanted cassava, yams, or pepper. When she returned home tired and disappointed she sat by her small fire and sighed.
Obu looked at her chewing slowly. His eyes bright and calm. At least you are not hungry she murmured. But me? I have nothing but hope. That night as she lay on her mat she dreamed. In the dream she was walking through a thick forest. The trees whispered her name. Ejiro Ejiro she looked ahead and saw a man standing under a palm tree. He wore her husband’s clothes.
Ejiro he said I am not far from you. She tried to run to him but the forest pulled her back. Then she woke up sweating her heart racing. The next day strange things began to happen. She found Obu standing on two legs trying to reach her cooking pot. She shouted Obu what nonsense is this? Are you planning to cook yourself? The goat dropped back down and ran outside.
Mama Ejiro shook her head and laughed nervously. You this goat one day you will talk like a human. She didn’t know how true her words were. That evening as the sun went down the sky turned red too red. The wind became strange and cold. Mama Ejiro sat outside grinding pepper in her small stone mortar. Obu sat beside her silent.
His eyes shining in the firelight. The village was quiet. Even the crickets seemed to stop singing. Then she heard a soft voice. Mama Ejiro she looked up startled. No one was there. Who is calling me? She asked. Silence. She continued grinding pepper thinking her mind was playing tricks on her.
Then the voice came again calm, deep, and close. Mama Ejiro why do you cry when no one is watching? The pestle fell from her hand. Her heart jumped. She looked around quickly. Who said that? The voice replied do not fear Mama it is me your Obu. She turned slowly. The goat was looking at her directly with eyes that seemed too human.
Her body trembled. What foolishness is this? She whispered. But the goat blinked and spoke again. His lips moving slowly like a man’s. Do not be afraid. I have been waiting to speak to you. Mama Ejiro screamed and ran into her hut. She shut the door, covered herself with her old wrapper, and began to pray. God of heaven save me.
I am losing my mind. Outside the goat bleated softly but it sounded more like words now. Ejiro I mean no harm. She pressed her hands against her ears. But the voice came again gentle and sad. Please listen to me just once. Slowly trembling she opened the door. The goat was sitting quietly looking at her with eyes full of sorrow.
What are you? She whispered. I am your goat Obu it said. But there is more to me than you know. Her lips shook. Goats do not talk. True said the goat. But not all goats are born the same. Mama Ejiro’s heart was pounding like a drum. She wanted to run but her legs refused to move. The goat’s voice was deep and calm now.
I have something to tell you Mama something you should have known long ago. What is it? She asked her voice breaking. The goat’s eyes glowed softly in the moonlight. The night your husband died I was there. Her hands flew to her mouth. What are you saying? My husband died alone. The goat stood up slowly. He did not die of sickness Mama he was poisoned.
She gasped shaking her head. No no that is not true. It is the goat said. And the truth is what has kept me silent for so long. The wind grew stronger. The fire flickered. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked then silence again. Mama Ejiro looked at the goat her body weak her spirit trembling. Who are you really? She asked. The goat’s eyes softened.
You will know when the moon rises higher it said. But for now keep your heart strong. Then it turned and walked toward the darkness behind the hut. Mama Ejiro stood there frozen. Her pepper scattered on the ground the moonlight dancing on the dirt floor. For a long time she didn’t move.
She just stared at the spot where the goat had stood and whispered to herself what kind of world is this where even goats carry Mama Ejiro could not sleep. The lamp in her hut burned low and shadows moved slowly on the walls like ghosts. Her heart was heavy. The goat’s voice kept echoing in her mind. Your husband was poisoned. She sat up on her mat shaking her head.
No it can’t be true. My husband died of sickness. It was fever. Yes just fever. But deep inside her spirit was restless. The more she tried to forget the voice the louder it became. When the first crowed she got up and opened the door. The morning was gray and silent. Mist covered the trees and the air felt cold.
There sitting by her doorway was Obu her black goat. He was staring at her quietly. His eyes glowing faintly like gold in the mist. She stepped back slowly. You again? She whispered. Why won’t you leave me alone? The goat bowed his head. Because your heart is heavy with questions he said calmly. And it is time you know the truth. Mama Ejiro’s knees felt weak.
She sat down on a small stool and rubbed her hands together. Then speak. She said in a trembling voice. Tell me the truth you bring. The goat lifted his eyes toward the sky then back at her. It was not sickness that took your husband’s life he said softly. It was betrayal. Her eyes widened. Betrayal? By who? By someone close to you said the goat.
Someone you called sister, someone who ate in your house and laughed with you. Her mind raced. Who are you talking about? The goat’s voice dropped low, deep like thunder in the distance. It was Nwaka. Mama Ejima gasped. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Nwaka? She whispered. My friend Nwaka? The woman who helped me during his burial? The one who cried the loudest that day? The goat nodded slowly.
That same Nwaka. Mama Ejima shook her head again and again. No. No, that cannot be true. She loved my husband like a brother. She loved him, said the goat. But not as a brother. She loved him as a woman loves a man. She wanted him to send you away and marry her instead. But when he refused, she poisoned him. The words hit Mama Ejima like a slap.
Her heart began to pound. You lie, she cried. I do not lie, said the goat calmly. You remember the day it happened. You served him his food in front of the hut, just as you always did. He was smiling, happy, telling you about the new yam sprouts on the farm. Mama Ejima nodded slowly, tears already filling her eyes. Yes, I remember.
I gave him pounded yam and soup. He was eating while I went inside to fetch water from the pot. And that was when she came, the goat continued. Nwaka. She walked into your compound carrying a calabash of palm wine. She smiled, pretending to visit. When she saw your husband eating alone, she greeted him sweetly and said she had come to thank him for helping her cut the fallen tree behind her compound.
Mama Ejima’s hands covered her mouth. Yes. Yes, he had helped her that morning. I remember. The goat’s eyes grew darker. That palm wine she brought was poisoned. He drank it while eating. Mama Ejima let out a sharp cry. No, no, God forbid. When you came out, said the goat softly. He smiled at you and said, this palm wine tastes bitter.
Later that night, his stomach began to twist. You brought herbs. You prayed, but by morning he was gone. Tears rolled down Mama Ejima’s cheeks. Oh, my husband. All that time I blamed myself. I thought I had cooked something wrong. You did nothing wrong, said the goat gently. The truth was buried with me. But I could not rest.
So the gods allowed my spirit to return in this form to protect you. Mama Ejima looked at him with shaking lip. You mean you are my husband’s spirit? Yes, the goat said. Do not be afraid. I have followed you for 3 years, watching over you. When you go to the stream, I walk behind you. When you cry at night, I hear you.
Every prayer you whisper, I listen. Mama Ejima stared at him with wide tear-filled eyes. My husband inside a goat’s body? The gods are mysterious, said the goat. They gave me this second life so I could speak when the time was right. She buried her face in her hands. This is too much for me.
A talking goat, a ghost of my husband. Maybe I am going mad. You are not mad, the goat said calmly. If you doubt me, I will tell you something no one else knows. You have a big birthmark on your back. The one you were always shy to let me see. Her eyes widened. That secret had never been told to anyone. Only my husband knew that.
Now you believe, said the goat gently. Mama Ejima dropped to her knees. My husband, my friend, my protector. The goat lowered its head. Do not cry for me, Ejima. Cry for the living. Nwaka still walks free. But her heart is full of fear. She knows what she did. Every night, her dreams are full of shadows. And soon, she will come to your house again, pretending to bring peace.
She will bring palm wine as she did before. But this time, her plan is to finish what she started. Mama Ejima trembled. Finish me? Yes, said the goat. She fears you might remember or discover the truth. She thinks killing you will silence the past. But you must not fear her. When she comes, do not drink or eat anything she brings.
When she leaves, pour water before your door and pray the spirits will protect you. And you? Mama Ejima asked softly. Will you still stay with me? Yes, said the goat. Until justice comes. The gods do not sleep. Tears ran down her face again, but this time they were mixed with strength.
She looked at the goat and whispered, thank you, my husband. May your soul find rest. The goat nodded slowly. Rest will come when truth is spoken aloud. That night, she dreamed again. She saw her husband sitting outside their hut, smiling, holding a bowl of soup. Then she saw Nwaka walking quietly, pouring something into the food.
The dream ended with his voice whispering, the same cup that ended my life will return to your hands. But this time, do not drink. She woke up gasping for breath. Her heart pounding. When she looked outside, she saw the moonlight on the doorway and Obu standing there, watching her. He spoke softly, now you understand.
When she comes, remember what I said. Mama Ejima nodded slowly, her voice steady. I will be ready. The morning sun was still weak when Mama Ejima stepped outside her hut. The air smelled of wet earth and mist rolled lazily across the fields. She sat beside her mortar, pounding yams slowly. Each thud echoed through her empty compound.
Nearby, her black goat Obu watched her quietly, its golden eyes steady and calm. She paused, looked at the goat and said softly, Obu, if truly you are my husband’s spirit, then stand with me today. I feel it. She will come. The goat lowered its head as if in understanding. Mama Ejima’s heart was heavy. Hours passed. The sun climbed high and then, just as she set down her pestle to rest, a cheerful voice broke the silence.
Ejima, my dear friend, are you at home? Mama Ejima froze. Her heart jumped, but her face remained calm. She looked up and saw Nwaka walking into her compound, smiling brightly and carrying a covered calabash of palm wine. Ah, my sister. Nwaka said warmly. I went to the market early this morning.
The palm wine there was so fresh and sweet that I thought of you immediately. I said, let me take some to my good friend Mama Ejima. She placed the calabash on a stool, dusted her wrapper, and smiled proudly. You must taste it. It’s the best in the village today. Mama Ejima smiled faintly. Her voice gentle but cool. You are kind, Nwaka.
It has been long since you came to visit me like this. Ah, my friend, Nwaka said, laughing nervously. Time has been running fast, but I missed you. That’s good, Mama Ejima replied. Sit down. Let us drink together so that love between friends may grow again. I s Nwaka blinked in surprise. Oh, no, no, you drink. It’s for you.
I already drank at the market. Mama Ejima gave a slow smile that didn’t reach her eyes. No, Nwaka, you bought it. You brought it. We will drink it together. Wait. I will bring cups. Before Nwaka could stop her, she went inside the hut and came back with two small wooden cups. She poured the palm wine carefully. The foam rose white and thick and a strange sour smell filled the air.
Here, Mama Ejima said softly, handing one cup to Nwaka. Drink first, my sister. Nwaka hesitated, her hands shaking. Me? No, please. I’m not feeling fine. My stomach is weak. You were fine enough to walk to my house, Mama Ejima said calmly. Drink. I can’t, Nwaka said, her voice trembling. Why? Before she could answer, the goat Obu lifted its head.
The wind stopped blowing. Even the birds went silent. Then, in a deep, human voice that shook the air, the goat spoke. “You killed me, Nwaka. And now you come for my wife?” Nwaka screamed and dropped the calabash. The palm wine spilled onto the sand like blood. “Who said that?” she shouted. “Who is speaking?” The goat took a step forward, its golden eyes burning.
“You came smiling that day,” it said slowly. “You said, ‘Thank you, Obu, for helping me cut my fallen tree.’ You offered me palm wine, the same poison you bought from the market. You watched me drink death. And you smiled.” Nwaka staggered backward, her legs shaking. “No, this is witchcraft. Goats don’t talk.
” The noise drew people from nearby compound. Men, women, and children gathered quickly. Whispers filled the air. “The goat is talking. May the gods protect us.” Mama Ijeoma turned to them and said, “Ask her. She brought me palm wine and refused to drink it. This is how she killed my husband.” The goat stamped its hoof hard on the ground.
“You watched me die, Nwaka. You wanted me for yourself. You said, ‘If he will not be mine, let him belong to no one.’ And the poison burned through my chest.” The villagers gasped. Papa Obiele, the old village elder, pushed through the crowd. “What is happening here?” he demanded. Mama Ijeoma bowed her head respectfully.
“Elder, my husband’s spirit speaks through this goat. Nwaka brought me palm wine, the same way she brought it the day my husband died.” Papa Obiele turned to Nwaka. “Is this true?” Nwaka’s lips trembled. “No, it’s all lies. The goat is evil. I I only came to visit.” The elder frowned deeply. “If your heart is clean, drink from the calabash.
” The crowd began to murmur louder. “Yes, drink it. If you are innocent, the gods will protect you.” Nwaka shook her head quickly. “I can’t. I can’t drink it.” “Why not?” Papa Obiele asked. She fell to her knees, crying uncontrollably. “Because it’s true,” she screamed. “I killed him. I killed Obu.” The crowd gasped loudly.
Some women covered their mouths. Men spat on the ground. Nwaka’s voice shook with guilt and fear. “I wanted him. I begged him to marry me and chase Ijeoma away. But he refused. He said he would rather die than betray his wife. So I went to the market, bought palm wine, and mixed it with poison from the forest woman.
I brought it to him, smiling. I watched him drink it. I wanted him dead so that no one else would have him.” The people shouted in horror. “Evil woman. She killed for love.” Papa Obiele raised his staff high. “Silence,” he commanded. “The truth has spoken. Nwaka, you have confessed before the gods and the spirit of the dead.
You will face the shrine tomorrow. The earth must decide your punishment.” Nwaka wept loudly, beating her chest. “Forgive me. Forgive me.” But no one moved to comfort her. The goat took a step forward, its voice calm now, but filled with power. “You took my life because of jealousy, but jealousy never wins. The earth has heard your confession.
May you never know peace until justice is done.” The villagers bowed their heads. Some began to cry. Papa Obiele nodded slowly. “Take her Two men came forward and dragged Nwaka away as she screamed and begged. When the crowd finally left, the wind began to blow softly again. Mama Ijeoma stood alone, her eyes wet with tears. She turned toward the goat.
He stood still, watching her. The golden glow in his eyes fading slowly. “Now the truth has been spoken,” the goat said gently. “The gods are satisfied. My spirit can rest.” Mama Ijeoma fell to her knees, sobbing. “Rest well, my husband. Thank you for protecting me.” The goat lowered its head once, turned toward the forest, and walked away quietly.
As it disappeared into the trees, a cool breeze swept through the compound, gentle, peaceful, like a final goodbye. From that day, the people of Umudzu village said that when the moon was bright, a soft bleating could be heard near Ijeoma’s hut, like a man’s voice whispering, “Truth never dies.” When dawn broke over Umudzu village, the people were already gathered in the village square.
The night before had been full of whispers. The story of the goat that spoke with a dead man’s voice had spread like fire. Now, the elders sat beneath a great iroko tree, ready to pass judgment. In the center of the crowd knelt Nwaka. Her eyes were red from crying, her wrapper dusty, and her face hollow with fear.
Behind her, two men stood with staffs, guarding her so she would not run. Elder Papa Obiele rose slowly, leaning on his walking stick. The morning sun lit his gray beard as he spoke in a deep voice that silenced the crowd. “Nwaka, you confessed before the gods and the spirit of the dead. You poisoned Obu, a man who did you no wrong.
You let jealousy turn your heart into darkness. For this, the gods have spoken through his spirit. And we, the people of Umudzu, shall obey.” The people nodded in agreement. Some spat on the ground in disgust. Others shook their heads sadly. Papa Obiele lifted his staff and continued.
“From this day, you are no longer part of Umudzu. You are banished from this land forever. No one shall greet you, feed you, or share your fire. Before the sun sets, you must leave this village and never return.” A gasp ran through the crowd. Nwaka fell forward on her knees, clutching the elder’s feet. “Please, Papa Obiele, forgive me.
I have nowhere to go. I will die out there.” The elder looked down at her coldly. “You died the day you chose envy over love. You buried your peace with the poison you poured. Now go and let the gods finish what they began. Eat.” He turned to the men beside her. “Take her to the forest’s edge. Let her walk from there.
” Two men pulled Nwaka to her feet as she cried and struggled. The crowd watched in silence as she was led away, her cries echoing through the trees. When she disappeared, Papa Obiele turned to the villagers. “Let this be a warning. The gods may walk slow, but their feet never stumble. Truth always finds its way home.” The people bowed their heads.
That evening, Mama Ijeoma sat quietly outside her hut. The compound felt different, calm, peaceful, almost sacred. She looked toward the path that led into the forest, where the goat had walked away the day before. The mango tree under which he used to rest stood still. The clay lamp she had left there still burned faintly, its flame steady even in the wind.
She whispered, “He’s gone, but his spirit remains.” The night was gentle. She poured water on the ground and knelt beside the lamp. “Obu,” she said softly, “your truth has spoken. Your soul can rest now. Thank you for watching over me.” A sudden cool breeze brushed against her cheek, soft, warm, and full of peace. For a moment, she thought she heard a faint bleat deep in the forest, gentle, like a farewell.
She smiled through her tears. “Rest well, my husband. The gods have given me peace.” But far away, beyond the river and deep inside the forest, Nwaka wandered alone. Her feet were bruised, her hair tangled, and her clothes torn. She survived on wild fruits and dirty water, sleeping under trees and talking to herself. Sometimes, she would hear the sound of goats bleating from far away.
At first, she would ignore it, but then the sound would come closer. “Nwaka.” She froze. Her eyes widened. “Who said that?” she cried. “Who is calling me?” The wind whistled through the trees, carrying faint echoes, soft bleats, that seemed to whisper her name again and again. “Nwaka, you killed me. You killed me.” She screamed and ran, covering her ears.
“Stop it. Stop it. Leave me alone.” But the voices followed her wherever she went. And as moons passed, she lost her mind completely, talking to trees, shouting at the wind, and weeping for a peace she would never find. Back in Umutzu, Mama Ijeoma’s life blossomed again. She planted flowers around her husband’s grave.
And on some nights, when the moon was round and bright, Mama Ijeoma would sit outside her hut. The wind would blow softly, and she would hear the faint bleat of a goat far away, peaceful, not angry, and she would smile because she knew her husband’s spirit had finally found rest. Moral lesson: Sometimes, the real poison isn’t what we drink, it’s what we carry inside our hearts.
Jealousy, envy, and bitterness eat away at the soul long before they touch anyone else. The truth may come late, but it never loses its way. It always finds the courage to speak, even when every voice is silent. And in the end, peace belongs to those who love without envy, and who let go without hate. The end.
