Only Fools Try to Understand Destiny
In the whispering savannah of Benue, where baobab trees stretched like ancient sentinels and the Benue River sang its serpentine song, lived Awashima. Her eyes, the color of sunbaked earth, held a spark of defiance that flickered against the weight of tradition. Born under a crimson moon, marked by the Ijov oracle as "bringer of storms," Awashima was condemned before she drew her first breath.
Her childhood was a dance with whispers and fear. Villagers avoided her, mothers clutched their children closer, and even the elders cast wary glances. Yet, Awashima refused to be a prisoner of the prophecy. She roamed the sun-drenched fields, barefoot and fearless, befriending the wind and learning the secrets of the whispering grasses. She studied with the village's oldest woman, Mama Abaji, who spoke of a world beyond the Ijov's pronouncements, where fate was not a fixed tapestry but a malleable clay waiting to be sculpted.
Years passed, and Awashima blossomed. Her laughter echoed through the fields, and her wisdom, nurtured by Mama Abaji's teachings, blossomed like the hibiscus flowers that adorned her braids. The fear surrounding her softened, replaced by curiosity and respect. Yet, the memory of the prophecy lingered, a shadow at the edge of her joy.
One scorching summer, the Benue River, usually a life-giving serpent, shrank to a cracked whisper. Crops withered, the air hung heavy with dust, and whispers of the Ijov's prophecy once again poisoned the air. Desperation gnawed at the villagers, their eyes turning towards Awashima with unspoken accusations.
But Awashima, her brow furrowed, refused to succumb to the weight of destiny. Mama Abaji's words resonated in her ears: "Fate is not a cage, but a canvas. We are the weavers, and our choices the threads." This was her moment to weave a new thread into the tapestry of her life.
Drawing upon her knowledge of the land and Mama Abaji's herbal wisdom, Awashima ventured into the parched hills. Days bled into nights, her sandals leaving imprints on the sun-baked earth. Hunger gnawed at her belly, but the fire in her eyes remained undimmed.
Then, one dawn, she stumbled upon it: a hidden spring, nestled between whispering rocks. Its waters, cool and life-giving, shimmered like a promise. Awashima knew this was more than just water; it was a defiance of the prophecy, a tangible thread woven into the tapestry of her fate.
Returning to the village, Awashima led them to the spring. Under her guidance, they built channels, their hands sculpting the land to quench the thirst of their crops and their hopes. As the rains returned, coaxed by the spring's gentle song, the village bloomed anew.
In the face of their bountiful harvest, the whispers of the prophecy finally faded. Awashima, once marked by fear, became a symbol of defiance, a testament to the power of choice over destiny. The villagers learned that fate was not a rigid hand holding the strings of their lives, but a malleable clay upon which their own actions could leave an indelible mark.
From that day on, Awashima continued to weave her tapestry, not with fear and submission, but with courage and wisdom. She taught the villagers the language of the land, the whispers of the wind, and the power of choices that defied even the pronouncements of oracles. For Awashima knew, and the village soon echoed her wisdom, "Only fools try to understand destiny, for the wise ones know it is in forging their own path that they truly find their fate."
And so, in the whispering savannah of Benue, bathed in the golden light of a new dawn, a village danced to the rhythm of a different prophecy, one woven not by fear, but by the defiant spirit of a young woman who dared to rewrite her own story.
(Not a true life story)
Her childhood was a dance with whispers and fear. Villagers avoided her, mothers clutched their children closer, and even the elders cast wary glances. Yet, Awashima refused to be a prisoner of the prophecy. She roamed the sun-drenched fields, barefoot and fearless, befriending the wind and learning the secrets of the whispering grasses. She studied with the village's oldest woman, Mama Abaji, who spoke of a world beyond the Ijov's pronouncements, where fate was not a fixed tapestry but a malleable clay waiting to be sculpted.
Years passed, and Awashima blossomed. Her laughter echoed through the fields, and her wisdom, nurtured by Mama Abaji's teachings, blossomed like the hibiscus flowers that adorned her braids. The fear surrounding her softened, replaced by curiosity and respect. Yet, the memory of the prophecy lingered, a shadow at the edge of her joy.
One scorching summer, the Benue River, usually a life-giving serpent, shrank to a cracked whisper. Crops withered, the air hung heavy with dust, and whispers of the Ijov's prophecy once again poisoned the air. Desperation gnawed at the villagers, their eyes turning towards Awashima with unspoken accusations.
But Awashima, her brow furrowed, refused to succumb to the weight of destiny. Mama Abaji's words resonated in her ears: "Fate is not a cage, but a canvas. We are the weavers, and our choices the threads." This was her moment to weave a new thread into the tapestry of her life.
Drawing upon her knowledge of the land and Mama Abaji's herbal wisdom, Awashima ventured into the parched hills. Days bled into nights, her sandals leaving imprints on the sun-baked earth. Hunger gnawed at her belly, but the fire in her eyes remained undimmed.
Then, one dawn, she stumbled upon it: a hidden spring, nestled between whispering rocks. Its waters, cool and life-giving, shimmered like a promise. Awashima knew this was more than just water; it was a defiance of the prophecy, a tangible thread woven into the tapestry of her fate.
Returning to the village, Awashima led them to the spring. Under her guidance, they built channels, their hands sculpting the land to quench the thirst of their crops and their hopes. As the rains returned, coaxed by the spring's gentle song, the village bloomed anew.
In the face of their bountiful harvest, the whispers of the prophecy finally faded. Awashima, once marked by fear, became a symbol of defiance, a testament to the power of choice over destiny. The villagers learned that fate was not a rigid hand holding the strings of their lives, but a malleable clay upon which their own actions could leave an indelible mark.
From that day on, Awashima continued to weave her tapestry, not with fear and submission, but with courage and wisdom. She taught the villagers the language of the land, the whispers of the wind, and the power of choices that defied even the pronouncements of oracles. For Awashima knew, and the village soon echoed her wisdom, "Only fools try to understand destiny, for the wise ones know it is in forging their own path that they truly find their fate."
And so, in the whispering savannah of Benue, bathed in the golden light of a new dawn, a village danced to the rhythm of a different prophecy, one woven not by fear, but by the defiant spirit of a young woman who dared to rewrite her own story.
(Not a true life story)
