In the mystical town of Ijana, where hills whispered old tales and winds carried the names of the dead, love was more than a feeling—it was a gamble with the ancestors.
Adaeze was born under a rare moon. The village priestess, Iya Morounkeji, had looked into the newborn’s eyes and declared her “Ọmọ ayé méjì”—child of two worlds. Both gifted and cursed. She was beautiful, with skin like polished ebony, eyes like wet coal, and a laugh that lingered in the air. Her parents feared the prophecy, but Adaeze grew into a woman full of life and questions, especially questions about love.
When Chuka arrived in Ijana, everything changed. A city boy from Enugu, he had come for the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) and was posted to teach government studies at the local secondary school. He was tall, intelligent, charming, and oblivious to the rules of the town.
They met during a community clean-up day. Adaeze was sweeping the shrine’s compound, barefoot, humming to herself. Chuka, sweaty and annoyed with the village elders' superstitions, made a joke about “romanticizing brooms.” She laughed. That was the beginning.
Every day after, they found reasons to talk—long walks by the stream, late-night chats by the mango tree, secret notes passed during community meetings. Love bloomed quietly, beautifully… and dangerously.
Because in Ijana, Adaeze was promised.
Not to a man—but to the ancestors.
Her bloodline was bound by a covenant made five generations ago. One girl in every generation would be offered, body and soul, as a living bridge between the living and the dead. She was to remain unmarried, untouched, and consecrated for rituals that kept the village fertile and peaceful.
No one had dared break the cycle.
Until now.
When whispers of Adaeze and Chuka’s secret love reached Iya Morounkeji, the priestess summoned the Oracle. The verdict was thunderous: “If the heartbeat defies the ancestors, blood will flow.”
Chiefs gathered. Drums of warning were beaten. Chuka was summoned and warned—leave the girl or leave the town.
He refused both.
Instead, he took Adaeze’s hand under the moonlight and asked her to run away with him. But Adaeze hesitated—not out of fear, but from the weight of her lineage. “If we run, they will find us. If we stay, they will ruin you.”
Still, love makes the foolish brave.
That night, they made their escape, boarding a night bus toward Osogbo. But they never made it. Somewhere near the forest path leading out of Ijana, their bus crashed. Only two people died—Chuka and Adaeze.
Or so the world thought.
Days later, their bodies were missing from the morgue.
In Ijana, Iya Morounkeji declared, “The ancestors have taken what is theirs. Let no one speak of the lovers again.”
But on the 7th day, as the town prepared for the yearly ancestral festival, a strange wind blew. Crops began to rot. Women went into labour and could not deliver. The sky turned red at dusk.
At midnight, two figures appeared at the edge of the shrine—hands clasped, eyes glowing gold.
It was Adaeze and Chuka.
Not dead. Not alive.
Something in between.
“I did not choose this,” Adaeze said, voice like thunder. “But my heartbeat was louder than your silence.”
Chuka stepped forward. “You bound her without her consent. Now, we unbind her—with love.”
The shrine cracked. The totems fell. The ancestral altar burst into flames.
And the curse, broken by a love so strong it defied death, dissolved into the night.
Adaeze and Chuka vanished once more—but this time, not in pain, not in hiding.
Some say they became stars. Others say they walk among us, spirits of rebellion and romance.
But one thing was clear:
In Ijana, where ancestors once ruled love, heartbeats now had a voice.
