Gambe was not the same since the death of Julius. The market no longer buzzed with the vibrant calls of women selling plantains or the clatter of wheelbarrows along its narrow paths. Children no longer sang carefree songs as they ran beneath the tamarind trees. There was a stillness a hollow quiet that lingered in the air like smoke after a fire, clinging to the corners of homes and hearts.
In the small compound where Julius once lived, emptiness echoed louder than any scream. Adaora, now a shadow of her former self, moved through the house like a ghost. Her eyes, once bright with laughter, were dull and swollen with grief. Her skin was pale from sleepless nights and constant tears. There was no one left to ask her how she was doing. Everyone already knew she was heart broken.
In the far corner of the room, cradled in a faded wool blanket and lying on a reed mat, sat little Jordan. At barely two years old, he could not speak full sentences or name all the faces in the photographs that hung crookedly on the wall. But he knew something had changed. He felt it.
He felt it in the way his mother cried into her wrapper every night, muffling her sobs so he wouldn't hear, but he always did. He saw it in the way visitors knelt to greet her, heads bowed, eyes avoiding hers, speaking in low tones about justice and regret. And he sensed it most in the way no one said his father's name anymore.
Jordan didn't know the meaning of death, but he knew the silence that followed was louder than any word.
Each morning, Adaora rose slowly, dragging her feet toward the small hearth by the window. She would light the fire, boil the same watery cornmeal, and feed Jordan with a trembling hand. Most days, she didn't eat. Her energy was consumed by mourning. She spent her afternoons sitting on the veranda, staring into the empty compound, lost in memories of Julius his laugh, the calluses on his hands, the way he used to swing Jordan high into the air until they both laughed breathlessly.
Jordan would toddle over to her, holding his small arms open, and she would gather him into her lap. He never said much, he barely said anything at all. But his silence was deep, like he was carrying a burden far too heavy for his little frame. Adaora often whispered into his ears, "Your father loved you. He died because they couldn't bear to hear the truth. But one day, you'll understand."
And Jordan would nod, solemnly, as if he already did.
One afternoon, under the heavy clouds of the rainy season, Jordan did something strange. As Adaora sat quietly shelling corn, she heard him talking. Not babbling. He was in the middle of the compound, standing beneath the old mango tree, speaking to no one in particular.
"They hurt Papa but he didn't cry. Papa's watching." Adaora froze. Her hands trembled. She looked up. "Jordan? What did you say?"
The boy turned to her slowly, eyes dark and serious. "Papa told me they lied." Adaora dropped the corn bowl. She ran to him, scooping him into her arms. "Who told you that? Who said that, Jordan?"
The boy didn't speak again. He simply looked over her shoulder, back toward the mango tree. Adaora turned around quickly but there was nothing there. Nothing but the wind rustling the leaves.That night, Adaora couldn't sleep.
Over the next few days, Jordan grew quieter still, but his eyes never stopped watching. He seemed more aware, more alert to the things no one else noticed. He flinched at the sound of footsteps outside the compound. He stared at people longer than normal, as if peering into their souls. Once, when an old neighbor came to drop off a basket of yams, Jordan refused to take it. "He told," he whispered. "He said bad things."
Adaora was stunned. The man had been a vocal supporter of Julius's imprisonment, one of the few neighbors who had stopped visiting when the accusations came. She sent him away without a word. It wasn't long before whispers began to circulate in Gambe. People spoke of Adaora's boy with fear and wonder. "The boy talks to the shadows," someone said. "He sees things," said another. "The spirit of Julius is with him."
Though it was spoken in hushed tones, the rumors spread fast. One day, Adaora took Jordan to the river to wash clothes. As she bent to rinse her wrapper, she heard a low voice beside her. "They say your son hears the dead."
Adaora turned. It was Mama Nkechi, the oldest woman in the village, her face lined with a thousand sorrows. "Be careful, Adaora," she continued. "That kind of gift doesn't come for free. Spirits don't whisper to children without a reason."
Adaora didn't respond. She held Jordan's hand tightly as they walked back home.
That evening, the boy awoke crying, louder than he ever had before. He clutched his chest and screamed, "Fire! They burn him! Mama, they burn Papa!" Adaora rushed to him, shaking. "What are you saying, Jordan? What do you see?"
He pointed to the ceiling, to nothing, eyes wide with terror. "They beat him again and again. He cried. He called for you." The room seemed to chill. The lantern flickered. Adaora wrapped him in her arms, her own tears flowing freely.
Later, she sat alone in the dark, her thoughts spiraling. Julius had never spoken a word of his tortures during their prison visits, but she had seen his limping, his scars, the way his eyes dimmed more each time. He had tried to protect her from the pain, but now his son bore the truth.
What if his spirit had truly returned? What if Jordan was the bridge between the living and the dead?
A week later, on a Friday night, a scream rang out in Gambe. A merchant who had been on his way to the king's palace was found dead the next morning, his body torn apart like an animal had mauled him. No one knew what had happened. There were no paw prints, no blood trail, just a body and a warning.
Jordan sat on the veranda that morning, quiet as always. But when Adaora came to sit beside him, he looked up and said, "It started, Mama. Papa is angry." Adaora froze. Her breath caught in her throat. "What started?" she asked.
Jordan stared at the sky. "He's coming."
The wind stirred the leaves again. Far in the distance, a dog howled long, low, and mournful.
Adaora pulled Jordan close, trembling.
And so, the silence of a child became the prophecy of a town. A storm was coming, one born not of nature, but of vengeance. And Jordan, the son of the fallen, was its herald.
In the days that followed, Jordan's behavior became more disturbing. He would often wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, whispering conversations no one else could hear. At first, Adaora thought it was the trauma, a child responding to the grief and instability around him. But soon, it became impossible to ignore the eerie precision in his words.
He spoke names. The Name Adaora hadn't been uttered in years. People connected to Julius's trial. The guards. The man who testified falsely. The priest who turned away. All of them came from the mouth of a toddler who could barely recite the alphabet. He didn't just name them, he described what they'd done.
"Uncle Obi gave the king a sack of yam and said Papa was a liar," he said one evening, eyes glazed as he stared into the fire. "Papa cried after they beat him that night. The floor was wet with red." Adaora dropped the pot she was holding, shattering it into pieces.
He would sit alone for hours, murmuring to himself. Sometimes he would laugh, other times he would cover his ears and scream, "Make it stop! Stop crying!" As if hearing distant voices too loud for his little mind to bear. More than once, Adaora found him drawing circles in the dirt symbols she couldn't understand, but that made the elders who saw them recoil with unease.
Neighbors began to keep their distance. Children were warned not to play with Jordan. Some adults crossed to the other side of the path when Adaora approached, murmuring prayers under their breath. It wasn't long before the villagers began to whisper that the boy was touched not just by grief, but by the supernatural.
One rainy morning, Adaora found Jordan speaking directly to the corner of their room, nodding as if receiving instructions. When she asked who he was talking to, he replied calmly, "Papa's here. He said to tell you to keep the door locked tonight."
That night, another man connected to Julius's wrongful conviction was found dead. No witnesses. No sounds. Only the deep claw marks etched into the ground like the wrath of a beast. By then, even Adaora began to wonder if her son was a child or a vessel of justice.