It was likely between three and four in the afternoon when Ugochukwu jumped down from the lorry that had brought him from the outskirts of Nduka. He didn't own a watch, but he could tell by the length of his shadow—what Mr. Ebube once joked looked like "a runaway currency curve"—that it was deep into prep time at school. He should have been in the library by now, head buried in a Geography text or silently trying to decode a Chukwuemeka riddle in Maths.
Oddly, the usually bustling Olie market was deserted. Not a goat, not even the regular aroma of frying akara hovered in the air. He passed the dusty compound of the Church of the Seventh Prophecy, run by a man said to be a former telegraph clerk. The man, his six wives, and a brood of shaggy-haired children were always decked in white, parading like sacred abuke birds. His wealth was a mystery—no work, no flock, but always ready with a bottle of schnapps and flawless oji ugo kola nuts for any visitor. But today, the compound was mute. Silent. Holy.
Quickening his pace, Ugochukwu crossed the barren ukwu udala square. The giant udala tree stood in naked pride, its yellow fruit all spent. He remembered how children in the village would rush at dawn to scavenge its offerings, the sweet fruit considered a divine gift. He smiled at the story of the greedy man who once tried to pluck the fruit at night and was killed by the first one that landed squarely on his skull.
"Ugo has come home! Ugochukwu has come home!" shrieked Adaobi, his younger sister, as she ran to him like a whirlwind.
"May your tongue turn to stone, you noisy bat!" thundered Mazi Agbu, leaping from his reclining raffia chair like a startled leopard. Adaobi, unfazed by the words, buried her head in her brother's thighs, her hands around his waist in pure delight.
Mazi Agbu brushed her aside with more impatience than anger and embraced his son in a stiff but sincere hug. "Go and tell your mother he's returned," he instructed.
Ugochukwu was stunned. Never before had his father left his chair to welcome him. Hugs? That was new. His father usually offered a solemn handshake, seated like a king receiving a report from a warrior. And what was this? The man was sweating in the shade?
Mrs. Agbu emerged from behind the yam barn, her wrapper tied halfway, her hands white with cassava flour. She had heard Adaobi's announcement and had muttered thanks to the Virgin Mother beneath her breath.
"He's back," Mazi Agbu proclaimed, leading the way to the rear compound for privacy.
"We must pour libation to the ancestors," Mazi Agbu began as he settled on his stool, wiping his brow. "After yesterday, I wasn't sure any of us would still be breathing to sit together again."
"What happened yesterday?" Ugochukwu asked, suddenly alert. "You mean the eclipse?"
"The what?" asked his father, puzzled.
"The darkness at midday."
"It happened there too?"
Ugochukwu nodded. "It's called a total solar eclipse. Didn't you get my last letter?"
"We haven't seen any recent letter," his mother said, frowning.
Mazi Agbu took over again. "Hmmm... my son, words cannot explain it. I was on my farm at Ofia Mgbom with four hired hands from Nara. Hardworking fellows. I had even sent your mother to Nkwo Ikeata market to buy a big grass-cutter and fresh palm wine to honour them."
He paused, gathering his breath and wiping sweat from his temple.
"We had just returned from eating roasted yam. Then... the sun dimmed. First gently, then violently. At first, I was glad. Less heat. Better work. But it lingered, son. One of the boys pointed upward and shouted, and we all turned. The sun was being eaten! I swear it! A black thing, growing and growing, was swallowing it! Before we could count our shadows, those boys had vanished! Left their hoes and shirts behind."
Even Ugochukwu found his skin prickling.
"I didn't even remember my snuff or my cane. I just ran. Church bells were ringing as if the Angel Gabriel was dancing on them. People were running, wailing. Some dressed in full Sunday attire—running to the church. No greetings. No talking. Just fear."
Mama Ugo continued the tale. "I was just returning from the market when it began. Women dropped baskets, meat, money—everything. Some fainted. Some wept. I thought I would never see you again."
"And when we gathered at St. Dominic's," Mazi Agbu picked up again, "it was like Judgment Day had arrived. Everyone was screaming different songs. 'Nearer My God to Thee,' 'Jerusalem,' others shouting Hail Mary. When someone shouted that the sun was completely gone, eh, my son, even the priest didn't know who to pray to."
A long silence.
Ugochukwu felt the weight of it all. Then he spoke. "Papa, Mama… what happened was a natural phenomenon. We were told about it at school. Mr. Ebube even made us smoke glass over candles to observe it safely."
His parents looked at him like he had grown another head.
"It's called an eclipse. It happens when the moon blocks the sun completely. It's rare but not supernatural. The Principal had informed us, and I wrote to warn you... but I guess the letter didn't arrive."
Mazi Agbu was still staring. His wife was now sitting quietly, nodding slowly.
"Mr. Ebube gave us a lecture during it," Ugochukwu continued. "Even the night guards came out thinking it was evening. It was a kind of exciting science lesson."
Mazi Agbu blinked. Then turned to his wife. "You see?"
She sighed. "Then maybe we don't need the cleansing ceremony?"
"Oh, about that," said Mazi Agbu. "We still called you to witness the cleansing ceremony planned by the town. You know how our people are. If a goat grows feathers, we must ask questions."
"There's no need," Ugochukwu said gently.
His father raised a brow.
"No need," Ugochukwu continued firmly. "There's nothing spiritual about this one. Just nature. Science."
After a long pause, Mazi Agbu chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You children of books. Alright. I will speak to the chief. Perhaps we let the rites proceed as a cultural thanksgiving, not fear."
"Thank you, Papa."
"Welcome home, my son," Mama Ugo whispered, now with a soft smile.
"Welcome," his father echoed.