The Return, Tunde The Orphan Part 4, African Nigerian Stories

The Return, Tunde The Orphan Part 4, African Nigerian Stories, Folktales, Tales, Novels.

The dawn broke softly over the village, casting a gentle light over the fields and paths still shrouded in the morning mist. It had been three long days since Tunde had gone missing, and every waking moment had been spent searching, hoping for his safe return. Baba Mufu and Mama Tinu had been consumed with fear, and the villagers shared in their worry, each person wondering what had happened to the boy who was so beloved yet so troubled.

But this morning, something was different.

A faint figure appeared at the edge of the village, staggering slowly, his steps unsteady, his body hunched over as if weighed down by something far heavier than his own frame. It was Tunde. His clothes were torn, his arms and legs were covered in scratches, and his eyes had a haunted, vacant look, as if they had glimpsed something that should never have been seen.

Baba Mufu was the first to spot him. He squinted, barely able to recognize the frail boy standing in the mist. As he drew closer, his heart clenched; there was no mistaking it—this was his grandson, but he was not the same. The mischievous spark that once danced in Tunde’s eyes was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

“Tunde!” Baba Mufu called, his voice trembling. He hurried over, his legs suddenly weak, as though the weight of his relief had turned his bones to water. Tunde looked up, but his gaze passed over his grandfather, unfocused, almost as if he didn’t recognize him. Without a word, he stumbled forward, falling into Baba Mufu’s arms, his body limp.

“Help! Mama Tinu! Tunde is back!” Baba Mufu shouted, his voice echoing through the stillness.

Mama Tinu, hearing the cry, came rushing from their mud-walled home. When she saw Tunde cradled in Baba Mufu’s arms, she fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. She reached out, touching Tunde’s face gently, as though afraid he might vanish like a ghost if she pressed too hard.

“Oh, Tunde, my boy,” she whispered, choking back her sobs. Her hands trembled as she smoothed his hair, taking in the scratches on his arms, the torn clothes, and the distant, haunted look in his eyes. “Where have you been?”

Tunde didn’t answer. His eyes stared into the distance, unblinking, as if he were lost somewhere else entirely. Baba Mufu and Mama Tinu exchanged a worried glance, but for now, they said nothing. They knew he needed rest, warmth, and food.

With great care, Baba Mufu lifted Tunde into his arms and carried him back to their home. The villagers, having heard the commotion, gathered around, murmuring among themselves as they watched Baba Mufu carry Tunde inside. They were relieved to see him alive but unsettled by his strange appearance and eerie silence.

Once inside, Mama Tinu fussed over Tunde, cleaning his wounds with a warm cloth, draping a blanket over him, and whispering words of comfort. Baba Mufu prepared a thin broth, which he held up to Tunde’s lips. The boy took a few sips, though he barely seemed aware of his surroundings, and his eyes remained vacant, unfocused. Eventually, he drifted off into a restless sleep, his breathing shallow and uneven.

For nearly two days, Tunde slept, only stirring occasionally, muttering words that made no sense, his voice barely above a whisper. Baba Mufu and Mama Tinu took turns sitting by his side, keeping vigil over their grandson. They dared not leave him alone, fearing that he might slip away from them again.

When he finally awoke, it was the middle of the night. Baba Mufu was sitting by his side, half-asleep, when he heard Tunde’s faint whisper.

“Grandfather…” Tunde’s voice was barely audible, a ghostly echo in the darkness.

Baba Mufu leaned forward, his heart leaping with hope. “Tunde! My boy, you’re awake!” He grasped Tunde’s hand gently, relief flooding through him. But as he looked into his grandson’s eyes, his heart sank. There was no light, no recognition—only a deep, haunted emptiness that chilled him to the core.

“Tunde, where have you been? What happened to you?” Baba Mufu’s voice was soft, laced with concern.

Tunde didn’t respond. He simply looked past his grandfather, his gaze fixed on something invisible, something only he could see. Baba Mufu followed his gaze, but there was nothing there—only the dimly lit room, silent and still.

Mama Tinu, hearing their voices, joined them, her face lighting up with hope as she saw Tunde sitting up. She took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Tunde, my dear, we were so worried,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “Can you tell us where you went?”

Tunde’s lips parted as if he were about to speak, but no words came. Instead, he closed his eyes, as though retreating into some dark corner of his mind. Baba Mufu and Mama Tinu exchanged a worried glance, sensing that whatever Tunde had experienced had left a mark that words could not describe.

Over the next few days, they tried gently coaxing him into talking, but Tunde remained silent, withdrawn. He would sit for hours, staring blankly at the walls or out the small window, lost in thought, his expression distant and vacant. He ate little, spoke even less, and his once vibrant spirit seemed to have withered into something hollow and unreachable.

The villagers, too, were curious. They visited, offering food and small gifts, hoping to cheer him up, but each time, Tunde would only nod politely, his face expressionless, his mind elsewhere. Some of the older villagers whispered among themselves, speculating that he had seen something unspeakable, something that had stolen his spirit.

One day, as Baba Mufu sat beside Tunde, he placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke softly, “Tunde, I know you have seen something. You can trust me, my boy. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Tunde glanced at him, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. For a brief moment, Baba Mufu saw a glimmer of the old Tunde—the boy who had been full of mischief and laughter. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the light faded, and Tunde looked away, his gaze returning to that distant place.

Weeks passed, and Tunde’s silence became a part of the village’s life. The villagers continued to whisper about the spirit of the river, about Iya Osun and the mysterious figure from Baba Mufu’s dream. Some said that Tunde had crossed into the spirit realm and returned, while others claimed he had seen the face of Iya Osun herself. A few even believed that the river had claimed part of his soul, leaving him hollow and haunted.

Baba Mufu began to wonder if he would ever see the grandson he had known again. He spent long hours sitting by Tunde’s side, silently praying, hoping that one day Tunde would find the courage to speak, to unburden himself of whatever darkness he had encountered.

Then, one quiet evening, as Baba Mufu sat beside Tunde in the fading light, Tunde’s voice broke the silence.

“I saw her…” Tunde whispered, his voice trembling.

Baba Mufu’s heart skipped a beat. He leaned forward, his eyes wide with anticipation. “Who did you see, Tunde?”

Tunde’s gaze remained fixed on the floor, his hands trembling as he spoke. “The river… she spoke to me… she called my name.”

Baba Mufu felt a chill run down his spine, remembering the haunting voice from his own dream. “The river? Was it… was it Iya Osun?”

Tunde nodded slowly, his face pale and fearful. “I went to the river that day with my friends. We were playing, laughing… and then… I don’t know how it happened, but… I was alone. I heard a voice, calling my name, and I followed it.”

His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists. “The river… it was like it was alive, like it was watching me. And then I saw her… a figure, standing in the water, cloaked in shadows. She called my name again, and I… I couldn’t look away.”

Baba Mufu listened in silence, his heart heavy with dread. Tunde’s words echoed his own dream, the figure by the river, the voice calling his name. He felt a terrible certainty that this was not a coincidence, that whatever had called Tunde into the river had come from the same place that had haunted his dreams.

“What did she say, Tunde?” Baba Mufu asked gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tunde’s face twisted in fear, his eyes filling with tears. “She told me… she told me that I had trespassed, that I had forgotten the river’s power. She said… she said that the river does not forget.”

A cold silence settled over them as Tunde’s words hung in the air. Baba Mufu felt a chill seep into his bones, a realization dawning on him that whatever Tunde had seen was beyond their understanding, a force older and more powerful than anything they could comprehend.

Tunde continued, his voice barely audible. “She told me… that I had to remember, that I could never forget her voice. And then… everything went dark. I don’t remember what happened after that