When Chidubem was born, silence fell in the hut, and the three midwives froze as they all stared at the small, angry mark glowing faintly on the child’s cheek. It looked like a spear’s point, a mark used to identify the wicked tribe of Umuleri.
By the time the news spread through Umuaka village, whispers had already turned into certainty, Chidubem had returned from Umuleri, a fierce warrior clan that had almost annihilated the people of Umuaka two centuries ago, causing them to flee from the top of the mountains into the nether regions. A few that survived only whispered the name of the clan in their huts and forbade any of the Umuakas to have any dealings with the Umuleris.
Fearsome warriors they were, they had terrorized the region. They were as cruel as they were brave, shedding blood even when peace was possible. When most of the Umuleris started dying mysteriously, the elders of Umuaka declared that their gods were fighting against them. Now, the villagers said, one of them had come back—in the body of this newborn boy.
The child’s father hung his head in shame, but his grandmother, Mama Uloaku, held the baby close to her chest. “No,” she said firmly. “He is not from Umuleri, He is Chidubem—‘God leads me', of Umuaka. He will walk a different path.”
But the village could not forget, and as Chidubem grew, people watched him with wary eyes and kept him at arm's length, even hated him. If he tripped another child during playtime, they murmured, “Ah, the warrior’s cruelty returns.” If he fought back when provoked, they said, “You see? Blood does not lie.”
Mama Uloaku scolded them. “You are feeding a curse with your words! A child becomes what you believe of him.” She taught Chidubem prayers at dawn, stories of kindness, and proverbs that turned his heart toward gentleness. At night, she would press her palm to his cheek, praying. “This mark will not define you. Love will.”
By twelve, Chidubem had become strong, quick, and clever. Some boys feared him; others followed him. But his grandmother guided him into fishing and farming instead of fighting.
But when the warriors of the village were training, he secretly sneaked away to watch them.
“It is his destiny,” they would argue. “You see that he cannot keep away from who he really is."
When Mama Uloaku discovered this, her voice shook with fury. “You will not wield any weapon or become a warrior! You will remain Chidubem, a farmer and a fisherman, nothing more."
The villagers only scorned her. “You cannot fight blood, old woman.
The test came sooner than anyone expected. One harmattan evening, raiders from across the river, many and well armed, swept into Umuaka, burning huts and seizing women and goats. The village scattered in terror.
The warriors went to war but returned defeated daily, the raiders too strong for the Umuakas.
The King and the elders begged Chidubem to fight. “This is your time! Take up the spear—you were born for this!”
The boy’s heart pounded. The mark on his cheek seemed to burn. He remembered the warriors’ voices: It is your destiny. But then he saw Mama Uloaku, standing firm, holding nothing but a walking stick. Her eyes found his.
“Chidubem,” she called, her voice steady. “You are of Umuaka. You are mine. Use your gift to protect, not destroy.”
Her words cut through the noise like a bell.
Instead of charging wildly with the spear given to him, Chidubem led women and children to safety, using quick thinking to guide them through the yam fields to the riverbank. Then, instead of seeking blood, he organized the youths to set traps and alarms, forcing the raiders to retreat in confusion. He was able to recover their women taken hostage.
When dawn broke, Umuaka was broken but alive.
The King and the elders gathered, astonished. “He fought, yet he did not shed blood. He defended, yet he did not destroy.”
Mama Uloaku lifted her chin. “Did I not tell you? Nurture shapes destiny. I named him Chidubem and Chidubem he has become—a leader, not a tyrant.”
From that day, Umuaka fully accepted Chidubem as their own and not as “the reincarnation of the Umuleris,”. His path has been chosen by his grandmother. Children grew up hearing his story, not as a curse of blood, but as proof that a mark does not define a man—love and faith do.
Years later, when Chidubem himself became an elder, he would often press his palm to the scarred mark on his cheek and tell the children,
“They said I was born to be a killer. My grandmother said I was born to be a son. Who do you think I listened to?”
And the children, wide-eyed, would answer in chorus:
“Your grandmother!”
And he would smile, for he knew nurture had triumphed over nature, and love had rewritten a destiny.
Image is AI generated.
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