Chapter 2: The Forbidden Secret

Promise crouched lower by the stream after Daniel left, her reflection rippling on the water’s surface. For the first time, she studied herself not just as a girl in a village, but as someone bound by invisible strings. Her heartbeat was loud, unsteady, almost as if it wanted to escape before her body could. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest and whispered, “Is this who I am? A secret they wrote before I even learned to speak?”

The trees swayed around her, whispering secrets she couldn’t understand. Fireflies hovered like tiny lanterns. For a fleeting moment, Promise wished she could disappear into the forest — become a bird, a leaf, even a ripple on the water — anything free from the rules carved into her bones.

That night, when she lay on her raffia mat, Promise did not sleep. The ceiling above her was a patchwork of woven palm fronds, each crack and shadow forming shapes she had memorized since childhood. Every creak, every cry of the night owl outside felt like a reminder: you are trapped. But in that same darkness, another thought sparked. If they fear me leaving so much, then maybe my leaving carries more power than they can bear.

The idea frightened her. But it also lit a flame.

The morning sun crept lazily over the rooftops, painting the clay huts gold. Smoke from breakfast fires curled into the sky, mingling with the smell of yam and peppers frying in palm oil. Promise hurried along the narrow path, clutching her notebook. Today was different. She wasn’t rushing for school or chores. She was rushing to meet Lagos in her imagination.

She had overheard older students talking about an agency that held modeling auditions every month in Lagos. They spoke of tall buildings with glass walls, flashing cameras, and contracts that could change a life. Promise didn’t know if it was true, but the thought refused to leave her mind. In her notebook, she scribbled names of neighborhoods, sketchy directions, even little drawings of gowns. Each note felt like a breadcrumb leading her toward freedom.

But as she neared the square, her steps slowed. Voices drifted from the Chief’s hut — low, urgent, carrying a weight that made her chest tighten. The heavy wooden door stood ajar, just enough for sound to escape. Promise edged closer, pressing against the wall, ears straining.

“…the girl is growing restless,” one of the elders said, his voice brittle with age. “We must remind her family. An oath is not a thing to be taken lightly.”

Promise’s stomach lurched.

Another voice, sharper: “Her mother is soft. If we do not act, she will slip through our fingers.”

Then came a third — deep, commanding, the unmistakable voice of Chief Eze. “From the day she was born, it was sealed. The first daughter of Nwoko’s line cannot leave. If she tries, the curse will follow. Better she stays ignorant than tempt death.”

Promise’s breath caught. The first daughter of Nwoko’s line? That was her.

Her hands went numb. The pot she carried slipped and crashed against the ground, splitting into jagged pieces. The voices inside hushed instantly.

“Who’s there?” thundered Chief Eze.

Promise’s pulse roared in her ears. She bent to snatch the broken pieces, her fingers trembling so badly she nearly cut herself. Then she bolted, her sandals slapping the earth, her heart racing faster than her feet.

She didn’t stop until she reached the stream. Dropping the shards in the grass, she collapsed to her knees, chest heaving.

A curse? An oath? Sealed before I could even speak?

The sound of footsteps made her spin. Daniel stood a few feet away, his brow furrowed, sweat damp on his collar.

“Promise? What happened?”

Her lips moved, but no sound came at first. Finally, she swallowed hard. “I… I heard them. The elders. They said something about me. About an oath. They said I can’t leave.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve heard whispers too. My father once said there was something about your birth. But I thought it was just a story to scare children.”

“It’s not a story,” Promise whispered. Her eyes were wide, her hands trembling. “It’s real. They trapped me before I could even choose.”

Daniel’s hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for her but held back. “Then you’ll have to fight it.”

Promise shook her head, tears brimming. “How? If it’s true… if they bound me before I even had a chance to live…” Her voice cracked. “Daniel, what if I never escape this place?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the gurgling stream.

Then Daniel spoke, quietly but with steel: “Promise, cages are made by men. And what men make, men can break. You’re not alone.”

The words sank into her chest like hot coals. But deep inside, a seed of fear had already been planted.

That evening, Promise confronted Mama.

“Mama,” she began, her voice trembling as they stirred the pot of soup. “Tell me the truth. What happened when I was born?”

Mama stiffened, her back still turned. The spoon scraped hard against the pot, the smell of egusi thick in the air.

“Mama, please,” Promise pressed. “I heard the elders. They said something about an oath. About me.”

The spoon slipped from Mama’s hand and clattered to the floor. Slowly, she turned. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Promise,” she whispered, her voice shaking, “some doors are better left closed.”

“I deserve to know!” Promise cried. “Is it true? Did you let them bind me to this place?”

Mama’s lips trembled. She braced herself against the table. “It was the only way to keep you alive. You were born sick, your breath shallow, your body frail. The elders said you would not survive unless a covenant was made. Your father — he begged them. He agreed. He asked them to save you.”

Promise staggered back, as though struck. “So you traded my freedom for my life.”

“Would you rather be dead?” Mama’s voice cracked. “I chose my daughter over everything. Forgive me if that was wrong.”

Promise’s chest rose and fell rapidly. The truth was a blade twisting inside her. “Mama… I love you. But I will not let their oath decide my destiny. Lagos is waiting. My dream is waiting.”

Tears streamed down Mama’s cheeks. “Promise, please. You cannot fight gods and live.”

But Promise turned away, her jaw set, her eyes burning. In her heart, a storm had begun to brew.

The days that followed grew heavier. The playful exchanges she once had with Daniel turned somber. He still walked her home, still lingered by the stream, but laughter rarely came. His silence felt like another secret pressing between them.

One evening, fireflies dotted the dusk as Promise sat by the stream, hugging her knees. Daniel lowered himself beside her, his elbows resting on his thighs.

“Promise, I don’t think they’ll ever let you go,” he said quietly. “They’ve lived their whole lives inside this fear. For them, keeping you here is easier than questioning everything they’ve believed.”

Promise stared at the fireflies, their glow flickering like tiny flames. “Then maybe I have to be the question, Daniel. Maybe I have to be the one thing they can’t ignore.”

He looked at her then, truly looked, and something shifted in his eyes — not just admiration, but recognition. As if he was seeing not just the girl by the stream, but the woman she was becoming.

At home, the tension with Mama thickened. Some nights, their arguments ended in silence so heavy it smothered the hut. Yet even in anger, Promise noticed how Mama lingered by the doorway when she thought her daughter slept, whispering prayers under her breath. Those prayers weren’t chains, but fear stitched into words. And fear, Promise knew, was heavy enough to crush both love and hope if left unchecked.

One night, as the village slept and the drums fell silent, Promise lay awake on her mat. She could still hear Daniel’s voice in her head — cages are made by men, and men can break them. She turned those words over until they no longer felt like comfort, but like a command.

She placed her hand on the magazine hidden under her mat, pressing it to her chest. “They may have written a secret before I could speak,” she whispered to the dark, “but I will write my own story before I die.”

The wind rattled the thatched roof as though the night itself had heard her vow.

Promise closed her eyes, the storm in her chest no longer fear, but fire.

And for the first time, she began to imagine not just leaving Umuaka — but breaking it wide open.