Convenant Of Ashes

Part Two- Covenant of Ashes

The story of my father did not begin in this mansion. It began in the heat and dust of Okoko in a single-room self-contain where dreams went to suffocate. The air there was always heavy with the smell of sweat, fried oil, and frustration. My father was a man who carried the weight of his own failures like bricks in his pockets, yet somehow he still managed to smile for my mother, Adaeze.

They met in suffering. Adaeze my mother was a seamstress whose hands were rough from needle pricks, and my father was a painter who painted other peoples walls while his own home peeled in shame. They laughed through hunger and shared palm wine on days when their pockets were empty, but love does not always pay rent.

The night it all began, the landlord came like a storm. His fists pounded the door until the wood splintered, his voice slicing through the humid air. My father pleaded, Adaeze begged, but there are no miracles for the poor. By midnight, they were on the street with nothing but two small bags and the kind of silence that hurts more than words.

My father wandered ahead, his feet slapping against the wet road, the rain soaking him until he was just another shadow in the night. Somewhere between despair and exhaustion, he reached the abandoned Okoko market. The stalls stood like broken teeth, and the wind whistled through rusted zinc roofs.

That was when he saw them.

Three figures stood at the far end of the square, tall enough that their heads nearly brushed the sagging electric cables. Wings stretched from their backs, but they were not the soft, white feathers of Sunday school stories. These wings were cracked, as if made of ancient stone, and dripping with something dark. Their faces were half-hidden, but their eyes burned like embers deep in a dying fire.

They spoke in voices that were not entirely human low, metallic, and echoing like a chorus of whispers inside a tunnel. My father never told what words were exchanged. All I know is that when he returned to my mother, his eyes looked different. Harder. Hungrier.

Years later, on the night of Mrs. Graces death, I heard those voices again.

It began with a scream high and sharp, slicing the air like glass breaking. Then came the thud of running feet, the crash of something heavy falling, and my sisters frantic sobs. I could feel the house itself shivering. My father shouted something I couldn't understand, his voice a tangled knot of rage and despair.

And beneath it all, I heard them the same low, inhuman murmurs that had haunted the market square in Okoko. The same presence. The same promise.

That night, Mrs. Graces body was carried out of the house. And in the silence that followed, the darkness felt alive.