Name: The story I never told
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Chapter 1 1

People kept warning me, but I brushed it off. Even when my own inner voice joined in, whispering, What if it's true? I buried it deep, afraid of what I might find if I dug it up. Yet the more I ignored it, the more it seemed to seep into my life, casting shadows over my relationships, my ambitions, my peace.

One night, a lady I was seeing looked at me with a mixture of confusion and sadness. "Beenzu," she said, voice trembling, "Every time I'm with you... I feel something wrong. It's like something's following you."

I forced a laugh, but a chill settled over me. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying... people are talking. They say you've been cursed."

That comment would have been easy enough to dismiss, except it wasn't the first time I'd heard it. Her words tore open memories I'd tried to forget-moments when people seemed to look at me with that same strange pity, that same knowing fear. I remembered something a prophet once told me, how he'd suddenly switched from talking about the problem I had come for to talking about me.

One day, a brother of mine went missing, and in the midst of my search, I met a woman who claimed she knew someone who could help. She gave me the prophet's number and said, "Tell him you got the cell number from me." I didn't think much of it, but I called, desperate to bring my brother home. He made an appointment, and though I lost track of time before the meeting, he graciously waited, even sending someone to guide me to his house.

The place smelled of old incense, the kind that lingered, that stayed with you like a warning. Shadows from flickering candles danced on the walls, and his gaze was sharp, piercing. After a quick prayer, I barely started talking about my brother when he cut me short. "You know what, my brother?" His voice was grave. "The only thing I can tell you about your life is that you need a lot of help."

I blinked, confused. Wasn't I here for my brother?

But the prophet continued, his voice filling the room. "There are two people in your life, working hard so you'll never achieve anything. I see them going to an anthill around 19 hours, burying something there. And if you're not careful, you'll get frustrated and drink beer, thinking it's just stress. But that's exactly their plan. Their plan was to make your back ache every day so you can do no work in your life."

A shiver ran down my spine, his words echoing with an eerie certainty. Could this really be true?

When I finally left, my mind was reeling, but I buried it. I wasn't one to believe in such things. That night, though, I couldn't shake the thought. Could something-someone-really be working against me?

My thoughts were interrupted as the lady touched my shoulder, pulling me back into the present. Her eyes were wide with concern as she handed me the phone, already dialed and ringing. She whispered, "If you don't believe me, maybe you'll listen to her."

I swallowed, my pulse racing. I could hear the woman's voice on the other end, calm yet unsettling. "Hello, Beenzu. Do you know what's happening in your life?"

I responded, "Yes," though I wasn't sure what she meant. "Maybe you should explain what you mean."

She told me how she had wanted to talk to me the first time she saw me, but I had already gone. How if I didn't seek help soon, it would be hard for me to move forward. I had no idea who she was, but her voice held a strange authority. I remembered another strange conversation-one I'd had with my uncle after visiting the prophet. I'd asked him, What if there's something spiritual hindering me? What if people are playing with my life?

My phone had rung seconds later; it was my uncle, his voice sharp. "Beenzu, which people are you talking about? You think we'd take you to school only to ruin your life later?"

I had felt so stupid then, but now, listening to the woman on the phone, those old fears crept back. "So," she asked, "what are you going to do?"

"I... I'm not sure," I replied.

"You can follow me, or I can come there. I'll need traveling fare, though."

Embarrassed, I said, "Oh, yes, I remember, we agreed on that." The lady beside me shot me a sympathetic look. She whispered, "I'll pay for you. I also need some help."

A thought hit me, sharp and cold. I remembered how, after my conversation with my uncle, a friend had invited me out for drinks. Nyambe was waiting at a small mini-mart, whiskey and lagers lined up on the counter. I'd tried to tell him and another friend, Stewart, about the prophet's words, but they only laughed. None of us believed in that stuff, anyway. The whole conversation passed like breath in the wind, the laughter drowning my doubts.

Yet here I was again, staring down the same shadows. Could all of this be real? Or was I losing myself in fear? But deep down, I knew one thing: if this was real, facing it would be harder than anything I'd ever known.

To be continued...

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The story I never told

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