The seasons turned.
Rains returned to wash the village paths, turning dust into fertile earth. Harvest came earlier than expected, and the yam barns overflowed. Elders claimed it was a sign—the gods were pleased. Birds flew lower in the mornings, and even the village dogs stopped barking at shadows. Abiriba was at peace.
In the royal courtyard, preparations were underway again, but this time, they were not for a coronation or a celebration.
They were for a naming.
Inside the inner chamber, Uzoaru held her newborn child to her chest—a girl with strong lungs and eyes that mirrored the prince's. The child had come into the world under the watchful gaze of the moon, born at the hour when the wind turned and the udala fruit fell from the tree unshaken.
"She will be named," said Nwabueze, entering the room with a calabash of spring water, "after my mother's mother. And yours."
Uzoaru smiled, weary but radiant. "Let her be called Nnenna—mother's mother. The one who brings us full circle."
The high priest arrived shortly after, bearing a small gourd of sacred oil and a carved stone wrapped in cloth. He anointed the child's forehead, then placed the stone near her foot. It was a piece of the cliff from Ndinkpa, retrieved as a symbol of her mother's journey and sacrifice.
"This child carries the strength of rivers," Ugonna declared. "She will walk between tradition
and change."
Outside, villagers gathered in colorful wrappers, dancing with jubilant feet. Nwanne stood among them, a garland of white cowries on her forehead. She had accepted a position as a teacher at the shrine school—training girls not in magic or rivalry, but in purpose and history.
She watched the people celebrate, and her heart was calm.
Inside the palace, the queen mother stood beside the couple, eyes glistening.
"We name rulers," she said, "but the gods shape them. Your child, Uzoaru, will inherit more than land or title. She inherits a story."
"And a healed kingdom," Nwabueze added.
That evening, a festival was held beneath the full moon. There was music, yes—but also stories. Griots recited the tale of two maidens who braved storms, spirits, and sacrifice—not for power, but for truth. The children sat with wide eyes, clapping and gasping, asking over and over again, "And then what happened?"
And the griot would say, with a knowing smile, "Then they returned... not as rivals, but as sisters. And in their unity, a kingdom was saved."
As the fire crackled and the moon cast silver light upon the dancers, Uzoaru cradled her daughter in her arms. She looked to the sky, where stars blinked like ancestral eyes.
She whispered, "The curse is broken. The crown is whole."
And Abiriba slept beneath the peace earned by courage, forgiveness, and love.