The sun had barely risen over Umuike village when the wailing began. Adaeze's voice tore through the compound like a wounded bird, her arms clutching the lifeless body of her husband, Obinna. His skin was pale, his lips frozen in silence.
Neighbors gathered, whispering behind their wrappers. Some muttered prayers, others shook their heads as if death was contagious. The women held her, but no hand could quiet the scream that erupted from Adaeze's chest.
"Who will call me wife again? Who will hold me in the dark? Obinna, don't leave me in this wicked world!"
Her mother-in-law stood afar, her eyes sharp, calculating. For Adaeze, grief was only the beginning—custom and tradition had its own chains waiting to bind her.
The compound was crowded now. Men from the kindred walked in with long faces, pretending to mourn, but their eyes kept darting at Obinna's yam barns, his palm trees, and the farmland that stretched beyond the stream.
"A man has fallen," one of them said, shaking his head slowly. "Death has no respect."
Adaeze could hardly hear them. Her body trembled as the elders carried Obinna's body into the hut to prepare it for burial. She wanted to follow, to hold him one last time, but her mother-in-law, Mama Nnenna, blocked her path.
"You will not touch him again," Mama Nnenna said coldly. "A widow has no right to the body of the dead until the elders decide."
Adaeze's eyes widened. "But he is my husband!" she cried. "He is the father of my children. Let me sit by him!"
"Quiet!" Mama Nnenna's voice was sharp, cutting through Adaeze's grief. "Do not raise your voice against tradition. Do you want the spirits to strike you dead too?"
The women around murmured. Some pitied her, others turned away, afraid to be dragged into the storm brewing. Adaeze fell to her knees, her wrapper loose, her face soaked with tears. She reached for the dust and poured it on her head.
"Obinna, my love," she whispered. "They want to take you from me, even in death. Who will protect me now?"
Her little son, Chukwudi, tugged at her arm. The boy was barely six, his eyes swollen from crying. "Mama, is Papa sleeping?" he asked in a trembling voice.
Adaeze gathered him in her arms, her heart breaking. How could she explain death to a child who still believed his father was the strongest man alive?
As the funeral preparations continued, Adaeze began to notice the silent looks exchanged between the elders and her mother-in-law. Something dark lurked beneath their whispers. They were not only mourning Obinna's death—they were plotting the future of everything he left behind.
And Adaeze felt it in her spirit: her real battle had only just begun.
The wailing slowed as the day stretched, but the weight of sorrow only grew heavier. Drummers had begun to beat softly at the edge of the compound, their rhythms carrying the news of death across the village. Women ululated, men shook their heads, and children peered curiously from corners.
The body of Obinna was laid out on a raffia mat inside his hut. His chest was covered with a white cloth, his head resting on a wooden stool—signs of a man returning to the land of the ancestors. Elders filed in one after another, chanting, pouring libations, muttering words Adaeze could not understand.
She knelt by the doorway, forbidden to step inside. Her tears blurred her sight, but not her ears.
"This land he left behind must not waste," said Elder Okorie, his voice low, but clear enough. "A man cannot die and leave his riches in the hands of a woman. It is the custom of our fathers."
"Yes," another elder replied, clicking his tongue. "The widow must be purified first. We must know if she is clean—or if her hands killed the man."
Adaeze's heart froze. Her body shook violently. What are they saying?
Mama Nnenna stood proudly among them, her wrapper tied tightly, her face carrying neither grief nor softness. "My son will not die in vain," she declared. "His wife must drink the bitter water. If her heart is pure, she will live. If she has blood on her hands, the gods will expose her."
A murmur of agreement followed.
Adaeze gasped, stumbling backward as the words struck her like thunder. Bitter water! She had heard of it—an ancient ordeal where a widow was forced to drink a concoction of herbs mixed with charms. Many women had fainted, some had died, and others were marked as witches forever.
She clutched Chukwudi tighter. "Oh God, Obinna," she whispered, her lips trembling. "Why did you leave me at their mercy?"
From the corner, one of the younger men leaned toward Mama Nnenna and asked, "What about the farmlands? Who will take care of them now?"
Mama Nnenna's lips curled into a thin smile. "My son's brother, of course. It is his right. A widow cannot manage wealth. She will either remarry into this family or leave with nothing."
Adaeze's ears burned as rage and fear battled inside her. Her whole body felt weak, yet somewhere deep in her chest, a flame flickered. They thought she would break. They thought her cry was only of sorrow. But she knew, even in her trembling, that she would not let them strip her of everything.
The drums outside grew louder, signaling that the burial would begin at dusk.
As the sky turned red with evening fire, Adaeze lifted her eyes, wet with tears, and whispered, "Let the earth bear me witness—this cry of a widow will not be in vain."
The village square filled quickly as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of fire and sorrow. The sound of drums, gongs, and wailing blended into one heavy rhythm that carried Obinna toward his final rest.
His body, wrapped in white, was lifted by strong arms. The elders led the way, chanting incantations to guide his spirit. Behind them, men with palm torches cleared the path, their flames flickering in the gathering dusk.
Adaeze followed barefoot, her wrapper stained with dust, her hair loose and wild. Every step tore at her heart. The ground felt heavy beneath her feet, as if each grain of sand tried to hold her down.
At the graveside, the elders stood in a circle. One after another, they spoke words of tradition—words that carried more authority than comfort. Mama Nnenna's voice rose above the rest, strong and sharp.
"Spirits of the land, accept the soul of my son. Watch his widow closely. If her hands are clean, spare her. If not—let justice fall!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. All eyes turned to Adaeze. Some pitied her. Others nodded in approval of the harsh words.
Adaeze fell to her knees, clutching little Chukwudi to her chest. Tears streaked her dusty face as she raised her voice, broken but unyielding.
"Obinna, my love, they bury you tonight, but they bury me too. If the gods are truly just, let them hear my cry. Let them see my innocence."
The drummers struck harder, the earth trembled with chants, and as the body of Obinna was lowered into the grave, Adaeze's scream rose above every other sound—a cry that pierced the night, echoing beyond the village into the darkness.
It was the cry of a widow.