CHAPTER ONE — THE NIGHT OF BLOOD
The night began like any ordinary evening in the quiet outskirts of Ugwuta village. The air smelled of roasted yam and palm oil, a scent that always drifted from the small fire behind the hut whenever Kelechi and his father prepared dinner together. The sky above was deep purple, sprinkled with small shy stars that seemed to hide behind thin clouds. Crickets chirped lazily in the grass, and a gentle breeze rustled the mango tree that stood proudly beside the family's home.
Twelve-year-old Kelechi sat on a low wooden stool, turning the yam slices over the fire while his father hummed a tune—one he always sang when he was in a good mood. Inside the hut, his mother's laughter echoed softly as she arranged clay bowls and filled the air with warmth that felt like it could never disappear. Life was simple, but to Kelechi, it was enough. It was home.
He didn't know that tonight would steal everything from him.
A distant crack disrupted the peace. It was sharp—unnatural. Kelechi paused, confused. His father stopped humming. They both listened. For a moment, the night turned still, as if the world was holding its breath.
Then came the second crack—louder, clearer.
His father stood instantly.
"Kelechi," he whispered, voice suddenly tight, "put out the fire."
Kelechi's heart raced as he grabbed a handful of sand and threw it over the flames. Darkness swallowed the backyard. His father crouched low, eyes scanning the shadows beyond the compound's fence. More sounds floated through the air—shouting, running footsteps, the unmistakable metallic click of guns being loaded.
"Kenechi! Chike! What is happening?" his mother called from inside the hut, her voice trembling.
Before his father could answer, the night exploded.
The compound gate burst open as men dressed in black scarves stormed through. Bandits—fifteen, maybe more. They moved like angry shadows, rifles raised, machetes gleaming. Their boots pounded the dry earth.
"Inside now!" his father ordered, pushing Kelechi toward the water drum behind the hut. "Hide. No matter what happens, don't come out. Do you hear me?"
Kelechi nodded, fear choking his throat. He crouched behind the drum, pressing his hand over his mouth to keep from gasping.
His father slipped out into the open, standing tall despite the gun pointed at him. His mother was dragged out by two bandits, her wrapper torn, her eyes wide with terror.
"What do you want?" his father demanded. "We have nothing! Take food, take the goats—just don't hurt us!"
A man with a scar across his cheek stepped forward. The leader.
"We take what we want," he growled. "And today, we take more than goats."
He raised his rifle.
"No!" Kelechi's mother screamed, struggling violently, but the bandits held her fast.
Kelechi clung to the drum, shaking, teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt. His vision blurred with tears as he watched helplessly.
Two gunshots shattered the night.
His father fell first. His mother hit the ground beside him moments later. It happened so fast Kelechi didn't even hear himself scream inside his mind.
The bandits laughed—loud, cruel, careless. They tore through the hut, stealing pots, clothes, anything they could find. One kicked the small fire pit, scattering ashes across the yard. Another smashed the clay bowls his mother had arranged just minutes ago.
Kelechi trembled, trying not to make a sound. If they found him, he would die. But part of him didn't care. Part of him wanted to scream, to run at them, to claw at their eyes.
But his father's last words held him down like an iron chain.
No matter what happens. Don't come out.
It felt like hours before the bandits left, shouting and laughing as they disappeared into the forest, leaving smoke, silence, and blood behind.
Kelechi stayed hidden long after their voices faded. He didn't trust silence anymore. His breath came in short, painful bursts. His small body felt cold and hollow, as if someone had scooped out everything inside him.
Finally, when the night grew quiet again—too quiet—he crawled out from behind the drum.
The sight broke him.
His mother lay on her side, eyes open but empty. His father's hand was stretched toward the drum, toward him, as if he'd been reaching to protect him even in his last breath. Both of them were still. Too still.
Kelechi fell to his knees beside them. His hands shook as he touched their faces—warm at first, then slowly cooling. Tears spilled freely, dripping onto their clothes, mixing with the dust and blood.
"Papa… Mama…" he whispered, voice cracking. "Please… get up. Please."
The moon rose higher, shining on the small broken family. The wind blew softly, carrying the smell of gunpowder and burnt thatch. The night felt wrong, heavy, as though the world itself was mourning.
Kelechi stayed there for a long time. He cried until he couldn't cry anymore. His throat burned. His eyes stung. His heart felt like it had cracked into pieces too sharp to ever fix.
Eventually, something shifted inside him—not strength, not courage… something darker. Something wounded and burning.
He stood, wiping his face with trembling hands.
He looked toward the path the bandits had taken. He memorized their footsteps in the dust. He burned their leader's scarred face into his mind. He listened to the silence and let it fill him with a new kind of fire.
The fire of promise.
The fire of revenge.
"I will survive…" he whispered, voice shaking but determined. "I will survive… and one day… I will make them pay."
With nothing but his father's old knife, a torn shirt, and the weight of his grief, Kelechi turned away from the home that would never be home again. The forest loomed ahead, dark and dangerous, but he didn't hesitate.
He stepped into the trees, swallowed by shadows, carrying with him the last echo of the life he once knew.
That night, a boy died.
And something else was born.