Determined by fate

Chapter two-When rain wrote their names together

Ugonma was reminiscing on how she and Obinna met.

It was a rainy day. Ugonma’s parents had insisted she would not step out of the house until the rain stopped.

She was in elementary two and loved going to school. The teachers adored her for her quick mind and cheerful readiness to run errands. She was already dressed up, her small satchel neatly packed, waiting patiently in her mother’s hut while the rain poured like an endless song on the thatched roof.

Her father came in, drenched. The short walk from his hut to his wife’s—barely two meters apart—had left him dripping wet. His pair of shorts clung stubbornly to his buttocks.

“It’s not wise for Ugonma to go to school today,” he advised, shaking off water from his arms.

Ugonma turned sharply. “Why, dad? The rain will soon stop.”

“Even if it stops, everywhere will be muddy and unsafe for you to trek.”

“No, dad, I must go to school!” she cried, her small face tightening with determination.

Her mother, seeing that familiar stubborn spark, quickly intervened before tears and tantrums followed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go with her,” she said softly.

“Okay, if you insist,” her husband replied. “But make sure she’s safe.”

“Nothing will happen to our daughter,” she promised confidently.

Thirty minutes later, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Ugonma’s mother would have preferred they wait until it stopped completely, but her daughter’s insistence left her no choice.

So they stepped out, with droplets of water sprinkling their heads like tiny blessings. Her mother untied one of her wrappers and draped it over Ugonma’s shoulders to shield her from the rain and the cold.

Just as they reached the school gate, the heavens opened again. The rain came down in heavy sheets. There was nowhere to hide, no tree or shed nearby. By the time they made it to the school veranda, both were soaked through, shivering but smiling.

Classes began, but Ugonma had no book to write on—all her books were wet. She laid them outside on the veranda to dry once the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Her uniform had begun to dry as well. She stepped out to check on her books and froze. A boy stood there.

“Someone wanted to take your books,” he said as she approached.

She had never seen him before. He looked older than her classmates.

“I saw you when you spread them,” he continued. “Then a boy came to pick one. I chased him away and decided to wait here till you came back.”

“Oh! Thank you,” she said with a grateful smile. “I don’t have another book to write on. I wish they’d dry quickly. I couldn’t write anything during English, and soon it’ll be Mathematics.” Her voice faltered, her eyes welling with frustration.

The boy watched her for a moment, then smiled. “Wait here.” He ran off and returned moments later with a clean exercise book.

“You can write on this one,” he said simply, handing it to her.

Her eyes lit up. “Thank you!” she exclaimed, hugging the book like a treasure before running off to class.

From that day, the boy—Obinna—became her quiet guardian. He kept watch over her books until they were dry. Soon after, they became inseparable friends.

But time had its way. When Obinna finished elementary six, he left the village for further studies. Ugonma, still in elementary four, had cried when she heard the news. No one could tell her where he went, and with time, the memory of the boy who gave her a book faded into the corners of her heart.

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Years later, fate brought them together again—on a night when the moon glowed brighter than usual. It was the night of the full moon festival, when the village came alive with wrestling matches and the maiden dance.

Everyone looked forward to it—the drums, the laughter, the shimmer of waist beads as maidens moved to the rhythm of the flutes. The young men wrestled to prove their strength. Many love stories in the village began under that same moonlight. Even Ugonma’s parents had first met on such a night.

It was also on a full moon night that Ugonma herself was born. Her mother had been preparing to leave for the village square when she felt the first pang of labor. All day she had been restless, mistaking it for excitement over the festivities.

“Are you ready, Nkem?” her husband had called, stepping into her hut. ‘Nkem’—my own—was his special name for her.

“Yes, nnayi,” she replied, stepping out.

But before they could leave the compound, she felt warmth trickle down her legs. Looking down, she gasped—her water had broken. Her husband ran to fetch Nwayieke, the traditional midwife, and moments later, Ugonma was born to the muffled throb of drums echoing from the square. The sound of the maiden dance drifted softly into their hut as a newborn’s cry joined the night.

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Now, years later, that same maiden—born under the full moon—led the maiden dance herself. Her waist beads jingled as her movements followed the rhythm of the drums. Cheers rose as she danced gracefully, her smile lighting up the crowd.

The wrestling match followed immediately. The crowd roared as Okechukwu and Obiozor locked arms, muscles trembling with effort, each determined to throw the other. Ugonma was watching intently when someone touched her shoulder.

“Ugonma,” a familiar voice said.

She turned—and froze. It was Obinna. Older, taller, his smile unchanged.

Her heart fluttered. It was as if the years between them dissolved in that moment. They talked, laughed, and just like before, their friendship rekindled—this time with the warmth of something deeper.

Over time, affection blossomed into love. They became inseparable once again.

Now, standing before her mother, her voice trembling yet firm, Ugonma declared,

“Mama, I insist—I can’t marry that old man!”