A beast stalks the forest. A boy seeks the truth. A legacy awaits...
In the heart of 17th-century Igbo land, young Nta, orphaned of a father he never knew and raised by a mother who holds more secrets than stories, Nta's days of mischief and imagination took a sharp turn when he stumbled upon whispers of an ancient terror; Nzubezu, a shadowy creature feared by all, believed by few.
But Nzubezu is more than myth. As elders grow restless, hunters vanish, and the village struggles with a crippling terror, Nta finds himself caught between what is remembered, what is forgotten, and what still lurks in the dark.
Told through vivid prose and layered with ancestral lore, NWANTA is a sweeping tale of courage, culture, and identity. As Nta's journey unfolds, so too does the mystery of his lineage, the burden of manhood, and the power of oral storytelling, a tale of coming-of-age steeped in Igbo cosmology.
If you love rich world-building, unforgettable characters, and stories that honor African heritage.
NWANTA will leave you breathless.
PROLOGUE
In the heart of the ancient forest, nightfall brought with it a peculiar stillness, as if the land itself held its breath. The hum of crickets formed a trembling chorus beneath the towering canopy, while the pale light of the moon spilled through gaps in the foliage, painting streaks of silver on the forest floor. The grass swayed gently, caressed by an unseen hand, yet an air of unspoken tension hung heavy, a foreboding that made even the trees seem alive with secrets.
This was no ordinary night.
Nnamoke, a young hunter from the village of Alanta, moved deftly through the dense underbrush. Tall and broad-shouldered, he bore the carriage of one born to the hunt, though his heart betrayed a slight unease. His bow was gripped firmly in his hand, the arrows on his back as sharp as his instincts. For generations, the hunters of Alanta had been revered, accounts of their valor carried on the lips of bards and whispered among neighboring villages. Yet tonight, the forest whispered something darker.
The young man crouched low, his fingers brushing against blades of grass that bore the faint signs of passage, a trail, a whisper of something that had come this way not long ago. He frowned, tilting his head as if listening to the rhythm of the earth. The forest seemed to speak to him, but its language was slightly different tonight, its tones uncertain.
“Strange,” Nnamoke muttered, his voice barely audible.
Behind him, two other hunters stood silently, their silhouettes blending with the shadows of the trees. One of them, Obinna, stepped forward, his spear glinting in the moonlight. His voice carried the same caution that lingered in the air.
“What is it, Nnamoke?”
“Antelope,” Nnamoke replied, his eyes narrowing as they traced the faint indentations in the ground. “But something else passed here, too.”
The forest exhaled, a low, restless breeze that rustled the leaves above. As if summoned by Nnamoke’s words, a shadow flickered at the edge of their vision. It moved with unnatural speed, a blur of darkness against the shimmer of moonlight. All three men froze, their hearts quickening. The forest, once familiar and welcoming, now felt like a predator itself, each tree a silent conspirator.
“What else?” Obinna whispered, his voice tight with unease.
Nnamoke’s grip on his bow tightened, the calluses on his hands pressing against the smooth wood. “We are about to find out.”
They spread out instinctively, forming a vigilant circle with each man’s back to the other, their bodies taut as bowstrings. Every sound —the rustle of leaves, the faint murmur of the wind — felt amplified, each noise a harbinger of something unseen.
And then, it happened.
A scream ripped through the stillness, sharp and sudden like the crack of lightning. Nnamoke spun, his pulse pounding in his ears, only to find the place where Obinna had stood now empty. The scream faded, swallowed by the night, but its echo lingered like a haunting note that sent terror racing up Nnamoke’s spine.
The remaining hunter, Kalu, met Nnamoke’s gaze, his fear palpable. “What! ..., what was that?” he stammered.
Nnamoke, ever the leader, steadied himself. “Stay close. Do not let the forest separate us.”
But the forest, it seemed, had other plans.
Another scream, this time to the left. Nnamoke turned, his bow raised, but there was no one beside him. Kalu was gone, his voice a distant, fading cry. The once-familiar trails of the forest now twisted into a labyrinth of shadows, each corner holding the promise of danger.
He was alone.
The young hunter’s breath came in measured bursts as he scanned the darkness, his senses alive with the sharpness of survival. Movement to his right drew his attention, and with practiced precision, he let an arrow fly. It struck something, a low grunt confirmed the hit, but whatever it was melted back into the blackness as if the night were its kin.
Nnamoke stood his ground, his chest heaving with controlled fury. “I am Nnamoke,” he called into the void, his voice ringing with the pride of his ancestors. “I am the great hunter of Alanta. I shall not be cut down by you, beast!”
The forest seemed to mock him; its silence was heavier than before. And then, they came eyes, gleaming with an unearthly light, watching him from the depths of the trees. They were patient and deliberate, moving closer with every heartbeat.
From the depths of the forest, this pair of eyes watched him, glowing with predatory threat. They moved closer, quietly, deliberately. Nnamoke turned, knife gleaming in the moonlight, ready for the strike. A shadow descended, swift and merciless. In that final moment, a scream tore from his throat, swallowed into the night as the forest reclaimed its silence. Above, bats scattered like fragments of a broken promise strewn into the dark sky.
The forest remembered. It always did.
CHAPTER 1
Nta, spirited and wild-eyed, clutched his stick as though it were a weapon forged in a warrior’s fire. At twelve, he possessed a relentless curiosity, his gaze constantly sweeping over the world, devouring every sight as if it held secrets only he could decipher. Today, he ventured into the depths of the Alanta Forest, an ancient sanctuary where light and shadow intermingled, giving life to whispered stories of beasts and heroes.
There, amidst the towering trees, he moved with a natural grace, one that only youth and unburdened dreams could inspire. Around him, the forest was alive, a symphony of life playing on unseen instruments: the shrill chirp of birds, the persistent drone of insects, and the soft, almost reverent murmur of leaves brushed by a gentle wind. For Nta, this place was no mere backdrop; it was a battleground. Here he could play the warrior, heedless of his real-world duties, which lay somewhere behind him like an old garment he’d shrugged off.
Near an ancient Iroko tree, as sturdy as it was wise, Nta paused. His imagination ignited, summoning visions of bygone heroes who once stood fearless before mythical beasts. Tightening his grip on the stick, he crouched low, mimicking the poised stance of the village wrestlers. He began circling the tree, the stick held firm in his grasp, as he’d seen the men do in the village square when preparing for a match. He could almost hear the crowd’s roar, the applause of unseen spectators who called his name as he prowled, poised to meet his imaginary foe.
In the vivid landscape of his mind, Nta faced a procession of impossible enemies. But then, with an audible crack, reality intruded, the stick splintered, shattering the fragile bubble of his imagination. Nta’s face twisted in brief frustration as he examined the broken weapon, wondering where he might find another to replace it, a spear that could meet his lofty standards. For now, though, his battlefield fell silent, his imaginary victories cut short.
. . .
Back in the village, his mother Udemma waited, her patience stretched thin. She stood by the raffia fence, eyes straining for any hint of movement, a mother’s instincts tugging her thoughts in a dozen directions. Nta had set off to fetch something from Ekeoma, yet here she was, waiting with empty hands. Was he off with Buife, the neighbor’s daughter, engaged in some mischief? Unlikely. She would have heard his unmistakable laughter. Still, of all the places a boy could wander, where might he be? As the scent of simmering food wafted from her hut, her heart wrestled between anger and worry.
Udemma pulled back from the fence, frustration settling into her features. “Nta,” she muttered, her voice low but edged with a mother’s mounting frustration, “if I get hold of you.” The words trailed off, incomplete, but the promise of consequences lingered in the air.
She glanced back toward her cooking fire, a fresh worry gnawing at her. The meal was nearly ready, yet it lacked the very ingredient she had sent her son to fetch. She stared into the pot, deliberating, her anger simmering alongside the thick egusi paste, browned goat meat, and bubbling broth rich with ground crayfish and palm oil. Without the butterleaf, the soup lacked its soul.
In the end, she withdrew the embers from the fire, leaving the food warm but hopefully not overcooking it. Muttering a promise she half-meant to keep, one involving scolding, perhaps even a light swat, she marched out of the compound, resolving to track down the boy who was as restless as the wind.
. . .
Unaware of the storm that brewed on the village horizon, Nta wandered deeper into the forest, his steps guided by boyish ambition. What was a warrior without his spear? With a mischievous grin, he spotted a branch. The bark was rough, its surface biting into his palms as he claimed it, triumphant. It wasn’t just a stick; it was a weapon, a companion, a key to a realm of make-believe.
The Alanta Forest seemed to bend to his imagination. Its towering trees pulsed a synchronized rhythm in harmony with the tune of the wind, forming a lively score for his adventures. Here, the mundane transformed. Gnarled roots became fortresses, shafts of sunlight became divine blessings, and shifting shadows became the movements of unseen adversaries. In this sanctuary, Nta was king, warrior, and storyteller.
With renewed vigor, he resumed his exploration of the forest, his laughter mingling with the whispers of the trees. At fourteen, he moved with the unburdened spirit of youth, fearless and unyielding, a boy unshackled by doubt. His courage was not loud but steady, a flame kindled by the unknown lineage of a father he never knew, a father who, they said, died in this very forest just before he was born. No one ever told him how or why. The not-knowing lingered at the edges of his mind, not heavy, not often, but there, like a shadow that passed now and then between him and the sky-wide freedom he carried in his chest.
Still the forests of Alanta, vast and ancient, did not repel him; they welcomed him as if recognizing a kindred soul. The trees overhead leaned inward, the branches interweaving and forming an ethereal cathedral. Light pierces the dome, dappling the uneven ground beneath his feet. To Nta, the forest was more than a place; it was a companion, a keeper of secrets, and a stage for his boundless imagination. Nta shaped the forest around him as if it were clay, merging the outer world with the vivid landscapes of his mind.
Alone but never lonely, Nta embraced the life around him with the spirit of a boy who had mastered the art of finding joy in his own company. At that moment, the forests of Alanta and the boy were one.
Meanwhile, beyond the veil of trees, the village of Alanta sprawled in harmony with nature. Mud huts, capped with thatched roofs, stood proudly within their circular compounds bounded by fences of woven raffia and sturdy sticks. Towering palms and Iroko trees lent their shade to the humble dwellings. At all times, smoke spiraled lazily from the rounded roofs, carrying with it the scent of wood smoke and the warmth of home.
Nta emerged from the forest at last, his play giving way to curiosity. A familiar voice lured him to a palm frond fence that encircled one of the village compounds. Peering through the gaps in the fence, he glimpsed Obalike, one of the village elders. His weathered face, grey hair, and slender frame had always told Nta that Obalike was probably one of the oldest men in the village. But Obalike was also a mystery, as his mother had subtly warned him to stay away from the old man. Beside the old man sat Nkweaba, a boy a few moons younger than Nta, his eyes wide with wonder as Obalike spun his tale.
“There I was,” Obalike began, his voice low and measured, “creeping through the forest, not knowing that Nzubezu lay a few meters from where I was, masked by the darkness of the night.”
Nta edged closer, holding his breath as if the slightest sound might disrupt the moment. His heart raced with the thrill of Obalike’s words. How often had he imagined the legendary Nzubezu, its form lurking in the shadowed corners of his mind? He leaned as close as he could get, willing the old man to speak a little louder. “How big was it?” he whispered to himself, his heart racing with excitement. If only Obalike would describe the beast, his imagination could soar higher.
Obalike’s voice rose as if in answer to Nta’s unspoken wish. “It was a beast, so big!” His hands gestured animatedly, carving invisible shapes in the air, sketching the outline of something monstrous. Then his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “Very, very big. And fierce looking, too.”
As Obalike spun his tale, Fenenu, a man of sturdy build, emerged from the shadows of the hut. His brow furrowed as he settled beside a bundle of woven twines, his fingers deftly weaving in practiced rhythm. The lines etched on his face spoke of burdens carried with stoic grace, a stark contrast to Obalike’s animated demeanor.
“What animal was it?” Nkweaba's voice trembled with excitement, his eyes fixed on Obalike.
“A Pig,” Obalike declared, his tone unwavering. “A giant, wild Pig.”
Fenenu sighed deeply, his hands pausing mid-weave. “Papa, not again. Nzubezu is a leopard, not a Pig,” Fenenu muttered under his breath, though his father’s sharp ears caught the words.
Obalike’s eyes flared with defiance. “You mock me as they do,” he said, his voice trembling with the weight of unspoken wounds. “But should I deny what I saw just to appease them? The gods forbid. I know what I saw. It was no leopard, it was a wild Pig.”
The tension hung thick in the stillness of the evening. Nta, unnoticed, clung to the fence, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and unease. He was caught between the allure of the tale and the palpable strain between father and son.
Fenenu's shoulders sagged, the weight of his father's reputation heavy upon him. “Does their laughter not shame you?” he asked quietly.
“Why should it?” Obalike retorted sharply.
Fenenu's fingers continued their steady rhythm, his voice barely a whisper, “Indeed, the kins of a madman often bear his burdens.”
“What did you say?” Obalike's voice pierced the air like a sudden thunderclap.
Fenenu looked up, his eyes meeting his father's without flinching. “Nothing,” he replied evenly, his hands never ceasing their work.
“You think me mad, as the village does,” Obalike muttered bitterly, eyes fixed on Fenenu. “But I know what I saw that night. It was no ordinary Leopard, but a wild Pig. A giant, wild Pig with eyes like red-hot coals of fire.” Obalike raised his scarred hand, the faded lines testifying to past encounters. “Can a Leopard inflict such wounds?” he demanded.
Fenenu sighed wearily, shaking his head in resignation.
Nkweaba did not share his father’s unbelief. He leaned closer. “How does Nzubezu attack?” he asked his grandfather.
Unseen by all, a pair of eyes glinted in the shadows beyond the fence, moving silently among the trees, its intent veiled in the mystery of the gathering dusk, its gaze fixed upon Nta. With silent stealth, they moved closer.
“It strikes when least expected,” Obalike whispered, his voice barely audible. “It uses surprise as its deadliest weapon.”
Nta was still by the fence, lost in his imaginings, enraptured by Obalike's storytelling and the brief drama that ensued between father and son.
A sudden movement disturbed the quiet of the surroundings. Sticks and leaves rustled violently on the ground, echoing Obalike’s narrative of a lurking beast. The air crackled with an ominous tension as unseen forces seemed to converge upon him. Nta, sensing a presence, turned with a jolt, his eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.
Obalike's voice echoed in his mind: The beast strikes when you least expect it.
Time seemed to slow as the forest behind him held its breath, and Nta felt a primal instinct surge within him, urging him to flee or confront whatever unseen danger lurked nearby. With startling swiftness, a hand emerged from the darkness, seizing Nta’s ear in a firm grip. Nta cried out in surprise as he was yanked away from the fence.
The sharp sound shattered the fragile stillness that clung to the air. Out of the gloom, Udemma emerged, a silhouette carved against the fading light, her presence undeniable and commanding. Around her neck, the necklace of leopard teeth caught the dying sun’s last rays, gleaming like an ancient talisman steeped in unspoken tales.
Her voice cut through the boy’s wails, unyielding and edged with a maternal authority. She scolded the boy, even as her heart swelled with relief.
“I have been searching for you,” she said, her grip a tether between her maternal fury and her fading fear.
Obalike, startled by the sudden commotion, lifted his gaze from the ground where he sat. His rheumy eyes strained to see beyond the palm frond fence where Nta and Udemma were entangled in a tense struggle, the boy trying to free his ear from his mother’s grasp, and his mother hanging on to it. Udemma's strong grip on Nta’s ear guided him forcefully away from Obalike’s fence.
The scene unfolded before Obalike like a cruel tableau. Memories surged within Obalike’s mind, each one a turbulent current threatening to overwhelm him. He was transported back to a time when shadows stood still on the forest floor, and the rustle of leaves foretold the coming of a monstrous presence.
In his mind’s eye, he saw himself once more in the depths of the woods, senses alert to the ominous signs around him. A shadow had stirred, its form vague yet menacing, eyes burning with a fierce, unearthly light. It was a force of nature, driven by a fury that resonated with the very heartbeat of the forest.
As Obalike recalled that haunting encounter, a chill ran down his spine despite the warmth of the fading sunlight. He gripped his cane tighter, the weathered wood a reassuring anchor in the sea of memories and uncertainty.
Obalike’s gaze remained fixed on the distant figures of Nta and Udemma until they disappeared into the gathering dusk. His lips moved silently, perhaps in prayer or in quiet contemplation of the unseen forces that shaped their lives in this ancient land.
“Grandpa?” Nkweaba’s voice cut through Obalike’s reverie, bringing him back to the present. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before focusing on Nkweaba.
“Perhaps we should continue another time,” Obalike said, rubbing his temples with weathered hands. “I am weary and need to rest. Go. Help your mother with supper.”
Nkweaba hesitated, torn between lingering and obeying. With a reluctant nod, he turned and dashed toward the hut, disappearing behind its brown walls. Obalike watched him go, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he turned his gaze back toward Udemma and Nta. His scarred hand rested against his chest. That scar would always be a reminder of all he’d lost: the respect of his people, the honor of his son, and the friendships that once defined his life.