The Mad Woman's Daughter
The rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against the thatched roof of the small hut where Ireti lay writhing in pain. Her cries echoed into the night, swallowed by the indifference of a village that had long dismissed her as a lost cause.
Lightning illuminated the cramped space, revealing a frail woman drenched in sweat and rainwater that leaked through the broken roof. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body convulsing under the force of labor pains. She clutched her swollen belly, her nails digging into her flesh as another wave of agony tore through her.
She was alone.
No midwife. No helping hands. Only the storm and the suffocating silence of a world that had turned its back on her.
With one final, desperate push, the night was pierced by the shrill cry of a newborn. Ireti gasped, her body collapsing against the dirt floor. Trembling, she reached for the tiny child, cradling her against her chest.
A girl.
The storm outside had begun to fade, but inside, another had just begun.
Ireti's lips parted, her breath shaky. She had given life, but she knew—she knew—this world would not be kind to the child in her arms.
She had just birthed a daughter.
The mad woman's daughter.
And as the darkness pulled her under, she could only hope the girl would survive what