A Cry of Innocence: A Modern-Day Witch Hunt

By Stan-Collins Ubaka

For Ijeoma, its an ordinary afternoon. Shes curled up in a comfy chair, reading a novel, and enjoying her time off from school. Then her mother storms into the room and asks a question that will change the teenage girls life forever: Are you a witch?

Dumbfounded by the ridiculous charge, Ijeoma further learns that her classmate, a beautiful young girl named Adaugo, is dead. But before she died, Adaugo confessed to being a witch, and claimed that Ijeoma was one, as well. Ijeoma vehemently denies this charge, but her mother does not believe her. Worse, neither does her beloved father.

Their entire Nigerian village soon hears of the charge, and Ijeoma is judged accordingly. Helpless, vulnerable, nave, and inexperienced, Ijeoma is abandoned by her loved ones and forced to face the indignities of those who want her punished. But in the midst of the ashes of her life, Ijeoma clings to her faith and determines to discover the truth behind the deceit.

Intense and thought-provoking, A Cry of Innocence reveals the tragic consequences suffered by those falsely accused and serves as a stark reminder of societys responsibility to the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475947618

Stan-Collins Ubaka

Stan-Collins Ubaka (Dede Nna) is a graduate of the Major Seminary of Saints Peter and Paul, Bodija, Ibadan. He is ordained for the Catholic diocese of Issele-Uku and works as a priest. He is the author of several books, including A Cry of Innocence, Eternal Highways, and Spiritual Pathways.

Book preview

Chapter One

I was lost in the fantasy of a novel while relaxing on a cushioned chair when Mum stormed into the room and screamed at me. The novel told the story of a boy whom misfortune had turned into an orphan through the sudden and mysterious death of his parents. Mum’s disheveled appearance startled me, but I was taken aback by the disturbing question she threw at me: Are you a witch? At first, I thought I hadn’t heard her right and so just stared at her like a moron.

Are you dumb? I say are you a witch? she asked again. This time, it brought the reality of her question to bear on my consciousness. However, I still doubted that she’d voiced exactly what she’d meant to say because I couldn’t imagine Mum throwing such a question at me. The first time I heard about witches, it was from a movie I had watched where people turned into different creatures and sucked human blood. That night, I had dreamt that creatures were pursuing me. I had screamed so loudly that my parents heard me and rushed to find out what was amiss. When I told them about my nightmare, they hissed and went back to their room.

My response to Mum’s question was prolonged laughter. My initial thought was to wave it off as a joke, but still, I managed to swallow every possible unpleasant feeling such a joke could naturally instill because it had come from my mother! I desperately willed Mum to join me in the laughter, but my voice was the only one I heard. I raised my eyes to observe her face, and what I saw weakened me. It was a mixed expression of anger and disappointment.

Mum, what’s the matter? I asked.

Everything is the matter! she retorted.

Then, pointing her index finger at me, she threatened, See, I’m going into my room now because I want to give you time to think about this. By the time I come back, you must provide an answer to my question, or else be ready to face the music. She walked away, slamming the door behind her.

A chill ran down my spine. I stood up. I sat down. I stood up again. Two voices were conspicuously audible in my mind. Mum is joking, one voice said. Mum sounds serious; perhaps she has heard something somewhere, insisted the other.

I picked up the novel to continue from where I had stopped, but my hands were shaking uncontrollably. My eyes were already welling up with tears. I threw the novel on the floor, and with my eyes fixed to the ceiling, my thoughts drifted to my school. I imagined I was writing an examination, after which I came out tops and was awarded a prize for it. The sound of footsteps outside the doorway put a hold on my musing. I thought it was Mum and so braced myself for battle when my little sister, Okwukwe, walked in. She was the last child in my family, a girl of six with the wisdom and intelligence of a grown-up, People often related with her as if she were an adult. She was topless, adorned with a red skirt that had holes at the back. Around her neck hung a black thread to which was tied a white cowry shell; a native doctor had ordered her to always wear this shell. She had once been very sick. Everyone feared she wouldn’t survive the sickness. The native doctor whom Mum and Dad had consulted had explained that she was a reincarnation of Dad’s grandmother and that the sickness was a sign that she should be celebrated. The cowry that was tied to the thread around her neck had been the only antidote to the sickness.

Okwukwe’s eyes met mine and she smiled, but I did not return the smile. Being the outspoken type, she asked why I did not return her smile and then drew close to sit on the floor beside me. She looked up again into my eyes and saw the tears that had formed there, and then she probed further, Ijeoma, what is the matter?

I stood up. I felt the urge to cry but swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. I was overcome by a great deal of emotion that seemed to have taken over my whole being.

When I could no longer stomach the thoughts running through my mind, I went to meet Mum in her bedroom, to discuss the issue further and, most importantly, prove my innocence. She was sitting on the bed with her arms folded over her chest, her eyes fixed on the wall. I sat beside her.

Mum, what’s the matter? You sounded very strange.

Yes, because I only discovered today that you are a strange child. Those words fell on me like a hammer. This couldn’t be a joke any longer—Mum seemed very serious. I was about to ask her to explain further when she continued, My daughter, you must tell me the truth please. This morning, I went to Mr. Ogude’s house to sympathise with them over the death of their only daughter, Adaugo.

My heart stopped beating for a second when I heard that Adaugo had died. She had been my classmate since my second year in primary school. She would have been a year ahead of me in school but was asked to repeat a class because of her small stature. She was extraordinarily beautiful and was often referred to as an angel by our English teacher.

What? Adaugo is dead? I exclaimed. A sudden coldness gripped me.

Mum was motionless. According to her mother, before she died, she had confessed that she was a witch.

A what? I screamed, almost falling off the bed. I tried to imagine Adaugo turning into a cat—or any other creature, for that matter—or drinking human blood, the way I had seen witches do in movies.

Mum glared at me. The most serious issue for me, she said, beating her chest, is that Adaugo’s mother claimed she had told them that you too are a witch. Mum’s words took awhile to sink into my mind, and for some time, it seemed as if she were talking to herself.

What? Who? How? I blabbed. At this point, I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. I could never imagine anyone ever being a witch, and here I was being labeled one.

You heard me right, Mum retorted. All I demand from you now is the truth. Nothing but the truth.

Mum, I’m innocent of this allegation—

Innocent indeed, Mum hissed, turning her face away from me.

Mum, believe me. I don’t even know how it feels to be a witch.

Wait, I’ll show you. Mum stood up and walked toward me. My instinct did not prepare me for what came next: the caustic sting of a slap on my left cheek. Another heavy blow landed on my head and then on my back and my stomach. You must tell me the truth. You must tell me the truth. I’m your mother, Mum chanted as she unleashed terror on my body.

I ducked to escape the cascading blows. My head hit the doorknob in the process, and I fell back, hitting my buttocks on the floor. Mum bent forward to trap me on the floor, but she moved too late. I dashed outside immediately. My eyes were overflowing with tears at this point. I felt a sharp pain on my head and realised there was a swelling. Then it gave way: the sob I had been fighting for so long to keep from exploding. I wailed uncontrollably and angrily. I felt wetness around my lower region and realised I had wet myself. Mum’s voice riveted the entire compound. "If you’re not ready to

Reviews for A Cry of Innocence

[Adewale · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Yes I will, I really believe it going to be encouraging