DAY 3

Some stories do not announce themselves. They creep back into your life quietly, like a familiar scent on an old garment, until suddenly you are standing face to face with the past you thought you had left behind.

Years after my family left Mamfe, I was in my early twenties, trying to build a new life, when another young soul began to stir those sleeping memories. Her name was Manka, my favourite native name, and she could have been between 15 and 18. She had the same delicate face, the same soft, silky hair, the same quiet beauty.

But there was something about Manka that made the whole neighbourhood lean on her. She fetched water, gathered firewood, swept compounds; she moved from home to home with a willing spirit. People simply regarded her as “the community girl,” and she wore that invisible crown with humility.

Every time I passed by her home, the memory of little Ma Nyongho would rise up inside me, uninvited. It was as if life was sending me a message I didn’t yet understand.

One day, without warning, Manka vanished. For days, she was nowhere to be seen. Whispers started to spread, low and uneasy.

“I haven’t seen Manka for over a week,” an elderly woman muttered in my presence. “She could have fetched me drinking water; I have nothing at home.”

Manka was needed but she was nowhere to be found.

“I hear she is sick,” another voice replied softly.

Immediately I heard those words, they lodged in my heart like a thorn. Something in me said: Go and visit her.

When I arrived at manka's home, I found her on the bed; pale, frail, her once lively eyes clouded with exhaustion. Her mother told me she had been like that for days.

Her speech was faint, and the vibrant spark that had once defined her seemed to have dimmed.

In that small room, at that moment, the air felt heavy. A sour odour clung to her body; my heart clenched.

“Has she bathed?” I asked gently.

Her mother sighed, “She hasn’t left that bed for three days now.”

I sat beside her, trying to hide my own discomfort, but inside I felt a wave of sadness, urgency and helplessness.

In her weary eyes I saw the same unspoken cry for dignity and tenderness that I had once seen in Ma Nyongho.

My heart ached.

What happened next still lives in my memory as a turning point…

To be continued…