The village of Asenmu lay wrapped in a strange stillness, as if the very earth waited for something it did not understand. For one year and six months, Ama had carried the child in her womb—longer than any woman in the village had ever carried life. Some whispered it was a curse. Others feared it was a spirit-child who refused to enter the world. Even Ama's own relatives had withdrawn, murmuring that no good thing required such delay.
But on that night, something shifted.
Inside their small clay hut at the edge of the village—where the lantern's flame trembled though no breeze passed—Ama felt the first sharp wave tear through her. Her husband, Kofi, dropped the calabash he was holding and rushed to her side.
"It is time," Ama breathed.
Her voice was weak, yet there was a strange calm beneath it, as if she had expected this moment to be nothing ordinary.
Another pain seized her, stronger, urgent.
Outside, the villagers watched from afar. No one dared to draw close. They stood in clusters near the shadows, whispering about the long pregnancy, crossing their arms, spitting on the ground to cast away bad spirits.
But the hut glowed.
A faint, warm light leaked through its cracks—not from fire, not from lanterns, but something softer, fuller, like dawn forcing its way through midnight.
Ama screamed—once, sharply—and then the whole world seemed to exhale.
The baby's cry rose into the night.
Kofi caught her in trembling hands. She was small, warm, perfect. Her eyes opened at once—bright, clear, strangely steady for a newborn—and they reflected the flickering golden light that filled the room.
Ama stared at her daughter, tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Faith," she whispered. "We will call her Faith…"