Amazing Library

God loves you and serve Him with your heart ❤️❤️

Amazing Library Martha Nmadinobi

You are responsible for your own happiness. Don't place the key to your Joy, laughter and peace of mind in someone else's hands. Be blessed as you celebrate Grace 🌹🌹

Amazing Library

💐💐 WHEN NATURE SPEAKS 💐💐

EPISODE 6 Final — THE LONG ROAD TO MERCY

Five years had passed.

Five years since Ndidi stood beneath the dead mango tree, digging desperately into the soil with her bare hands and crying,

“WHERE IS THE HEN?”

Five years since Prophet Samuel told her that she could not change the past, but she could allow the rest of her life to become an expression of genuine repentance.

And somehow, slowly, painfully, beautifully…

Ndidi changed.

The girl who once looked at a helpless creature and saw nothing more than an insignificant animal had become a woman whose heart trembled whenever she saw anything helpless.

At the edge of a quiet forest stood a small mud-brick house.

The environ had given it a name.

“The House of Birds.”

But it wasn’t only birds that found shelter there.

There were injured dogs, abandoned cats, chickens, ducks, goats, and even wild birds that had been wounded and could no longer survive on their own.

If an animal was lost, hungry, injured or abandoned, somehow, somebody would say,

“Take it to Ndidi.”

And they would bring it.

Ndidi never asked,

“How much will I gain?”

She simply asked,

“What happened to it?”

Then she would begin the work.
She cleaned wounds. She prepared food.
She built little shelters. She nursed weak animals through the night. She sat beside injured creatures until they could stand again.

Her hands had changed too.
The hands that once buried five helpless chicks now carried bowls of food to hungry animals. The hands that once caused pain now cleaned wounds.

The hands that once acted without compassion had become hands of healing.
They were rough. They were scarred.
But they no longer burned.

And Ndidi’s health had gradually returned.
The nightmares had disappeared.
The sickness that had once brought her to the edge of death had finally loosened its grip. She did not understand everything that had happened to her.

Perhaps nobody ever could.

But she understood one thing clearly:
Mercy had become the language of her life.

One peaceful evening, the sun began disappearing behind the forest.

The sky was painted with soft shades of orange and gold. Birds flew back toward their nests. The chickens scratched around the compound. A few dogs rested lazily beneath a wooden shelter.

One of them opened one eye as Ndidi walked past.

“Ah-ah,” Ndidi laughed softly. “You again?”

The dog wagged its tail.

“You want food every five minutes, abi?”

The dog barked once.
Ndidi shook her head.

“You people will finish me one day.”

She laughed.
It was a gentle laugh. A laugh without bitterness. A laugh that had returned after many years.

Just then, Chike appeared at the entrance carrying a small bag of rice.

“Sister!”

Ndidi turned.
“Chike!”

He raised the bag.
“See what I brought.”

Ndidi smiled.
“Rice?”

“Yes.”

She walked toward him.
“Ah! So you finally remembered that your sister exists?”

Chike laughed.
“Don’t start. I have been busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Living my life.”

Ndidi folded her arms.
“Hmm. Everybody is busy these days.”

Chike dropped the bag on the porch.

Then he looked around.
“Wow.”

He shook his head.
“This place is becoming a serious animal kingdom.”

Ndidi smiled.
“You haven’t seen anything.”

A stray dog limped toward them.

Chike pointed.
“Who is this one?”

“That one was found near the roadside.”

“And the leg?”

“Broken.”

“And you fixed it?”

“We are still treating it.”

Chike looked at another animal.
“And that one?”

“Abandoned.”

He looked around again.
“Sister, honestly, I don’t know how you do this.”

Ndidi smiled.
“Neither do I sometimes.”

They both laughed.

Chike sat on the wooden bench beside her.
“How are your hands feeling today?”

Ndidi looked down at her fingers.
For years, they had been painful and damaged.
But now the skin had stopped peeling.
The wounds had healed. What remained were scars and hardened skin from years of honest work.

She slowly opened and closed her fingers.
“They don’t burn anymore, Chike.”

Her voice was soft.
“But sometimes I look at them and remember.”

Chike became quiet.
“You don’t have to forget.”

“I know.”

He looked at her.
“But you also don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Ndidi smiled faintly.

“I am not punishing myself.”

She looked toward the animals.
“I am trying to make sure that the pain I caused becomes a lesson that produces something good.”

Chike nodded.
“That is why Mama says you have changed.”

Ndidi smiled.
“Mama still worries too much.”

Chike laughed.
“Which mother doesn’t?”

They both laughed again.

Suddenly, a large black hen walked slowly toward Ndidi’s chair.

“Cluck…”

Ndidi looked down.

The hen came closer.
Then she settled herself comfortably beside Ndidi’s feet.
Behind her were several tiny chicks.

Ndidi froze for a moment.
Her eyes rested on the little creatures.
The chicks were healthy.
Bright. Full of life.

One of them climbed over another.

“Chirp! Chirp!”

Ndidi smiled.
She reached down slowly.
She stroked the mother’s feathers gently.

There was no fear in the hen.
No panic. No frantic cry.
Just peace.

Chike watched his sister carefully.

Then he asked quietly,

“Do you still hear them?”

Ndidi’s hand stopped.
She knew exactly who he meant.
The five chicks beneath the mango tree.
For several seconds, she said nothing.

A gentle evening breeze moved through the leaves of the trees around them.
The sounds of the animals filled the compound.

Then Ndidi looked toward the forest.
“No.”

Her voice was almost a whisper.
“This morning, for the first time, there was only silence.”

Chike looked at her.
“What do you mean?”

A single tear rolled slowly down Ndidi’s cheek.
But this time, it wasn’t a tear of fear.
It wasn’t a tear of pain. It was gratitude.

“I think they’ve finally gone to sleep.”

Chike lowered his eyes.

Neither of them spoke for a while.
Sometimes, silence says what words cannot.
The mother hen gathered her chicks closer.

Ndidi smiled.
“Look at her.”

Chike smiled too.
“She is doing exactly what mothers do.”

Ndidi nodded.
“Yes.”

She gently touched one of the chicks.
“And this time, I will protect them.”

Chike looked at her.
“You already are.”

After a few minutes, Chike cleared his throat.

“Sister.”

“Hmmm?”

“Let me ask you something.”

Ndidi looked at him suspiciously.
“Why do I feel like trouble is coming?”

Chike laughed.
“Don’t worry. It is not trouble.”

“Then talk.”

He hesitated.
“Are you not thinking about settling down?”

Ndidi raised an eyebrow.
“Settling down?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“Marriage.”

Ndidi burst out laughing.
“Ah-ah! Is that why you brought rice?”

Chike laughed loudly.
“No! The rice is separate!”

“So you came here to interview me?”

“I’m serious.”

Ndidi smiled.
“Mama sent you, abi?”

Chike looked away.
“Maybe.”

“Chike!”

He laughed.
“Okay, okay. Mama is worried.”

Ndidi shook her head.
“Why is everybody worried about my marriage?”

“Because you are getting older.”

Ndidi smiled.
“I know.”

“And you deserve somebody who will love you.”

She looked down thoughtfully.

After a moment, she smiled.
“I will marry if God gives me a man who understands me.”

Chike nodded.

“And accepts this ministry?”

Ndidi looked around at the animals.

“Yes.”

She smiled.
“I don’t want somebody who will come here and say, ‘Ndidi, choose between me and these animals.’”

Chike laughed.
“Ah! Then the man has already lost.”

Ndidi laughed.
“He has lost before the competition starts.”

They both laughed.

Then Chike became thoughtful.
“But have you ever considered something?”

“What?”

“You can turn this passion into something bigger.”
Ndidi looked at him.
“What do you mean?”

“You already know how to care for chickens.”

He pointed toward the healthy flock.
“You understand feeding, breeding, treatment and raising them.”

Ndidi nodded.
“Yes.”

“So why not start a proper poultry farm?”

She stared at him.
“A poultry farm?”

“Yes.”

“You mean raising chickens commercially?”

“Exactly.”

He smiled.
“You can combine the ministry with business.”

Ndidi’s eyes brightened.
“Go on.”

“You can raise healthy chickens, sell eggs, sell birds, train people and still rescue abandoned animals.”

He pointed around the compound.
“This place doesn’t have to survive only on donations.”

Ndidi became silent.
For the first time, she began imagining it.

A proper farm.
A rescue centre.
A training facility.

A place where young people could learn compassion and responsibility.
A place where animals could be cared for.
A place where her terrible past could be transformed into something meaningful.

She smiled.
“Chike…”

“Yes?”

“I think you have finally said something useful.”

Chike laughed.

“Finally?”

“Yes.”

“After all these years?”

Ndidi laughed.
“Don’t spoil the moment.”

They both laughed.

Then Ndidi looked toward the animals.
“Maybe you’re right.”

Chike smiled.
“You know what they say?”

“What?”

“Your mistake can become your message.”

Ndidi nodded slowly.
“Yes.”

She looked at her hands.
“These hands once caused suffering.”

Then she looked at the animals surrounding her.
“Now they will build something different.”

As darkness gradually covered the compound, Ndidi stood at the doorway of her little house.

The animals settled into their shelters.
The birds returned to their nests.
The rescued dogs curled up together.
The mother hen gathered her chicks beneath her wings.

Ndidi watched them quietly.

Five years ago, she had thought life was something she could treat carelessly.
She had learned otherwise.

Life is precious.
Pain is real.
And compassion is not reserved only for people who can speak our language.

A creature may not be able to tell us,

“I’m hurting.”

It may not be able to say,

“Please don’t hurt my children.”

It may not be able to defend itself.

But that does not mean it feels nothing.

Ndidi finally understood.
She walked back to the porch and sat down.
The evening breeze touched her face.

She closed her eyes.
There was no screaming.
No nightmare. No frantic cry.
Only the gentle sounds of life.

For the first time in years, peace lived inside her.
Not because the past had disappeared.

But because she had finally learned from it.

She could not bring the five chicks back.
She could not bring the mother hen back.
She could not rewrite that terrible night.

But she could spend the rest of her life making sure that helpless creatures would never again suffer simply because someone considered their lives insignificant.

And perhaps that was what redemption truly meant. Not pretending the past never happened. But allowing the lesson of the past to transform the future.

Ndidi looked at the black hen and whispered,
“Rest well, little mother.”

The hen settled deeper over her chicks.

Ndidi smiled.
Then she whispered,

“I finally understand.”

The night grew darker.
The House of Birds became quiet.

And somewhere beyond the compound, the trees moved gently in the wind.

Nature had spoken.
Not with a loud voice.
Not with thunder.
But through consequences, conscience, compassion and change.

Cruelty may look small when it is committed.
But its consequences can travel farther than we imagine.

A hand that chooses to hurt can become a hand that learns to heal.
A heart that once ignored suffering can learn compassion.
And sometimes, the greatest redemption begins when we finally recognize the pain we once caused.

Ndidi’s story was not about escaping consequences.

It was about becoming a different person after facing them.

She had once buried life.
Now she protected it.
She had once ignored a mother’s cry.
Now she listened whenever the helpless cried.

She had once believed that a small creature did not matter.
Now she understood that every living thing matters.

And perhaps that is the lesson we must all carry with us.

Before you laugh at the suffering of another creature…
Before you abuse something simply because it cannot fight back…
Before you say, “It is only an animal”…

Pause.
Look again.
Life is life.
Pain is pain.
And mercy is a choice.

Because the world may not always see what you do in secret.
But every action leaves a footprint.
Sometimes on another person’s heart.
Sometimes on an animal’s life.

And sometimes…
On your own soul…

💐💐 THE END 💐💐

🌿 FINAL WORD OF WISDOM — THE NARRATOR’S ADVICE

Never mistake power for permission to be cruel.

The fact that an animal is smaller, weaker or unable to speak does not give us the right to hurt it. Every living creature deserves humane treatment, care and mercy.

Ndidi’s story teaches us that cruelty can begin with something that appears very small—a careless act, a cruel joke, a moment of boredom, or the decision to ignore another creature’s suffering.

But small acts can leave enormous consequences.

We may not always be able to undo the pain we have caused, but we can choose to stop causing it. We can choose compassion. We can choose responsibility. We can choose to protect instead of destroy.

And when we have done wrong, genuine repentance is more than saying, “I’m sorry.”

It is allowing the lesson to change the way we live.

Let your hands become hands that heal.
Let your words become words that comfort.
Let your heart become a safe place for the helpless.

And whenever you have power over something weaker than yourself, remember:
Power is not proven by how much you can destroy.

True character is revealed by how gently you choose to treat what cannot defend itself.
Because nature may be quiet…
BUT IT IS NOT ALWAYS SILENT…

Kindly engage, like, comment, share and follow Amazing Library

= Created by Martha Nmadinobi =

💐💐 WHEN NATURE SPEAKS 💐💐

EPISODE 5 — THE ACCOUNT IS CLOSED

And somewhere beyond the mountain, beneath the branches of an old mango tree, a lonely hen was…

…Dead.

The journey back to the old compound felt like a fûñêral procession. Nobody spoke much.

The car moved slowly along the familiar road, but for Ndidi, every kilometer felt like a journey into a past she had spent years trying not to remember.

She sat quietly in the back seat, her head resting against the window. Her body was weak. Her eyes were sunken. Her mother sat beside her, holding her hand.

Her father drove in silence.

Every now and then, Mama Chike would look at her daughter.
“Are you alright?”

Ndidi would nod.
But she wasn’t alright. Not anymore. For the first time, she wasn’t afraid of the sickness alone.

She was afraid of what she was about to face.
The compound. The mango tree.
The hen. The five chicks. And the terrible secret she had buried with them.

After several hours, they finally arrived.
Ndidi looked through the car window. The moment she saw the compound, her heart began beating violently.

“This is the place,” she whispered.

Her father parked the car.
Nobody moved immediately.

Mama Chike squeezed her daughter’s hand.
“Are you ready?”

Ndidi’s eyes filled with tears.
“No.”

Her mother nodded slowly.
“Sometimes we have to face what we are not ready for.”

Ndidi opened the car door. Her legs were weak.

Her father hurried around to help her.
“Easy, my child.”

“I can walk.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

He supported her.
She took one step. Then another.
Every step toward the yard felt like a step backward into that terrible night.

Then she saw it.
The mango tree.
Or what was left of it.

Ndidi stopped. Her mouth fell open.
The once beautiful tree was almost completely dead. Its branches stood naked against the sky. The bark looked dry and lifeless. There were no mangoes. No thick green leaves. No shade beneath it. Just a silent, barren tree.

Ndidi stared at it.
“Mummy…”

“Yes?”

“Is this the same tree?”

Mama Chike nodded.
“Yes.”

Ndidi’s lips trembled.
“The tree…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Her mother looked at it too. For a moment, she remembered the days when the compound was full of laughter beneath those branches.

Children had played there. The chickens had scratched around its roots. And five tiny chicks had once followed their mother beneath its shade. Now there was nothing.

Just silence.

Ndidi slowly lowered herself to the ground.
Her knees touched the dusty earth. Then she began crawling.

Her mother gasped.
“Ndidi!”

But Ndidi continued. She dragged herself toward the base of the tree. Her fingers touched the dry soil.

Immediately, memories came rushing back.
The darkness. Her bare feet.
The tiny chicks. Their frantic movements.
The sound they made. Her own hands covering them with earth.

Ndidi began shaking.
“No…”

She dug her fingers into the soil.
“Please…”

She scratched the ground.
“Where is she?”

Her mother stood behind her, crying.
“Ndidi…”

“Where is she?”

She began looking around wildly.
“Where is the hen?”

Her father looked helplessly at his wife.

Ndidi’s voice became louder.
“Where is she?”

She crawled around the tree.
She looked beneath the dried leaves.
Behind the old wooden structure. Around the fence. Nothing.

Then she began crying.
“Please!”

She pressed her palms against the earth.
“I am sorry!”

Her voice broke.
“I am so sorry!”

Mama Chike knelt beside her.
“My child…”

Ndidi shook her head violently.
“No, Mummy! Let me find her!”

She continued searching.
“She has to be here.”

She looked toward the compound.
“Maybe she is somewhere around here.”

Her father quietly asked an elderly neighbour who had come out to see what was happening.
“Baba Jude, have you seen the brown hen recently?”

The old man became quiet.
He looked at Ndidi.
Then at the dead mango tree.
His face changed.

He sighed deeply.
“You are looking for the brown hen?”

Ndidi turned quickly.
“Yes!”

She crawled toward the fence.
“Please, sir. Where is she?”

The old man leaned against the fence.
A small radio was tucked beneath his arm.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he shook his head.
“My daughter…”

Ndidi’s heart sank.
“Yes?”

“If it is the brown hen you are looking for…”
He paused.
“You are too late.”

Ndidi stared at him.
“What do you mean?”

Baba Jude sighed.
“She is gone.”

“No.”

“She died.”

Ndidi’s face became blank.
“No…”

Baba Jude continued gently.
“After her chicks disappeared, that hen changed.”

Mama Chike lowered her head.

The old man looked toward the mango tree.
“She stopped behaving like the hen we knew.”

“What happened to her?” Ndidi asked.

Silence.

Then the old man spoke again.
“One morning, I found her body under the roots.”

Ndidi froze.
“What?”

“She was dead.” Baba Jude spoke softly.

“No!”
Ndidi screamed.

Ndidi pressed her face into the soil.
“No! No, no, no!”

Her mother wrapped her arms around her.
“Ndidi…”

“Mummy, she has to be alive!”
Her voice was breaking.
“She has to be somewhere!”

Baba Jude shook his head.
“I am sorry.”

Ndidi cried like a child.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? She is the key to my liberation.”

Baba Jude looked at her.
“Who would have thought you have any connection to the hen.”

Those words struck her.
She lifted her head slowly.
"You are right. No one knew I have a history with the hen...”

The old man nodded.
"So sorry to hear this.”

Ndidi looked away.
She couldn’t answer. Because he was right.
She had been there. She had watched.
She had heard. She had known.
And she had chosen to forget.

For the first time, Ndidi stopped thinking about her own suffering. She stopped thinking about the nightmares. She stopped thinking about her sickness. She stopped thinking about the job she lost. She stopped thinking about the relationship that ended.

She thought only about the hen.
A mother who woke up one morning and couldn’t find her children. A mother who searched. A mother who cried.
A mother who scratched the earth until her body could no longer continue.

Ndidi suddenly understood something she had never allowed herself to understand. That morning, the hen wasn’t making noise.
She was grieving.

Ndidi closed her eyes.
She could almost hear the cry again.
“Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!”

She remembered her mother saying:
“A mother’s grief is not ‘nothing’, whether it walks on two legs or four.”

She remembered laughing.
She remembered calling the hen a nuisance.
She remembered saying:
“It’s just a bird.”

Her face crumbled.
“Mummy…”

“Yes, my child?”

“What kind of person was I?”

Mama Chike pulled her close.
“You made a terrible mistake.”

Ndidi shook her head.
“No Mummy."
“I didn’t even think about what she felt.”

Her mother stroked her hair.
“That is the problem with cruelty.”

Ndidi looked at her.

“The person doing it often thinks only about the moment.”

She paused.
“But the victim carries the pain.”

Ndidi began crying again.
“I wish I could bring her back.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could bring the chicks back.”

“I know.”

“I wish I had never done it.”

Mama Chike held her tightly.
“But wishing cannot change yesterday.”

Ndidi buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.
“Then what can I do?”

Her mother was quiet for a moment.
“Start by admitting the truth.”

“I have admitted it.”

“Then let your life show that you truly understand what you did.”

Ndidi nodded slowly.
Her father had been standing quietly nearby.

He turned toward Baba Jude.
“Baba, how long ago did she die?”

The old man looked toward the dead tree.
“Almost 3 years ago.”

The father sighed.
“So there is no way…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Baba Jude shook his head.
“The hen is gone.”

The words hung heavily in the air.
The account was closed.

There would be no hen to kneel before.
No frightened eyes to look into.
No living creature to receive the apology.
No opportunity to undo that night.
The past had already taken its course.

Ndidi had arrived looking for the hen.
But she had found only an empty yard and the grave of a memory.

She fell to her knees.
“I am sorry.”

The wind moved gently through the dead branches.
“I am sorry.”

Nothing answered.
She bowed her head.
“I was cruel.”

Still nothing.
“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Then she stopped.
She corrected herself.
Her voice trembled.
“I knew what I was doing. I just didn’t care.”

Her mother looked at her.
That was the first truly honest confession Ndidi had made.
She wasn’t making excuses anymore.
She wasn’t saying she was bored.
She wasn’t blaming anybody.
She was finally accepting responsibility.

“I did it,” she whispered.
“And I cannot undo it.”

They returned to Prophet Samuel.
When the old prophet saw Ndidi, he immediately understood that something had happened.
“You found the hen?”

Ndidi couldn’t look at him.
“She is dead.”

The prophet closed his eyes briefly.
“I see.”

“She died looking for her children.”

Prophet Samuel remained silent.

Ndidi began crying.
“Papa, please help me.”

He looked at her.
“I told you to go back.”

“I went.”

“What did you find?”

“The truth.”

The prophet nodded.
“And now?”

Ndidi lowered her head.
“I don’t know.”

Her father stepped forward.
“Papa, is there nothing else we can do?”

The prophet was quiet for a long time.
Then he spoke.
“There is no ritual that can bring the dead hen back.”

Ndidi cried.
“I know.”

“There is no prayer that will make the five chicks rise from the earth.”

“I know.”

“You cannot rewrite what happened.”

“I know.”

“But there is still something you can do.”

Ndidi looked up.
“What?”

“Seek God’s mercy sincerely.”

She nodded.
“How?”

“Not as a transaction.”
He paused.
“Not because you want to escape consequences.”

Ndidi listened carefully.

“Pray because you now understand the seriousness of what you did.”
The prophet continued.
“For twenty-one days, seek God sincerely. Confess. Repent. Ask for mercy.”

Ndidi nodded.
“Then what?”

“After that, you must begin to live differently.”

“How?”

Prophet Samuel looked directly at her.
“You will create a place where helpless and abandoned animals can be cared for.”

Ndidi looked confused.
“Animals?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you destroyed the lives of creatures that could not defend themselves.”
He paused.
“Now learn to protect those that cannot protect themselves.”

Ndidi began crying again.
“You mean… a shelter?”

“A home.”

“For lost and helpless animals.”

“Yes.”

Her father looked at the prophet.
“Papa, will that heal her?”

The prophet shook his head.
“I cannot promise you that.”

Mama Chike asked softly:
“Then what can it do?”

“It can change her heart.”
He looked at Ndidi.
“And if she genuinely changes, perhaps the consequences surrounding her life may begin to change as well.”

Ndidi swallowed.
“Will nature release me?”

Prophet Samuel looked at her carefully.
“That is not for me to decide.”
He paused.
“But mercy is always better than cruelty.”

Ndidi nodded.
“What if I fail?”

The prophet’s face became serious.
“Then the consequences may leave a permanent mark.”

The room became quiet.
Ndidi looked down at her hands.
The same hands that had once carried five helpless chicks. Now those hands would have to learn how to protect life.

Prophet Samuel continued.
“This is not about performing an animal shelter as a religious ritual.”

He shook his head.
“If you care for animals only because you want something from God, then you have learned nothing.”

Ndidi’s eyes filled with tears.
“Then why should I do it?”

“Because they deserve kindness.”

The words were simple.
But they struck her deeply.

“They deserve care whether you receive anything in return or not.”

Ndidi nodded.
“I understand.”

Prophet Samuel looked at her.
“Do you?”

She wiped her tears.
“I think I finally do.”

That evening, Ndidi returned home.
She was still sick. Still weak.
Still uncertain about what the future held.
But something inside her had changed.

She walked to the window and looked toward the old mango tree in the distance.
There were no leaves. No fruit.
No hen. No chicks.
Only memories.

She whispered:
“I cannot change what I did.”

Her mother stood behind her.
“No.”

“But I can change what I do from now.”

Mama Chike smiled through her tears.
“Yes, my child.”

Ndidi looked down at her hands.
“These hands caused pain.”
She closed them tightly.
“Then these same hands must learn to protect.”

Her mother embraced her.
And for the first time in a very long time, Ndidi did not ask:
“God, why is this happening to me?”
Instead, she whispered:
“God, please forgive me for what I have done.”

Outside, the wind moved gently across the compound.
The dead mango tree stood silently.
The hen was gone.
The five chicks were gone.
The past could not be changed.
The account was closed.

But perhaps…
A new account was about to be opened.
One built not on cruelty.
But on mercy…

Episode 6 loading…

📌Some apologies arrive too late to reach the person—or creature—we hurt. There are consequences that no apology can reverse and wounds that time cannot completely erase. That is why kindness must come before regret.

When we discover that we have caused pain, we should not spend our entire lives drowning in guilt. We should accept responsibility, seek forgiveness, and allow our future actions to demonstrate that our hearts have truly changed.

You may not be able to undo yesterday, but you can decide what kind of person you will become tomorrow. And sometimes, redemption begins when the hands that once caused pain become the same hands that protect the helpless.📌

Kindly engage, like, comment, share and follow Amazing Library

= Created by Martha Nmadinobi =

💐💐 WHEN NATURE SPEAKS 💐💐

EPISODE 4 — THE PROPHET’S VISION

For six long months, Ndidi’s parents searched desperately for an answer.

They had watched their once lively daughter become almost unrecognizable. The girl who once laughed loudly now barely smiled.

The young lady who could spend hours chatting with friends now spent most of her time lying weakly on her bed. Her appetite had disappeared. Her strength was gone.

And the nightmares had become worse. Almost every night, she woke up gasping for breath.

“Mummy! Mummy!”

Her mother would rush into the room.

“Ndidi, what happened?”

“I’m suffocating!”

“You are not suffocating. You are here with me.”

“No, Mummy! The ground… the ground is covering me!”

Sometimes she would claw at her bedsheet as though trying to dig herself out of the earth.

Her father would stand helplessly at the bedroom door.

A strong man who had faced business failures, financial difficulties and many storms of life suddenly found himself powerless before the suffering of his own child.

“What else can we do?” he would ask his wife.

Mama Chike would wipe her tears.

“Anything. We will do anything.”

And they did.
They went from one place to another. They visited hospitals. They sought medical explanations.

They prayed.
They fasted.
They called relatives.
They consulted elders.

Then, in their desperation, they began visiting traditional healers and prayer houses, hoping that somewhere, somehow, somebody would discover what was wrong with their daughter.

At one herbalist’s compound, dried leaves hung from ropes like decorations. Bottles of strange-coloured mixtures covered wooden shelves.

The old man listened to their story, he examined Ndidi and shook his head.

“This one is not ordinary.”

Her father leaned forward.
“What do you mean? That's the reason we're here.”

The herbalist rubbed his chin.
“The spirits of the land are angry.”

Mama Chike’s heart jumped.
“Why?”

The man shook his head.
“They refuse to tell me.”

Her husband frowned.
“They refuse to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you know they are angry?”

The herbalist looked at him.
“Because I know.”

The father looked at his wife.
She looked at him.
Neither knew whether to laugh or cry.

Outside, Chike whispered to himself,
“Even spirits have secrets now.”

His mother turned sharply.
“Chike!”

“Yes, Mummy?”

“Keep quiet.”

“Sorry.”

But even he knew the situation was becoming desperate. They left that place with more questions than answers.

They visited prayer houses. They attended deliverance services. They spent nights praying under the rain.

Some nights, Ndidi could barely stand.

Her mother would hold her.
“Just a little more, my child.”

“Mummy, I am tired.”

“I know.”

“I want to go home.”

“We will go home.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Her father would stand nearby, looking toward the altar with desperation in his eyes.
“God, please…”

But the answers seemed far away.
Weeks became months.
Still, Ndidi grew weaker.

Then one day, someone told them about an old pastor who operated a small mountain ministry far away from the noise and crowds of the city.

His name was Prophet Samuel.

“He doesn’t advertise himself,” the man told them. “He doesn’t promise people miracles for money. He simply prays and counsels people.”

Mama Chike looked at her husband.
“Let’s go.”

Her husband nodded.
“Let’s go.”

At that point, they had nothing left to lose.
The journey to the mountain ministry was long. The road became narrower as they approached the hills.

The car climbed slowly through winding paths until they reached a quiet settlement surrounded by trees.

There were no huge buildings.
No loud music. No giant speakers announcing a service. Just a simple compound with a small prayer hall.

A wooden sign hung near the entrance:
MOUNTAIN OF MERCY MINISTRY

The place was unusually quiet.
Even the birds seemed to sing softly.

Ndidi sat in the back seat with her head against the window. She looked exhausted.

Her father turned around.
“We are here.”

She opened her eyes.
“Where?”

“Somewhere we are going to pray.”

She sighed.
“Another prayer house?”

Her father looked at her sadly.
“Just try.”

Ndidi closed her eyes again.
“I’ll try.”

That evening, the prayer room was almost empty. A few candles flickered near the altar.
The walls were plain. There were no elaborate decorations. At the front of the room, an old wooden cross stood behind the altar.

Prophet Samuel knelt quietly with his head bowed.

Ndidi entered between her parents.
Her legs were shaking.
Her mother held her left arm.
Her father supported her right.
They slowly walked forward.

Prophet Samuel did not immediately look up.
He continued praying.
The room was silent.
Then he stopped.
Slowly, he stood.

For several seconds, he remained still.
His eyes moved across the room.
Then they settled on Ndidi. But strangely, he didn’t look at her face. His eyes went straight to her hands.

Ndidi noticed. She became uncomfortable.
The prophet took a few slow steps toward her.

Her mother held her more tightly.
“Papa,” she whispered, “please. Look at her. She is dying.”

Prophet Samuel said nothing.
He continued staring at Ndidi’s hands.

Then he spoke.
His voice was low.
“The blood of the innocent is screaming from the dirt.”

Mama Chike gasped.

Her husband stepped forward.
“Papa, please…”

The prophet raised one hand.
“Let me speak.”

The room became completely silent.
Ndidi’s heart began beating faster.
She didn’t understand what he was saying.

The prophet turned toward her parents.
“You have brought me a young lady whose body is weak, but whose problem began somewhere else.”

Mama Chike’s eyes filled with tears.
“Papa, please help us.”

“We have taken her everywhere,” her husband added. “Hospitals. Prayer houses. Everywhere.”

The prophet looked at him.
“You have searched everywhere except where the problem began.”

The father swallowed.
“Where did it begin?”

Prophet Samuel slowly turned back toward Ndidi.
“Ask her.”

Ndidi’s eyes widened.
“Ask me what?”

The prophet stepped closer.
His voice became firm.
“Young lady…”

Ndidi stared at him.

“What did you do in the dark?”

Her heart skipped.
“I don’t understand.”

“What did you do when everyone in your house was sleeping?”

Ndidi shook her head.
“Nothing.”

“Think.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The prophet’s voice became stronger.
“Search your memory.”

Ndidi began crying.
“I haven’t done anything.”

“You have forgotten.”

“I wouldn't have forgotten if I did anything wrong.”

“You have.”

The room seemed to grow colder.

Mama Chike looked at her daughter.
“Ndidi…”

The prophet continued.
“Your mind buried the memory because you convinced yourself that what you did was insignificant.”

Ndidi’s lips trembled.
“I don’t know…”

“You told yourself it was just a bird.”

Ndidi suddenly became still.
Her mother’s eyes widened.

The prophet continued.
“You thought because it could not speak your language, its suffering did not matter.”

Ndidi’s breathing became faster.
“Papa…”

“You went outside at night.”

Her eyes widened.
“No…”

“You went to where the mother hen was sleeping.”

Ndidi took a step backward.

Her mother grabbed her.
“Ndidi?”

The prophet’s voice echoed through the small room.
“You took five little chicks away from their mother.”

Mama Chike covered her mouth.
“No…”

“You carried them to the mango tree.”

Ndidi’s knees began shaking.
“No…”

“You buried them.”

The room fell into a terrible silence.

Then Prophet Samuel said:
“Alive.”

Mama Chike screamed.
“Jesus!”

Her husband stared at his daughter.
“Ndidi…”

Ndidi’s face had gone pale.
Something had broken open inside her.

The memory came rushing back.
The darkness.
The old mango tree.
The tiny chicks.
Their frightened movements.
The soft chirping.
The loose earth.
Her own hands.

She suddenly cried out.
“I…”

Her hand went to her head.
“I remember.”

Mama Chike stared at her.
“Ndidi…”

“I remember!”

She collapsed onto the tiled floor.

Her mother knelt beside her.
“Tell me it isn’t true.”

Ndidi was sobbing uncontrollably.
“Mummy…”

“Tell me!”

“I did it!”

Mama Chike froze.
Her daughter’s confession seemed to knock the breath out of her.

“You… did what?”

Ndidi buried her face in her hands.
“I took them.”

“How?”

“At night.”

Her mother began trembling.

“The chicks?”

Ndidi nodded.

“All five.”

Mama Chike’s eyes filled with tears.
“Why?”

Ndidi cried harder.
“I don’t know!”

“Why would you do such a têrriblê thing?”

“I was bored!”

Her father stepped backward.
“Bored?”

Ndidi looked at him through her tears.
“I don’t know what came over me.”

Her mother began crying.
“You buried them?”

Ndidi nodded.
“Yes.”

“Alive?”

Ndidi couldn’t speak.
Her silence was enough.

Mama Chike covered her face.
“Oh, my God…”

Her husband sat heavily on a wooden bench.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Mama Chike whispered:
“I asked you that morning.”

Ndidi looked at her.

“I asked you if you knew anything.”

Ndidi cried.
“I lied.”

“Why?”

“I was afraid.”

Her mother shook her head.
“No, my child. You were not afraid enough of doing such wickedness.”

Those words struck Ndidi deeply.
She lowered her head.
“I am sorry.”

Her mother looked away.
The image of the mother hen searching the compound returned to her mind.
The frantic cries. The bleeding beak.
The scratching. The desperate search.

She had seen the grief.
She had heard it.
And yet her daughter had laughed it away.

Ndidi crawled toward Prophet Samuel.
“Papa, please!”

The prophet stepped back.

“Pray for me.”
“Papa, please!”
“Help me.”

Ndidi held her head.
“Cast it out!”

Prophet Samuel’s expression remained solemn.
“My daughter, there are consequences to every action.”

“Then pray! For the consequences to go away.”

“I can pray for mercy.” The prophet said.

“Then pray!”

“But I cannot pretend that cruelty never happened.”

Ndidi cried.
“I’m sorry!”

The prophet looked at her.
“Your repentance must become more than words.”

Her father suddenly stood and fell at the prophet’s feet.
“Papa, please!”

The prophet looked down at him.

“Help my daughter.”
“Please,” the man begged. “There must be something we can do.”

“Prayer?”

“We have prayed!”

“If you wish.”

“We can sacrifice?”

The prophet shook his head.
“No money can purchase forgiveness.”

The father looked desperate.
“Then what can we do?”

Prophet Samuel’s voice softened.
“Go back.”

“Back to where?”

“To the compound.”

Mama Chike looked confused.
“The compound?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That is the place where the act happened.”

The prophet looked directly at Ndidi.
“You must return to that yard.”

Ndidi began shaking.
“Why sir?.”

“You must.”

“I can’t.”

“You must face what you did.”

Her father asked quietly:
“What should she do when she gets there?”

Ndidi’s father looked at his daughter. For the first time in months, he felt that perhaps they had finally discovered the root of the mystery. But instead of relief, he felt a deep sadness. Because the answer was not somewhere far away.

The prophet paused.
“Find the hen.”

Mama Chike stared at him.
“The hen?”

“Yes.”

“What if we can’t find it? It’s been 5 years…”

“Look.”

“What if it is no longer there?”

“Search for her.”
The prophet’s voice became firm.

“She must stand before that creature and acknowledge what she did. She must ask for forgiveness—not because the hen speaks her language, but because mercy begins when the guilty person stops making excuses.”

Ndidi cried quietly.
“Papa, will that make me well?”

The prophet looked at her for a long moment.
“I cannot promise you what only God can determine.”

She lowered her head.
“Then what can you promise?”

“That truth! Which is the beginning of restoration.”
“Do not go there looking for a miracle.”

She swallowed.
“Then what should I look for?”

The old prophet looked at her quietly.
“Go looking for mercy.”

Ndidi lowered her head.

And for the first time since her suffering began, she understood that the road to healing might not begin with someone laying hands on her. It might begin with her kneeling before the creature she had once considered insignificant.

You cannot truly repent for what you refuse to remember, and you cannot seek forgiveness while still making excuses for your actions.

Silence filled the room.
The prophet looked toward the small wooden cross.

“Sometimes we spend years looking for a mysterious enemy outside ourselves when the first thing we need to confront is what we have done.”

He turned back to Ndidi.
“You thought it was just a bird.”

Ndidi cried.
“Yes.”

“But every living creature is part of God’s creation.”

He paused.
“And the Bible teaches us not to rule over His creation with cruelty.”

Mama Chike nodded slowly.
The words reminded her of Scripture.
She whispered:
“Ezekiel…”

Her husband looked at her.

She continued softly:
“He said the shepherds had not strengthened the weak, healed the sick, bound up the injured or searched for the lost… but had ruled harshly and brutally.”

The prophet nodded.
“Exactly.”

He looked at Ndidi.
“Mercy is not reserved only for human beings, because nature guides all living thing.”

Ndidi’s tears fell freely.
“I understand.”

“Do you?”

She nodded.
“I do now.”

Prophet Samuel looked at her.
“Then go home.”

Her father helped her stand.
Her legs were still trembling.

Mama Chike wiped her daughter’s face.
“Come.”

Ndidi looked at her mother.
“Mummy…”

“Yes?”

“I am scared.”

Her mother took her hand.
“So am I.”

They walked toward the door.

Behind them, Prophet Samuel remained standing beside the altar. Then he spoke one final time.

“Remember, Ndidi…”

She turned.

“Nature may be patient.”

He paused.
“But patience should never be mistaken for permission to misbehave.”

Ndidi lowered her eyes.
For the first time since the terrible night, she understood that she could not simply pray the memory away. She had to face it.

She had to return to the yard. She had to find the mother hen she had robbed of her five babies.

And somewhere beyond the mountain, beneath the branches of an old mango tree, a lonely hen was…

Episode 5 loading…

📌 Sometimes the hardest journey is not the journey to find a solution, but the journey back to the place where we went wrong. When we hurt the helpless, humility requires us to acknowledge the pain we caused, take responsibility, and seek to make things right as far as possible.

Never call something “small” simply because the victim is powerless. What looks insignificant to you may be someone’s whole world.

And when life brings us face-to-face with the consequences of our actions, may we have the courage to say the most difficult words:

“I was wrong. I am sorry. What can I do to make it right?” 📌

Kindly engage, like, comment, share, and follow Amazing Library

= Created by Martha Nmadinobi =