Seeds of Discord

The afternoon sun, usually a warm embrace on their family's familiar compound, felt a little sharper now, a little more insistent. Adawale, perched on the edge of the verandah, watched Halima from beneath lowered lids. The girl, so new and yet already occupying so much space, was laughing. Her laughter, light and unrestrained, seemed to bounce off the very air, a sound Adawale hadn't heard directed his way in what felt like an age. Mother Tolulope was nearby, her attention wholly focused on Halima as the child chased a particularly bold butterfly, her small hands reaching out with innocent wonder. Father Ifeanyi, his brow furrowed in pleasant concentration, was mending a fishing net, the rhythmic tugging of twine a familiar, comforting sound. But to Adawale, it all felt… off.

He nudged his sister, Zainab, who was lounging beside him, idly tracing patterns in the dust with a twig. "Did you see that?" he muttered, his voice tight.

Zainab followed his gaze, her own eyes narrowing. Halima had stumbled, and Mother Tolulope had rushed forward, her hands cupping the child's face, murmuring words Adawale couldn't quite catch but whose tone was unmistakable – pure, unadulterated concern.