I. The Dream

The night pressed heavy on Adaora’s room.
Outside, the crickets sang, and the wind rustled the leaves of the old mango tree. But inside, Adaora’s sleep was far from peaceful.

In her dream, she stood barefoot in a forest glowing with silver mist. The air shimmered, alive with hissing whispers. Before her lay a pool of water so still it looked like a mirror. When she bent over it, her reflection stared back—but her eyes were yellow, slitted, cold.

A figure emerged from the mist—her mother. Dressed in white, barefoot, face pale as bone.

“Adaora,” her mother said softly, “you must control it. The blood of the Eke Nneka runs strong in you. Once awakened, it cannot be undone.”

Adaora shook her head. “Mama, I don’t want this! I want to be normal!”

The woman’s voice echoed like the wind through hollow trees. “Normal is not your destiny. The serpent chooses its vessel. You were born under the mark. The coil is yours to bear.”

The ground began to tremble. From the shadows, snakes of gold and silver slithered toward her, surrounding her legs, rising higher. Their scales shimmered like moonlight.

“No! Leave me alone!” Adaora screamed.

She jolted awake, gasping. Her bedsheet was soaked with sweat, her heart hammering. She clutched her arms — and froze.

Thin greenish lines crawled faintly across her skin, like veins of light.

“No… not again,” she whispered, pressing her palms together.
She began to hum the prayer her grandmother had taught her — a melody older than language.

Gradually, the light dimmed. The lines faded. The girl remained, trembling, afraid of what she was becoming.

II. The Gossip

By morning, the school was buzzing.

“Did you hear? Adaora fainted last night!”
“No, I heard she’s possessed!”
“They say her eyes turn green when she’s angry!”

Rumors spread like wildfire. No one knew who started them, but fear had a way of finding roots where truth was weak.

Emeka heard it too. At first, he dismissed it. But when he entered class and saw Adaora’s empty seat, a cold unease crept into him.

During break, he found her walking toward the school gate, alone as always. Her face was pale, her movements tense.

“Wait,” he called out.

Adaora stopped but didn’t turn.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

She sighed. “It’s not your fault, Emeka.”

“Then why do you push everyone away? What are you afraid of?”

That question hung between them. She turned slowly, eyes glinting with something he couldn’t name—fear, sorrow, or warning.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me,” he said, surprising himself. “Let me try.”

For a moment, she looked like she might cry. Then she whispered, “You’re kind, Emeka. But kindness doesn’t survive near me.”

She walked away, leaving him speechless.

III. The Scar

That evening, Adaora went home early. The house was quiet; her mother was gone for the week, attending a “family ritual” in their ancestral village. Only Adaora and her grandmother, Mama Ngozi, remained.

In the kitchen, Mama Ngozi stirred a pot of herbs, muttering prayers. She looked up as Adaora entered.

“You didn’t eat at school again,” the old woman said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Mama Ngozi studied her granddaughter’s face. “The dreams are getting stronger, aren’t they?”

Adaora hesitated. “Yes, Mama. Last night I saw… them again.”

The old woman’s expression hardened. “The spirits are restless. You are nearing your seventeenth birthday. That is when the serpent inside awakens fully.”

“I don’t want it!” Adaora snapped. “I hate it! Why can’t I just live like everyone else?”

“Because you are not everyone else,” her grandmother said firmly. “You are Eke Ada, daughter of the line of the Serpent Queen. The gift runs through your blood. It can heal—or destroy.”

“I didn’t ask for any gift!” Adaora’s voice broke. “I just want to be free.”

Mama Ngozi touched her cheek gently. “Freedom without truth is a curse. One day, the boy you push away will see your truth. And then your choice will matter.”

Adaora frowned. “What boy?”

The old woman smiled sadly. “The one whose eyes soften when he looks at you. The one who will either save you—or be destroyed by you.”

Adaora stepped back, startled. “Emeka…”

The pot on the stove hissed suddenly, spilling green steam. The smell filled the air—sharp, earthy, ancient. The old woman turned to it.

“Drink this tonight,” she said. “It will calm the serpent. But remember—suppressing it too long will only make it stronger.”

Adaora nodded, though her hands trembled as she took the cup.

IV. The Storm

The following week brought heavy rain. Thunder rolled over the rooftops, and lightning split the sky like veins of fire.
Students huddled under shelters, laughing and complaining about the weather.

But Adaora was missing again.

Emeka couldn’t sit still. Something deep inside told him she was in danger. When the final bell rang, he grabbed his umbrella and ran into the storm.

Her house stood near the edge of town, surrounded by banana trees and silence. He reached the gate, water dripping from his clothes.

“Hello?” he called. No answer. The front door was ajar.

Inside, candles flickered weakly. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and smoke. Then he heard it—a low, rhythmic hissing. Not from any human mouth.

“Hello?” he whispered again, stepping inside.

He followed the sound to Adaora’s room—and froze.

V. The Transformation

Adaora knelt on the floor, trembling. Her hands clawed at her own arms as green light pulsed beneath her skin. Her eyes glowed faintly yellow. Snakes—small, spectral ones made of mist—slid across the floor around her, their tongues flicking the air.

Emeka gasped. “Adaora!”

She looked up, terrified. “Go away! Please!”

“What’s happening to you?”

“I can’t stop it,” she cried. “It’s waking up!”

Her voice broke into a guttural hiss. Her body convulsed; scales rippled briefly along her neck. Her pupils narrowed to slits.

Emeka’s instinct screamed to run. But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped closer.

“Adaora, listen to me. Breathe.”

“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed. “I’ll hurt you!”

He reached out anyway and grabbed her hand.

The moment their skin touched, a shock of energy surged through the room. The candle flames bent inward, the snakes hissed louder—and then, slowly, the light dimmed.

Adaora’s breathing steadied. The glow faded from her eyes. She collapsed into his arms, weak but alive.

For a long time, neither spoke. Rain beat against the windows like drums of fate.

When she finally whispered, her voice trembled. “Now you know.”

Emeka held her gently. “I don’t care what you are. You’re still Adaora.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m cursed.”

“Then let me share it,” he said simply.

Her tears soaked his shirt. For the first time in years, Adaora let herself be held.

VI. The Legend Revealed

When the storm cleared, Mama Ngozi returned. She found them sitting quietly by the hearth.

The old woman’s gaze swept over them—Adaora pale but calm, Emeka still holding her hand. She sighed deeply.

“So it begins.”

Emeka stood awkwardly. “Ma… I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Mama Ngozi waved her hand. “No need for apologies. If the serpent allowed you to touch her and live, then perhaps the prophecy was true.”

“Prophecy?” he echoed.

The old woman sank into a chair. “Our bloodline traces back to Eke Nneka, the Serpent Goddess who guarded the sacred springs. Long ago, she fell in love with a mortal man—a hunter who saved her life. But their union was forbidden. When the gods found out, they cursed her: every daughter born of her line would carry the serpent’s spirit within, forever torn between woman and snake. Only when she found a man pure of heart could the spirit be tamed.”

Emeka’s heart pounded. “And you think… I’m that man?”

“I don’t think,” Mama Ngozi said quietly. “The serpent chose you.”

Adaora’s eyes widened. “No! I won’t drag him into this!”

“You already have,” her grandmother said gently. “Fate doesn’t ask permission.”

VII. The Test

Over the next days, Adaora and Emeka grew closer. She taught him the ancient chants her grandmother used to calm the serpent; he taught her laughter, reminding her what being human felt like.

But danger stirred. In the neighboring village, word spread of strange lights seen near Adaora’s house. Old superstitions awoke. They whispered her name with fear—the snake girl, the cursed one.

One evening, a group of men gathered outside the compound with torches.

“She’s not human,” one said. “We must cleanse the town.”

Emeka heard them first. He rushed inside. “Adaora, we have to go. Now.”

Before they could move, a stone shattered the window. Someone shouted, “Witch!”

Adaora’s grandmother stepped forward, holding her cane. “You will not harm my child.”

A man raised his torch. “We saw her eyes glow! She’s a demon!”

Emeka stood beside the old woman. “She’s not! She’s just different!”

“Move aside, boy!”

Then a torch flew—and landed near the doorway. Fire caught the curtains instantly.

Smoke filled the room.

Adaora clutched her head, gasping. The serpent inside her roared.

“Emeka—get out!” she cried.

“I’m not leaving you!”

Her body trembled; scales flashed across her arms. Her voice dropped to a hiss. “If I lose control, I’ll kill them all!”

He held her face between his palms. “Then focus on me.”

For a heartbeat, everything stilled—the fire, the shouts, the chaos.
Her eyes met his. The serpent’s power surged, but his presence anchored her.

Then she did something she’d never done before—she let the serpent rise without fear.

A burst of green light swept through the house. The fire died instantly, sucked into the glow. Outside, the villagers fell to their knees, torches extinguished.

When the light faded, Adaora stood unharmed, her eyes shining gold, the aura of a queen surrounding her.

She stepped outside. The villagers trembled.

“I am not your enemy,” she said. Her voice was calm, resonant, ancient. “This curse is my burden, not yours. But if you harm my family again, the serpent will remember.”

The men dropped their torches and fled into the night.

VIII. The Choice

After that night, everything changed.
The town no longer mocked Adaora. Some avoided her; others began to whisper prayers when she passed, unsure if she was a blessing or a warning.

But for Adaora, peace was fragile. Every full moon, the serpent’s pull grew stronger. She feared one day even Emeka’s voice wouldn’t be enough.

One evening, sitting by the mango tree where they first met, she said quietly, “You should leave before it’s too late.”

Emeka frowned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I saw something in my dreams,” she whispered. “The serpent said love comes with a price.”

“Then I’ll pay it,” he said.

Tears glistened in her eyes. “You don’t understand. If I lose control, the serpent will need a life to balance mine.”

He reached out and took her hand. “Then let it take mine.”

“Emeka—”

“No. I’m serious. You saved me once—from being ordinary. If dying for you is the price, I’ll pay it a thousand times.”

Adaora buried her face in his chest, sobbing. The serpent within her stirred—but this time, it didn’t hiss. It purred.

IX. The Awakening

On Adaora’s seventeenth birthday, the moon rose blood-red.
The old woman gathered herbs, chanting softly. “Tonight decides her fate.”

Adaora lay on a mat, trembling as light rippled beneath her skin. The air shimmered with power. Snakes appeared again—phantoms of light and shadow.

Emeka knelt beside her, holding her hand. “I’m here.”

She screamed. Her body arched. Scales bloomed along her arms and neck. Her hair shimmered like molten gold.

“Don’t fight it,” Mama Ngozi shouted. “Accept it!”

Adaora’s eyes flew open, glowing fiercely. “I can’t!”

Emeka leaned close. “You can. You’re stronger than this curse.”

Then he did what no one dared—he kissed her.

For a moment, everything exploded—light, sound, energy. The snakes vanished. The air grew still.

When the glow faded, Adaora lay motionless. The scales were gone. Her skin was clear. Her eyes—human again.

She sat up slowly, gasping. “It’s… quiet. The serpent—it’s gone.”

Mama Ngozi smiled, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “No, child. Not gone—at peace.”

Emeka helped her up. “What happened?”

“The serpent accepted your love,” the old woman said. “The curse is broken.”

X. The New Dawn

Days turned into weeks. The town healed. The fear vanished.
Adaora walked freely, laughing, studying, living.

People whispered again—but now with awe. Some called her Ada Eke, the girl blessed by the serpent. Others simply called her Adaora, and smiled.

One afternoon, sitting under the mango tree, she turned to Emeka. “You know, you never gave up on me.”

He grinned. “I couldn’t. Snakes or not, you’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

She laughed, a sound like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Maybe you should be careful,” she teased. “I still have some serpent left in me.”

He winked. “Good. I like danger.”

They sat together, watching the sky turn gold, the air full of the hum of new beginnings.

Epilogue — The Whisper of Scales

That night, as Adaora stood by her window, a breeze brushed her cheek. The moon shone white again. She looked at her reflection—and for a fleeting moment, saw golden eyes staring back.

Then a gentle voice echoed in her mind.
You are never alone, child. We are one, not curse, but balance.

Adaora smiled softly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For letting me live.”

Behind her, Emeka stirred in his sleep, murmuring her name.

And as the night embraced them, the faint sound of a snake’s hiss drifted through the wind — not a threat, but a lullaby.

The serpent no longer hunted her.
It guarded her.

And somewhere in the shadows, the old legend of Eke Nneka began anew—
this time, not as a curse, but as a story of love that tamed even the oldest gods.