The market hummed with its usual rhythm – the call of traders, the haggling of customers, the gentle rustle of palm fronds overhead. My walking stick tapped occasionally against the hard earth, more for reassurance than necessity. I had brought it despite the brightness of the day, despite how it wounded my pride to need such a thing at merely fifty-five years of age. But the poison had aged me beyond my years, and pride was a luxury I could ill afford when balance failed me.

Ikem walked beside me, his tall frame casting a protective shadow. Our yams had sold well – they always did, being the finest in the market – and we were making our final round with the last batch of cassava. The sun had climbed high, and I could feel the familiar tightness creeping into my chest that signaled it was time to head home.

That's when the shouting started.

It began as a distant commotion, like the sound of disturbed chickens, then swelled into a wave of voices. Before I could turn to look, something – someone – crashed into me with the force of a charging ram. The impact sent me stumbling, my walking stick clattering to the ground, and for a terrifying moment, I felt my legs threaten to betray me.

She appeared like a whirlwind, this woman, all wild eyes and desperate energy. Our gazes met for just a moment as she scrambled to her feet, and something in those eyes made my breath catch – or perhaps that was just the poison's daily toll. She couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-five, her wrapper torn at the hem, her face streaked with sweat and dust.

"Sorry, elder! Sorry!" she gasped out, already moving again, her feet barely touching the ground as she fled.

Behind her came the thunder of pursuing feet – three traders, their faces dark with anger, their wrappers billowing as they gave chase. They passed like a storm, leaving in their wake a market frozen in commotion: traders with hands paused mid-gesture, customers with heads turned to watch the drama unfold.

Ikem's strong hands were already at my elbows, brushing away the red earth that had stained my wrapper. My legs trembled slightly, but I managed to stay upright as he retrieved my walking stick.

"Who was that?" I asked, my voice rougher than usual, addressing a nearby trader who stood watching the direction of the chase.

The woman clicked her tongue, adjusting her tray of bitter leaf. "That one? She's nothing but trouble. Been coming to the market these past few market days, stealing whatever she can lay hands on. Onions from Nne Nneka, dried fish from Adaku's stall, even palm oil from old Obinna." She shook her head. "Nobody knows where she came from. She appears like a spirit, takes what she wants, and vanishes into the bush paths."

I found myself staring down the narrow lane where she had disappeared, something tugging at the edges of my memory. Perhaps it was the desperation in her eyes, or the way she moved – like someone running not just from angry traders, but from something far worse.

"Are you hurt, Papa?" Ikem's concerned voice brought me back to the present.

"No," I said, gripping my walking stick a bit tighter. "No, just winded." But even as we resumed our rounds, I couldn't shake the image of those eyes, or the nagging feeling that there was something familiar in them, something that spoke of deeper troubles than mere theft.

The market gradually returned to its rhythm, but whispers followed us as we made our way home: whispers of the ghost girl who haunted the marketplace, of stolen goods and angry traders, of mysteries that had no business disturbing the careful peace of our market days.

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Nne Ogugua's achicha sat warm before me, the ugba perfectly seasoned with native spices. The palm wine sparkled golden in the afternoon light, its sweetness promising to cut through the heat of the day. I had just raised the first handful to my lips when a shadow fell across our table.

There she was – the ghost girl – materializing as suddenly as smoke. One eye was swollen shut, purple-black like over-ripe udala fruit. She stood there swaying slightly, her wrapper even more disheveled than before, dust coating her feet as if she'd run through every path in Obiako.

We locked eyes, neither speaking. The market's chatter seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft clinking of Ikem's hands against his plate. Without looking up from my food, I finally broke the silence.

"Hungry?"

A small nod, barely perceptible.

"Nne Ogugua," I called out, my voice carrying the remnants of a morning cough, "bring another plate."

The girl settled onto the bench, her movements careful, like a wounded animal expecting a trap. Ikem watched us both, his eyes moving back and forth as if following the path of an invisible thread.

"You're the elder I ran into," she said, her voice surprisingly soft for someone who had caused such chaos. "I'm terribly sorry."

"Sorry enough to stop stealing?" I asked, pushing the fresh plate Nne Ogugua brought toward her.

She attacked the food with the ferocity of genuine hunger, speaking between mouthfuls. "I need just enough cowries to reach the next village. That's all. Then I'll be gone from here."

"There's honest work to be had," I observed, taking a slow sip of palm wine. "Even for young ones."

Her good eye flashed. "That's not your business, elder. Will you give me the cowries or not?"

Before I could respond, angry voices approached like gathering thunder. Three traders materialized at our table, their faces twisted with righteous anger.

"There she is!" The tallest one reached for her arm. "Time to face the consequences of your theft, ghost girl!"

"She's with me." My voice cut through their anger, steady and firm despite the tickle in my throat that threatened a cough.

They pulled back as if struck. "Elder Orji..." the second trader said, uncertainty creeping into his tone. "Are you sure about this?"

At the mention of my name, the girl's head snapped up, her good eye widening. Something passed across her face – recognition, fear, something else I couldn't quite name.

"I'm sure," I said, reaching for my pouch of cowries. "How much did she take?"

As I counted out their compensation, I felt her stare boring into me. The traders retreated, muttering among themselves, leaving us in a bubble of tense silence.

The silence hung thick as palm oil between us. Ghost girl sank back into her seat, her previous bravado dissolved like morning mist. The wooden bench creaked under her shifting weight.

"Thank you," she whispered, fingers fidgeting with the torn edge of her wrapper.

"If you're truly grateful," I said, scooping up another portion of achicha, "you can show it by keeping your hands to yourself in the market."

She didn't touch her food anymore, just watched me eat with an intensity that made the hair on my neck rise. The poison chose that moment to tickle my throat, and I suppressed a cough.

"Do you..." she started, then seemed to gather her courage. "Do you have any work?"

A laugh escaped me, rough and unexpected. "Work? I'm more worried about you stealing my huts and entire compound than I am about giving you work." The humor faded when I saw her face remained serious, her good eye still fixed on me.

"It's rude to stare," I muttered, taking a sip of palm wine.

"Can you blame me?" She didn't look away.

I set down my cup. "Fine. Can you cook?"

"No." She straightened slightly. "But I can mix herbs."

I scoffed, the sound catching in my throat. "Herbs? And who taught you about herbs? Some bush medicine woman?"

Her chin lifted, a flash of pride breaking through her wariness. "My mother."

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. I studied her then – really studied her. Beyond the dirt and bruises, there was something in the set of her jaw, the arch of her eyebrows...

"Can you at least clean? Keep a home tidy?"

She nodded, and for the first time, I saw uncertainty flicker across her face.

"Your name?" I asked, though part of me already knew it would be significant.

"Chisa." The name fell from her lips like a secret.

Ikem, who had been silent throughout this exchange, shifted beside me. I could feel his questions, his concern, but he held his tongue.

I pushed my empty plate away, feeling the weight of destiny settling around my shoulders like a familiar wind. "Very well, Chisa. You can come home with us."

Her good eye widened, glistening with what might have been tears or simply the market's dust.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," I confirmed, reaching for my walking stick. "But understand this – one hint of theft in my compound, one missing cowry..." I left the threat unfinished.

She nodded vigorously, then winced as the movement obviously pained her swollen eye.

"Ikem," I called, rising slowly to my feet, careful not to let them see how my knees trembled. "Pay Nne Ogugua for our meal." I turned to Chisa. "And you, ghost girl, had better keep up. I walk slowly these days, but I won't wait forever."

The irony of those words wasn't lost on any of us as we made our way through the market, my walking stick tapping out a rhythm, Ikem's strong presence behind us, and this strange girl following like a shadow in our wake.

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