VYOTE NDANI GONGA94
The Girl Who Was Buried Pregnant(Part5)
Usimulizi huu ni wa watu wazima. Chukua muda wako, tulia, kisha usome kwa utulivu kama machapisho yetu yanayoendelea moja kwa moja.
????The Girl Who Was Buried
Pregnant(Part5)
Ifeoma didn’t wake.
She descended.
Deeper than the roots. Beyond bones. Past the memories of screams. Into the womb of the forest itself.
There was no light here.
Only pulse.
Thud.
Thud.
The beating of a thousand unborn hearts.
She floated inside something thick and warm—amniotic blackness—a second womb, but not of flesh. Of grief. Of curses. Of every woman who had ever died mid-birth, her child clawing inside her, desperate to escape a coffin.
Ifeoma could hear them now.
Scratching.
Tearing.
Whimpering.
And then… gnawing.
The First Mother stood before her, taller now—impossibly tall. Her face was a shifting mosaic of dead infants and silent mouths stitched shut with veins. Her voice crawled across Ifeoma’s bones:
“You were not chosen. You were made.”
Suddenly, Ifeoma's spirit was slammed back into her corpse. Eyes sewn open. Chest rising—not with breath, but with roots.
She couldn't scream.
Instead, she bloomed.
From her belly, thin vines broke through the skin—not roots, but umbilical cords, twitching like worms. They reached upward, wrapping around the First Mother, feeding her.
And from within Ifeoma’s swollen womb came movement.
But not a baby.
Something else.
She felt teeth.
Not inside her mouth.
Inside her womb.
Gnashing. Hungry.
Something was being born backward.
Something that remembered death before life.
Outside, the forest grew louder.
The dead girls began tearing their own bellies open, laughing with lipless mouths. What crawled out of them wasn't human—small forest gods with empty eye sockets and mouths that opened sideways, clicking prayers in forgotten languages.
They circled Ifeoma, chanting with tongues of ash:
“She opens. She births. She feeds the soil with sorrow.”
Suddenly, Ifeoma’s fingers snapped backward, folding like dead branches.
Her jaw dislocated.
And the thing inside her belly spoke.
Through her throat.
In a voice like a chorus of unborn children:
“We will eat the future. We will drink the womb. We will make the living our casket.”
And then the forest answered.
The trees screamed.
The moon bled.
And far away, in every village, every woman pregnant or bleeding woke to find black sap dripping from their navels, and whispers inside their ears:
“You carry the seed. You carry the forest.”
Ifeoma’s last thought, before she disappeared fully into the roots, was this:
The curse didn’t start with her.
But it would end in her birth.
And it was only beginning.
— TO BE CONTINUED —
Would you cut the child out to save yourself… or become the mother of something the world was never meant to survive?
@topfans
Pregnant(Part5)
Ifeoma didn’t wake.
She descended.
Deeper than the roots. Beyond bones. Past the memories of screams. Into the womb of the forest itself.
There was no light here.
Only pulse.
Thud.
Thud.
The beating of a thousand unborn hearts.
She floated inside something thick and warm—amniotic blackness—a second womb, but not of flesh. Of grief. Of curses. Of every woman who had ever died mid-birth, her child clawing inside her, desperate to escape a coffin.
Ifeoma could hear them now.
Scratching.
Tearing.
Whimpering.
And then… gnawing.
The First Mother stood before her, taller now—impossibly tall. Her face was a shifting mosaic of dead infants and silent mouths stitched shut with veins. Her voice crawled across Ifeoma’s bones:
“You were not chosen. You were made.”
Suddenly, Ifeoma's spirit was slammed back into her corpse. Eyes sewn open. Chest rising—not with breath, but with roots.
She couldn't scream.
Instead, she bloomed.
From her belly, thin vines broke through the skin—not roots, but umbilical cords, twitching like worms. They reached upward, wrapping around the First Mother, feeding her.
And from within Ifeoma’s swollen womb came movement.
But not a baby.
Something else.
She felt teeth.
Not inside her mouth.
Inside her womb.
Gnashing. Hungry.
Something was being born backward.
Something that remembered death before life.
Outside, the forest grew louder.
The dead girls began tearing their own bellies open, laughing with lipless mouths. What crawled out of them wasn't human—small forest gods with empty eye sockets and mouths that opened sideways, clicking prayers in forgotten languages.
They circled Ifeoma, chanting with tongues of ash:
“She opens. She births. She feeds the soil with sorrow.”
Suddenly, Ifeoma’s fingers snapped backward, folding like dead branches.
Her jaw dislocated.
And the thing inside her belly spoke.
Through her throat.
In a voice like a chorus of unborn children:
“We will eat the future. We will drink the womb. We will make the living our casket.”
And then the forest answered.
The trees screamed.
The moon bled.
And far away, in every village, every woman pregnant or bleeding woke to find black sap dripping from their navels, and whispers inside their ears:
“You carry the seed. You carry the forest.”
Ifeoma’s last thought, before she disappeared fully into the roots, was this:
The curse didn’t start with her.
But it would end in her birth.
And it was only beginning.
— TO BE CONTINUED —
Would you cut the child out to save yourself… or become the mother of something the world was never meant to survive?
@topfans
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Umependezwa ?? Asante Soma Zaidi the-girl-who-was-buried-pregnant-part5
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