Once upon a time, in a small town, there was a girl named Amarachi. Amarachi was not like the others. She had a big, dark scar on her face, from her forehead down to her cheek, which she covered with an eye patch.
She got it when she was little, from an accident nobody liked to talk about. Her father, a strong man with oil-stained hands, always told her, Amarachi, beauty is not in the face. Beauty is in the heart.
He worked hard as a mechanic, fixing broken cars so that Amarachi could go to school. But at school, nobody cared about beauty inside the heart. The children laughed at her.
They pointed at her face. They whispered behind her back. Look at her face, one girl giggled.
She looks like a broken pot, another boy said. But the worst of them all was William. William was the school’s golden boy, rich, popular, and always surrounded by people.
His father owned the biggest supermarket in town. He had the best clothes, the best shoes, the best everything. He was the loudest in the room and the cruelest when it came to Amarachi.
Every day, William made fun of Amarachi. He called her, dirty Amarachi. Why do you even come to school? William sneered one morning, leaning on the classroom door.
You look like a monster. He told her, did your father fix your face the way he fixes old cars? His friends laughed. Amarachi did not.
She tried to ignore them. She told herself she didn’t care. But deep inside, she felt something heavy in her chest, like a stone pressing down on her heart.
She walked past them, her scar burning under their cruel stares. But inside, she was breaking. One day, during lunch, the sun was high.
The air smelled of jollof rice and beans, and the cafeteria was full of chatter. Amarachi held her tray tightly, her stomach rumbling. She had saved her lunch money all week to buy a special meal today, fried rice and chicken.
But as she walked in, she didn’t notice the sneakers. She didn’t see the way William and his friends were watching her. She didn’t know what they had done.
Amarachi reached her usual spot, placed her tray down. She did not see the water on the chair. She sat.
Then splash! The coldness hit her first. It seeped through her skirt, stuck to her skin. The whole cafeteria went silent for a second.
Then, oh no! William’s voice rang through the hall like a drum. Big Amarachi peed herself! Laughter, loud, cruel, merciless. Amarachi’s fingers dug into the table.
She could feel her ears burning, her heart pounding. The laughter crashed over her like waves in a storm. A girl pointed.
Look! Look at her skirt! She wet herself like a baby. A boy slapped his knee. Maybe she saw her own face in the mirror and got scared.
Even the ones who didn’t want to laugh smiled behind their hands. Amarachi swallowed hard. She wanted to run.
She wanted to disappear. But she didn’t. Slowly, she stood.
The room went quiet again, watching her like hungry lions. She turned to William, locking eyes with him. Her voice was steady.
I may be wet, but at least I’m not drowning in arrogance like you. The cafeteria froze. The laughter stopped.
Some students whispered. A few nodded. William’s grin faded, his face twisting in anger.
Amarachi picked up her tray, turned and walked out, her back straight. She did not let them see her pain. But inside, she was breaking.
And William? He did not like that she talked back. Oh no! He did not like it at all. He wanted to break her completely.
The following week, something more terrible happened again. The rain had fallen all morning. The sky was grey, the ground soft and wet.
Puddles of brown, thick mud sat in the schoolyard, waiting for careless feet to splash into them. Amarachi held her books close as she walked. The air was cold, but inside, she was burning.
Burning from the laughter, the whispers, the looks. William wasn’t done. No, not yet.
He wanted more. He wanted her to break. Amarachi turned the corner and there they were, William and his gang.
Where are you going, big Amarachi? William smirked. His friends chuckled. Amarachi didn’t answer.
She knew better. She turned to walk the other way, but they blocked her. She glanced down.
A puddle of thick, sticky mud lay behind her. Dark as night, deep as shame. William grinned.
He shoved her. Amarachi fell hard, face first into the mud. Laughter exploded.
William clapped. Now your ugly face matches the ground. His friends howled.
Their voices filled the sky like crows cawing over something dead. Amarachi sat up slowly. Mud dripped from her hair, from her clothes, from her face.
Her heart pounded. Her breath came fast. Tears burned behind her eyes.
But no, she would not cry. Not for them. She wiped her face, stood up, and walked away.
She did not run. She did not shake off the mud. She did not look back.
But inside, something cracked. Something small. Something important.
That evening, when the sun had begun to set, Amarachi sat behind the school building. She did not want to go home like this. She hugged her knees, pressed her face into them, and let the tears fall.
———1
Soft footsteps approached. A gentle voice spoke. Why are you crying, my child? Amarachi sniffed, wiped her nose, and looked up.
It was Mrs. Ella, the school cleaner. She was old, with silver hair wrapped in a scarf. Her hands were rough from years of scrubbing floors.
But her eyes, her eyes were warm. Amarachi hesitated. Then she whispered, It’s William.
He won’t stop bullying me. He says my scar makes me ugly. Mrs. Ella saspiro.
She put down her mop, reached into her bag, and pulled out a small jar. She pressed it into Amarachi’s hands. Amarachi frowned.
What is it? An ointment, Mrs. Ella whispered. Amarachi traced the lid with her fingers. Will it make my scar go away? Mrs. Ella smiled, but there was something strange in her eyes.
Rub this on your scar every night, she said softly. Then she leaned in closer, her voice like the wind before a storm. And when someone insults you again, just say thank you.
They will face the consequences. Amarachi frowned. What kind of advice was that? Say thank you? How would that stop William? She wanted to ask, but Mrs. Ella was already picking up her mop.
Amarachi looked at the jar in her hands. It smelled of herbs. It smelled strange.
But she was tired. Tired of being laughed at. Tired of the pain.
Tired of the scar that made her different. So she nodded. She would try.
Maybe, just maybe, this would help. She slipped it into her pocket and walked home, her heart heavy with questions. That night, Amarachi sat on her small wooden bed, staring at the jar in her hands.
The room was dark except for the faint light from the moon slipping through the window. She unscrewed the lid. Sniff.
The smell was strong, like crushed leaves and something bitter. It tickled her nose, made her eyes water a little. Amarachi hesitated.
Was this even real? Would this really change anything? But she had nothing to lose. Slowly, she dipped her finger into the ointment and rubbed it on her scar. The coolness spread across her skin.
It tingled like tiny ants running over her face. She sighed, placed the jar under her pillow and lay down. Tomorrow would be another battle.
The next morning, Amarachi walked into school. She could already hear the whispers. She knew the moment William saw her, his mouth would open.
And there he was, leaning against the classroom door, arms crossed, that wicked smile stretching across his face. His friends were behind him, waiting, grinning. Hey, big Amarachi, has your face melted off yet? He sneered.
That scar makes you look like a witch. The laughter was ready. The insults were waiting.
But Amarachi, Amarachi did not frown. She did not lower her head. She smiled.
Then she looked William in the eye and said, thank you. Silence. His grin wavered.
What? Amarachi shrugged. I said thank you. Then she turned and walked past him, calm, unshaken.
The laughter did not come. The whispers did not follow. William stood there, watching her, his face puzzled, something about the way she said it, something about her calmness.
It did not sit right with him. His fingers twitched. His chest felt tight.
———-2
But he shook it off. He would deal with her later. School closed that day, and everyone went home.
But the next morning, something strange happened. That morning, when school started, William’s seat was empty. At first, nobody paid attention.
Maybe he had overslept. Maybe he was running late. But by break time, his friends started whispering.
Where’s William? Maybe he’s sick. He never misses school. The teachers noticed too.
William was always present, loud, active, causing trouble. But today, he was nowhere to be seen. By the second day, students were asking questions.
Have you seen William? Is he traveling? Did something happen? The teacher sent a note home. No response. By the third day, the principal was worried.
He called a meeting and sent a staff member to check on William at his house. When they got to his house, what they found shocked everyone. William was bedridden, his body weak, his voice completely gone.
He was terribly ill. William’s parents were terrified. Their strong, boastful son was now weak like a leaf in Hamata wind.
He could not stand. He could not eat. He could not even speak.
His once bright face was swollen, his lips dry and cracked like old firewood. His mother cried. His father paced up and down the room.
This is not ordinary, his mother wailed. We must find a cure. So, they carried William to the best doctor in town.
The doctor checked his eyes, pressed his stomach, listened to his heartbeat. He gave him medicine, injection, even special vitamins. Nothing changed.
This is beyond me, the doctor finally said, rubbing his head. Next, they took William to the biggest church in the city. The pastor placed his hands on William’s forehead.
Be healed in the name of Jesus, he shouted. Nothing. The pastor clapped his hands, shouted louder, poured anointing oil on William’s head.
Still, William lay there, his face twisted in pain. The pastor sighed. This is beyond me.
The family did not stop. They went to a famous Islamic cleric. He recited holy verses over William’s body, tied charms around his wrist.
Then he told William’s parents, give charity to the poor. It will bring healing. They obeyed.
They gave money, food, clothes. They fed hungry children. They helped widows.
But William remained sick. Nothing changed. Days passed.
William’s condition worsened. Finally, someone told them about a powerful herbalist in a deep village. They traveled for hours, carrying William in a car, his body burning with fever.
The herbalist was an old man with gray hair and dark eyes. He mixed bitter herbs, prepared black potions, and bathed William under the cold moonlight. Nothing changed.
The herbalist sighed. This is beyond me. All of them had taken their money, but none had cured their son.
The parents had spent all their money. Doctors had failed. Pastors had failed.
Clerics had failed. Herbs had failed. Hopeless, William’s parents returned home.
His mother cried day and night. His father sat in silence, staring at nothing. Then one day, William’s mother went to the market.
The sun hung low in the sky. The air was thick, heavy, like something was waiting to happen. William’s mother had not slept.
Her eyes were red. Her body tired. But she could not rest.
Not when her son lay in bed, his face swollen, his body weak, his voice gone. She had tried everything, medicine, prayers, herbs. Nothing worked.
Maybe the market herbalists have something stronger, she thought. So she grabbed her basket and hurried to the market. The market was busy, as always.
Sellers shouting, children running, goats chewing on leaves. But William’s mother did not care about any of it. She stopped at a stall selling dried roots and bitter leaves.
She picked some, paid the woman, and turned to leave. Then she saw her, an old woman, thin, wrinkled, dressed in torn clothes. She sat on the ground, her hands stretched out.
Her voice was soft, almost lost in the noise. Please, just a little food. Something pulled at William’s mother’s heart.
She reached into her purse, took out some money, and placed it in the woman’s hand. The old woman grabbed her wrist. Tight, cold, stronger than expected.
———-3
William’s mother gasped. What are you doing? The woman’s eyes, dark, deep, knowing, stared into hers. Then she whispered, your son’s illness is not natural.
A shiver ran down William’s mother’s spine. What? What do you mean? The woman’s grip did not loosen. The old woman’s eyes were sharp, knowing.
He has offended a very powerful girl. Unless she forgives him, he will never be well. William’s mother’s heart stopped.
Who? She breathed. Who did he offend? The old woman shook her head. That is for you to find out.
And just like that, she let go. William’s mother stepped back. Her hands were shaking.
She wanted to ask more. But when she blinked, the woman was gone. She ran home.
She told William’s father everything. He stood still for a long time. Their son had bullied many, too many.
But who was the one? William’s parents searched desperately. Who had he wronged? Which child had he hurt so badly that even the strongest medicine could not cure him? They thought and thought. He has bullied so many children, William’s mother whispered.
How do we know which one? They needed answers. So William’s father went to the school. He stormed into the principal’s office, his face filled with worry.
Please, sir, he begged. My son is sick. We were told that he offended someone, and unless that person forgives him, he will not be well.
Do you know who it could be? The principal sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. William has bullied many students, he said.
But there is one, one he has tormented for years. William’s father leaned forward. Who? The principal’s face was serious.
Amarachi, the girl with the scar. William’s parents froze. Amarachi, his mother whispered.
Yes, the principal said. He has made her life miserable. But perhaps there is more to it now.
William’s parents did not waste time. The road to Amarachi’s house was rough, but William’s parents did not feel the bumps. Their hearts pounded too loudly.
Fear sat in their chest like a heavy rock. Their son was lying in bed, weak, swollen, helpless. And now they had the answer.
Amarachi, the girl with the scar, the girl their son had tormented, the girl whose pain had followed him home. They rushed into Amarachi’s compound. Amarachi’s father was in his workshop, a spanner in one hand, grease on his shirt.
He was fixing a car, the hood wide open. He looked up, surprised. William’s parents were breathless, desperate.
He wiped his face with the dirty cloth and looked up at them. What brings you here? William’s mother fell to her knees. Please, sir, she begged.
Our son is sick. He cannot walk. He cannot talk.
We were told he offended someone and must be forgiven. The principal said it is your daughter. Her voice shook.
Her hands trembled. She had never begged before. But today, she knelt before a mechanic, her eyes filled with tears.
Amarachi’s father wiped his hands on a cloth. His face was calm, but his eyes held sorrow. He turned to his daughter.
My child, will you forgive him? Amarachi stood at the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders stiff. Her heart was torn. This was the boy who had called her a monster.
This was the boy who had laughed at her pain. This was the boy who had pushed her into the mud. And now he lay in bed, helpless.
Amarachi took a deep breath. I didn’t do anything to him. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Her father sighed. He walked to her slowly, placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. Amarachi, my child, no one deserves to suffer like this, even your worst enemy.
His voice was soft, the way the wind whispers before the rain. Please forgive him. Amarachi looked at her father, the man who had taught her kindness, even when the world was cruel.
She looked at William’s parents, the people who once thought their son was untouchable. Now they were on their knees. She exhaled long and slow.
Then finally she spoke. I will forgive him. But on one condition.
William’s father grabbed her hands. Anything. Amarachi’s voice did not shake.
William must leave the school and he must never bully anyone again. His parents nodded quickly. We agree.
He will leave. William’s mother reached for Amarachi’s hand. We will also pay for your school until you finish university.
Amarachi hesitated. Then she nodded. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and whispered the words.
I forgive you, William. That night, William lay in his bed, weak and helpless. His parents watched over him, praying, hoping, waiting.
The house was quiet. The air was heavy. Then, as the first light of dawn touched the sky, William opened his eyes.
His mother gasped. William? His father rushed to his side. My son, say something.
William licked his dry lips. He swallowed. Then, Mama, his mother burst into tears.
His father grabbed his hands. You are healed. His voice had returned.
His strength slowly came back. He could sit up. He could move.
By the second day, he could walk. By the third day, he could eat. By the fourth day, it was as if he had never been sick.
His parents did not waste time. They pulled him out of school immediately. You will never go back there, his father said.
You will never hurt another person again. William did not argue. He had changed.
He had seen what suffering felt like. He never bullied anyone again. At school, something had changed.
People whispered, but not about Amarachi’s scar. They whispered about her. They watched her from the corners of their eyes, their faces filled with something new, respect.
No one laughed at her anymore. No one pointed fingers. Amarachi was no longer just a girl with a scar.
She was a girl with power. Not just in school, but in the whole town. She had once been the girl people laughed at.
Now, she was the girl no one dared to look down on. I hope you enjoyed the story. If so, please like the video, comment what you learned from the tale, and don’t forget to subscribe to the channel for more enchanting tales just like this one.
Thank you.