NÉJÈ In a lush Igbo village cradled by rolling hills and whispering palm trees, there lived a young girl named Néjè, a name meaning "mother is supreme" in Igbo. Néjè was known for her gentle spirit and her gift for listening, as if she carried her mother’s wisdom in her heart. The village of Umuaka thrived on stories, and Néjè loved the evenings when elders shared tales under the moonlight, their voices weaving lessons into the night. One season, the rains were sparse, and the yam fields grew parched. The village worried, for the harvest was their lifeblood. Néjè, though young, felt a quiet urge to help. She remembered her late mother, Adaeze, who had taught her to notice the world’s subtle signs—how the wind spoke, how the earth hummed. One morning, Néjè wandered to the edge of the village, where an ancient baobab stood, its roots deep and sprawling. She sat beneath it, closing her eyes, listening as her mother had taught her. In the stillness, Néjè heard a faint trickle, a sound like laughter beneath the ground. She followed it, her bare feet soft on the earth, until she reached a cluster of rocks hidden by wild grasses. There, a small spring bubbled, its water clear and cool. Néjè’s heart leapt—she knew this could ease the village’s thirst. She ran back, calling the elders and her friends. Together, they cleared the grasses and widened the spring’s path, letting its water flow into a channel that reached the fields. The village rejoiced, and the yams drank deeply, their leaves greening again. The elders named the spring "Néjè’s Gift," not because she claimed it, but because her quiet listening had found what was always there, waiting. Néjè smiled, feeling her mother’s presence in the breeze. The village thrived that season, and Néjè’s story became one told under the moonlight—a reminder that wisdom lies in listening to the world’s gentle truths.