As I spun to face my attacker, I found myself staring into eyes that blazed like embers from burning firewood. Another woman, larger and likely older than my captive, stood before me wielding the stick she'd used to strike me. Her attire mirrored that of the thief on my shoulder, leaving only those fierce eyes visible.

She barked words at me in the same incomprehensible tongue as her companion, her voice growing increasingly agitated with each repetition. When I failed to respond, she lunged forward, stick raised high.

This time, I was ready. I sidestepped her clumsy attack, my years of farming having exercised my reflexes. As she stumbled past me, overbalanced by her wild swing, I couldn't help but shake my head in disbelief. Not only had they stolen from me, but now they dared to attack me on my own land?

The woman on my shoulder chose that moment to renew her struggles, nearly causing me to lose my footing. Gritting my teeth, I adjusted my grip, determined not to let either of them escape the justice they so richly deserved.

As the larger woman regained her balance and turned to face me once more, I made a split-moment decision. With a grunt of effort, I lunged forward, using my free arm to wrap around her waist. Years of hauling yams and hoisting baskets had given me strength that belied my solitary lifestyle.

For a moment, we were a tangle of flailing limbs and muffled curses – at least, I assumed they were curses from the tone, if not the words themselves. The larger woman's stick clattered to the ground as I lifted her, her feet leaving the earth.

With a heave that would have impressed even the strongest men in Obiakor, I managed to hoist her over my other shoulder. My legs wobbled under their combined weight, but I steadied myself and started walking. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Here I was, a man who had sworn off human company, now burdened with more of it than I knew what to do with. The irony was not lost on me, even as I grunted with the effort of carrying my captives.

Their continued struggles and incomprehensible shouts created a cacophony that shattered the usual peace of my farm. Birds took flight from nearby trees, startled by the commotion. If any of my distant neighbors happened to see me at that moment – a solitary farmer lumbering along with two strangely-dressed women slung over his shoulders – I could only imagine the tales that would spread through Obiakor.

I arrived at the village square, my muscles aching from the long journey with my burdensome cargo. As I approached the vigilante post, a large hut just behind the square, I could feel the weight of curious stares from passers-by and villagers. Their whispers reached my ears: "Who and what has Orji got on his hands this time?"

I ignored them all, focused solely on delivering these thieves to face justice. As I unceremoniously dropped the women at the post, the larger one attempted to flee. Without hesitation, I stuck out my foot, sending her sprawling. The sight of her bruised elbow as she hit the ground stirred no sympathy in me.

Amadi, the head of the vigilante group, emerged from the hut, his eyes widening at the scene before him.

"Orji," he said, his voice a mix of surprise and wariness. "What brings you to us today?"

I straightened, my voice gruff from disuse. "These women are thieves. I caught them stealing and eating my prized corn."

Amadi studied their attire, his eyes narrowing. "These are... unusual thieves, Orji. Their clothes—I've never seen that fabric around here. Where did they come from?"

"I know not and care less," I replied tersely. "They were in my field, stealing my harvest. The law is clear on such matters."

Amadi hesitated, glancing from the women to me. "Orji, their attire... it's strange. We can't even understand them. Are you sure—"

"They stole from my land," I snapped, cutting him off. "That's all I need to be sure of. Unless you're saying the law should bend for strangers?"

Amadi held up a placating hand. "Peace, Orji. We will investigate this matter thoroughly. You know we value your... solitude. We'll ensure justice is served."

I grunted, satisfied for the moment. "See that you do. I want them sent to the cage above Oshimiri, as is our law."

Amadi's eyes widened slightly. "The cage? For corn theft? Isn't that—"

I cut him off with a sharp gesture. "The law makes no distinctions. Neither should you."

Amadi sighed, then nodded. "Very well, Orji. We'll handle this according to our laws. You can return to your land knowing the matter is in our hands."

I turned to leave, then paused. "Ensure they do not escape, Amadi. I would hate to have to return to the village again so soon."

With that, I strode away, leaving the strange women and the murmuring crowd behind me. As I headed back to my secluded home, I silently vowed to reinforce my farm's boundaries. Never again would I allow outsiders to disrupt my carefully cultivated solitude.

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Mairo and Rimi scrambled to their feet, instinctively huddling together as the hefty guards moved in. The guards, their muscles bulging and chests bare, wore only crimson wraps around their waists. They advanced, forming a tight circle around the two women, their expressions stern and unyielding.

Amadi stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the young women. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if trying to bridge a gap of understanding. But Mairo and Rimi only stared at him, their eyes wide and bewildered. They did not respond, did not utter a single word. It was clear they couldn't understand him, and the silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

Amadi let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. He shook his head, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. Turning to the guards, he waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Take them away," he ordered, his voice weary but firm.

The guards obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward to grasp the women by their arms. Mairo and Rimi flinched, but there was no escape as they were firmly led away, their feet dragging against the dusty ground. The onlookers murmured among themselves, watching the scene unfold, but no one stepped forward to intervene.

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