The Bride of Lake Retba

Awa of the Lake

Lake Retba stretched wide under the morning sun, its unusual pink hue bright and luminous. The lake was alive with the activity of villagers—men wading knee-deep to collect the lake’s precious salt crystals, women spreading the harvest to dry under the sun, and children splashing in the shallows. For them, the lake was more than water and minerals; it was life itself.

Awa was among them, her slim figure moving gracefully as she worked beside her father. At nineteen, she was the pride of her family and the fascination of every villager. Her beauty wasn’t merely in her striking features, though many commented on the brightness of her eyes or the elegance of her frame. It was in her quiet confidence, the way she seemed to belong to the lake as if her spirit rose and fell with its tides.

Her father, Moussa, often warned her not to linger too long by the water. “The lake is powerful, Awa,” he would say, his voice firm but tinged with love. “It gave us life, but it can just as easily take it away.”

But Awa couldn’t help herself. The lake called to her in a way she could never explain. She spent hours alone by its shore, humming the old songs her mother had taught her. These songs, older than anyone could remember, told of the lake’s magical origins. Some said it was a gift from the spirits; others claimed it was cursed.

One afternoon, as Awa crouched by the water, her hands trailing through its warm, salty depths, she thought she heard a voice. It was faint, almost like a whisper carried on the breeze, but it spoke her name. She froze, glancing around to see if anyone was nearby. But the shore was empty.

The Merchant from the Desert

The village was bustling on market day, its usual calm replaced by a symphony of voices, laughter, and the rhythmic clatter of goods being exchanged. Merchants had come from as far as the Sahara, their camels laden with spices, fabrics, and jewelry. Among them was Malik, a young trader with sharp eyes and an easy smile. He had traveled for weeks, braving the harsh desert sun and cold nights, to reach this village by the pink lake.

Malik wasn’t just here to trade; he was drawn by the stories he had heard. A lake that shimmered pink? A girl who was said to be its chosen bride? He couldn’t resist the allure of such a tale. And when he saw Awa for the first time, standing near a stall and examining a basket of fresh mangos, he understood why the villagers spoke of her with such reverence.

“Who is she?” Malik asked an elderly shopkeeper.

The man chuckled, his toothless grin wide. “That is Awa. They say the lake whispers to her. Be careful, young man. Many have tried to win her heart, but none have succeeded. The lake doesn’t let go of what it claims.”

Intrigued, Malik approached Awa. He offered her a polite greeting, his words laced with charm. She looked up, startled at first, but quickly composed herself. Their conversation was brief, but something in Malik’s warm gaze lingered with her long after he walked away.

Over the following days, Malik found excuses to stay in the village. He traded spices for salt, helped repair a broken cart, and told stories of his adventures across the desert. Slowly, he gained Awa’s trust. They began spending time together by the lake, their laughter and shared stories blending with the gentle lapping of the water.

The Warnings Ignored

Awa’s father noticed the change in her. She was quieter at home, distracted. When he confronted her, she admitted her feelings for Malik. Moussa’s face darkened.

“You must be careful, Awa,” he said. “The lake is jealous. It doesn’t share what it loves.”

Awa brushed off his warnings. “They’re just stories, Papa. The lake doesn’t own me.”

But deep down, she wasn’t so sure. She had grown up hearing the legend of Nafi, a woman who had tried to leave the village with her lover and disappeared without a trace. The elders said the lake had claimed her.

Still, her heart was set on Malik. One evening, as they sat by the shore watching the sun set over the pink horizon, Malik took her hand. “Come with me,” he said. “We could have a life together, far from here. You don’t belong to this place, Awa. You’re meant for more.”

Her heart ached with longing, but fear held her back. “What if the stories are true? What if the lake won’t let me go?”

Malik smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The lake is just water. It can’t stop us.”

But as they walked back to the village, a cold wind swept over the shore. The lake’s surface rippled violently, and Awa thought she heard her name again—whispered, but urgent.

The Betrayal of the Waters

The night Awa decided to leave, the village was silent. She and Malik had planned everything carefully, packing their belongings and waiting until the moon was high. But as they approached the edge of the village, the air grew heavy, almost suffocating. Awa hesitated, her feet rooted to the ground.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

Malik frowned. “Hear what?”

“The lake. It’s calling me.”

Before Malik could respond, the ground beneath them trembled, and a loud, thunderous noise erupted from the lake. The water churned violently, waves crashing against the shore. A deep, guttural sound echoed through the air, as if the lake itself was alive and enraged.

Terrified, the villagers emerged from their homes. The elders rushed to the shore, their faces pale with fear. One of them turned to Awa, his voice trembling. “You have angered the lake. It knows you’re trying to leave.”

Awa felt her heart sink. The lake’s once-beautiful pink hue had darkened to a deep crimson, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and decay. Malik grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the water.

“Come on,” he said. “We can still leave.”

But the lake had other plans. As they turned to run, a massive wave rose from the water, crashing down with a force that knocked them to the ground. Awa screamed, her voice lost in the chaos. And then, everything went still.

When the villagers reached the shore, Awa was gone. Malik lay unconscious, his body sprawled on the damp sand. The lake’s surface was calm again, its crimson hue slowly fading back to pink.

The Haunting

Malik refused to leave the village. Weeks turned into months, and he spent every waking moment searching for Awa. He wandered the shores, calling her name into the emptiness, but there was no response. The villagers pitied him but kept their distance. They knew better than to interfere with the lake’s will.

One night, as Malik sat alone by the water, he heard her voice. It was faint but unmistakable. “Malik…”

He jumped to his feet, scanning the shore. And then he saw her—standing on the water, her figure illuminated by the moonlight. She was beautiful but different. Her eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and her movements were slow, almost otherworldly.

“Awa!” he cried, running toward her.

But as he reached the water’s edge, she vanished, leaving only ripples in her wake.

The Legacy of the Lake

The villagers built a shrine near the shore, offering flowers and salt to appease the lake. They spoke of Awa with a mix of reverence and sorrow, calling her “The Bride of the Lake.” Malik eventually left his spirit broken and his love lost.

Years later, on the anniversary of her disappearance, a young girl claimed to have seen Awa in a dream. The villagers, now more cautious than ever, placed offerings at the shrine, hoping to keep the lake’s wrath at bay.

But the whispers never ceased. On quiet mornings, when the air was still, some swore they could hear Awa’s song—a haunting melody carried by the wind.