The Price of Rebellion: A Daughter’s Fatal Choices and the Echoes of Regret in Nolanga
Amina was the only child of her parents, residing in the serene village of Nolanga. She was their world, their pride, and unfortunately, their greatest weakness. Her parents adored her, showering her with affection and spoiling her to a fault. Whatever Amina desired, her father provided without a moment’s hesitation.
“I love you, Papa,” she would say, her eyes shining with youthful innocence.
“I love you too, my darling,” he would reply, a warm smile spreading across his face.
His love for her was a blinding light, illuminating only her smiles and obscuring her misdeeds. He saw no wrong in his precious daughter.
Every morning, while the other children of Nolanga hurriedly finished their chores and rushed to school, their laughter echoing through the village paths, Amina remained buried beneath her blankets, refusing to stir.
Her mother, recognizing the value of education, would gently try to persuade her. “Amina, you must get up,” she would urge, her voice laced with concern. “It’s important for your future. Amina, get up and get ready for school.”
But the young girl, stubborn and indulged, would simply groan and pull the covers tighter. “I don’t want to go to school today, Mama. I just want to sleep. But Amina, you have to go.”
Her father, overhearing the exchange from the adjacent room, would invariably intervene. “Let her sleep,” he would call out, his voice a soothing balm to Amina’s resistance.
And so, the school days passed without Amina, her education neglected in favor of fleeting comfort.
Within the village, Amina quickly gained a reputation for her fiery temper. She lacked respect for everyone, a glaring anomaly in a community that revered its elders. She would walk past the elderly without a word of greeting, a slight that did not go unnoticed.
Rumors swirled about her unruly behavior. It was whispered that one day, at the bustling village market near the stream, she had callously pushed an old woman who had accidentally bumped into her. The poor woman had tumbled to the ground, her wares scattered, while Amina had simply scoffed and walked away.
Amina was frequently the epicenter of village disputes. She was known to break the water jars of other children, a cruel prank that inevitably led to tears and squabbles. When disgruntled parents approached her father with complaints, he would merely shrug off their concerns. “She’s just a child,” he would say, his voice devoid of reprimand. He would readily pull out his wallet to compensate for the broken jars, but he never uttered a word of correction to his daughter, nor did he attempt to guide her behavior.
“Me too, Papa,” Amina would say, her voice dripping with entitled innocence.
This cycle of indulgence and misbehavior continued unchecked for years, until a sudden tragedy struck the family.
One fateful morning, her father, as he had done countless times before, climbed a towering palm tree to harvest palm wine. However, a misstep sent him plummeting to the hard earth below. Panic swept through the compound as he was hastily carried to the village healer.
“Save my father!” Amina cried, her voice raw with desperation.
The healer, a wise man with years of experience, employed all his knowledge and skill, but the injuries were too severe. Despite his frantic efforts, he could not save the man.
That very evening, Amina’s father drew his last breath. The family was plunged into a deep, consuming grief that lasted for days, their wails echoing through the silent nights.
Amina, who had shared a profound bond with her father, was inconsolable. Her cries pierced the air, louder and more heart-wrenching than anyone else’s in the compound. She threw herself onto the dusty ground, her body wracked with sobs. “Papa, Papa, don’t leave me!” she wailed, her voice a desperate plea to an empty sky.
But the dead cannot answer the cries of the living.
The villagers gathered around the compound, their faces etched with sorrow and a subtle, unspoken judgment. They whispered among themselves, exchanging knowing glances. Some shook their heads in silent disapproval.
Slowly, an elderly woman named Mama Abena stepped forward, leaning heavily on her walking stick. She let out a deep, resonant sigh. “If only her father had corrected her when he was still alive,” she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of a painful truth. “If only her father had corrected her when he was still alive.”
“If only her father had…” But Amina’s mother was too consumed by her own heartbreak to register the murmurs of the crowd.
Days turned into weeks, and the vibrant laughter that once filled their home was replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. Without the income of her husband, the harsh realities of survival began to set in. Providing enough food became a daily struggle. There were days when they could only manage a single, meager meal. The beautiful, vibrant clothes Amina had once flaunted grew faded and threadbare.
Her mother, burdened with the sole responsibility of providing for them, now rose before dawn to toil in the fields. She frequently pleaded with Amina to join her, to share the burden, but the young girl consistently refused. She also shirked any household chores, preferring to wander the village square as if she owned the very ground she walked on.
She continued her disrespectful ways, hurling insults at anyone who crossed her path and blatantly ignoring the customary greetings to the elderly. She would often leave the house early in the morning and return late into the night, her whereabouts a mystery.
When her mother tried to question her, Amina would simply brush her off with a dismissive wave before retreating into the house. “She is insolent, this little one,” the villagers would mutter, shaking their heads in collective dismay whenever she strutted past.
One evening, an elderly woman called out to her. “Amina, my daughter. Come here.”
The young girl stopped, her expression one of unmistakable irritation. “What is it now?” she snapped.
The old woman sighed, her eyes filled with a mix of pity and warning. “Your father is no longer here to fix your mistakes. Change your behavior before life teaches you a lesson you will never forget.”
Amina let out a scornful hiss. “Old woman, mind your own business.” And with that, she turned and walked away, not even bothering to look back.
From that day forward, the villagers ceased their attempts to offer guidance. They simply watched, silent observers to a tragedy they felt was inevitable.
Months bled into years. Amina began to associate with a new crowd—strangers from neighboring villages, older boys known for their reckless behavior, heavy drinking, and late-night escapades. They often gathered behind an abandoned, dilapidated hut near the edge of the forest. There, they would laugh raucously, drink heavily, and dance until the early hours of the morning.
Amina thrived on the attention they showered upon her. For the first time since her father’s death, she felt a fleeting sense of importance, a validation she craved.
But her mother noticed the subtle shifts in her daughter’s demeanor. One night, when Amina returned exceptionally late, her mother confronted her.
“Amina, where are you coming from at this hour?” she demanded, her voice a mix of anger and fear.
The young girl rolled her eyes dramatically. “Why are you asking me this? Am I still a child?”
Her mother’s voice trembled, betraying her deep anxiety. “My daughter, please, the path you are taking is dangerous.”
But Amina simply pushed past her and entered the house. “Leave me alone.”
Later that evening, her mother sat beside her, attempting to reason with her in a softer, more pleading tone. “My daughter, your father is gone. We have no one else to help us. Please, go back to school. One day, I too will be gone. I would love for you to become a doctor.”
Amina rolled her eyes once more, a gesture of profound disrespect. “Mama, school is not for me. I don’t like studying, but I know my future will be bright. I will be rich, and I will take care of myself.” With those words, she stood up and retreated to her bed.
Her mother remained seated outside for a long time, lost in a sea of troubling thoughts. Finally, she made a difficult decision. She would send Amina to live with her sister in the city, hoping that a change of scenery and the opportunity to learn a trade would steer her daughter away from her destructive path, since she adamantly refused to pursue her education.
Two weeks later, Amina and her mother boarded a crowded, dusty bus destined for the city. The journey was arduous. The red dust of the unpaved road billowed through the open windows, making it difficult to breathe.
Amina sat by the window, nonchalantly chewing on peanuts, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape, lost in her own world. Her mother, however, stole frequent glances at her daughter. At times, she would open her mouth as if to speak, but the words would die in her throat, and she would remain silent, the unspoken fears weighing heavily on her heart.
By late afternoon, the bus finally rumbled into the bustling city. The cacophony was overwhelming—cars honking incessantly, motorcycles weaving recklessly through the congested traffic. Amina had never witnessed such a chaotic, crowded environment. Her eyes widened in astonishment.
“So, this is the city?” she murmured softly, a mix of awe and trepidation in her voice.
Her mother grasped her hand firmly. “Don’t forget why you are here. Your aunt will teach you sewing. If you learn well, your future will be better.”
Amina merely shrugged, her expression unreadable. “We’ll see.”
They eventually arrived at a modest compound where her mother’s sister lived. The gate was rusted, a testament to years of wear, but the courtyard within was impeccably clean.
Her aunt, Aunt Chantal, was seated beneath the shade of a sprawling mango tree, diligently cutting pieces of vibrant fabric. Upon seeing them, she looked up, a bright smile illuminating her face. “Ah, my sister, you have finally arrived.”
The two women embraced warmly, their joy palpable. After exchanging pleasantries, Aunt Chantal turned her attention to Amina, her gaze sweeping over the young girl from head to toe.
“So, this is Amina?”
Her mother nodded slowly, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. “Yes, from now on, she is under your responsibility.”
Aunt Chantal studied the young girl intently. Her gaze was piercing, the look of a woman who had experienced the harsh realities of life. “My daughter,” she said calmly, her voice carrying a quiet authority, “this city is not like your village. Here, if you choose the wrong path, the consequences arrive very quickly.”
Amina remained silent. She simply averted her gaze and kicked a small pebble on the ground, a subtle act of defiance. Her mother sighed deeply, a sound that echoed the heaviness in her heart.
That evening, they shared a quiet meal together. The following morning, Amina’s mother prepared for her journey back to the village. She held her daughter in a tight, lingering embrace.
“My daughter, please, listen to your aunt. Learn something useful for your life.”
Amina nodded half-heartedly, her mind already elsewhere. “Yes, Mama, I understand.”
Her mother then boarded a bus and departed. As the vehicle faded into the distance, Amina stood by the rusted gate, watching in silence. For the first time since leaving the familiar comfort of her village, she felt a strange, hollow emptiness within her.
But instead of dwelling on the feeling, she turned and walked back into the courtyard. Life in the city was just beginning.
Aunt Chantal was a strict disciplinarian who owned a small, bustling hair salon in the heart of the city’s vibrant market. From the very first day, Amina realized that things were vastly different here. There was no one to pamper her, no one to shield her from the consequences of her actions.
Aunt Chantal rose before the sun every morning, and Amina was expected to do the same. “Get up!” her aunt would often command. “In this house, everyone works.”
But Amina despised this new life. She loathed sweeping the expansive courtyard. She hated the arduous task of fetching water. She despised standing in the sweltering salon, watching clients get their hair braided, a silent observer to a life of hard work she wanted no part of.
Several times, she attempted to sneak out for a stroll in the city, but her aunt always managed to catch her. “Do you think this is your father’s house?” she would scold, her voice dripping with cold reprimand.
Despite the constant discipline, Amina refused to change her ways. In the evenings, she began to slip out secretly. Behind the bustling market, there was a small, dimly lit bar where young men gathered to drink and converse. It was here that Amina found a new circle of friends. They bought her drinks, showering her with compliments about her beauty. They whispered sweet nothings, telling her that a girl as stunning as her shouldn’t waste her life toiling in a hair salon.
Gradually, Amina started returning home later and later, sometimes well past midnight. One night, Aunt Chantal caught her trying to sneak back in.
“Amina!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the quiet courtyard.
The young girl froze in her tracks.
“Where are you coming from?”
Amina crossed her arms, her silence a defiant response. Her aunt’s face hardened, her expression grim. “Listen to me carefully, the life you are chasing will eventually destroy you.”
But Amina simply laughed, the warnings washing over her like water off a duck’s back. Her aunt continued, her voice laced with frustration. “You refuse to go to school. You refuse even to learn a trade. So tell me, what do you want to do with your life?”
Amina responded with unwavering confidence. “Aunt, I know my future is bright. I will marry a rich man, and you will all see.”
Weeks turned into months. Amina became increasingly popular among the boys in the market district. One day, while walking to her aunt’s salon, she encountered a young man stranded by the roadside. He appeared lost, desperately seeking directions. Amina graciously guided him. Before parting ways, the young man asked for her phone number, promising to call.
That evening, when Amina returned home, sleep eluded her. She anxiously awaited the young man’s call, tossing and turning in her bed. Every slight vibration of her phone sent her heart racing. She murmured to herself, “I think I have met the man who will change my life. He is not only handsome, but he is also very rich.”
Three days later, Amina received a call from an unknown number. When she asked who was speaking, a masculine voice replied, “Hello Amina, it’s Kevin, the young man you met the other day.”
Amina was so thrilled she leapt out of bed, her heart pounding erratically. Kevin asked her out on a date, and she accepted immediately, without a second thought. That evening, as she prepared to leave, her aunt stopped her at the door.
“Amina, where are you going?”
Amina replied with a smug, pretentious smile. “Aunt, I am going to see my future husband.”
“What future husband? Amina, you must be careful. The city is not like the village.”
Amina rolled her eyes, a gesture of practiced disdain. “I am no longer a child, Aunt. I am 20 years old. I can take care of myself.”
She left to meet Kevin. Their date began with a lavish shopping spree. Kevin bought her exquisite dresses, expensive shoes, and even a brand new iPhone. Amina could hardly believe her eyes, her reality suddenly mirroring the dreams she had harbored.
Kevin looked at her, a charming smile playing on his lips. “You are a very special woman, Amina. I loved you from the first day I saw you. My dream is to marry a woman as beautiful as you.”
His words melted her heart, validating the grandiose visions she held for her future. Later that evening, he drove her home. Before she stepped out of the car, he handed her a thick wad of cash. “Take this, buy whatever you want.”
Amina stared at the money in sheer astonishment. She had never held such a substantial amount in her life. Thrilled, she sprinted into the courtyard and proudly displayed her bounty to her aunt—the clothes, the phone, and the cash.
Aunt Chantal observed the spectacle in silence. She didn’t share Amina’s enthusiasm, but she managed a forced, tight smile. “My daughter, this kind of thing is rare, but nevertheless, be careful with this man.”
Amina waved her hand dismissively. “There is nothing to fear, Aunt.”
That night, she called her mother, her voice brimming with pride. “Mama! Mama! You said I would never succeed in life. Look at me now, I have an iPhone. Mama, send me your account number. I am going to send you money.”
On the other end of the line, her mother remained silent for a moment. “My daughter, be careful, all that glitters is not gold.”
But Amina had already ended the call, her mother’s warning entirely ignored.
The next morning, Aunt Chantal rose early, as was her custom. “Amina, wake up, we are going to the salon.”
But Amina refused. “Aunt, I am too old now to work in a hair salon.” She rolled over in her bed, engrossed in her new phone.
Aunt Chantal stared at her for a long time, her silence speaking volumes. Then, she simply picked up her bag and left for the market alone.
Amina spent the entire day at home, chatting incessantly with Kevin from dawn till dusk. Kevin continued to shower her with gifts and cash. Every few days, he would pick her up in his car. They would dine at luxurious restaurants, or spend their nights dancing in the city’s exclusive nightclubs.
Gradually, Amina began to live the life she had always dreamed of. New clothes, a new phone, a purse full of cash. She now strutted through the market with an air of superiority. Even the girls who had once mocked her now looked at her with blatant envy.
Amina completely ceased helping her aunt. She no longer visited the salon, nor did she perform any household chores. Her sole occupation was waiting for Kevin’s calls.
One evening, Aunt Chantal called her over, asking her to sit down. “Amina, I know you care about this man, but I am telling you again. Be careful. My intuition does not reassure me about Kevin. I ask you to stay away from him.”
Amina immediately scowled, her face contorting with anger. “Aunt, I understand now that you don’t like to see me progress. You are jealous because, at your age, no man has shown interest in you. You don’t even have a husband.”
Her aunt’s eyes widened in shock, but before Amina could utter another word, a sharp smack echoed through the courtyard. Aunt Chantal had slapped her.
“You are rude and disrespectful!” she yelled, her voice trembling with fury. “You know nothing of my history.”
Amina touched her stinging cheek, her eyes blazing with anger. “You know what? I am leaving your house. I am tired of living in this dirty, miserable place. Kevin has a beautiful house. I am going to go live with him.”
At that moment, Aunt Chantal was seized by a wave of anxiety. If Amina left, what would she tell her sister? Her sister had entrusted the young girl to her care with complete confidence. She attempted to calm the situation.
“Amina, please, calm down. Think carefully about what you are doing.”
But Amina’s mind was made up. “Aunt, help me, there are maggots coming out of my body.”
“What have you done, Amina?” Aunt Chantal cried out.
“Oh, I don’t know, Aunt. I woke up and found myself like this.”
“Amina, I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Ah, Aunt, be careful how you speak to me. I am no longer a child. I can leave the house and return when I want. Let me tell you one thing. I know my future will be bright and one day I will marry a rich man. Aunt, you and Mama should let me live my life as I wish.”
The aunt sighed, her voice a forced calm. “I know you care a lot about Kevin, but I am telling you again. Be careful. My intuition is not reassured about this man.”
Amina frowned, her anger flaring once more. “Now I understand that you don’t like to see me succeed. You are simply jealous because no man wants you. At your age, no man has come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
The aunt stood in shocked silence for a moment, then her anger erupted. “How dare you speak to me that way? You are rude and disrespectful. You know nothing of my history.”
Amina, still furious, retorted, “You know what? I am leaving your house. I am tired of putting up with this dirty, miserable house.”
At that moment, the aunt was overwhelmed by anxiety. If the young girl left, what would she tell her sister? Her sister had entrusted her daughter to her with complete trust. She approached Amina, her voice a desperate plea. “Please, calm down, think carefully about what you are doing.”
But Amina had already made her decision. She packed her suitcase with furious determination and, without looking back, left the house, heading straight for Kevin’s.
Initially, life with Kevin was idyllic, a manifestation of her wildest fantasies. His house was magnificent, a stark contrast to the modest dwellings she had known. The refrigerator was perpetually stocked with an abundance of food. Expensive perfumes adorned the tables. Kevin frequently took her out to fine dining establishments. They frequented nightclubs, and he constantly bought her new, luxurious clothing.
Amina felt she had finally escaped the clutches of poverty. She repeatedly told herself, “I knew it. My future is bright.”
Weeks passed, a whirlwind of luxury and indulgence. Then, one morning, a subtle shift occurred. Amina awoke feeling profoundly weak. Her body burned with fever, and her head spun dizzily.
“Kevin, I think I have a fever,” she said, her voice weak and raspy.
Kevin placed a hand on her forehead and replied dismissively, “Maybe it’s malaria.” He purchased some over-the-counter medication, but the fever stubbornly persisted.
Day by day, Amina grew weaker. She lost her appetite, spending the majority of her time sleeping, her vibrant energy entirely depleted.
Finally, Kevin said something that took her by surprise. “Maybe you should go tell your family. They can take better care of you.”
Amina was too weak to argue. She reluctantly returned to her aunt’s house. That morning, her aunt was preparing to leave for work. But when she saw Amina at the gate, she froze. The young girl had lost a significant amount of weight. She was incredibly weak, her face gaunt, almost unrecognizable.
Instantly, all the aunt’s lingering anger vanished, replaced by a surge of maternal concern. She rushed toward Amina, enveloping her in a tight embrace. “My daughter, what happened to you?”
At those words, Amina broke down, her tears flowing freely. She recounted everything that had transpired to her aunt. Listening to her harrowing tale, her aunt felt a profound pity for the girl. She gently helped Amina into the house. She prepared a nourishing meal and ensured she ate well.
The following day, she decided to take Amina back to the hospital. Upon their arrival, the doctor thoroughly examined Amina. After running a series of tests, he delivered his diagnosis: “It’s malaria.”
It was the exact same diagnosis the previous hospital had provided. The doctors prescribed more medication, and they returned home.
For a brief period, it seemed Amina was on the mend. But three days later, something horrifying occurred. Very early that morning, Amina awoke and stepped outside to sit in the courtyard. The morning air was crisp and refreshing. She sat there quietly, enjoying the gentle breeze.
Suddenly, she felt a bizarre sensation, a cold, slithering movement along her thighs. Initially, she thought it might be her menstrual cycle, but she recalled that her period had ended just a week prior.
She gently leaned forward to investigate, and the moment she saw what was happening, she let out a blood-curdling scream. Her entire body began to tremble violently. Her voice shook as she cried out, “Aunt, help me, there are maggots coming out of my body!”
Her aunt rushed out immediately, her face pale with terror. “Amina, what’s wrong with you?”
Amina was trembling with fear, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know, Aunt. I woke up and found myself like this.”
Her aunt placed a trembling hand on her head, completely shocked. “What have you done, Amina?”
Amina, still weeping, could offer no explanation.
“Amina, I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen to me. I told you that the lifestyle you were leading would eventually destroy you.”
Amina screamed and cried hysterically, her wails drawing the attention of the neighbors. People began to gather in the courtyard, drawn by the commotion. Some women covered their mouths in shock, their eyes wide with disbelief. Others whispered frantically among themselves.
A young boy from the neighborhood murmured, his voice loud enough to be heard in the sudden silence, “This girl has been used for a ritual.”
The courtyard fell eerily quiet. Amina’s heart began to race erratically. The only man she had been intimately involved with was Kevin.
Very quickly, the community police were informed. Shortly after, the officers arrived on the scene. Amina tearfully recounted everything that had happened to them. Wasting no time, they immediately set off for Kevin’s house to apprehend him.
But when they arrived, Kevin had vanished without a trace. The house was entirely empty. The landlord revealed a disturbing detail: Kevin had only rented the house for a very short period. His phone was turned off, and no one had any idea of his whereabouts.
After the police had searched for Kevin everywhere without success, the courtyard slowly regained its usual calm. But Amina’s suffering did not cease. Her horrifying condition persisted.
Her aunt did everything in her power to alleviate her suffering. She bathed her meticulously, changed her clothes frequently, and even took her to two other prominent hospitals in the city. But the doctors were entirely baffled, unable to explain the macabre phenomenon. Some murmured among themselves, exchanging bewildered glances, while others simply shook their heads, completely incapable of comprehending the situation.
Days turned into weeks, and Amina grew increasingly weaker. The young girl, who had once strutted proudly through the market, could no longer even stand.
One evening, her aunt sat silently beside her bed. She watched Amina breathe, her breaths shallow and labored. Her heart grew incredibly heavy. She remembered the solemn promise she had made to her sister when the young girl first arrived in the city.
“My sister, don’t worry, she will be safe with me.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. She stood up slowly and stepped outside the house. That night, she made a difficult decision.
The next morning, she called the neighborhood transport driver. They gently helped Amina into the vehicle. She was so weak she could barely lift her head. The car then embarked on the long, dusty road back toward her native village.
Lying in the back seat, Amina remained silent, her eyes closed. At times, her fragile body would tremble slightly. After several grueling hours on the road, they finally arrived at her mother’s compound.
Her mother was outside, pounding yams, when she saw the car pull up. Seeing Amina being carried out of the vehicle, the pestle slipped from her hands, clattering to the ground.
“My daughter!” she cried out, running toward her, tears streaming down her face. “What has happened to my child?”
The aunt took her sister’s hands, her face etched with profound sadness. “My sister, I have tried everything. Take her to see the traditional healers of the village. Perhaps someone here can help her.”
Amina’s mother wept bitterly, a sound of pure agony.
That very same day, the villagers carried Amina to the village healer. The old healer examined her with intense scrutiny. He prepared potent medicinal plants, mixed various herbs, and performed elaborate purification rituals. For several days, they tried every remedy, every incantation they knew.
But nothing changed. The strange, horrifying illness persisted relentlessly.
Weeks passed, a slow, agonizing descent. Amina grew increasingly emaciated and fragile. The young girl, once so proud and stubborn, was now silent, her spirit utterly broken, replaced by a profound humility.
One evening, as the sun began its descent behind the towering palm trees, casting long shadows across the compound, Amina called out softly. “Mama!”
Her mother rushed over and sat beside the mat where she lay. “Yes, my daughter.”
Amina’s eyes were filled with tears, a mix of physical pain and deep regret. “Mama, if I had listened to your advice and that of my aunt, all this would not have happened to me. I am sorry, Mama.”
Her mother’s heart shattered into a million pieces. She immediately took her daughter in her arms and held her tight, rocking her gently. “My daughter, my daughter, it’s nothing. Rest now.”
Amina rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. For the first time in a very long time, her face appeared peaceful, the lines of pain and regret momentarily smoothed away. Her breathing slowly became calmer, more rhythmic. Her body relaxed, surrendering to the inevitable. She fell asleep in the comforting embrace of her mother.
But Amina never woke up. She had drawn her last breath.
When the news of her passing spread throughout the village, a heavy, profound silence descended upon the community. Many people shook their heads sadly, a collective mourning for a life cut tragically short. Some young girls, who had once secretly admired Amina’s reckless, glamorous lifestyle, now looked at each other with visible unease.
An old woman of the village, her voice carrying the weight of generational wisdom, declared softly in the public square, “A child who refuses to listen to advice will one day learn through suffering.”
The tragic story of Amina remained deeply etched in the memory of the villagers of Nolanga for a very long time. And the young girls of the village never, ever forgot the harsh lesson it imparted.