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Ntuoku: After The Rain

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Ntuoku after the rain twitter Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
Ntuoku: After The Rain: African Mythology, Igbo Superstition, Igbo Myth, Thriller, Adventure, Free Short Stories, Fabling, Pam

Five years had passed since Ada left her hometown for the city to study Mass Communication at the University of Nsuka. She remembered how she and her childhood friends had dreamed of passing the WAEC examination when they were younger and the joy they had felt when they received their results. Everyone had made it to their schools of choice. She smiled as she stared out of the bus’s window. She had always returned home, to Omuma, during the holidays, but this would be the first time everybody in the old gang would be present. She could not wait to see them. Mostly Ifeanyi.

The second she arrived home her little sister prepared a hot water bath for her. Once she was done washing away the journey’s stress, her mother asked her to help prepare dinner. ‘I just arrived. Can’t I get a one-day break?’ she grumbled but obeyed. It was nice eating with the family again.

“Have you heard? Ifeanyi is back from America? He is now working as a contractor for Shell.” Her mother quipped. Ada nodded; trying to hide the flush that enveloped her face every time his name was mentioned.

“Ego is also back too.” Her sister added. “I heard she would also be getting married next month.” She knew all these, she had spoken to everybody the day before, but she politely let her family keep talking like it was her first time hearing the updates on her old friends.


That night she dreamt of the good old days. She was particularly fond of the memory where with the help of the gang, she pranked Uche into believing that his house was on fire caught fire. Uche was the shortest among them, he was fragile, with a pimpled face and easily brought to tears. This automatically made him troll bait.

The next day she hurriedly did her chores, had her bath and rushed to their spot, close to the Urashi river bank, where fisher men were casting their nets from their canoes. She took a swimming trunk with her, just in case they decided to swim like in the old days. She also wanted to show Ifeanyi how beautiful her body had become, her hips had come out and her chest had become full.

“Mehn I’m telling you! We were afraid of a lot of things back then.” Ifeanyi laughed.

“Remember the dwarfs in the caves, the snake keepers. My mum used to scare me into doing housework with them.” Ego laughed.

“And Ntuoku!” Uche chipped in.

“What happened to Ntuoku?” Ada asked as she arrived at their spot.

“Ada!” Ego and Mary ran to hug her. They told each other how much they missed them and commented on how they had all grown in the right places. After the reunion with her girls Ego turned to greet Ifeanyi. He smiled at her and she smiled back, awkwardly. He had changed, the Ifeanyi she remembered was tall, a bit lanky, and had a slim waist, the Ifeanyi in front of her was round, huge, definitely not the boy who had occupied her fantasies for five years. She hugged him and turned to Uche, and froze.

“Uche! You’ve grown oh!” She said. He smiled and pulled her in for a hug. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Is that my ‘Hey Uche longest time no see! I miss you so so much’?” He mimicked a girlie voice. She smiled and smacked him at the back of his head. He hadn’t changed.

“Some things never change.” Ego smirked, she knew something. She always knew something.

“So what is this talk about Ntuoku?” Ada asked as they sat down in a circle under their tree.

Ntuoku was a mmuo in their village, a spirit that only came out at night, and mostly after it rained. As children, their mothers had constantly rung it in their ears that the fear of Ntuoku was the beginning of wisdom. They had been told that it wears white and did not like it when people wore white, so if it saw a person in white, it would drown them at the Urashi river. It also did not like any other light but its own shining, so if it came across a person cooking outside or a camp fire, it would blind whoever was around the fire with the ashes from the fire. Ntuoku could be translated to Ntu (Ashes) Oku (Fire) – The Ashes from burning wood, which was probably why it attacked with ashes. Nobody alive had ever seen the spirit, but on the nights when it walked through Omuma, the sky would be so black and quiet that only a stupid or desperate human would venture out.

The crew laughed as Uche narrated the Ntuoku myth. “I can’t believe we believed such a thing.” Mary laughed.

“Yeah it sounds stupid but deep in our hearts; I bet we are still afraid.” They turned to stare at Uche who had gotten a serious look on his beautiful face.

“Who is Afraid?” Ifeanyi Bragged “I can come out at any time, I have seen worse things than ‘Ntuoku.’

“Yeah, I’m a Christian, things like that don’t scare me.” Mary said.

“When last I checked Ntuoku does not exist.” Ego laughed.


“Then it’s settled then. We would all come out in white, here, in the midnight; rain has been falling lately, so we’ll pick a date this week.” Uche began.

“What, who wants to come out at night?” Ego asked. “You’ve forgotten that I am getting married abi?”

“We could use it as a get together before your wedding, just us.” Mary chirped.

“I guess, it will be an experience I can tell my children.” Ego smiled.

Ada had been listening to them, but she was not paying attention to them, her mind was wrapped around the mystery of how Uche became so freaking hot. For the first time, she noticed he had a light brown pupil, his jaw line was thin, and so where his lips. His hair was full, without a sign of baldness, unlike Ifeanyi who was dancing to the tunes of the hairless curse. He a wore loose, unbuttoned short sleeve shirt that hung on his side and a fitted t shirt on the inside. The shirt was so firm that she could make out the lean abs they covered up. Her lustful eyes trailed down his slim waist, down his long legs, back up to his face, he had a glint in his eyes when he spoke…

“Wait, Ada you didn’t hear anything we said?” Uche asked.

“You are working on writing a novel right?” Ego jumped to rescue her friend.

Ada nodded, her face flushing as she looked to Ego for a way out.

Ego smirked.

“Hey Ada, are you listening?” Ego’s whispered voice brought her back to reality. “I’ll fill you in later,” she added, giving Ada a knowing look.

Three days later, the rain poured down, just as it had when they were children. The old gang gathered in their spot, donned in white, and made a campfire. They were about to embark on their first real adventure in years, but Ada couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was shifting in the air—something that had nothing to do with Ntuoku, and everything to do with the heart.

Three days after their reunion, there was a heavy down pour, the crew got their white clothes ready, and at night they gathered in their spot and made a camp fire.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ada asked, her voice barely a whisper as she sat beside Uche. Ego had convinced her to join them, playing on her desire to be near Uche, the object of her growing fantasies. The plan was simple: pretend to be scared, and let Uche protect her. Who would have guessed that just three days after fantasizing about Ifeanyi, she’d be lost in thoughts of Uche? She felt like a bad girl, but it was hard to resist.

Ego and Mary sat with Ifeanyi, and despite their banter, Ada couldn’t shake the distance between herself and Ifeanyi. Before returning to Nigeria, he’d asked her out over the phone, but the reality of him, standing before her, wasn’t what she had imagined. She had told him she would give him an answer when they met again. And now, face-to-face with him, she had simply deflected with a lie. “You’re like a brother to me,” she had said, though she never told him the truth.

The night stretched on, with Uche’s medical studies and life away from home filling the conversation. Ada found herself captivated by his stories, the mischievous glint in his eyes still as familiar as ever, only now it made her heart race. She leaned against him to sleep, his arm draping the blanket over them both.

Ego caught the moment with a sly smile, whispering something to Ifeanyi, who seemed visibly unsettled. Ada didn’t miss the tension in the air.

“I need to go ease myself,” Mary announced, breaking the mood, and with a quick flick of her flashlight, disappeared into the darkness.

“Ada, wake up,” Ego called. “We’re staying up till midnight.” She picked up a pebble and tossed it at Ada, but Uche was quicker, catching it mid-air.


Ada’s tired eyes blinked in surprise, her mind already half asleep when Ego shot her a knowing look. The teasing was familiar—too familiar.

“So what will you do if Ntuoku comes out now?” Ifeanyi asked, his tone almost challenging.

“Ntuoku won’t come out,” Uche said, a grin playing on his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to get scared.”

But before Ada could respond, a scream cut through the air, followed by the sound of struggling water. Her eyes snapped open, her heart leaping into her throat. The group shot up, their torches cutting through the night as they rushed to the riverbank, leaving the campfire’s faint glow behind them.

The river was eerily still, save for the floating scarf that marked Mary’s last known presence. Ada’s breath caught in her chest as Uche dove into the water, vanishing beneath the surface. They waited, breathless, praying for his return, but when he resurfaced, it was only with Mary’s scarf in his hand.

“I couldn’t find her,” Uche said, his voice flat. As he stepped out of the water, his sculpted abs and the taut V-line of his body seemed to pulse in the dim light. Ada blinked, trying to push the heat from her cheeks, but this was no time for lust.

“I think we should head home,” Ifeanyi said, his voice shaking with urgency.

“What about Mary?” Ego whispered, her eyes never leaving the river.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Uche said, his tone brokering no argument. “If something happened to her, it’s not safe to stay here.”

The group was in agreement. But as Ego ran back to retrieve her phone, a fresh chill gripped Ada. The quiet of the forest felt oppressive now, the shadows deeper than they had been before.

“Are you cold?” Uche asked, his gaze soft as he draped his outer shirt around her shoulders. She nodded silently, grateful for the warmth.

Then, Ego’s voice rang out, shrill and panicked: “MY EYES!”

They ran back to the campfire, only to find it gone. The fire had been extinguished, and Ego was nowhere to be found.

“We need to head home now,” Uche said, his voice tight with fear for the first time that night. “I should never have made us come out here.”

“Yes, you shouldn’t have!” Ifeanyi snapped, his eyes wild as he searched the darkened forest for any sign of Ego. “We’re not leaving without her.”

He stormed off into the trees, and the others hesitated, unsure whether to follow. “Are you coming or not?” Ifeanyi’s voice called back, but before he could finish the sentence, the light from his torch sputtered and went dark. There was a sound, too quick to process—a swift motion from the bushes, and Ifeanyi was gone, his torch spinning on the ground.

Ada’s panic spiked. “This is bad. This is really bad!” she cried, but before she could process it all, Uche was beside her again, his hand gripping hers.

“Don’t worry, I’m here,” Uche said, his voice steady despite the chaos. “I’ll get you home.”

They made their way through the dark, the path unfamiliar and endless. Ada could feel the cold biting into her skin, but it was the quiet that unsettled her most. It had been quiet for so long now, too long.

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Uche was still there, only to find that he wasn’t. Panic flooded her, her breath quickening as she spun around, calling for him. “Uche! Uche, where are you?”

She turned, torchlight shaking in her hand, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Her heart pounded in her chest as she broke into a run, her footsteps echoing in the eerie silence.

Suddenly, she saw it—a figure standing by her doorstep. A white figure, wearing a carved wood mask, adorned with raffia. The chill of recognition slammed into her. ‘Ntuoku,’ she thought, her blood running cold. She turned to flee back into the forest, but something—no, someone—blocked her path.

She froze. The masked figure loomed over her, its eyes glinting beneath the mask. It crouched down to meet her gaze.

“Boo,” it said in a voice that sent a scream from her throat.

But as she screamed, confusion washed over her. That voice. The mask was pulled away, and Uche’s laughing face emerged from the shadows.

“You should have seen your face!” he laughed, a playful glint in his eyes.

And then Mary stepped forward, grinning widely, the figure she’d been running from.

Ada stood, frozen in disbelief, tears streaming down her face as the truth hit her. Uche helped her up, still chuckling, while Ego and Ifeanyi emerged from the shadows, their faces lit up with amusement.

“I’m sorry, it was Uche’s idea,” Ego said, pulling her into a hug.

“Why?” Ada gasped, still struggling to comprehend the prank.

The group smiled at her, and in unison, they all said, “April Fool.” The first day of April had arrived, and she laughed, her tension finally easing.

They spent the rest of the night talking and laughing, sneaking into Ada’s house, unaware that as they entered, the real Ntuoku watched from the shadows, waiting.

The End

A SUPER BIG THANK YOU to Ifeanyi Namikaze for telling me about Ntuoku and also letting me disturb him for more info. The end got you right :D, We have more African Mythology and Folktale inspired stories

 

 

The Secret

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The Secret Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
The Secret: Blackmail, Journalist, Free Short Stories, Thriller, Fabling, Pam

“Should we have fun with her?”

“We weren’t paid for that.”

“Come on, it won’t matter anyway. She’s still going to die.”

“Yes, it will be a waste…” The voice trailed off, then pondered, “No, the woman will arrive soon.”

The other voice whined a bit more but eventually yielded to reason. I was relieved. I knew the end had come for me, but the thought of being violated before death seemed… unfair.

Not too long ago, I had been at the pinnacle of my career. A renowned investigative journalist with a reputation that extended far beyond the newsroom, my name was synonymous with truth, power, and controversy. My articles had unearthed corruption, exposed secrets, and ignited movements. With every scandal I revealed, I climbed higher, my influence growing in tandem with my wealth.

The pay, however, was modest—sixty thousand Naira a month—but in five short years, I had bought two plots of land, two Range Rovers, and rented a duplex in the upscale area of Lekki. I lived a life many would envy. Yet, as with most success stories, the truth was far less glamorous.

I made my fortune the same way many journalists did. I uncovered a secret—usually of a powerful person—gave them a chance to buy my silence, and once paid, erased the evidence, passing it along to another journalist. It was a game I played well, and I had grown comfortable with the routine. Most people paid, others didn’t, and the cycle continued.

And then, I met Senator Dr. Lisa Kalejaye.

Lisa Kalejaye was untouchable—a woman of extraordinary standing. She was not just a senator; she was the dean of the Faculty of Law at Unilag, a philanthropist, a religious leader, and the epitome of respectability. Her charity work was legendary, and her reputation as a devout Christian and perfect wife and mother made her a beacon of virtue. She was the perfect target.

I found her secret, as I had so many before her, and I reached out. The response I received was not what I expected.

Instead of the usual fear, denial, or bluster, Lisa greeted me with a warm smile. She invited me in, offered me wine (which I declined), and listened as I presented the evidence I had gathered. She took the article, scanned it, and then smiled at me. “Thank you for bringing this to me before publishing it,” she said, her tone sincere.

I was taken aback. A woman with her kind of secret shouldn’t be this calm, I thought. She should be panicking, pleading, or at least bargaining.

But no. She was calm. Too calm.

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, eager to keep her quiet for as long as possible.

“Good, good,” she said, smiling. “So, how much do I need to give you to have you delete this story?”

I had expected this. The price of silence. I was ready to name my sum.

“Whatever you feel it’s worth,” I answered.

She smiled again, walked into another room, and returned a few moments later with a large handbag.

“You like it?” she asked. “It’s Prada. Sell it, and you’ll make a small fortune.”

I frowned. “Who would I sell it to?”

“True, bags like these are hard to resell for their original value,” she mused. “But the money in the bag… that should buy your silence.”

She handed me the bag, and I set it on my lap. Inside, it was heavy with cash—stacks of crisp Naira notes, all neatly arranged. This was it. This was my payday.

“Now, please do me a favour,” Lisa said softly. “Delete the email you sent me.”

It was simple enough. I deleted the email and unlocked my phone for her to ensure I hadn’t saved any files. She searched it meticulously, and I heard the sounds of files being wiped away. When she was done, she handed me the phone, and I left.

A month later, everything changed.

I came home one evening to find my apartment ransacked. My laptop was gone and so were all the files I had painstakingly collected over the years. I knew the risks of my job, and I had always told myself I would be ready when the time came. But I wasn’t ready for this.

I ran to my car, started it, and reversed quickly. But before I could drive away, a foul-smelling cloth was pressed over my nose, and everything went black.

“Have you been kind to our friend?” A woman’s voice asked, familiar yet unsettling. Was this the woman they spoke of?

A soft hand brushed my cheek, sending shivers down my spine. My blindfold was removed, and there she was—Lisa Kalejaye, standing before me, smiling that same warm smile.

“Surprised to see me?” she asked. But now, that smile was different. It was colder, darker.

“Did you enjoy the money?” she asked, her voice gentle, almost maternal.

I couldn’t speak. I just stared, terror rising in my chest. What did she want from me now?

She removed the gag from my mouth, and I hesitated. I shouldn’t provoke her, I thought. I shouldn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I won’t do it again. I swear, I haven’t told anyone about your secret.”

Lisa patted me on the head like a child. “I’m grateful you haven’t,” she said, her voice sweet. “But you see, a secret is only a secret when it’s known by just one person. And I can’t have you running around with my secret. You’ll blackmail me again when you run out of money.”

“I won’t come back! I swear to God, I won’t!” I cried out in desperation.

“I want to trust you, I really do.” She smiled again, but there was no warmth in it. “But I already took care of the people who gave you the story. They won’t be bothering me anymore.”

My heart dropped.

“You’re the reason they’re dead,” she continued, her voice calm, as if explaining a simple truth.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

“I trust you understand,” she said, and her smile stretched into something darker, more predatory. “Thank you for keeping my secret. You know, I like dead people. They tell no secrets, and they don’t blackmail you with them.”

Her expression shifted. The smile turned into a twisted smirk. Her eyes gleamed with something far worse than malice—something… excited.

Shhh, lol, please spread this secret. This is the secret page to all stories on The Fablingverse

 

The Life and Times of Mr. Hanz the Recluse

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The Life and Times of Mr Hanz Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
The Life and Times of Mr. Hanz the Recluse: Fantasy, Free Short Story, Second Life, Fabling, Pam

The pelting of rain over his room filled his mind as it faded. His arms lay lifeless by his side, numb, he was lying on his bed but he felt like he was floating. This is how it ends.

It had been a normal morning for Hanz. He woke up, had his bath, harvested his meal from his farm, cooked it, ate it then slept. He seldom left his apartment for fear that some evil may befall him. He once lived in the city with his parents, but they died in an accident, just as they were pulling out of their driveway. His uncle took him in, but he was stabbed by his colleague over some financial dispute. His Uncle’s widow soon found a lover after his death and soon died of AIDS. The outside world is Evil.

He was only 27 but he had seen it all. At fourteen he became bio curious and eventually gay, he felt it was wrong, the priests said it was, so he never told anybody until he told his best friend who told the world. His first true taste of betrayal and the consequence of going against society and its morals. Later, he had been robbed at gunpoint, and he had nearly been killed in a gang crossfire. The outside world was dangerous and deceptive. But what broke him was the threatening accident on a motorbike.

Not long after he had gotten on his friend’s bike, it ran into a Truck. His friend was instantly decapitated, but he was thrown into the windscreen of a parked car. He had faced and escaped death, and he never wanted to do it again. So, he packed his bags and moved into his family’s house in his village. Here he would be safe.
The local traders stopped at the junction to buy foodstuff from the farmers, so he never had to see another main road again, he had enough money and food to survive. Here he was safe.

And yet here he lay, dying. It was a stormy night and there was only one thing to do with the breeze that came with the storm, have a nice long sleep. But not long after he got on his bed an electric pole fell, line and all, right on his bed.

“I can’t believe it. I still died.” He thought. “I wanted to enjoy life more; I could have done a lot. All those parties I missed. I should have made more friends. I lived as if I was dead.”

Tears fell down his face as he walked towards the light.

“We meet again.” The most beautiful man he had ever seen walked out of the light and towards him.

“Who is he?” He thought.

“I am death.”

He wondered how he could hear his thoughts, then realisation sank in.

“Are you here to take me to hell?” Death burst into laughter.

“No, no. Please, no, this is the Fabling universe” He laughed. “I’m here to make a deal with you.”

Hanz stared.

“A playboy just died of leukemia somewhere in Nigeria, and I want you to take over his life.” Death said, “Of course now that he is dead, the leukemia is gone.”

“What?”

“Mr. Hanz, life is a game. You die when you don’t play it, and you die when you play it. The point of the game is to Live. But you, my friend, here is your adventure book.” Death snapped its fingers, and a book appeared. On it was written ‘The Life and Times of Mr Hanz the Recluse.’ The pages flipped itself to reveal that they were all blank.

“You were not meant to die yet. So I can permit your soul to take over Mr. Bolaji’s body. I can give you a second chance to live. All you have to do is say yes.”

__________________________
Bolaji opened his eyes and recoiled, the fluorescent lights were too bright.

“Doctor! Doctor!! He moved!!” A woman screamed.

THE END

The Life And Times of Mr. Hanz The Recluse. A very Odd title challenge from Ifie D Yongosi but that’s what made it a challenge. Right? If you need some existential crisis, check out What’s The Use?

 

Ofo na Ogu (Justice and Honesty)

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Ofo na Ogu (Justice and Honesty): African Mythology, Igbo deities, Igbo Ofo, Igbo Mythology, Anyawu, Onwa, Ani, Ikenga, Masquerade, Amadioha, Ifufe, Ekwensu, Akwete, Dibia, Free Short Stories, Drama, Thriller, Fabling, Pam

“Dum dum dum, ku Ku lu Ku Ku Ku Ku Ku, cha cha cha”—the frenetic drums pounded in a relentless rhythm as the masquerades whirled around the prostrate, tear-streaked girl.

“Awoo wu wu wu oooo,” the largest masquerade’s muffled voice intoned, the other three joining in a haunting chorus.

Nnukwu Nwoke, the Great Man, stood imposingly, a towering figure clad in a five-foot-tall black wooden mask. The mask was adorned with a short raffia skirt and lean, ebony legs. It leaped and spun through the air, its movements a tempest of power and grace. The others followed suit, twisting and somersaulting like vengeful spirits. Abali, the lone female masquerade, outpaced them all with an almost frantic energy. Her mask, though smaller, boasted a prominent rhinoceros horn jutting from its brow, and she wielded a short Ogu staff with fierce authority.

A throng had amassed around the square, their anticipation palpable. The men and boys crowded near the circle, while the women maintained a respectful distance—traditionally barred from such rites where the ancestors, in the guise of masquerades, enacted divine judgment. But today, they were summoned to witness the ritual cleansing, a grim reminder etched in the fate of the scapegoat.

“Umu Agwu!” Nnukwu Nwoke’s voice thundered as it drove its metal staff into the earth. The bells atop the staff rattled with a fierce clangor, silencing the drums. A hushed stillness fell over the crowd before murmurs began to swell. With another resounding strike of the staff, silence reasserted itself.

“Umu Agwu!” the masquerade’s voice boomed once more. “We are gathered here for a reason. Men of Agwu, you know why you stand here. We have judged this woman guilty of defiling the earth. She has committed a grievous sin, besmirching her husband’s honor through adultery. As our customs dictate, she must face the consequences.”

At the edge of the crowd, Okafor, the wronged husband, lounged on his stool, a gourd of palm wine in one hand and a goat’s tusk in the other, seemingly indifferent to the drama unfolding before him.

Nnukwu Nwoke launched into a harangue directed at the women, admonishing them to safeguard their husbands’ honor, to remain humble, and to remember their place. As the masquerade delivered this scathing lecture, the others—bearing the short Ofo staff and Abali—took their positions beside the kneeling girl. To her right lay a small claystone strewn with scrap metal and twigs; to her left, an empty black pot. Her face was a cascade of tears, the weeping of a woman who could see her future dissolve before her very eyes.

“Please,” she whispered to Abali, her voice laced with a knowing desperation as if she could pierce through the mask’s enigma. The masquerade hesitated, then slowly lifted the black clay pot, holding it aloft with the Ogu staff for the crowd to see. The other masquerade ignited the fire within the pot, and as the flames flickered, the crowd chanted fervent prayers. Abali remained motionless beside the burning vessel, Ofo staff raised high. When the fire blazed stronger, Abali placed the pot on the girl’s head and turned to the crowd, unleashing a piercing cry. The crowd responded with another round of prayerful chants, and Abali resumed the position with the staff raised above.

“As our customs dictate,” intoned the masquerade, “we shall present her to the Gods. They may choose to show mercy, to spare her and send her back to her parents, or they may choose to exact their judgment upon her.” The girl fought to steady herself, her trembling form weakened by hunger since her hearing two nights prior. She felt on the brink of collapse, knowing that if she fell, her next breath would be in the realm of spirits.

A rustling sound surged through the crowd, parting to reveal a group of women clad in white akwete skirts, their bare breasts bared to the sky and their hair disheveled.

“What do we have here?” demanded the smallest of the masquerades, who stood beside Nnukwu.

Ekwu, the formidable leader of the Umu Ada, strode forward with her followers. She stopped before the head masquerade and spat with contempt.

“Abomination!” the crowd erupted in shock, an act unseen before.

The masquerade’s hand rose to strike, but one of the women brandished a spear, aiming it menacingly at the mask’s eye socket.

The crowd’s gaze was now riveted on the women, though the girl remained focused on the pot balancing precariously on her head. She needed to hold it steady until the flames were extinguished.

“People of Agwu!” Ekwu’s voice rang out with conviction. “A grave injustice is unfolding before us!” The leader addressed the male-dominated crowd, her powerful rhetoric cutting through the murmur. The women listened in tense silence as some burly men began to shift behind the crowd. “Yes, our daughter has committed adultery and deserves punishment, as all women before her. But must this rule apply only to women?”

Her words caught the attention of the men. Ekwu, a renowned orator and wife of Chief Agwunechemba from a neighboring town where women were known to fight fiercely, commanded the crowd’s focus.

“Did Amaka commit adultery on her own? Is such a deed the work of a single person? Why must the woman bear the punishment alone? Where is the accountability for the man? We are treated like property, like livestock in our own community! The Gods are just, are they not? Why has no man ever been brought before the Gods for judgment over adultery? A married man can wander freely, but a married woman must remain chaste? Why is it that a woman’s honor must be preserved at all costs, while a man’s actions go unchecked?” The crowd’s murmur intensified into a roar, with the women voicing their agreement and the men reacting with irritation.

“The Gods are just and show no favoritism!” Ekwu continued, her voice ringing with authority. “Yet our men have twisted the Gods’ sense of fairness to serve their own ends, silencing us and teaching the Gods to scorn us. Yes, Amaka deserves punishment, but so does her partner!”

Abali struggled to maintain her composure, her agitation evident as she shuffled restlessly. She was supposed to remain still, but something had to be done to halt this provocateur.

“Be silent, woman!” the female masquerade thundered. “Who grants you the right to speak?” She charged toward Ekwu, but Ekwu stood firm, her stance fortified by another woman wielding a spear to block the masquerade’s advance.

“You cowardly wretch,” Ekwu sneered at the female masquerade. “If the Gods are truly just, let them reveal their justice!” Her voice echoed with defiance.

The burly men began to advance, armed with catapults, swords, shields, and spears, a formidable force of fifty against ten determined women.

“Ani, our mother! I call upon you! Anyanwu, nothing escapes your sight, and Ọnwa, even the darkness cannot obscure your gaze! Goddesses, you have witnessed all! We are women like you! Prove that you are not mere instruments. Amadioha, God of Justice, I summon you! Ekwensu, God of War, I call to you! Ikenga, God of Strength, I beckon you! Igwe, King of the Sky, Ifufe, the Free Spirit, show us your justice with your own hands! The men have sullied this land with adultery and corruption. Demonstrate your power and fight your own battles!”

Her impassioned plea to the Gods held the crowd in a stunned silence, but when no divine response came, the warriors moved in. They subdued the women and began dragging them away from the center.

“Crakalakalaak!” The sky roared, darkening to an ominous blue. The earth quaked, the wind howled, and a female voice resonated from the heavens.

“Abali! Return to the spirit world; the one who wears your mask has committed an abomination.” In an instant, the mask shattered, revealing a handsome yet terrified face. “You seduced a married woman. For this, you shall bear no heir of your own blood, and your moons shall be diminished. Okafor!”

A divine radiance descended from the heavens, a female deity bathed in celestial glory. She halted just above the ground, her presence commanding reverence as she pointed at Amaka’s husband. His tusk and guard lay forgotten, abandoned on the earth. Paralyzed with fear, he shared the same petrified fate as the villagers and the women who had invoked the Gods.

“You have abused your wife,” the deity’s voice boomed, resonating with divine authority. “You treated her as property, neglected her needs, beat her, while lavishing your devotion—blood, sweat, and tears—on Uli, a woman betrothed to another. Your frequent visits to the community brothel have not gone unnoticed. For this, you will forfeit the pleasures of the flesh. Ani will take your manhood.”

As if summoned by her decree, the other Gods materialized, each bearing their own judgment. No soul was spared. Ekwu, known for pilfering her husband’s palm wine, faced a punishment of her own: her tongue would be cursed to silence for five market days. Her husband, who had unjustly seized the farmland of a poor man—a man who had ultimately taken his own life—was condemned to have one of his hands taken by the Gods and ordered to return the land or loose the other.

When the Gods’ judgments were complete, they turned their attention to Amaka. Ifufe extinguished the fire, then gently lifted the pot from her head and set it aside.

“Amaka,” began Igwe, pausing as her sobs filled the air. “You will not die today. Within you grows our high priest, who will wield the staff of justice and the pot of fairness. No longer will justice be administered by men possessed by the ancestors. You and your husband, along with many here, have committed abominations. We do not kill for such offenses. You will live to see your son’s eighteenth moon. On the night he becomes a man, you will join the ancestors. This is not merely for your adultery, for you have already suffered for that. It is because you plotted to kill your husband in a way that would condemn his body to the evil forest. Had you not been caught for adultery; your plan might have succeeded.”

Amaka wept anew, this time whispering her thanks, while her husband remained in stunned silence. The villagers were hushed for over a week, their gossip silenced for five market days.

As the sky cleared, the events felt dreamlike, though the reality was inescapable. After five market days, some were freed from their curses, while others waited a month, or twenty market days. Those with graver sins, like the dibia, faced a wait of twenty months, or two new moons. From that day forth, the village was renamed Ofo na ogu, and it remains renowned for its justice across all Igbo lands in the Fablingverse.

This story title challenge was from Ifeanyi Namikaze Iyfe Uwasomba, Want More Igbo Myths Inspired Stories? Read Nwanyi Mmiri

 

The Night He Won

3
the night he won Chidi, Bella, Bet9ja, odds, The Night, He Won,Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
Keywords: Chidi, Bella, Bet9ja, odds, The Night He Won, Gambling story, betting story, trolling Barcelona fans, Chidi, Bella, bet9ja, Free short stories

A sequel to the Night he lost

Chidi’s gaze was fixed on the Bet9ja match lineup on his computer screen, his heart racing with anticipation. Today felt like it might be his turning point. The Champions League fixtures were as predictable as ever: Manchester City versus Liverpool, and Roma versus Barcelona. He had already chosen his picks for the English Championship, meticulously analyzing every match and its odds. He was confident Millwall, Fulham, Aston Villa, Brentford, Bristol City, Preston North End, Ipswich Town, Hull City, Sheffield United, and Queens Park Rangers would emerge victorious. Liverpool and Barcelona were certainties.

“Are you kidding me?” Bella’s voice pierced the air, tinged with exasperation. “You’re still caught up in this Bet9ja nonsense? If we’re late, I swear I’m going to dump you. This addiction is out of control!”



Chidi scrambled to enter his code, placing his bet with a frantic urgency before dashing out the door, trailing his irate fiancée.

“You better behave in front of my parents and put away that phone,” Bella warned as they climbed into the car.

After his breakup with Angelica, Chidi had sought refuge in a bar, where he’d met Bella—another soul marred by heartache. Their shared misery had sparked an unexpected connection, and they’d been inseparable ever since. Bella was nothing like Angelica; she was fiery, demanding, and relentless in her nagging. But with her came a sense of excitement and a stroke of good luck that Chidi had never known before.

As they pulled up to Bella’s parents’ building—a drab block of five flats—Chidi braced himself. Her parents had never hidden their disapproval, and he was ready for their interrogation.

The moment they sat down for dinner, her father wasted no time. “So, you still don’t have a job?” she asked, her tone sharp as the silverware.

“James!” her mother snapped, her tone cutting through the air. “This isn’t why we invited our daughter here.”

Chidi was caught in the crossfire, unsure how to respond. He had always struggled with her parents’ disapproval, and Bella’s agitation was rising. He could already anticipate her post-dinner tirade about starting a small business. He would promise to open a bakery once he won ten million naira, a promise that only fuelled her frustration.



“Bella,” her mother said, a note of disdain in her voice as she gestured toward Chidi, “we didn’t expect you to bring—” she let her gaze linger on him, “—Chidi.” She took a deliberate bite, letting her words settle. “But since he’s here, and you’ve made it clear we can speak freely in front of him, let’s revisit something. Remember Bode? My boss’s son? The one you used to have a massive crush on?”

Chidi, bracing himself for what was to come, mumbled, “I need to use the restroom,” and made a hasty exit. As he closed the door behind him, he overheard her mother’s voice drift through the hallway. “He’s back in Nigeria and looking for a wife.”

Once in the bathroom, Chidi pulled out his phone for a distraction. To his dismay, Roma was leading Barcelona 2-0, and the second half had just begun. Tears streamed down his face as he whispered, “Why me? God, if Barcelona wins, I promise I’ll quit gambling and find a real job.” After his tears subsided, he tucked his phone away, washed his face, and returned to the tension-filled dining room.



“You know what, Mum, I’ve had enough!” Bella’s voice rang out with fierce determination as she stood, facing her parents who mirrored her stance. “Chidi may not be perfect, but he loves and respects me. We’ve made it work so far, and we will continue to do so.” She glanced over her shoulder to see Chidi walking in. “We’re getting married soon, whether you accept him or not. Chidi, let’s go.”

“You’re getting ma-married?” Her mother’s voice cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks. “This girl has finally finished me!”

Chidi bolted out of the house, moving faster than Bella, preferring her relentless nagging to another moment under her parents’ disapproving gaze.

That night, as they lay side by side in bed, the silence between them was heavy and oppressive. Bella didn’t say a word, didn’t nag, but her quiet only deepened Chidi’s unease. A wave of guilt constricted his chest, compelling him to do something he never would have done for Angelica—he logged into Bet9ja with the intention of deleting his account.

N20,000,000

The sight of his balance made his phone tumble from his hands as he let out a strangled cry. “What happened?” Bella’s asked with genuine concern.

“20,000,000,” Chidi stuttered, his eyes wide with shock.



Bella grabbed the phone and stared at the screen, her disbelief mounting. He had actually won. How? She checked his game and realized Chidi had bet on Barcelona’s defeat, a decision hastened by her impatience while he was choosing his odds.

The End

Did You Enjoy Thie Night HE Won? Then You Might Also Enjoy …And She Got Married

 

The Night He Lost

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The night he lost Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
The Night He Lost: Gambling story, betting story, trolling Barcelona fans, Romance, Chidi, Bella, bet9ja, Free short stories

Chidi’s gaze swept over the match line-up board, his pen and jotter clutched tightly in hand. “Today’s the day,” he mused, anticipation crackling in the air. The Champions League was finally kicking off, and the match-ups were as predictable as ever: PSG versus Barcelona, and Benfica against Borussia Dortmund. Benfica was a shoo-in against Borussia, and Barcelona—well, with Messi, Suarez, Neymar, and Ter Stegen—PSG was in for a world of pain.

After a meticulous analysis of the standings, Chidi decided to place his bet. The exact number of goals was anyone’s guess, so he played it safe, betting solely on the winners and losers. He strolled over to the counter, placed his wager, and then made his way to the television tuned to the PSG versus Barcelona clash. The other match was irrelevant; as a die-hard Barca fan, he was eager to watch his team dismantle Paris Saint-Germain.


It was Valentine’s Day, and while some football enthusiasts managed to drag their partners into the fray—either genuinely sharing their passion or pretending for the occasion—most had either gone solo or snubbed their significant others for the allure of the Champions League. Chidi was firmly in the latter camp.

Earlier that day, Chidi had called his girlfriend, Angelica, to cancel their Valentine’s plans. Brutally honest as ever, he declared that missing the match was out of the question. With Angelica tied up at work all day, there was no chance of seeing her before kickoff. He even mentioned his plan to treat her the next night with the winnings from his bet. He wagered 30,000 Naira—half of his remaining funds—with hopes of a 100,000 Naira payout. Angelica, ever the concerned girlfriend, inquired whether he’d be alright missing Arsenal’s match against Bayern Munich the following evening. Chidi laughed it off, dismissing Arsenal’s match as unworthy of his attention.

As the players took to the field, the sky seemed to part for Barcelona, who entered in their vibrant, lemony-green jerseys. Chidi ended his call with Angelica and zeroed in on the game.



Five minutes in, Di Maria’s pass to Cavani in front of the goal had Chidi’s heart racing, but Cavani’s shot missed the mark, sending Chidi’s pulse back to normal. Despite Di Maria and Cavani’s attempts, Barcelona’s defense held firm. At 16 minutes, Ter Stegen had already thwarted two attempts, but then Angel Di Maria’s free-kick came out of nowhere—1-0 to PSG.

“Alright, calm down,” Chidi told himself. “It was just a lucky shot.” The commentator mentioned it was Angel’s birthday, and Chidi dismissed it with a scoff. The match continued with Barcelona pushing hard to equalize, Neymar and Suarez relentless in their pursuit, but PSG’s defense and Kevin Trapp were resolute.

Then, like a spellbinding apparition, Julian Draxler emerged, redeeming himself for an earlier foul, and sent the ball past Stegen and into the net. Chidi leaped from his seat, a mix of anguish and disbelief etched across his face.

By the time the first half of the match wrapped up, Chidi was grappling with the idea of withdrawing his bet. Doubts crept in, but his faith in Barcelona’s resilience held firm. Besides, the teams were about to switch goalposts—an opportune moment to turn things around. He faced a crucial decision: pull out now or ride the storm. With a deep breath, he chose to stay the course, sinking back into his seat and bracing for the second half.

Meanwhile…


Angelica’s phone buzzed, and she answered with a bright smile. “Hello? Oh, no, I’m free tonight.” She gave a flirtatious laugh. “I’m wrapping up here.” A blush crept over her cheeks as she ended the call.

Biola, her ever-curious co-worker, leaned in. “Was that your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Angelica said, gathering her things. She worked at a telecommunications customer care center, and her shift had just ended. “No, that’s Kunle. He’s been trying to get me to go out with him for a while now.”

Biola’s eyes widened. “Is that the handsome guy who looks like D’banj? The one who visited you last week, the one with the sleek car, and the one who sent you that gorgeous perfume on your birthday?” She practically squealed. “What about Chidi?” she whispered.

Angelica’s expression turned contemplative. “I’ve been considering ending things with Chidi for a while now.”

… Back to Chidi

At the 54th minute, Di Maria scored his second goal of the night, a birthday gift to himself. Chidi’s heart raced for the fifth time as the realization hit him like a sledgehammer. This couldn’t be real; it felt like a nightmare. The PSG fans erupted with euphoria, their cheers a painful reminder of his mounting despair. Chidi’s hope dwindled with every replay, and though he remained glued to the screen, a growing part of him wanted to escape. He clung to the flicker of hope, recalling miraculous comebacks like Manchester United’s—yet, as the 71st minute ticked by, Cavani’s fourth goal confirmed his fears. It was over. Tears welled in his eyes as he stared blankly at the television, counting down the remaining minutes with a sinking heart.

Lost in his misery, he barely noticed the departing crowd or the cleaner tidying up the viewing center. “Oga, we’re closing up,” the cleaner said, gently tapping Chidi, who remained frozen in time.

Later that night, as Chidi trudged home, the cold harmattan breeze stung his bare arms, making him wish he’d worn a sweater over his Barcelona jersey. Desperate to push past the sting of his loss, there was only one person he wanted to see—the one who might mend his broken spirits. But…


Angelica had just experienced a night that exceeded all her expectations. Kunle was not only a gentleman but also charmingly witty. Their evening had unfolded like a scene from a romantic comedy—dinner at a chic Chinese restaurant on the island, where he encouraged her to indulge in the feast, a luxury Chidi would never have afforded her.

As they finished their meal, Kunle guided her back to his sleek car. With a practiced grace, he opened the door for her, and as he slid into the driver’s seat, his arm brushed against her as he helped her with her seatbelt. The brief contact sent a shiver through her, making her heart race.

When they arrived at her modest apartment, Kunle once again emerged from the car to hold the door open for her. As she stepped out with her bags, he leaned casually against the door, his stance exuding effortless allure. Angelica gazed at him, a smile playing on her lips. “Thank you for tonight,” she said, preparing to leave.

But Kunle gently took her hand and drew her closer. The moment her palm touched his chest, she felt the solid muscles beneath his shirt. ‘Snap out of it. YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND,’ she scolded herself internally, but her body betrayed her. She could feel Kunle’s firm abs, inhale his intoxicating scent, and her legs felt like they might give way. ‘You have a boyfriend,’ she reminded herself.

Kunle tilted her chin gently, and his lips found hers in a tender, deliberate kiss. Her lips responded, betraying her conflicted emotions, as the world around them seemed to dissolve.

The End.

Did you like this story? It has a sequel. The Night He Won

 

A Funny Weekend For High School Boys

6
a funny weekend for highschool boys Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
A Funny Weekend For Highschool Boys: Adventure, Fun story, Flexing, Fabling, Pam, Free Short Stories

Jadé hurriedly tied his shoelaces, bolted for the door, and called out, “Mummy, I’ve gone!” just as the door slammed shut behind him. He knew his mother well—if he’d lingered even a second longer, she’d find another chore to trap him with.

Today was too important for that. He was headed to Victor’s place, where Nonso and Bosun were waiting. Victor had been his best friend since primary school, and now, in SS2, they were still inseparable. Along with Bosun and Nonso, they’d formed a tight-knit crew, proudly calling themselves ‘The Fresh Boys’ since their first term in JSS 1. Even after all these years, they still owned that title.

As Jadé approached Victor’s house, he spotted him backing out in his mother’s car—right on time. The plan for the day? A joyride through the neighborhood, cruising in style just to catch the attention of the local girls, but only the “fresh” ones.


Victor was the mastermind behind most of their antics. He always had wild ideas, like last week, when he showed them how to tilt a mirror on their shoes to sneak a peek under the girls’ skirts and see who had the freshest underwear. Peculiar, the girl who never gave them the time of day, won that contest easily, but since she acted like she was too good for them, Egodi took the crown by default.

As Jadé arrived, Bosun and Nonso were busy guiding Victor as he maneuvered the car out of the driveway. “Watch the gutter,” Bosun cautioned, always the responsible one.

“I’m taking the front seat!” Jadé yelled, hopping in before anyone could protest. Bosun and Nonso begrudgingly slid into the back.

“Not fair! You were the last to get here,” Nonso complained, his voice tinged with the usual playful annoyance. Nonso was the cute one of the group, so pretty he could pass for a girl. The girls loved him, which sometimes annoyed Jadé, but it was what it was. Nonso had his charm, and the rest of them had to deal with it.

“You gonna cry?” Jadé teased with a mischievous grin.

“Cry? Me? Do I look like a baby?” Nonso shot back, puffing his chest a little. “Victor, I’m driving next!”

“I’m after Nonso!” Jadé quickly called out.

“Why am I always last?” Bosun grumbled from the backseat.

Victor shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Relax, man. Everyone’s gonna get a turn. But first, let’s go block Peculiar. I saw her earlier—she should be on her way back now.”

With that, they cruised down the road, Victor expertly handling the car as though he’d been driving for years. He spotted her first, just ahead. “There she is,” Nonso pointed.

Victor’s foot pressed on the accelerator, nudging the car toward Peculiar as if he were about to hit her. She leapt out of the way, whipping around only to see the usual suspects—the class clowns. Her eyes narrowed, and she scoffed before turning away.

“Hey Peculiar!” Victor called out, reclining in the driver’s seat, trying to look effortlessly cool. “Hop in, we’ll give you a ride.”

Without missing a beat, she replied, “No, thank you,” and kept walking.


“I told you she’d say no. She’s too stuck-up to have any fun,” Jadé said, watching her.

But then, to everyone’s surprise, Peculiar paused, shot them a sideways glance, hissed, and opened the door. She slid into the seat, shutting it with a soft thud. Jadé’s lips curled into a triumphant smile, one that didn’t go unnoticed by Victor, though he wasn’t sure he liked what it meant.

“So, you’re just driving around? Is this supposed to be fun?” Peculiar asked, her voice dripping with boredom.

“Victor, remind me again why you picked up this grandma?” Bosun quipped from the back.

“I am *not* an old woman! You’re just a little boy,” she snapped, shooting him a glare.

Victor, trying to sound mature, asked, “So, Peculiar, where are you coming from?”


She sighed and said she’d been at a fitting for her cousin’s bridal train. The conversation meandered from there, light but stretched, until they finally pulled up in front of her house. “Bye, *Victor*,” she said pointedly, stepping out and disappearing into her compound as her dogs barked in greeting.

Nonso scowled. “So, it’s only Victor she saw in the car, huh?” he muttered, slumping in his seat. “Anyway, it’s my turn to drive!”

Victor sighed, stepping out and handing Nonso the keys. Nonso slid into the driver’s seat with a smug look, and for a brief moment, Jadé found himself thinking, *He looks kinda cute behind the wheel.* Shaking his head, Jadé pushed the thought aside. Soon it was his turn, and he made sure to handle the car carefully. He was thrilled, sure, but no way was he going to risk messing up. Victor’s ride was no joke—a 2015 Toyota Avalon XLE, practically brand new. He wasn’t about to buy himself trouble.

Then came Bosun’s turn. That’s when Lady Karma made her appearance. Bosun, in a mix of excitement and nerves, crashed the car into an electric pole, right on Victor’s street.


For a moment, everything was still. Bosun froze in shock, and the seconds stretched painfully. It was enough time for Victor to leap out of the car, assess the damage, and come to grips with reality. It was bad. The front end of the car was crumpled like an accordion. Their carefree weekend? Over.

Years later Jadé and Victor would laugh about this day while playing Call of Duty, but the pain they experienced together was strong enough to dissociate them from Bosun who ditched them, begging that he did not want to enter trouble. Jadé took responsibility for crashing the car. Nonso admitted to distracting him and Victor accepted that he was an idiot.

The beatdown their parents gave them afterward became the stuff of legend, a shared pain that, instead of breaking them, bound them together in a bond that would last for years.

The End

A big thanks to Precious Raphael Mikaelson for the title challenge. Looking for another fun story? Check out Episode 1 of Kidnapping Father Christmas

 

The Stalker

2
The Stalker Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
The Stalker: Love, Romane, Action, Malik, Stalking, Free Short Story, Fabling, Pam

“Bro, I’m telling you, someone’s always swiping my clothes,” Malik said as he walked his friend Dede out of the apartment. “Just yesterday, I hung my boxers to dry, barely turned around, and poof, they were gone.”

“Have you asked everyone in the compound?” Dede raised a brow.

“Asked? I’ve visited every one of them, pretending to check for something else, but no sign of my stuff. It’s like they steal it and sell it off immediately.”

Dede’s laughter echoed in the hallway as their voices faded away.

I lingered by the window, savoring Malik’s voice, even when he was venting. It wasn’t too deep or too light, just the right balance, like the sensation of warm oil being massaged into your back. When his voice finally disappeared, I pulled myself away from the window, stretched, and strolled into the bathroom, dressed only in his boxers.



The familiar scent of Dudu Osun soap filled the air as I lathered up, his favorite brand—I’d seen him toss the empty packs into the trash more than once. After rinsing off, I dried myself with his towel, slid back into his boxers, and rummaged through my wardrobe. I pulled out one of his shirts and slipped it on, feeling his scent wrap around me like a comforting embrace.

I closed my eyes, imagining his breath on the nape of my neck, his strong arms pulling me close, our hearts beating in rhythm, bodies perfectly aligned. But today, my thoughts were innocent. Last night was another story—he was tied to his bed, helpless, as I took what I wanted.

The sound of his footsteps snapped me out of my reverie. He was coming back. I needed to be quick. Today, he was visiting his mother, and I had to know where his parents lived. I knew everything about his life, except for his family.

I returned his shirt to the wardrobe, slipped on a knee-length dress over his boxers, brushed my hair down my shoulders, dabbed on some makeup, grabbed my sneakers and handbag, and walked out of my apartment just as he stepped out of his.



Our eyes met, but we didn’t exchange a word. We’d been flatmates for over a year, yet we had never spoken. Mostly my fault—I avoided him, couldn’t bring myself to say anything. He probably thought I was stuck-up.

He locked his door, started walking, and I followed, boarding the same bus. I pretended it was coincidence, but I could feel the tension—he was dying to ask me something, but he held back, just like always.

The bus jerked into motion, and I instinctively pulled out my phone, ready to stalk Malik on Facebook. I wasn’t paying attention, lost in the glow of my screen. I don’t know what happened next—one second we were cruising along, the next the bus veered violently off the road, careening down a steep hill.

I sat in the third row, middle seat, with Malik just ahead of me. Glass exploded around us, the world spinning in a blur of chaos. It all happened too fast. By the time the bus finally stopped tumbling, the woman next to me—heavyset and wide-eyed—was gone. Shock or blood loss, I wasn’t sure. The air was thick with the groans and cries of the injured.



Somehow, I was alive. The weight of the woman had pinned me painfully to my seat, her screams mingling with others calling out, “Blood of Jesus.” My ears rang with the panic. With a sharp inhale, I forced myself free from under her, my breath catching as I saw my phone lodged between her breasts. I pulled it out with trembling hands.

The window beside me was shattered. I braced my foot against the frame and kicked at the broken glass. I was almost out when I heard him—Malik—groaning in pain.

I turned, heart racing. An injured man had fallen on top of him, trapping him beneath the wreckage. Without thinking, I shoved the man aside and grabbed Malik’s arm, pulling him toward me. The window was too small to drag him through. Then I saw the windshield—cracked but intact, with the driver’s limp body draped across the bonnet.

I kicked at it, the glass splintering beneath my heel. One more kick, and it gave way completely. Grabbing Malik by the shoulders, I hauled him out of the bus. As we hit the ground, I saw a few other passengers crawl through the shattered windows, dazed and bloodied. I hadn’t even noticed them when I was inside.

Spectators had already gathered, swarming to pull out the remaining passengers—most of them lifeless, bodies twisted in unnatural angles. My hands shook as I pressed Malik’s shirt against the wound in his abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. His face was mostly unscathed, save for a small cut on his forehead, but his body was battered.

The ambulance arrived sooner than I expected, red and white lights flashing against the wreckage. Paramedics rushed to us, pulling me and Malik onto stretchers.

“Will he be okay?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper as a nurse bandaged Malik’s wound.

“He’ll be fine,” she said gently. “You need to stay calm—you’re hurt too.”



That’s when the pain hit me. Like a wave crashing over me, every nerve in my body screamed at once. My neck throbbed, likely bruised from the weight of the woman. My legs were a mess, shards of glass embedded deep into my skin. The agony was too much. Darkness closed in.

When I woke again, I was in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. The drip wasn’t blood—just saline. But I was alive.

I was okay. The doctor reassured me I had fainted from shock, not blood loss. My first thought was Malik. I needed to know if he was alright. They told me he was stable but needed a blood transfusion. My heart raced. I remembered my blood type—O positive—and suggested I donate. At first, the doctor hesitated, but after running a blood test, they agreed.

Standing beside Malik’s bed, I watched as my blood flowed into his veins, connecting us in the most intimate way. **My blood is in him now. We’re one.** The thought flooded me with a strange sense of satisfaction. If I had to live through that accident a hundred times to experience this feeling, I would.

“Miss Agero,” the doctor’s voice broke through my reverie. He stepped into the room, holding a familiar item. “The police recovered this. It’s his bag. You can give it to him when he wakes up.”

He handed me both Malik’s backpack and my handbag. Amazingly, my ATM card and money were still inside. Curiosity tugged at me. I opened Malik’s bag, and there it was—his phone, untouched, no password lock. Temptation got the better of me, and I started scrolling through his messages, WhatsApp, everything.

I wasn’t prepared for what I found. The first picture in his gallery stunned me. It was my Facebook profile picture. My heart skipped. I scrolled down, seeing more—photo after photo of me. Malik had been stalking me too. This was fate.

The End

Who else to give me this tittle challenge than my darling herself, my partner in crime, Ekwebelem Tsunade Elizabeth!

If you enjoyed The Stalker you’ll enjoy The Secret

 

Lightning Strikes Once (again)

8
lightning strikeS once again Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
Keywords: Kola, Ebi, Police, Thugs, Mother, Lightning Strikes Once (Again), Drama, Malice, Love, Kola, Ebi, Free Short Stories

She clung to him, desperate for her warmth and tears to anchor him back to life. His body, cold and lifeless, lay against hers, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him slipping away like this—he deserved better, so much more. Her tears fell freely, her wail echoing the weight of her heart. She couldn’t let him go, not like this.

… Two days earlier …

“Kola, how do I look?” Ebi asked, her voice tinged with nervous excitement.

She wore a simple yellow gown that accentuated the warmth of her brown eyes, her curly hair neatly pinned up in a bun, paired with understated yet elegant slippers.

“You look like wife material,” he replied with a grin that reached his eyes.

“Are you sure? I haven’t met your mother yet, and I really want her to like me.”

“You’re perfect, Ebi. There’s nothing not to like about you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close, his breath warm against her neck.

“Kola, we’re not having sex right now.” She playfully pulled away. “By the way, next week, you’ll have to meet my mother too. She’s tired of just hearing about you and wants to see you in person.”

“Of course. I’ll be on leave next week. But are you sure your mother will like me?”

“You’re perfect, Kola. What’s not to like?” She kissed him, her lips lingering as if to seal her promise.

Her childhood had been a series of cruel trials. Her mother had entangled herself in an affair with a married man, resulting in her birth. The man’s wife, driven by vengeance, waged a relentless campaign against them. She manipulated her mother’s boss to fire her, pressured the landlord to evict them, and even orchestrated violent attacks. Her father tried to intervene, securing a new job and home for her mother, but his vindictive wife always found them. Each time, she would appear to gloat, her threats hanging heavy in the air. By the time Ebi turned fifteen, her mother had finally given up, severing ties with her father and relocating to start anew.

“Bad things don’t happen to good people more than once,” her mother had always said. While Ebi wouldn’t label her mother as a saint, she clung to this motto. No matter the hardship, she would repeat the mantra to herself—“Bad things don’t happen to good people more than once”—and find the strength to rise again.

Now, she was on the cusp of happiness with the man she loved. As they entered the grand sitting room, Ebi’s eyes widened.

“Wow, your parents must be loaded,” she whispered.

“You have no idea,” Kola chuckled.

“What if they think I’m a gold digger?”

“Stop worrying about the small stuff.”

He drew her close as they settled on the settee.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting. Your father is on his way down. It’s a challenge getting that man out of bed these days,” Kola’s mother announced, descending the stairs to greet them.

Ebi rose, knelt, and greeted her with a bowed head. “Good morning, Mummy.”

Kola’s mother smiled warmly at her son, embracing him. “Kola, it’s been ages! You finally came home! I’ve missed you so much!”

“E kaaro, Mummy. I missed you too. But you’ve neglected to welcome my fiancée.”

“Will I not greet my son first?” She laughed, then extended a hand to Ebi. “Welcome, Omm…”

The two women locked eyes, and a jolt of recognition passed between them—the witch whose venom had tainted her life versus the plague that refused to fade.

“Ebi! Omo Comfort! You’re my son’s fiancée? Ah! You and your mother have driven me to the edge! Is this your plan, to torment me even now?” Her voice cracked with fury and despair. “You thought I didn’t know where you lived? You thought I’d just stand by while you schemed to take my son? Over my dead body!”

The sight of the woman who had introduced her to agony dredged up long-buried memories.

Ebi’s mind raced back to when she was fifteen, the trauma of being assaulted by thugs, and the cruel satisfaction in the woman’s voice as she gloated. Ebi trembled, her emotions a storm of fear and rage. She turned to Kola, the son of this tormentor—her half-brother, the offspring of the two people she despised most. Grabbing her bag, she rushed toward the door, but his presence, his repulsed reaction to her hatred, stopped her in her tracks.

Ebi packed her bags frantically, her heart racing. She had to escape Kola, retreat to her mother’s house, and plan yet another flight from her past.

———————–

“So, you’re my half-sister?” Kola’s voice pierced the chaos as he entered.

Ebi remained silent, her focus on her task.

So you’re just going to throw everything away because of this? No one needs to know about our connection, Ebi!” His voice escalated in frustration.

She zipped her bag and dragged it toward the door, but Kola blocked her path.

“Kola, the last thing I need right now is to see you. Leave! Just leave me alone!”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he pleaded, his voice breaking.

Seeing him cry, Ebi’s own anger began to dissolve into sorrow, and tears streamed down her face.

“Kola, you don’t understand. I have to leave before your mother destroys me.”

“Please, I don’t understand any of this. Just explain it to me. I want to understand.”

All the weight of her hidden pain, everything she’d kept bottled up, surged to her lips. Her legs gave way, and she fell into Kola’s arms, the tears flowing freely as she recounted every detail of his mother’s cruelty. Together, they wept until exhaustion claimed them, and they fell into a troubled sleep.

“Kola, I don’t feel safe. I’m worried about my mother,” she said, her voice trembling. “I need to go home.”

Kola opened the curtains, letting in the sunlight. He had spent the night holding her, unable to reconcile the image of his mother with the evil she had inflicted. Yet, he couldn’t doubt the woman he loved. There had to be another explanation.

“Let’s go…” Ebi’s phone rang, jarring her from her thoughts. She answered reluctantly, setting the call to speaker.

“…Ebi, Ebi, did you miss us? Did you really think you could escape forever?” The voice was unmistakable—the man who had stolen her innocence. “I’m on my way to your place now. Oh, and your mother asked me not to hurt you before she died. Isn’t it amusing? Even as an old woman, she was quite tight. We’re looking forward to reliving the good old times with you.”

The couple stood in stunned silence long after the call ended, the gravity of the threat hanging heavy in the air.

 “My mother is dead,” Ebi choked out, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face. She sprang toward the door, desperate to escape, but Kola blocked her path. He dialed the police, his hands shaking with urgency. “They’ll be here soon,” he assured her, though his voice betrayed his own fear.

Even as the sirens wailed in the distance, Ebi felt an icy dread. The police had rarely offered real help in the past, and the weight of uncertainty pressed heavily on her. Her instinct screamed to flee, but she desperately wanted to believe that Kola’s promise meant something.

Then she heard it—the voice of the man who had haunted her nightmares. His voice was followed by a series of gunshots, and the door flew open.

“Ah, Ebi, it’s been a while. I’ve missed you and your delightful company. So, this is the man you’ve been sharing your time with?” The man’s sneer was palpable as he dragged her away from Kola. Kola fought back with all his strength, but he was hopelessly outnumbered by the five men who had come for her.

“The police are on their way!” Kola shouted, his voice desperate.

“I see,” the man replied coldly. “It’s a shame, Ebi. We had planned to have a little fun before you joined your mother.” With that, he pushed her to the ground, levelled the gun at her and pulled the trigger.

“Omo! You shot her son!” one of the men exclaimed.

Kola had acted in the nick of time, taking the bullet meant for her. Shocked by the unexpected turn, the thugs fled, only to be intercepted by the police at the gate.

The thugs, cornered and panicked, quickly turned on Kola’s mother. Initially, she denied any involvement, but as the evidence mounted against her, her defiance waned. When the police informed her of her son’s death, her sanity shattered. She bragged about her misdeeds, vowing to continue her reign of terror on the lives of all her husband’s mstresses.

~~~~~~~~

Six months later, in Abuja…

“Mummy, here’s your tea,” Ebi said softly, handing a steaming mug to her mother, who was now confined to a wheelchair. The thugs’ assault had left her mother in a dire state; they had thought her dead and left her behind.

“Thank you, dear,” her mother replied, her voice weary. “But I’m growing tired of sitting at home all day. Can’t we go out today?”

Ebi shook her head, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. “You know we can’t go out like that. I’m eight months pregnant.”

The End

Shout out to Mustapha Garba for giving me this title as a challenge. This is one of my favourite challenges

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I’ll Never Let You Go

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I'll never let you go Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
Keywords: Let you go, Agnes, Tunde, Hate, Layo, Kill, Manipulated, I’ll Never Let You Go, Romance, Revenge, Divorce, Cheating, Agnes, Free Short Story,

Agnes smiled—a smile that once stirred something deep within him, but now it felt like a twisted, mocking grin. Her lips curled slightly, revealing just a glimpse of teeth. She leaned forward, giving him an all-too-familiar view of her cleavage. The same breasts he had once cradled his head on, the same softness he once worshipped. Now, they were probably comforting her lawyer. With slow, deliberate motions, she tugged the contract from beneath his hand, sliding another one in its place. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as if this was a game she was winning.

He forced himself to look away from her chest, letting his gaze drift over the pages. But what was the point? He was going to sign it anyway, no matter what it said. His mind wandered to the past—back to the night of their wedding. His Agnes. The sweet, innocent bride who blushed at the thought of sharing a bed with him. The loyal wife who waited by the door every evening, who never raised her voice, never questioned his late nights, and always had his favourite meal ready. She was his Agnes—the woman who worried for him when he didn’t deserve it, the woman who stood by him no matter how many times he came home drunk. His perfect Agnes.

But as perfect as she was, she was never Layo.

Layo. Wild, reckless, and selfish. She lived for herself, and maybe that’s why he couldn’t stay away. Layo was the kind of woman who demanded everything from a man and gave nothing in return except the thrill of the chase. She didn’t care about being someone’s wife, but she knew how to make him feel alive. A dangerous affair for a man like him—someone who craved control. But Layo wanted more than to be a secret; she wanted forever, and he couldn’t give her that. So, he ended it.

Then there was Chichi.

Chichi was everything Agnes wasn’t and everything Layo could never be. She was his perfect contradiction. Chichi knew about his marriage but didn’t care. She stayed out of his personal life, never asking for more than what he could give. She played her part perfectly—his sweet escape. But she was too independent, too focused on her own life. She didn’t consult him on her choices, not even when she decided to marry another man. When she told him, it was as if a fire had been lit inside him. He couldn’t let her go. She wasn’t just Chichi. She was *his* Chichi.

He knew what he had to do. He went home and confessed everything to Agnes. Every affair, every betrayal, hoping that she will let him go. As expected, his Agnes broke down. She cried, begged him to think of their children—a boy of thirteen and a little girl he adored. But it didn’t matter. He promised to take care of them, then turned his back to her that night, letting her tears soak into her pillow.

Chichi was overjoyed when he told her his marriage was finally over, but she wasn’t foolish. She didn’t break off her engagement right away, keeping her options open. Still, she became bolder, visiting his office more often, their trysts more daring. It was the life he had always wanted—one filled with risk, passion, and control.

Until the day Chichi disappeared.

She stopped answering his calls. She stopped showing up at the office. He tried to see her, but there was nothing. It was as if she had vanished from his life, leaving only the ghost of her presence behind. Desperation led him back home to Agnes, who had not yet left him. She was still there, still sad, still quiet, waiting for the final papers to be signed. She reached for his coat that evening, the way she always had and reached for a kiss, but he pushed her away. And that’s when he noticed something different—something unsettling in the way her tears fell. Something had shifted in Agnes.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure what came next.

“So it’s true, Daddy.” His son’s voice trembled from the top of the stairs. Both his children stood there, wide-eyed, watching the scene unfold. “You’re the reason Mom’s been crying. You hate her now,” his son accused, voice sharp and cutting.

Tunde opened his mouth to explain, to defend himself, but instead, all that came out was, “Go to your rooms. Now.”

His daughter’s face crumpled with anger and heartbreak. “I hate you, Daddy! You beat Mommy every day! I hate you!” Her tiny fists were clenched, her eyes blazing with accusation.

Tunde froze. Beat Agnes? Never. He had never laid a hand on her. He opened his mouth again to refute, but the words failed him. They lodged in his throat like jagged stones.

“Please, sweethearts, go to your rooms. Let Mommy and Daddy sort this out,” Agnes said, her voice trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“But, Mom…” his son began, his voice filled with confusion and betrayal.

“No, love,” she interrupted gently, shaking her head. “Please, just go.”

The boy looked from his mother’s tear-streaked face to his father’s, his eyes narrowing with a bitterness far beyond his years. He lingered for a moment longer, glaring at his father with disdain, before he took his sister’s hand and disappeared back down the hallway.

“What just happened?” Tunde asked, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his shoulders.

Agnes wiped her eyes, staring him down with a fury he hadn’t seen in years. “I told them,” She said, voice raw, “I told them how you’ve been hitting me ever since you started sleeping with your whore.”

Tunde blinked, stunned. “What? Hitting you? When did I ever lay a hand on you?”

Agnes gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, don’t you dare play innocent, Tunde. Not tonight. I can’t take it tonight.” Her voice wavered as more tears spilled over. “You think I didn’t know? I knew. I knew about all of them. About Layo. Do you know she came to *this* house? Our house. She told me herself, came right here and challenged me for you.”

Her sobs wracked her body, but Tunde wasn’t about to be derailed. “That’s not the point. When did I *hit* you?”

Agnes straightened, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. She reached out and grabbed his right hand, locking her eyes with his. Then, without warning, she slammed his hand against her cheek, her head snapping to the side with the force. “Now, Tunde. You hit me now.”

He recoiled in horror, his heart pounding in his chest. “I don’t have time for this madness. I’m going to talk to the kids,” he muttered, turning toward the stairs.

But Agnes screamed, her voice wild and raw. “Wait! No, my husband! No!” She grabbed her own head with both hands, smashing it against the wall with a sickening thud. Blood started trickling down her face, but she ignored it, pulling away from him when he tried to help.

“Please, Tunde! Think about the kids!” she screamed, stumbling backward toward the center of the living room. Then, in a move so sudden it felt unreal, she hurled herself into the glass coffee table. The table shattered beneath her weight, shards of glass cutting into her skin as she lay there, bloodied and motionless.

“You’ve killed Mommy!” his son’s voice pierced through the chaos as he ran down the stairs. Tunde watched, helpless, as his son rushed to Agnes, trying to pull her away from the shards of glass, cutting his own hands in the process.

Tunde took a step forward, but his son whipped around, rage blazing in his young eyes. “Stay away! Don’t come near her! Don’t come near us! I’ll call the police!” The boy’s voice cracked with fear and fury. “Stay away, or I’ll call the police!” His little sister stood beside them, sobbing for their mother.

And that was when it hit him. The break-up, the affairs—it had all driven Agnes over the edge. But in that moment, he realized something else: his sweet, innocent Agnes was a master of performance.

The next morning, she was up and moving as if nothing had happened. She kissed him goodbye, made his breakfast, sent him off to work like any other day. But when he arrived at his office, there was someone waiting for him.

Her lawyer. *The Bastard.*

That’s what Tunde called him. The Bastard, with his smooth talk, his towering height, and his perfect, sculpted physique. The man who conspired with Agnes to ruin him.

The Bastard arrived with a stack of documents that seemed to taunt Tunde with every rustling page. These weren’t just any documents; they were proof that Agnes was a co-owner of everything he possessed. Every contract he had signed since their wedding—those he had thought were mere formalities for medical bills or school papers—turned out to be joint ownership affidavits.

As he sifted through the pile, Tunde’s frustration began to spill over. If only Layo hadn’t been so selfish, so brazen in confronting Agnes, none of this would have spiralled so far. He had even tried to lash out at her, but Layo had also vanished as if she had never existed. Desperately, he contacted his lawyers, who confirmed the authenticity of the affidavits. His only recourse was to prove Agnes had tricked him into signing them—a Herculean task, given that everyone knew his sweet Agnes was incapable of deceit.

But the realization that Agnes had orchestrated this betrayal fuelled his resolve. He was ready to divide his assets in half if it meant no longer sharing a roof with this new, malevolent version of Agnes.

That evening, as Agnes sat on her side of the bed, meticulously packing her hair extensions into a net, Tunde laid out his decision. Her reaction was swift and chilling. She removed the net and faced him with an expression that was far removed from the caring, concerned Agnes he once knew. This was a face of cold, calculated malice. “Where’s Layo?” she inquired, her tone as sharp as a blade.

Tunde had learned not to question her words; sure she had an agenda. “Where is she?” he shot back.

“How would I know? I’m not the one who killed her,” Agnes responded, her voice dripping with a disturbing calm as she crawled to his side of the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

“Agnes is Layo, is Layo dead?” he whispered, feeling a sickening sense of déjà vu. He thought he was beyond being shocked by Agnes’s behavior.

“I believe so. You told me you killed her,” Agnes said, her voice rising as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I never said any such thing!” Tunde protested.

“Oh, but you did. You came home drunk one night. If I recall correctly, it was July 1st of last year. You said she was trying to sabotage our marriage, and you had to kill her.”

“You’re insane!” Tunde pushed her away, his frustration boiling over. “I’ve had enough of your lies…”

“I’m sorry, I killed her… killed who? Layo, I killed Layo. My ex-girlfriend, I ended things with her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone. She threatened to expose me, blackmailed me. I killed her in our other house and burned her body.” Agnes stopped playing the recording on her phone.

It was his voice slurred with a disturbing blend of confession and denial. Tunde’s mind raced, but he couldn’t recall any such events. He remembered their time together in the other house, but not the murder, and definitely not the confession.

“I never killed anyone. I don’t remember killing anyone. Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you,” Tunde spat.

“Well, that’s irrelevant now. Whether you killed her or not, whether she’s actually dead or not, doesn’t matter. What matters is convincing your business partners and family. Let’s see if your children believe you. If you divorce me, I’ll hand this evidence to the police. If you try to harm me like you harmed, Layo…”

“For God’s sake, I did not kill Layo!”

Agnes smiled, a chilling, knowing smile. “It doesn’t matter. If you proceed with the divorce, you’ll be responsible for Chichi’s death too.”

Tunde’s blood ran cold. “You killed Layo… and you’ve kidnapped Chichi.”

“Good night, Tunde. I hope your dreams are pleasant.” She retrieved her hairnet with a mocking grace.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, feeling a deep, unsettling fear.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Agnes replied, her voice deceptively calm.

“Why are you trying to hurt me? What have I done to deserve this?”

Agnes sat up, her legs swinging over the edge of the bed as she spoke. “Let me tell you about my family. My great-grandmother was married to my great-grandfather as his first wife. He promised she would be his only wife, but he took two more. She had to endure the humiliation of sharing him. She couldn’t protest because, in their world, men can do whatever they want. Women, however, must endure or leave. My grandmother’s fate was no better. She was cast out because she couldn’t give my grandfather the son he wanted. I watched my father abuse my mother, cheat on her, belittle her, until she died of cancer. The saddest part wasn’t her death but watching her beg not to be cast out as a divorced woman.”

“How does that relate to me?” Tunde asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

“How does that relate to me?” Agnes rose from the bed, her voice a chilling whisper, yet laden with venom. “You are everything I despise about men. Entitled brutes who believe the world exists solely for their pleasure, treating women like mere tools. No, Tunde. I refuse to be your tool. I refuse to let you walk away with the upper hand. I will have the last laugh in this. I gave you my best. I tried to be a good wife, to love you with all my heart. But you turned me into this. The fact that you’re willing to part with everything just to rid yourself of me makes my hatred for you burn even hotter. You ingrate, you’ve made me despise you more and more—right from the moment you stumbled into our home reeking of alcohol, to when I saw that lipstick stain on your shirt, to the day Layo confronted me. I hated you for every single transgression. I hated that you pursued Chichi, I hated knowing how this would end—with me cast aside like a discarded rag. I hated you, Tunde.”

She closed the distance between them, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “But what truly made my hatred simmer was discovering how effortlessly I could manipulate you when you were drunk. How simple it was to control your driver and everyone around you, to make you as miserable as my own mother’s suffering.”

“If you despise me so much, then why are you trying to keep me?”

“My dear husband, you still don’t understand,” she said with a smirk. “I’m doing all this because I hate you. You will never find peace as long as I’m alive. I will never let you go.”

***

His hands trembled as he scrawled his signature on the contract. Once he was finished, Agnes seductively swept it from under his hands, as if savouring the finality of his capitulation.

“Perfect,” she purred. “If you ever attempt to divorce me again, you’ll leave with absolutely nothing. I’ll ensure you lose everything to that handsome partner of yours. But if I decide to release you, we’ll split everything in half—except the children. They stay with me. I’ll even change their names to mine.” She meticulously arranged the contracts in her hands. “Tunde, I will never let you go.”

He looked at the woman before him, a twisted amalgamation of all his past loves—she resembled Agnes, dressed like Layo, moved like Chichi—but she was none of them.

True to her word, the New Agnes never let him go. She made his existence a daily torment. But amidst this turmoil, Tunde found an unexpected respite. Layo, surprisingly alive but with a year of her memory erased, reappeared. Chichi also returned, though she had accepted Agnes’s offer of a reprieve in exchange for her reputation. When she came back to town, everything was as she had left it, and she married her fiancé.

THE END 

A big shout out to Adewara Alabi Abdulrazzaq for giving me this title challenge! I had serious fun writing it.

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Egbere: Keeping The Mat ( Bush Baby )

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Egbere, Bush Baby Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
Keywords: Egbere, Bush Baby, Mat, Kola, Keeping The Mat, African mythology, Nigerian myth, Yoruba myth, bush baby, Free short story, thriller, horror (maybe), adventure, free short story

“Nwe! Nwe! Nwe!”

The child’s cries pierced the stillness of the night, echoing through the dense forest, a desperate wail that would tug at the heart of any passerby. A sound so raw, so innocent, that it should have sent someone, anyone, rushing to rescue the helpless baby left to die.

But no one came.

No one ever came for Egbere.

Abandoned by a mother too poor to feed herself, let alone a child. Especially one like him, cursed with a hunchback and a twisted, gnome-like face.

Egbere’s fate was sealed from the moment he was born. His father had denied him, and his mother wept at the sight of him. She could not stomach the thought of the malformed creature suckling on her breast. Its relentless cries gnawed at her sanity.

And one night, she finally had enough.

She crept into the forest, a lantern flickering in her trembling hand, and carried the child far into its depths. She reached a tree, the one that stood alone at the forest’s heart, and laid him down, still wrapped in the mat that served as his only comfort.

“You ugly thing,” she whispered, her voice brittle with exhaustion and despair. “You eat too much, and you cry too much. You are nothing but bad luck.” She stared into his pleading eyes, and when his cries swelled once more, she took it as confirmation that she was doing the right thing.

Without another word, she turned her back on him, leaving the baby, the lantern, and the mat behind.

Seven days later, her body was discovered at the edge of the forest, her face clawed beyond recognition by a wild cat.

Kola was having the kind of day that made him question everything. As a worker for a garbage disposal company, he lived knee-deep in filth, picking up other people’s waste, enduring the sickening stench of rotting food and used sanitary pads, and worse, feeling maggots wriggle across his skin. His nose mask did little to shield him from the odours, and no matter how many showers he took, he could never scrub the filth from his mind.

Life was no kinder at home, if you could call it that. His apartment in a crumbling three-story building was little more than a box with a leaking roof, and the rent had just gone up. His stingy landlord saw to that. And then there was Bukky — his girlfriend of two years — who had left him for a wealthier Igbo trader. He had proposed, foolishly believing she might say yes, but she rejected him coldly, pointing out that he had no future.

With his heart and mind heavy, Kola considered ending it all with rat poison. But first, he walked.

He didn’t know where he was going, nor did he care. His feet took him toward the forest, where the sound of a child crying broke through his dark thoughts. At first, he ignored it, but the cry grew louder, more insistent until he couldn’t take it anymore. Against his better judgment, he plunged into the woods, searching for the source.

There, on a mat next to a flickering lantern, was a child: no more than two years old, its back hunched, its ears pointed, and its face… ancient. The memory of the legend hit him like a punch to the gut: Egbere, the cursed Bush Baby.

Fear, disgust, and then, hope surged through him.

Without hesitation, he lunged at the creature, landing a fist to its grotesque face. Blood spurted from its mouth, and with a few more vicious blows, Kola lifted the baby and hurled it as far as his desperation could throw. Then he snatched the mat and ran.

Egbere wasn’t surprised. The humans always attacked it, always tried to steal its mat. But they never understood the curse that came with it. They would keep the mat for six days, and in those six days, they would lose their minds. Then, Egbere would take its revenge. And still, they never learned.

Not too long ago, a hunter had tried to cheat death. He shot the creature and stole its mat, thinking he’d outsmarted the legend. Five days later, he returned it, trembling, begging the bush baby to take it back. But it was too late. Egbere’s claws sprouted, slicing through the air, and they shredded the man’s skin like paper. It pulled his face to the back of his head and fed on his organs. Now, Kola was next.

Kola locked his doors. Then the windows. The room felt like a tomb; stuffy, dark, suffocating. He rushed to his bed, clutching the mat tightly, huddled in a corner. He knew the stories well: Bush Baby couldn’t enter without an invitation. He was safe.

“Nwe! Nwe! Nwe!”

The crying started outside his window. Kola flinched. He was on the third floor. How could it be up here? He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, the cries grew louder. And when he finally drifted off, Egbere invaded his dreams, its haunting wail demanding the return of its mat.

By morning, Kola had made a decision. He called his office and quit. There was no way he could go back to work now. Someone might see the mat, and if they stole it, he would be doomed. His father’s voice echoed in his mind: *Never let the mat out of your sight. Not even for a second. Egbere will come for it. And then it will come for you.*

He took stock of his supplies: a nylon bag of garri, two sachets of coffee, and four bags of water. ‘This will be enough,’ he thought, convincing himself he could last the seven-day trial.

But day one was a battle he hadn’t anticipated. Sleep was impossible. Egbere appeared in every dream, its cry embedded in his mind, a relentless echo that haunted him even when he was awake. Night fell, day broke. He had survived the first 24 hours.

‘Six more days,’ he told himself. ‘Five more nights.’

The second day crawled by. The hours felt like a slow death. By nightfall, the crying became unbearable, louder than ever. He hadn’t left his room and hadn’t eaten much. His buckets had become makeshift toilets, and the stench was thick in the air. His mind was fraying, unravelling with every passing minute. But he was determined to survive.

Somehow, by sheer willpower, Kola made it to day six. His room smelled like a decaying body. He had just one bag of water left. His garri was gone, his buckets were full, and he hadn’t bathed since locking himself in. His body ached, his spirit was broken, and his mind teetered on the edge of insanity. But the voices in his head — the ones he could no longer distinguish from Egbere’s cry — kept urging him on. ‘You crossed into madness the moment you stole Egbere’s mat. If you stop now, you’ll die for nothing.’

Desperate, he poured the last two sachets of coffee straight into his mouth. He’d been saving them for this final day. ‘Just one more night.’

Then, a knock on the door.

“Kola? Are you there?” The voice sounded muffled and distorted, like it was coming from miles away.

“Who are you?” he croaked, barely recognizing his own voice.

“It’s your landlord. Are you okay in there?”

“Yes… I’m fine.” But his words felt strange, detached from reality.

“Are you sure? You haven’t come out in days. Your room smells like your job. Is this about Bukky? I heard her new boyfriend dumped her.”

Bukky? The name rang a bell, but in his delirium, it seemed distant, unfamiliar. He could barely think straight. Everything sounded like it was falling from the sky, the landlord’s voice blending with the cries of Egbere.

“Open the door, Kola!”

But Kola just sat there, gripping the cursed mat, waiting for the final night to end.

“Leave me alone!” Kola shouted, his voice hoarse, barely human.

“I can’t leave you alone,” the landlord replied, frustration dripping from every word. “Everyone’s worried about you. They’ve been knocking, calling, and you don’t open the door. Your friends came by, and all you do is scream at them to get lost. If you don’t open this door, I swear, come morning, I’m calling the police!”

Kola said nothing. The landlord pounded on the door a few more times, then gave up with a muttered curse.

But the crying, Bush Baby’s relentless wailing, never stopped. It clawed at your nerves, refusing to become background noise no matter how long it persisted.

At dawn on the seventh day, Kola made his move. He needed to leave before the landlord called the police. He emptied his Ghana Must Go bag, tossing aside the few clothes he owned, and stuffed the cursed mat inside. Without a backward glance, he unlocked his door and bolted from the building, running as fast as his legs could carry him. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, his skin pale, and he reeked of decay. But he ran, desperate to find sanctuary in the only place that made sense: the garbage dumping site.

The guards at the dump recognized him despite his disheveled appearance. He gave them a feeble excuse, claiming he was searching for his house key. They let him in, though their suspicious eyes followed him as he walked deeper into the mountains of rotting waste.

To Kola, everything was changing. The garbage seemed alive. Maggots were smiling at him, bigger than they should be, grinning from ear to ear. He sped up, but every time he saw a happy maggot, his pace faltered, and he couldn’t help but stare. When he reached the farthest corner of the dump, he sat down on a patch of clean earth. His stomach growled, a hunger gnawing at him from deep inside. That’s when he noticed food everywhere—rotting, decayed, but irresistible. He dug in without hesitation, his mind far too gone to care, savoring each bite, even the maggots tasting like roasted chicken.

The guards watched from a distance, shaking their heads. Kola, the quiet, hardworking man they knew, had clearly lost his mind. They wasted no time calling Aro, the mental institution, knowing he was beyond saving on his own. There was no need to restrain him—he wasn’t going anywhere.

By 7 p.m., the Aro workers arrived with their van, ready to take him in. But when Kola saw them, something snapped. He bolted, trying to escape. It took ten men to catch him, to tie him down, and even after they sedated him, he clung to the mat like it was his lifeline.

When Kola awoke, it was morning, and the green walls of a padded room surrounded him. He wasn’t alone. Around him were other patients, each one chained to their beds, their eyes hollow and defeated.

Panic hit him like a freight train. He groped around, his heart racing. The mat. It was gone.

“My mat! My mat, oh!” he screamed, thrashing in his restraints. His cries echoed through the ward, rousing the others from their stupor.

A nurse rushed in. “You’re awake,” she said, her tone neutral, used to such outbursts.

“Where is my mat?” Kola demanded, his eyes wild with fear.

“There is no mat,” the nurse replied, her voice calm but firm.

“It was in my bag!” Kola insisted, his voice rising in desperation.

The nurse frowned and left the room. A few moments later, she returned with his bag, already opened. She rifled through it and held it out for him to see. “There’s no mat here.”

Kola’s face drained of color. “Yekpa! I am dead o! Dead!” He wailed, his body trembling. “I was this close! Egbere will kill me now!”

A week later, Kola was released from the hospital. His landlord had vouched for him, claiming he’d take Kola in, hoping to repair his reputation after the press had latched onto the story. *”Financial Woes Drive Man Mad: Claims He Lost Egbere’s Mat.”*. No landlord wanted to be painted as the villain responsible for pushing a tenant over the edge, especially with reporters sniffing around for more.

That night, as Kola made his way home from Aro, the air was unnaturally cold. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and a strange force tugged at him, pulling him toward the dark edges of the forest. He fought the pull at first, but his feet moved of their own accord, dragging him closer to the place he had vowed never to return.

At the forest’s edge, Bush Baby waited. Its lantern swung lazily in its right hand, casting long shadows, and in its left, it held the mat. The very object that had driven Kola mad. As Kola neared, he froze, every instinct screaming at him to run, but his body betrayed him, rooted in place. Egbere moved forward, its steps deliberate, until it reached him. Without a word, it dropped the mat at Kola’s feet, then turned and disappeared back into the woods, its lantern’s light fading with every step. Kola’s seven-day trial was over, and Egbere had taken the mat from his bag as if to protect him from any other foolish human endeavour that might make his suffering for naught. It had grown fond of him.

Seven years passed. Kola’s life had transformed. Now, he woke in the soft sheets of his luxurious mansion, nestled deep within a sprawling estate. The sound of birds outside the window greeted him, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Beside him lay a beautiful woman, still fast asleep. On the bedside table, a thick wad of one-thousand-naira notes rested casually, like loose change.

Kola smiled, reaching for the money and tucking it into his safe. His days were golden. He had wealth, comfort, and everything he’d ever dreamed of. He lived this life for many years, until the day he died peacefully at the age of 89.

And on that final day, when the last breath left his body, Egbere returned. Not with malice, not with anger, but to reclaim its mat.

All rights reserved Fablingverse

A big thank you to Emeka IfeanyiAdeniyi LawalNanna Xander Gbemi, and Gbenle Maverick for giving me information on Egbere and Bush Baby. And another round of Thanks to Blueman Eddie Agbator for sending a helpful link

Did you enjoy reading Egbere: Keeping the Mat (Bush Baby)? Need a longer story with humour? Try our web novel: Kidnapping Father Christmas

 

Nwanyi Mmiri: Burn That Shrine Down

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Nwanyi mmiri - burn down that shrine Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels, mami wata, Eke Nnukwu, Reverend Ifeanyi, Beatrice
Keywords: Nwanyi Mmiri, Shrine, mami wata, Eke Nnukwu, Reverend Ifeanyi, Beatrice, snake, priestess, fear, goddess, altar, village, Free short story, Drama, Horror, Religion, African Mythology, Shrine, Enjoy this story

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the village as women made their way home from the bustling market and farmers trudged back from their fields. Agadi Nwanyi, the venerable matriarch of the clan, took her place on a weathered stone beneath the sprawling orange tree that stood sentinel beside the sacred shrine of Nwanyi Mmiri, also known as Idemili, the powerful goddess whose presence dominated the heart of the community, her shrine nestled strategically beside the bustling village square. That morning, the goddess had been appeased, and the remnants of the ritual were still fresh, a smear of drying blood traced down her altar, pooling over a tray of corals, glass beads, and a bowl of rich camwood dye. The shrine was draped in crimson and white cloth, its walls adorned with intricate uli art. At its innermost sanctum stood a commanding mbari statue of Nwanyi Mmiri, a majestic python coiled around her waist, its head resting protectively between her breasts as she gazed out over the village with an air of quiet omnipotence.

The children, having finished their chores, gathered eagerly in front of the orange tree. Some were fortunate enough to find seats on the fallen logs and exposed roots, while others sat cross-legged on the earth. Behind them stood the teenagers, freshly relieved from their age-grade duties, their lower bodies modestly covered; girls in skirts and boys in loincloths or shorts, all with bare chests. The older girls wore beads around their ankles, a sign of their age, and more beads adorned their waists, wrists, and necks, their hairstyles exuberant with youth and vitality.

It was time for another tales by moonlight. Agadi Nwanyi was revered as one of the finest storytellers in the land, her tales so captivating that even the stoic warriors, men who would never admit to once suckling at a woman’s breast, lingered nearby under the pretense of guarding the children, just to lose themselves in her words. Today, she spun the tale of Eke the Python. Not the one that slithered into their beds or coiled itself among their cooking pots, but Eke Nnukwu, the Great Python, and the fierce retribution it exacted for Nwanyi Mmiri.

At the same time, Reverend Ifeanyi stood on the precipice of his own spiritual battle. Once an Osu—an outcast—his life had changed irrevocably when he encountered the white man and embraced his God. Though he believed he had shed the shackles of his past, the bitterness lingered, a sour taste that rose unbidden whenever he recalled the life he had been forced to leave behind. His resentment toward those who had ostracized him was a silent, simmering fury, one he dared not voice. Yet, he found solace in his newfound superiority, convinced that his conversion had elevated him above the pagans. Now in his mid-thirties, he had become a man of unshakable resolve, his decisions no longer his own but divinely guided. Today, he led a dozen fervent followers in prayer, girding themselves for the battle ahead.

Earlier that day, Reverend Ifeanyi and his band of evangelists, including the devout Sister Beatrice, had ventured deep into the heart of Idemili, determined to spread their gospel. They had stumbled upon the shrine of Nwanyi Mmiri, just as the priestess had sacrificed a chicken, its headless body still convulsing atop the altar. Disgust twisted his features as he shook his head, the sight only deepening his conviction. “These souls are ensnared in darkness,” he declared, as they advanced toward the shrine, their voices rising in a fervent chorus of prayer and song, prepared to confront the forces they believed held the village in thrall.

The priestess stood like a living embodiment of the statue she revered. Thin lines of charcoal traced around her eyes, sharpening her gaze, while her face gleamed with a mix of camwood, white clay, and charcoal designs that adorned her flawless, bare skin. Glass beads covered her womanhood, shimmering with each movement, and a small snake coiled around her wrist, its flickering it tongue as if to taste the audacity of the group approaching. She was in the midst of hanging the severed head of a chicken from the shrine’s roof when she caught sight of the men in white.

The warriors, both male and female, had been watching the intruders with growing suspicion. As the strangers drew closer, their strange dance and foreign words echoing through the air, the warriors silently assembled, weapons at the ready, poised to defend their sacred ground. But before they could act, the priestess picked up her sword and stepped forward, her presence commanding enough to hold them at bay.

Reverend Ifeanyi paused his fervent prayer, eyes narrowing as he observed the scene. “They do not yet understand that we have come to save them,” he declared with both pity and righteousness evident in his voice. Then, speaking in tongues, he turned to Sister Beatrice. “This is your village, Sister.”

“Yes, Reverend, but I am no longer one of them,” she replied, her voice steady.

“Oh, Sister Beatrice, you are right. The Lord has brought you into His family, and you are no longer one of them,” his tone softened. “But you speak their language. Now, you shall serve the Lord by interpreting His word to these pagans.”

With a nod, Sister Beatrice stepped forward. The priestess recognized her instantly, her expression hardening as she spat on the ground. “You have brought shame and pain upon your parents, Nwanyinaza,” she spoke in Igbo, a sharp hiss following her words.

Once, she had been called Nwanyinaza, short for ‘NwanyiMmiriNaZa ‘the woman of the sea answers,’ but that name belonged to another life. Now, she was Sister Beatrice, and she refused to acknowledge the priestess’s taunt, instead waiting for Reverend Ifeanyi’s next command.

“People of Idemili,” the Reverend began, his voice booming with authority, “fear not, for we have come to free you from the bondage of this powerless and false deity.” His words were firm, and as Sister Beatrice translated, her tone carried the same conviction. They spoke of a new God, telling the villagers that they had been deceived, worshiping what they called the devil, an idea foreign to the Igbos, who knew Ekwensu not as evil, but as the deity of mischief, war, justice, wealth, and trade.

An elder, known as Mbe for his cunning ways, stepped forward to address Sister Beatrice, his voice calm yet edged with irony. “Nwanyinaza, tell your friends that in our village, we do not challenge the gods in the daylight. If they wish to fight our God, they should return at night, when it is awake.”

Sister Beatrice turned to Reverend Ifeanyi, relaying the elder’s words with precise neutrality. The Reverend’s stern expression softened, and then he laughed; a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the tense silence.

“A god who sleeps during the day,” Reverend Ifeanyi scoffed as he stepped toward the shrine, his eyes gleaming with contempt. But his advance was halted by the priestess’s blade, its sharp point pressed against his chest, daring him to come closer.

“We will be back,” he laughed, the sound hollow and cold. “By morning, when you awake, your shrine will be nothing but ashes, and you will bow to the one true God.” Sister Beatrice translated his words, and the people of Idemili nodded in agreement, their faces betraying no fear.

As Agadi Nwanyi spun her tales of the fearsome Eke to the gathered children, the priestess silently picked up the tray of sacrificial ornaments and placed it atop her head. With deliberate steps, she made her way down to the river.

When she reached the riverbank, she raised the tray over the still waters and cried out, her voice echoing through the quiet night. “Nwanyi Mmiri! Idemili!! I come not just to appease you today, but to plead for your wrath! Your shrine was disrespected today. They claimed you are not real, and they threatened to burn your sanctuary. Show them your power! Wipe them out for their arrogance, so that none like them may ever return.” With that, she emptied the tray into the river and turned back to the shrine, the tray still balanced on her head. As she walked away, a large green snake slithered silently into the water, vanishing beneath the surface.

As night fell, a warning spread through the village like wildfire: no one was to leave their compound, no lights were to be lit, and every door was to be locked tight.

Goosebumps prickled Beatrice’s skin, and she shivered despite the warm night air. She considered retreating to the safety of the church, but the need to prove herself to Reverend Ifeanyi kept her rooted in place. After their return from Idemili earlier that evening, he had accused her of wavering in her faith, of clinging to her pagan roots, and had urged her to banish any lingering doubts. She had run away from home nearly a year ago after the reverend, prior to conversion, had sought her hand in marriage, only to be rejected by her community, who saw him as an outcast. After reuniting with him, she had expected him to take her into his chambers, to claim her as his wife, but instead, he had draped a cloth over her shoulder and preached to her, urging her to accept his God as her savior. Since then, she had stayed by his side, desperate to prove that she had shed her old self, that she was Christian enough to be his wife.

As they walked down the forest path, Reverend Ifeanyi prayed and sang in a loud voice, his tone one of fervor and defiance. Beatrice assumed he was trying to scare away any wild animals that might be lurking in the dark. The other men joined in, their voices rising to match his, the cacophony unsettling in the stillness of the night. But something felt off. The village was too quiet, the air thick with an eerie, familiar presence, one she hadn’t sensed since she was thirteen, swimming in the Idemili River. She still remembered the thin string of glass beads that floated toward her in the water, the moment she had put it around her neck, she had felt that same presence she was sensing now. Instinctively, her hand reached up to touch the necklace hidden beneath her gown.

The group finally arrived at the shrine, and without hesitation, Reverend Ifeanyi set it ablaze. The fire roared to life, devouring the sacred structure, and he threw his head back in laughter, mocking the goddess as the flames danced higher, casting long shadows into the night.

“Ifeanyi,” Beatrice whispered, her voice trembling.

“I have told you to call me Reverend Ifeanyi,” he snapped, spinning around to face her.

“Reverend Ifeanyi,” she corrected, her voice steadier now, “Nwanyi Mmiri’s shrine… it’s not burning.” She could feel it, the presence growing stronger, as if unseen eyes were watching their every move.

Reverend Ifeanyi’s confident smirk faltered as he turned back to the shrine. His grip on the lamp slackened, and the men around him fell silent, their bravado evaporating in the chilling air. Then, cutting through the stillness, a woman’s laughter rang out, light and mocking.

She appeared before them, naked and unashamed, her body painted a deep red with camwood. Her eyes, lined with charcoal, had pupils that gleamed a sickly yellow, slitted like a serpent’s. A long, sinuous snake coiled around her waist, draped over her shoulder, its head nestled between her breasts. She was tall, her hourglass figure both mesmerizing and terrifying, and as she moved, she seemed to slither rather than walk, gliding effortlessly across the ground.

“You should see the look on your face,” she teased, her tone almost playful. But then her voice hardened, her demeanour shifting as swiftly as a storm cloud darkening the sky. “Who are you?”

Reverend Ifeanyi hesitated, his confidence slipping away like sand through his fingers. “I… I am Ifeanyi. I am Reverend Ifeanyi!” he stammered, trying to muster courage that he no longer felt.

“Why have you come to burn my shrine?” she asked, her eyes wide and pleading, yet the air around her vibrated with an aura of dread that made his blood run cold.

“Because… because you are not real. You are a demon, and these people need to be liberated from you,” he stuttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.

Her eyes narrowed, her presence swelling to fill the space around them, suffocating. “And on whose authority do you come to burn down my shrine, stranger?” Her voice, though soft, cut through him like a blade. “Have my people done anything to harm you, that you must wage war against their God? Have they asked you to free them from me?” She leaned closer, her expression shifting between calm and fury, like the ever-changing tides of the ocean. “Stranger! I ask you again, on whose authority have you come?”

Beatrice’s heart pounded in her chest. She had heard the tales, whispers of the goddess’s wrath, of Eke and his brothers, and what they did to those who crossed them. She knew she had to flee. But as she turned to run, a blood-curdling scream froze her in place. Paul, the newest convert, once known as Maduka, was caught in the coils of a massive python. The snake, its scales gleaming in the firelight, tightened its grip around him. As if waiting for the perfect moment, it unhinged its jaw and swallowed him whole, his terrified cries cut off in an instant.

Reverend Ifeanyi’s lamp slipped from his grasp, crashing to the ground. His legs gave way, and a warm, wet trickle ran down his thighs as the liquid terror seeped through him.

“You,” the goddess’s voice cut through the night like a blade, “I’m still speaking to you. On whose authority have you come?”

“I—I—I am here on the authority of Jesus,” Ifeanyi stammered, his voice quaking with fear.

“Louder!” Her command echoed, rattling his very soul.

He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. His throat was dry, choked by terror.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked, her tone laced with dark amusement.

The snake beside her, now satiated after swallowing the last of Paul, settled in to watch the scene unfold. Beatrice’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew this serpent wasn’t Eke Nnukwu; the true Eke was far larger, a creature of mythic proportions that no mortal had ever seen and lived to speak of, save for the priestess, who was scarcely human herself.

“You know what?” Nwanyi Mmiri’s voice softened, almost to a whisper. “I’ll show you mercy, Ifeanyi—Reverend Ifeanyi.” She let the title drip from her tongue like poison. “Give me that woman with you, and I will let you and your men leave here alive.”

“Take her.” He didn’t hesitate, the words spilling from his lips without a second thought.

Nwanyi Mmiri and Beatrice stared at him, shocked, their mouths agape. The goddess’s gaze turned to Beatrice, and a gust of wind pushed her toward the deity.

“Shh, don’t struggle, my child,” Nwanyi Mmiri cooed. “The man you gave yourself to has offered you to me. Your life belongs to me. It always has. I gave you to your mother, and yet you left. Left for this man, this weak man who would sacrifice you without a blink!” Beatrice’s tears flowed freely now. “Run,” Nwanyi Mmiri commanded softly, “before I change my mind.”

Reverend Ifeanyi didn’t wait. He turned and fled, not daring to look back. But as he dashed through the forest, a scream tore through the air. It was one of his followers, caught in the coils of another snake, being devoured alive. Ifeanyi pushed himself harder, desperate to escape the cursed village, knowing the goddess’s wrath wouldn’t be so easily sated.

His breath caught in his throat as he skidded to a halt. Something massive and dark loomed before him, blocking his path. Eke Nnukwu, the Great Python, towered over him, seven feet wide and nearly twelve feet tall in its half-raised posture. Even in the darkness, its green scales glowed with an eerie light. The python’s yellow eyes bore into Ifeanyi, paralyzing him with terror.

All around, the forest came alive with the sounds of death. Snakes dropped from the trees, wrapping themselves around the fleeing evangelists, their powerful bodies constricting with every breath until bones cracked and screams were silenced. And then, as if in a macabre dance, the snakes opened their jaws and swallowed their prey whole. Eke Nnukwu, its gaze never leaving Ifeanyi, bent its massive head and opened its mouth wide, descending upon him.

Morning came, and the people gathered around the shrine, astonished to find it still standing. The only evidence of the night’s battle were the discarded clothes of the strangers, strewn across the altar. In front of the shrine’s entrance lay the dead skin of Eke Nnukwu, stretched out like a verdant carpet.

Nwanyi Mmiri emerged, radiant in the dawn light, with a naked Beatrice at her side. The priestess followed closely, her eyes lowered in reverence. For the first time, the villagers beheld their goddess, and she was more beautiful than any woman they had ever seen, more ethereal even than the priestess.

The goddess turned to Beatrice, her lips curving into a gentle smile. Then, without a word, she leaned in and kissed her.

Beatrice understood. She walked to the altar, lay down, and closed her eyes, her breath steady as she awaited her fate. The priestess, solemn and resolute, picked up her sword.

“Today, my daughter, you will return to my side,” Nwanyi Mmiri murmured, her voice tender as she reassured Beatrice with a final smile.

Beatrice exhaled softly, embracing the peace that washed over her, and waited for the swift blow that would send her head rolling down the altar, reuniting her with the goddess.

THE END

Did you enjoy reading Nwanyi Mmiri: Burn That Shrine Down story and want to cool off? Try a lighter story – The Jackal and The Peacock

…and She Got Married

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and she got married, Read free stories, nigerian, african, igbo, mythology, folktale, short stories, lite novels
Keywords: and She Got Married, Love, and Some Things Like It, Ade, Chichi, Marriage, Husband, Church, Submission, Pastor, Violence, Alpha Male, Pregnancy, Family, Desperation, Control, Freedom, Read Free Stories online.

Ade’s voice resonated through the church, a gentle harmony that filled the air with peace. But then he saw her.

She slipped into the back pew, and for a moment, everything else faded away. She moved with an effortless grace, like a wingless angel. Average height, fit, and with a face that seemed to glow, even beneath the artificial cascade of hair that fell over her shoulders. In that instant, Ade felt something stir deep within him. She was the one, his missing rib. the piece of him he’d been waiting for. For the first time in years, he found himself praying for the service to end, so he could meet the woman who had suddenly become the centre of his world.

Chichi was in her mid-twenties, and the tick of the clock was growing louder with each passing day. Her friends were all married, settling into lives she felt slipping through her fingers. Men came and went, often leaving her with the same complaint: she was too much to handle. The fear of crossing into her thirties alone gnawed at her, so she took her mother’s advice. She buried her true self deep and wore the cloak of submissiveness like armour. That Sunday, in a church far from home where no one knew her, she hoped to find a fresh start.

Ade was a sight for sore eyes, handsome, well-built, especially for a church boy. Chichi couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He was cute, and after a few dates, she saw something different in him, something she wasn’t sure she liked. His beliefs were rigid, his ideals a throwback to an era long past. He found women in power distasteful, whether in politics or the pulpit, and believed a wife should bow completely to her husband’s will, never daring to raise her voice. He quoted Paul and Timothy with fervour, his eyes gleaming as he spoke of submission. Chichi smiled and nodded along, hiding her true thoughts behind a mask of compliance. Ade was the embodiment of the Traditional Christian Alpha male, her soon-to-be husband.

For Ade, Chichi was perfection. The woman he had prayed for. When he nervously asked if she was a virgin, she lowered her eyes, feigning remorse as she confessed she wasn’t, but assured him of her celibacy since finding Christ four years ago. Her honesty satisfied him, though the thought of not being her first gnawed at him. But he pushed the worry aside, content in the secret they now shared.

Chichi, on the other hand, smiled, pleased with her deception. ‘I won’t have to sleep with this foolish alpha male until we’re married,’ she thought, her stomach turning at the mere idea.

Months passed, and Ade introduced her to his parents. His mother’s eyes narrowed, sensing something amiss, but Chichi played her role flawlessly. She passed every test with ease: cooking, cleaning, and even the respectful kneel as she greeted them. Two months later, the wedding bells chimed at Chichi’s family church, binding them together as husband and wife, married.

The day after they were married, Chichi shed her cloak of submission. At first, the changes were small, almost imperceptible, but soon, the real Chichi emerged. She had promised to quit her job after marriage, but when Ade brought it up, she skilfully convinced him otherwise, quoting Proverbs 31 to support her argument. When he persisted, she ran to their pastor, tears in her eyes, and the pastor, unsurprisingly, took her side.

Chichi played the dutiful wife to perfection. She made sure Ade had food on the table every morning before he left for work and every evening when he returned. On weekends, she kept the house spotless, did the laundry, and shopped like the model wife. In public, she was the epitome of respectfulness, never a harsh word about her husband, and a regular face at church.

But Ade’s initial infatuation began to wane. He started to see flaws where once there had been none. Chichi, ever the strategist, would run to the pastor, tears streaming down her face, painting Ade as the villain who was making her feel worthless. It wasn’t long before Ade confronted her about it. She smirked, a subtle challenge in her eyes, and said, “Since I’m just a woman, and my opinions mean nothing to you, it’s better that a man of God talks some sense into you.” Her mockery was thinly veiled, but Ade swallowed his pride, brushing it off. True to form, Chichi called the pastor right after, letting him know that Ade didn’t want her to involve him in their affairs anymore.

The tension escalated. Ade pulled out of the choir, citing stress and responsibilities. Surprisingly, Chichi’s church attendance became less frequent as well. She no longer reported him to the pastor and joined him in playing truant. On the Sundays they skipped church, she made their home a haven, a slice of heaven where they could pretend all was well.

Two years passed. Ade was no longer the devout man he once was, but his beliefs about women remained unchanged. They were still childless, a fact that gnawed at him. Chichi, on the other hand, had climbed the ranks at her job, her pay cheque now surpassing his. When she excitedly told him about her promotion, jealousy clouded his happiness. He wanted a child, but more than that, he saw the opportunity to make her quit her job if she became a mother.

His frustrations grew, bubbling over into complaints about everything. Chichi, sensing the shift, decided it was time to stop playing nice. Her sharp retorts caught Ade off guard, and the first time she snapped at him, he was stunned. But she didn’t stop.

When he complained about her cooking, she told him to leave the food if it didn’t suit his taste. Eventually, she stopped cooking for him altogether, suggesting he find his meals elsewhere. His criticisms of her washing were met with a challenge to do it himself, and she threatened to stop if he didn’t ease up.

Chichi had taken control of their home, and Ade despised it. She informed him of her whereabouts when she left the house, but his orders not to go out fell on deaf ears. Her style of dressing remained unchanged, and he began to wonder if she knew she was a married woman. Suspicion gnawed at him. Was she having an affair with her boss? His doubts and despair led him to a bar, where he found solace in alcohol.

Three years into their marriage, Ade’s frustration reached a boiling point. After a plea to his mother for help, they found a semblance of peace. They even made love for the first time in what felt like forever. But one night, after drinking himself into a stupor, Ade returned home in the early hours, his mind clouded with alcohol and dark thoughts.

Chichi had stayed up all night, worry gnawing at her. When she heard his car pull into the driveway, relief was quickly replaced by anger. As he staggered toward the door, she made a decision. If she let this slide, he’d think he could get away with it again. When he knocked, she refused to open the door, leaving him out in the cold.

In the morning, Ade was furious. He stormed into the house, demanding an explanation. “Didn’t you hear me knocking, woman?” he shouted.

Chichi raised her hands in mock surrender. “Don’t start with me, Ade.” Their argument escalated, insults flying back and forth like daggers. He called her heartless; she called him a fool. He accused her of witchcraft, and she labelled him a weakling deluded by alpha male fantasies. But it was his final insult that cut the deepest. He called her a prostitute, accusing her of sleeping with her boss to get ahead.

Chichi’s laughter was sharp, a weapon in itself. “Look at this bastard, calling me a prostitute! Better go and ask your mother who your real father is.”

The words hit Ade like a sledgehammer. His response was instant. A slap that echoed through the room. Chichi, stunned but not cowed, retaliated, slapping him twice as hard and calling him a bastard.

Ade’s world tilted. A woman had dared to slap him, to challenge his authority. His ego, bruised and bleeding, demanded retribution. He lunged at her, pushing her to the ground. As he prepared to strike, she grabbed his leg, pulling him down with her. In a flash, she was on top of him, raining blows on his face.

Ade was momentarily stunned. The reality of a woman overpowering him, hitting him, was something he couldn’t comprehend. But he wasn’t done. He struck back, his knee connecting with her ribs, and with a savage head-butt, he knocked her to the side. In a rage, he began to strangle her.

Chichi’s vision blurred as she gasped for air. With the last of her strength, she clawed at his throat, her nails digging into his Adam’s apple. Ade released his grip, clutching his neck. She punched him in the ribs, pushing him off her, and scrambled to her feet, searching for something, anything, to defend herself. But Ade wasn’t finished.

He grabbed her leg, pulling her back down. This wasn’t over. When he looked into her eyes, he realized something had changed. The woman he married was gone, replaced by someone he no longer recognized. And in that moment, Chichi saw the same in him, a monster she needed to vanquish before he killed her.

As Chichi felt the weight of her husband’s body dragging her down, the room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with tension. Her heart pounded as she reached for the side table, a desperate act of survival. With a surge of adrenaline, she lifted it, and as Ade lunged toward her, she swung it with all the force she could muster.

The sound of the impact was muted by the silence that followed. Time seemed to stop, holding its breath as blood trickled from Ade’s head onto her trembling chest. The table slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a dull thud that went unnoticed. The only sound that filled the room was the frantic beating of their hearts, syncing in a moment of violence and vulnerability.

When time finally resumed its relentless march, Chichi’s breath hitched. “What have I done?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Panic surged through her as she scrambled to sit up, cradling Ade’s head in her lap. Her fingers trembled as she checked for signs of life, relief washing over her when she felt his shallow breaths. But fear quickly replaced that relief, fear that those breaths could stop at any moment.

Fighting back the rising tide of dread, she gently placed a cushion beneath his head. Her hands shook as she reached for her phone, her voice quavering as she called for help, first the hospital, then the police.

A week later, Ade lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by his family. The room was filled with a heavy silence, the aftermath of a story that had already spread beyond its walls. Chichi entered, holding a brown envelope that felt like the weight of all her regrets. She greeted them, her eyes lingering on Ade’s mother, who glared back with a mixture of disdain and accusation. Ignoring the woman’s scowl, Chichi approached Ade’s father, handing him the envelope.

“When he wakes up, please have him sign it,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. “We’ll be out of each other’s lives for good.”

Ade’s father looked at her, the words he wanted to say dying in his throat as he glanced at his wife and son. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable. Chichi turned to leave, her bruised face a testament to the battle she had fought, both within and without. The swelling was almost gone, but the pain lingered.

As she walked out the door, she felt a strange sense of clarity. She had spent a week in reflection, coming to terms with the choices that had led her here. Desperation had driven her into marriage, but now she realized that freedom was more valuable than the facade she had tried to maintain. Being single no longer frightened her; in fact, the solitude of the past week had been the most peaceful time she’d had in years.

And then there was the child growing inside her, a secret she would guard until the baby was born. It was her decision to make, her life to live. Ade would never know. This child would be hers, and hers alone.

The End

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