I’ve always believed the worst thing about Nigerian villages is the network problem. Not the mosquitoes, not the strange evening whistles, not even the way darkness falls faster than a NEPA apology.
But that belief changed the day I went home for my father’s funeral.
My name is Tunde, 27 years old, Lagos boy by survival, Ibadan boy by birth, and Ọkàrà—a small hidden village in Oyo State—by origin.
To be honest, I never planned to go back there again. Not after everything that happened when I was fourteen. Not after the dream I kept having. Not after the warning.
Yes—the warning.
Three days before my father died, I got a strange call from my mother. No “hello”, no greetings. Just two sentences:
“Don’t come home, Tunde.
Your father said you must never return to Ọkàrà.”
The line cut immediately.
I tried calling back — network unavailable. I sent WhatsApp messages — one tick forever. I even asked an uncle living nearby to check on her — he said she was fine but refused to talk about the phone call.
I should have listened.
But you can’t ignore a funeral — especially not your father’s.
I arrived in Ọkàrà on a dusty Saturday afternoon. The air felt different the moment the bike dropped me at the village square. The sun was shining but the village looked… dull. Like the colors were washed out.
People stared at me strangely as I walked past — some with surprise, some with pity, and some with something that looked too much like fear.
My cousin Ayomide, the only one I genuinely liked in that village, ran up to me.
“Tunde! You came? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“My phone was bad,” I lied.
I didn’t want to mention the warning call.
She hugged me tightly.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered.
I pulled back.
“Why? Because of what happened years ago? I was just a child.”
She shook her head.
“No.
Because the elders… they said your father left instructions.”
My chest tightened.
“What instructions?”
But she didn’t answer.
Instead, she carried my bags and said, “Let’s get home before evening.”
That bothered me.
Evening in that village always felt… unnatural.
Our family house was exactly how I remembered it — old, brown, with walls that looked like they had soaked in secrets for decades.
My mother was sitting on a wooden chair, staring into nothing.
When she saw me, she didn’t smile.
She didn’t stand.
She didn’t even blink.
She just whispered, “You shouldn’t have come.”
The exact same words.
“Why?” I asked, dropping my bag.
“What is going on?”
She refused to speak.
Instead, she pointed at my father’s room.
“He left something for you. Inside his box.”
A cold chill carried itself down my back. My father had never owned a box — at least not one he let anyone else touch.
I walked into his room.
It smelled of dust, old wood, and palm kernel oil — his favorite scent. On the floor, beside his bed, was a wooden chest. Dark brown. Heavy. With markings I didn’t recognize.
No lock.
Just a simple rope tied around it.
I untied it.
Slowly lifted the lid.
Inside were only two things:
- A folded white cloth with stains I didn’t want to identify.
- A letter with my name written in shaking handwriting.
My heartbeat slowed as I unfolded it.
The letter read:
“My son,
If you are reading this, then you have disobeyed me.
You should never have returned to Ọkàrà.
Leave before sunset.
They are waiting for you.
Do not let them take what they came for.
Forgive me.
— Baba.”
I sat on the bed, heart pounding.
Take what?
Who was waiting?
Why couldn’t he write clearer?
I rushed back outside.
“Mummy! What is going on?”
My mother’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your father tried to protect you. But destiny is stubborn.”
Ayomide pulled me aside.
“Tunde, please, listen to me. Before your father died, he kept saying the same thing:
‘Tell Tunde not to come home. If he comes, it will start again.’”
Again.
That word hit me like a stone.
“What will start again?” I shouted.
Ayomide shook her head.
“I don’t know. But the last time— fourteen years ago — the same thing happened.”
My breath caught.
Fourteen years ago…
The year I left the village.
The year of the strange dream.
The year my father carried me out of Ọkàrà in the middle of the night without explanation.
I took a deep breath.
“I need answers.”
My mother suddenly stood up.
“For now, you need rest. The burial is tomorrow. You will leave immediately after.”
“No,” I said firmly.
“I’m not going anywhere until I know what is happening.”
Ayomide glanced at my mother.
Her expression said everything: They were hiding something big.
Something about me.
That night, after food none of us really ate, I lay on my late father’s bed, staring at the ceiling.
The village outside was disturbingly silent. No crickets. No footsteps. No generators. Just… stillness.
Around 1:30 a.m., I heard something.
Not footsteps.
Not whispers.
Not movement.
Singing.
A low, rhythmic humming coming from the far end of the compound.
I sat up slowly.
The voice was female.
Soft.
Familiar.
Almost soothing.
But the words?
They weren’t Yoruba.
Not any language I recognized.
I stepped outside quietly.
The sky was moonless.
The entire village felt like it was holding its breath.
I followed the voice around the house—
—and froze.
At the back of the compound, sitting alone on a wooden stool, facing the forest…
was my mother.
Humming.
Rocking back and forth.
Her eyes closed.
“Mummy?” I whispered.
She didn’t hear me.
Her voice grew louder.
The words flowed faster.
Like a chant.
A ritual.
A summoning.
Chills crawled over my skin.
I stepped closer.
“Mummy—?”
Her eyes snapped open.
But it wasn’t her eyes.
Not her normal eyes.
Her pupils were gone.
Only white remained.
She looked straight at me and whispered:
“They have found you.”
And before I could react—
Somebody behind me whispered back:
“We’ve been waiting, Tunde.”
I spun around.
But no one was there.
The forest rustled.
The air thickened.
Shadows shifted.
My mother whispered again:
“Run.”
My legs refused to move.
“Run, Tunde!”
Then I heard it.
Footsteps.
More than one pair.
Moving toward me from the darkness.
Coming fast.
Coming straight for me.
“Run, Tunde!”
My mother’s voice finally broke through the fear freezing my legs.
The footsteps were louder now—soft but sure, like people walking barefoot on sand. I couldn’t see them yet, but the air around me moved as if bodies were cutting through it.
I did the only thing that made sense.
I ran.
I bolted past my mother, around the back of the compound, and into the narrow footpath that led toward the old mango tree I used to climb as a child.
Behind me, I heard voices.
Not shouting.
Not angry.
Calm.
“Ẹ má sare, ọmọ.”
(“Don’t run, child.”)
Another voice, deeper, older:
“Today is your Returning. You cannot hide.”
My chest burned as I ran. Roots scratched my ankles. Branches slapped my face. But I didn’t stop until I reached the mango tree.
It was still there. Taller. Thicker. The trunk twisted like something in pain. The sight of it pulled me into a memory I’d tried to bury for years.
Fourteen years ago, I had a problem that scared my parents.
I sleepwalked.
Not just “walk to the kitchen” sleepwalking.
Full journeys.
Some nights, they would wake up and find me outside, barefoot, eyes open but not seeing, walking toward the forest. Always toward the forest.
The elders didn’t like that.
One evening, my father caught two of them arguing in the compound.
“He is marked,” one said. “Didn’t you see the sign when he was born?”
“He was born at the wrong time,” another added, “between last night and this morning. Between days. Between worlds.”
I remember that phrase clearly:
“Between worlds.”
The old Babaláwo, head of the village shrine, came the next week. He looked at me as if I wasn’t human.
“This one is a bridge,” he said.
“A child the spirits chose to carry something old.”
My mother panicked.
“My son is not anybody’s bridge! He is my child!”
But the Babaláwo calmly replied:
“Once in a generation, Ọkàrà must present a child to hold our covenant. The child will sit on the ancestral stool, carry our burdens, and keep misfortune away. That child is this one.”
He meant me.
My father was quiet that whole evening. Later that night, I heard my parents arguing.
“I will not give them my son,” my father said.
“If you refuse,” my mother whispered, “they said the curse will return. Drought. Sickness. Death.”
“I don’t care. He is my son.”
That was the last calm year in Ọkàrà.
People began to fall sick mysteriously. Crops failed. A strange fever came and went. The villagers started whispering.
“It’s because of Tunde.”
“His father is stubborn.”
“The covenant is hungry.”
Then, one night, my father shook me awake.
“Pack your things.”
“Baba, what’s happening?”
“We’re leaving. Tonight.”
My mother cried quietly in the corner, clutching my small bag of clothes.
“They will come tomorrow—during the festival,” my father said. “They’ll say they want to ‘bless’ you. They will not return you.”
He carried me on his back like I was still a toddler.
We slipped out of the back door.
I remember looking back and seeing Ayomide, my cousin, standing in the moonlight, eyes full of tears.
That was the last time I saw Ọkàrà.
Until now.
The memory hit me so hard I almost fell beside the mango tree.
The footsteps had stopped.
The forest was too quiet.
Then I heard them again.
Not behind me now.
In front.
When I turned, my heart dropped.
They were there.
A group of about eight people, all dressed in white from head to toe. Not clean white—old, weathered white. Some wore red beads. Some had white chalk markings on their faces.
At the center of them stood an old man I recognized immediately.
The Babaláwo.
But he looked… older. Too old. His back was curved. His skin clung to bone. His eyes, though, were sharp and bright.
“Tunde,” he said, as if we were picking up a conversation we paused years ago.
“You have come home.”
Behind me, more figures stepped out from the shadows.
Villagers.
Men. Women. Even some youths.
They formed a circle around me and the mango tree.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, trying to sound brave.
The Babaláwo smiled sadly.
“What has always been yours. Your place. Your duty. Your inheritance. The Returning.”
He gestured toward a narrow path that led deeper into the forest.
“Come. The stool waits.”
I shook my head.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Your father was stubborn too,” he said. “He broke the chain 14 years ago. And we all suffered. Do you know how many people died because he took you away?”
Faces tightened in the crowd.
I saw anger. Bitterness. Fear.
Someone shouted, “Our farms failed!”
Another added, “Children died!”
A third spat on the ground. “We lost everything!”
Tears stung my eyes.
“So it’s my fault?” I whispered.
“It is not fault,” the old man replied. “It is destiny. You were born… between days. Between worlds. That is not mistake. That is purpose.”
He took a step toward me.
“For 25 years, the covenant has waited. At midnight today, the door closes. If you do not sit on the stool, the village will die completely.”
I remembered my father’s letter.
“Do not let them take what they came for.”
My voice shook as I asked, “What happens if I sit on the stool?”
No one answered.
I asked again, louder.
“What happens to me if I sit on the stool?!”
Silence.
Then the Babaláwo sighed.
“You will not die,” he said.
Some relief washed over me.
“But,” he continued softly, “you will no longer be… you. The ancestors will speak through you. Live through you. You will not leave this village. You will not marry. You will not work. You will sit and keep the covenant for the rest of your life.”
My relief evaporated.
“That is death,” I whispered.
“It is sacrifice,” he corrected.
No.
No way.
I took a step back.
“Never.”
The word came out of me with more strength than I expected.
“I didn’t agree to any covenant. I didn’t ask to be born here. I didn’t choose any of this.”
“You don’t choose destiny,” someone in the crowd muttered.
I clenched my fists.
“I may not choose destiny, but I can choose myself.”
The Babaláwo’s eyes narrowed.
“The covenant was signed with blood when you were born. Your father knew. Your mother knew. They both agreed.”
Pain shot through my chest.
“My father would never—”
“He did,” the old man cut in. “Your birth was difficult. You were not breathing. The midwife said you were dead. We brought you back. But when we did, we told your parents the price. They accepted. Only later did he regret and run away.”
My legs felt weak.
So this was it.
I was a walking agreement.
An IOU written with blood and desperation.
A soft voice broke through the anger in my head.
“Tunde.”
It was my mother.
She pushed through the crowd, eyes red from crying—but normal now. No white pupils. Just pain.
“Mummy,” I breathed, relief and betrayal fighting each other in my chest. “Is it true?”
She nodded slowly.
“We thought you wouldn’t live. They said the only way to bring you back was to give you to them. I was scared. I agreed. Your father agreed too. But later… he couldn’t accept it. So he took you away.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I have been running from that night ever since.”
The Babaláwo raised his staff.
“No more running. Tonight we restore balance.”
The villagers began to hum.
Low. Rhythmic.
Like the sound my mother was making earlier.
Something about the sound made my skin crawl.
Behind the mango tree, the path into the forest pulsed with a faint glow, as if tiny fireflies were lining the way.
I swallowed hard.
Is this it?
Is this how my life ends—not physically, but swallowed by a village I no longer knew?
Then I felt something in my pocket.
I froze.
The box.
The note.
The cloth.
In my rush earlier, I had stuffed the white stained cloth from my father’s chest into my trouser pocket without thinking.
I pulled it out slowly.
The humming stopped.
Everyone stared.
Even the Babaláwo’s calm expression cracked for a second.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, voice suddenly sharp.
“My father’s chest,” I said. “He left it for me.”
I unfolded it fully.
It wasn’t just a cloth.
It was a piece of old ritual fabric—white, with faint reddish-brown stains, and drawn on it, in fading ink, was a symbol I had seen once before.
On the shrine door.
Years ago.
The day they called me “bridge.”
The Babaláwo’s hand shook slightly.
“That is the binding cloth,” he said. “The day you were offered, we tied it around your tiny wrists. Your destiny was sealed with it.”
“And my father kept it,” I said.
I looked at my mother.
“You knew?”
She nodded weakly.
“He said as long as that cloth was not destroyed, the covenant could be… changed. Not broken, but delayed. Hidden. That’s why he stole it from the shrine before carrying you away.”
Delayed.
Not broken.
So coming back had brought everything roaring to the surface again.
I stared at the cloth.
Then at the villagers.
Then at the Babaláwo.
“If this binds me,” I said slowly, “then what happens if I destroy it?”
The old man’s eyes flashed.
“You must not!” he shouted.
“If you destroy it, you break the protection over this village. You cut the rope. The ancestors will not recognize us. We will be on our own.”
“Or,” I replied, “maybe you finally stop sacrificing children to fix problems created by your own fear.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Some faces looked ashamed.
Others, angry.
The Babaláwo slammed his staff on the ground.
“You do not understand! Without the covenant, we are nothing. We will suffer!”
I took a deep breath.
“And what about me?” I asked quietly.
“What about my own suffering? My father’s? My mother’s? You tell everyone it’s sacrifice, but it’s always someone else’s life you want.”
Silence.
I turned the cloth over. On the back, in my father’s handwriting—faint but visible—someone had written:
“Fire ends what blood begins.”
My father.
He knew this was the only key.
Somewhere inside me, the boy who used to tremble at every strange sound in Ọkàrà… stood up.
I looked at my mother.
She was crying, but there was something new in her eyes.
Hope.
“Tunde,” she whispered, “whatever you choose… I will stand with you.”
For a moment, the whole world narrowed to three things:
My hand.
The cloth.
The path glowing in the forest.
I looked at the Babaláwo.
“No.”
Just that one word.
“No,” I repeated. “I will not sit on your stool. I will not surrender my life. Whatever covenant you made with my blood ends today.”
Before anyone could stop me, I moved.
There was a lantern set on a stone near the mango tree—one of the villagers’ lights. I grabbed it, yanked the glass open, and brought the cloth close to the flame.
“No!” the Babaláwo shouted.
He lunged forward.
Hands grabbed me from behind.
But it was too late.
The fire kissed the edge of the cloth.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then—
Whoooosh.
The cloth ignited like it had been waiting for that moment for 25 years.
A hot wind tore through the circle.
The ground trembled.
The glowing path into the forest flared bright—then began to flicker, like a dying bulb.
People fell to their knees.
Some screamed.
Some prayed.
Some just stared in shock.
The Babaláwo’s staff snapped in two.
He clutched his chest.
“The covenant…” he gasped. “It’s…gone.”
The fire turned the cloth to ash in seconds.
Then, just as suddenly, everything went still.
No wind.
No sound.
Just my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Slowly, the forest returned to normal darkness.
The faint glow on the path disappeared.
A baby began crying somewhere in the village.
A rooster crowed, confused in the middle of the night.
It was over.
I dropped what remained of the cloth—black ash falling from my fingers.
The villagers stared at me like they were seeing me properly for the first time—not as a bridge, but as a person.
One of the older women spoke first.
“What will happen to us now?”
Nobody answered.
The Babaláwo looked… small.
Human.
Fragile.
“All my life,” he whispered, “I believed without the covenant, Ọkàrà would die. But perhaps… it is we who killed it slowly with fear.”
He turned away, walking back toward the village like someone whose job had just expired.
Slowly, the crowd dispersed.
Some looked angry.
Some looked relieved.
Some looked… free.
My mother walked up to me and held my face in her hands.
“You have your father’s stubbornness,” she said, smiling through tears. “He would be proud.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight.
“I broke their covenant,” I said quietly. “But I think I also broke my place here.”
She nodded.
“Yes. You cannot stay. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.”
Ayomide, who had been standing at the edge the whole time, came forward.
“I’ll walk you to the main road,” she said. “You can get a bus from there in the morning.”
We walked in silence back to the compound so I could pick my bag.
By the time we reached the main road, the sky was beginning to lighten. A few early buses started crawling by.
Ayomide hugged me tightly.
“Will you come back?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“I don’t think I can. Ọkàrà needs time to forget me. To adjust.”
She nodded, eyes glistening.
“I’ll come and visit you in Ibadan. Or Lagos. Or wherever you run to next.”
We both laughed weakly.
A bus stopped.
“Ibadan! Ibadan! Ibadan!” the conductor shouted.
I climbed in, bag on my shoulder.
Through the window, I saw my village getting smaller.
For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty.
I felt… light.
As the bus moved, I unfolded my father’s letter again.
Something caught my eye at the bottom—words I hadn’t seen before, faint and small, almost an afterthought.
“If you ever return, son, remember:
Fear builds covenants.
Courage burns them.
Tell our story, so no one binds their children with promises made in panic.”
I smiled.
I would tell it.
On blogs.
In conversations.
To anyone who thought “my village people” were simply jokes and memes.
Because sometimes, they’re not just “doing you.”
Sometimes… they’re trying to own you.
And you have to say no.
Even if your whole world shakes in the process.