The red earth road wound like a lazy python through the hills of Umuaka. Hot wind blew dust across the Toyota Hilux as it crawled forward, engine coughing in protest. At the entrance to the village, a massive iroko tree stood like a sentinel. Its trunk was wrapped with white cloth and streaked with palm oil. Cowrie shells glittered at its base; iron tools—knives, hammers, even an old rusty gun barrel—were driven into the soil around it.
Chike Obi slowed down and stared. A signboard leaned against the tree, hand-painted in faded letters: "WELCOME TO UMUAKA. OBEY THE GODS, OBEY THE LAWS."
He swallowed. Lagos was a world away. Here, even the trees were altars.
Under the iroko tree stood an old man in a crimson wrapper, holding a carved staff tipped with iron. White chalk streaked his forehead, and a string of tiny bones hung from his neck. Villagers gave him a wide berth. This, Chike would learn later, was Chief Priest Okeke, mouthpiece of the gods of Umuaka—Ogun of iron, Sango of thunder, Amadioha of justice, and Mami Wata of the waters.
The old man's eyes followed the truck. He raised his staff once, as if in greeting—or warning. Chike nodded politely and drove on.
The village opened up ahead: mud-brick houses with zinc roofs, palm trees swaying, goats bleating. Children played ten-ten under a mango tree. Women pounded yam, their pestles rising and falling like drummers' sticks. Somewhere, a gong sounded three slow beats. The smell of palm wine and roasting maize filled the air.
It was festival day.
Banners of red and white cloth hung across the market square. Small shrines dotted the corners: a clay pot of river water with cowries for Mami Wata; an iron spear stuck upright for Ogun; a carved thunderbolt of wood for Sango. At each, villagers dropped kola nuts, coins, feathers, or palm wine. Sacrifices to keep the gods pleased.
Chike parked near the edge of the market and stepped out, wiping sweat from his forehead. He was dressed simply—faded shirt, jeans, sandals—but even so, he drew stares. His skin was too smooth, his hands too clean, his accent too polished. He forced a smile and tried his best pidgin.
"Good afternoon, mama. Abeg, where dem dey sell palm seedlings?"
The plump woman selling cocoyam squinted at him. "You be city boy abi? Your mouth still dey smell English." Laughter rippled around her stall.
Chike grinned sheepishly. "I wan learn."
"Na so una dey talk," she muttered, handing him directions. "Be careful for this village. Ogun dey watch, Sango dey hear, Mami Wata dey look."
Chike thanked her and moved on, absorbing the sights. He had come here for peace, for honesty, for a wife who was not after his father's money. But Umuaka pulsed with an energy he hadn't expected—half festival, half warning.
At the far end of the market, a group of drummers pounded a heavy rhythm. Men carried a bleating black goat bound with raffia. Ahead, Chief Priest Okeke raised his staff. The crowd hushed. A boy sprinkled chalk dust in a circle. The goat was placed inside. The priest began to chant, invoking the names of the gods.
"Ogun, owner of iron, keep our tools strong! Sango, lord of thunder, strike our enemies! Amadioha, keeper of justice, punish liars! Mami Wata, queen of the river, spare our children at midnight!"
The crowd echoed each name. Palm wine splashed onto the earth. The goat's cries mingled with the drumming. Chike shivered. This was no museum ritual. This was alive.
Across the square, Amaka Nwosu bargained fiercely with a pepper seller. Her wrapper of deep indigo clung to her hips, her hair braided with beads that clicked when she moved. She was carrying a basket for her father's compound—salt, palm oil, dried fish. The heat shimmered, but she stood tall, a queen among chaos.
At twenty-two, Amaka was the most beautiful girl in Umuaka—and the most talked about. Her father, Chief Nwosu, had ten wives and twenty-five children. She was the last, the daughter of his late third wife, Mama Ijeoma—the woman who had vanished by the river at midnight ten years ago. Some whispered that Mami Wata had taken her. Others whispered that a jealous wife had used a charm. Either way, the shadow of that night clung to Amaka.
She felt it when strangers stared. She felt it now, as the city farmer crossed the market toward her.
Chike caught her eye and stopped. She was even more striking up close: skin like polished bronze, eyes the color of river water at dusk. But there was an edge to her beauty, a wariness. He bent to pick up a stray kola nut near her basket.
"Here," he said in English before catching himself. "I mean… take am."
She glanced at him, unimpressed. "You talk like Lagos," she said softly, her voice low but firm.
Chike chuckled. "Maybe. But na here I dey now."
She straightened, balancing her basket. "Then respect our laws, city farmer. Night dey come. No go near river after dark."
Her words were half warning, half challenge. She turned and walked away, beads clicking. Chike watched her, something stirring in his chest.
The drumming at the shrine rose. The chief priest lifted the goat's head. Blood splashed onto the earth. The crowd murmured prayers. A gust of wind passed through the market, rattling the palm fronds. Somewhere, a flute played a thin, sweet tune. Chike looked around. No one else seemed to hear it.
Chief Priest Okeke's eyes found him across the crowd. For a moment, the old man's voice cut through the noise like a blade. "Outsider," he said, though his lips barely moved, "the gods see you. Do not break their laws."
Chike blinked. Had he imagined it?
Amaka glanced back at him once, her amulet—a small cowrie shell tied with red thread—glinting in the sun. The same amulet her mother had given her. It pulsed faintly, as if alive.
A group of women passed carrying clay pots of river water, chanting softly to Mami Wata. Children scattered kola nuts on the path. At the edge of the market, a shrine to Ogun smoked with burning palm oil. Another to Sango crackled as thunder rumbled far away, though the sky was cloudless.
Chike felt the hairs on his arms rise. This was no village play. The gods were real here.
He turned back toward his truck, but Chief Priest Okeke stepped into his path. Up close, the man smelled of chalk, herbs, and iron. His eyes were milky but sharp.
"You come from far," the priest said aloud this time, voice deep as a drum. "Your hands are clean but your destiny is not. The river has marked you already."
Chike forced a smile. "I don't understand, sir."
"You will," the priest said. He pressed a kola nut into Chike's hand. "When the midnight flute calls, do not answer. Or the gods will take their due."
Then he turned and melted back into the crowd.
Chike exhaled, heart pounding. He had wanted peace. Instead, he had stepped into a living myth.
High above, the sun dipped toward the hills. The festival drums shifted to a slower, heavier beat. People began carrying offerings toward the river—a goat for Mami Wata, iron filings for Ogun, palm wine for Sango. The air smelled of smoke and river mist.
At the far end of the square, Amaka paused on the path home, feeling the amulet's warmth against her chest. She looked back once at the city farmer. For an instant, she thought she saw water glint in his eyes, like moonlight on a river.
The flute rose again, clearer this time. Only she and Chike seemed to hear it.
The wind carried a whisper: "Welcome home, children."
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Cliffhanger Ending:
That night, as darkness fell and the festival sacrifices were carried to the shrines, Chike settled into the small hut he had rented near the outskirts of the village. He could hear distant drums and the rush of the unseen river. The kola nut from the chief priest lay on his table, cracked but untouched.
By the riverbank, Amaka stood alone, the amulet glowing faintly. Her reflection rippled, then shifted—another face smiled up at her, a face neither human nor entirely god.
Above the forest, thunder rumbled though no clouds moved.
In Umuaka, the laws were clear: no one walks near the river at midnight. No one answers the midnight flute. But tonight, both the city farmer and the chief's daughter were already marked.
And the gods were watching.