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CALABASH OF MERCY

~Episode 5

The rain had not stopped since that day. It poured for three nights straight, soaking the thatched roofs of Kogni until they sagged under the weight. The villagers said it was the gods crying or rejoicing depending on who you asked.

When the downpour finally ceased, the village smelled of wet earth and smoke. The glowing calabash had vanished from the square, leaving only a scorched mark where it once sat. And Mensima the man who drank from it was nowhere to be found.

That morning, Diana awoke to the sound of whispers outside her hut. Daniel lay still beside her, his small hand clutched around her wrist. She rose slowly and stepped into the misty dawn, her wrapper damp against her legs.

The entire village stood in the square again. At the center of the circle, Chief Adjei and Nana Oba were bent over something lying on the ground. When Diana drew closer, her breath caught.

It was Mensima. Or what was left of him.

His skin was cracked like clay left too long in the sun, his eyes open and glowing faintly gold. The smell of burnt herbs clung to him, and a strange mark was carved across his chest the same swirling symbol that had appeared on the calabash.

Nana Oba lifted his staff and pointed it toward the forest. “He was chosen,” he said solemnly. “The gods have spoken. Mercy has been granted, but it came with a cost.”

The villagers murmured prayers, some crossing themselves, others spitting into the dirt to ward off evil.

Chief Adjei turned to Diana. “The rain stopped because of him. But his act has tied your house to the spirits. You and your son must be cleansed before the next moon.”

Diana trembled. “We did nothing. We only watched.”

Nana Oba’s eyes were fixed on Daniel, who stood half-hidden behind his mother. “The boy has seen the light of the calabash. It never leaves those who look upon it.”

That night, Diana couldn’t sleep. The sound of frogs and crickets filled the damp air, but beneath them, she heard another rhythm the soft hum of drums, distant yet familiar.

She rose and peered outside.

At the far end of the compound, near the old baobab, the ground glowed faintly again. And there, half-formed in the mist, stood a figure. It looked like Mensima, his cracked skin glowing faintly, his eyes hollow but aware.

He raised a hand toward her. “It’s not over,” he said, voice echoing like wind through bamboo. “The calabash chooses again.”

Before Diana could scream, the vision vanished, and all went still.

She clutched Daniel to her chest, heart pounding. Somewhere deep in the forest, thunder rumbled not from the clouds, but from the earth itself.

And in that silence, a whisper came through the air, one that only she could hear:

“Mercy must be fed.”

The next dawn found Diana kneeling before the elders again, with Daniel at her side. Her eyes were red but steady.
“What must I do?” she asked.

Nana Oba’s staff struck the ground three times. “You must return to where the rain began—the forest of the old gods. Only then will the curse end.”

But as she turned toward the dark line of trees, Daniel tugged her hand. His eyes were wide, distant, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

“Mother,” he whispered, “the calabash is calling me.”

And far away, beyond the hills, thunder rolled again.

To be continued…….

CALABASH OF MERCY

~Episode 4

The square stood frozen. Dust hung in the air, motionless. Every ear echoed with the words that had spilled from the glowing calabash:

“Mercy is not free. Who among you will drink?”

No one moved. The wind itself seemed afraid to breathe. Even the chief’s voice faltered when he finally spoke.

“What manner of trick is this?” Chief Adjei asked, his eyes darting between the glowing vessel and the trembling widow.

Nana Oba’s knuckles whitened around his staff. “It is a spirit speaking. The gods test us. None should touch it!”

But murmurs had already begun to ripple through the crowd.

“If it gives water, perhaps we must obey.”
“Maybe this is the mercy we prayed for.”
“What if this is the answer to the drought?”

Diana stood still, clutching Daniel close. The calabash pulsed faintly at her feet, golden light spilling across the earth like sunlight in dust. She didn’t understand its voice, but deep in her heart, something stirred—a whisper softer than sound:

“Trust Me.”

Chief Adjei lifted his staff and turned toward the crowd. “No one drinks!” he thundered. “Until the priest has purified the vessel. If it is holy, the gods will reveal it. If not, we destroy it!”

The villagers murmured, some in agreement, others in frustration.

But then, a young man stepped out from the crowd. His name was Mensima, a farmer whose wife had died just a week before, leaving him with an infant too weak to cry. His eyes were hollow with grief.

“If the gods want a drinker,” Mensima said hoarsely, “then I will drink.”

Gasps rose around him. Nana Oba raised his staff in alarm. “Foolish boy! You know not what spirit you challenge!”

But Mensima only knelt before the calabash. “If it is life, let me live. If it is death, I have already tasted sorrow.”

Before anyone could stop him, he lifted the calabash to his lips and drank.

The crowd surged forward, shouting, praying, weeping. Diana covered Daniel’s eyes. Chief Adjei barked orders, but no one listened.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

Then Mensima rose slowly to his feet. The crowd fell silent.

He looked up toward the sky. His eyes widened as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Rain…” he whispered.

The first drop fell on his hand. Then another. Then a hundred more.

The heavens broke open, and rain came crashing down violent, cleansing, unstoppable. Villagers screamed with joy, laughing, crying, dancing in the mud.

But Diana’s joy froze in her chest when she looked at Mensima again.

He was smiling—but his body had turned pale as ash. The glow from the calabash burned brighter, and then dimmed completely. Mensima fell forward into the mud, lifeless.

The priest stepped back in terror. “The gods have spoken,” he gasped. “A sacrifice for mercy.”

The villagers stopped their laughter, rain streaming down their faces.

And through the downpour, Diana felt the calabash tremble in her hands. She looked down, and in its reflection, saw not her own face—but that of Mensima, whispering soundlessly:

“Mercy is not free.”

The glow faded. The rain kept falling. And in the hearts of the people, joy turned to dread.

To be continued…..

CALABASH OF MERCY

~EPISODE 3
Diana hardly slept that night. The glow of the calabash filled the hut like a second moon, washing the mud walls in gold. Each time she closed her eyes, she heard the whisper again:

“Choose… who among you will drink.”

Daniel lay beside her, restless, clutching her arm in fear. When dawn finally broke, she rose with heavy steps, washed her face, and tied her faded wrapper firmly around her waist.

By mid-morning, the village square throbbed with voices. Men, women, and children crowded beneath the giant baobab tree, where judgments were given. At the center sat the council of elders, their faces solemn. Chief Adjei loomed in his carved stool, his staff of office resting across his lap. At his side stood Nana Oba, the priest, his eyes fixed sharply on Diana as though they could pierce her very soul.

The calabash in Diana’s hands glowed faintly even in daylight. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

“Is it true?”
“They say it never empties.”
“Maybe it is a curse…”

Chief Adjei raised his hand, silencing the people. His voice rang out:

“Diana, widow of the late Kofi Mensah, step forward.”

She stepped into the circle, clutching Daniel with one hand and the calabash with the other. Her heart thudded in her ears.

“You stand accused of holding what belongs to the village,” the chief said. “We are told this vessel glows, produces water, and speaks. Do you confess this to be true?”

The crowd leaned in.

Diana’s voice trembled. “I did not seek it. It found me. And yes… it gives water. It saved my son.”

A wave of gasps rolled over the people. Some faces lit with hope, others darkened with suspicion.

Nana Oba stepped forward, striking his staff into the earth. “Water? From where? If it is from the gods, why give it to a widow and not to the shrine? No—this is dangerous. It must be destroyed!”

“No!” cried a woman from the crowd. “If it gives water, let us drink!”

“Yes!” shouted a young man. “If the gods gave it, why should we refuse their mercy?”

The square erupted into noise, half the village demanding to see its power, the other half fearing it was a trick of spirits.

Chief Adjei stood slowly, raising his staff. The voices fell again. His eyes fixed on Diana.

“Then let the council decide. Let the vessel be tested. Here, before all.”

Nana Oba sneered. “And if it speaks again, we will know the truth. If it is a god, it will show its nature. If it is a demon, it will betray her.”

The villagers murmured nervously.

Diana’s hands shook as she placed the calabash carefully on the ground at the feet of the elders. Its glow flickered like a living flame. The air grew heavier, and even the birds in the trees fell silent.

The priest raised his staff. “Let it speak!” he commanded.

At once, the glow flared, brighter than before. The calabash’s whisper rolled across the square, soft yet heavy, pressing into every ear:

“Mercy is not free. Who among you will drink?”

The villagers gasped, stumbling back. Some fell to their knees. Children clutched their mothers. The elders exchanged troubled glances.

Diana felt Daniel’s small hand squeeze hers. His whisper was barely audible:

“Mother… it is asking again.”

And in that moment, all eyes turned back to Diana.

Was she the chosen one?
Or had she brought a curse into the heart of the village?

To be continued……
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CALABASH OF MERCY

~Episode 2

The calabash pulsed faintly in Diana’s trembling hands, its glow soft yet steady, as though it breathed with her. Daniel pressed close to her side, whispering, “Mother… it’s alive.”

Diana’s lips quivered. “Shhh, child. It is not for us to say. It is for us to carry.”

The voice she had heard before seemed to echo again, not from the night air but from within her very bones:

“Mercy is given… but mercy must be carried.”

Her heart raced. What mercy? What burden?

The next morning, Diana tried to hide the calabash. She placed it inside the hut, covering it with an old cloth. But its glow could not be smothered. Daniel would steal glances at it whenever he could, his eyes bright with hope.

“Mother,” he said, “it looks like the sun in a pot. Maybe it has food inside.”

Diana shook her head sharply. “Hunger makes the mind dream foolish things.”

But when she uncovered it that evening, she found the calabash filled with clear, cool water. She stared, wide-eyed. Her clay jar had been empty for two days, the stream reduced to dust.

She touched the water with trembling fingers, lifted it to her lips, and gasped. Sweet. Cold. Alive.

She handed the calabash to Daniel. He drank deeply, his hollow cheeks filling with color. For the first time in months, she saw him smile.

The days passed, and the calabash did not empty. Each time Diana uncovered it, fresh water appeared, more than enough for them both. Soon, she began to share it—first with her neighbor, then with a sickly child, then with two more villagers who came knocking at her door in secret.

Word spread quickly: “The widow has water.”

And with the whispers came trouble.

One night, as Diana drew water from the calabash, a heavy knock shook her door. Daniel froze in fear.

“Who is it?” Diana called, clutching the pot to her chest.

A deep voice answered: “It is Chief Adjei. Open the door, Diana.”

Her breath caught. She opened it slowly. The chief stood tall, his robe heavy with dust, his face stern. Behind him loomed Nana Oba, the village priest, his eyes glittering in the torchlight.

“We have heard,” the chief said coldly, “that you have water in your house while others starve. Is it true?”

Diana’s voice shook. “I… I do not know what you have heard.”

But Daniel blurted out, “It is true! God gave it to us!”

Nana Oba’s eyes narrowed like a snake’s. He stepped forward, hissing, “God? No. No, woman. This is trickery. The spirits will not allow one woman to hold what belongs to all.”

He pointed his staff toward the hut. “Bring out the calabash. The gods demand it!”

Diana clutched Daniel tightly, her body trembling. The calabash still glowed faintly behind her, hidden in the shadows.

The villagers had begun to gather now, drawn by the voices and the torchlight. Their eyes were hungry, desperate, torn between hope and fear.

“Give it to us!” someone shouted. “If it has water, it belongs to the village!”

“No!” another cried. “If it is from God, let it be!”

The voices clashed like thunder, until the chief raised his hand. The crowd fell silent. His gaze locked on Diana.

“Tomorrow,” Chief Adjei declared, “you will bring the calabash to the council of elders. If it is truly a gift from heaven, then the whole village will see. If not… you and your child will answer for your deceit.”

The crowd gasped. Diana’s heart pounded. Daniel’s small hand tightened around hers.

When the chief and the priest turned away, the villagers dispersed reluctantly. Diana shut her door, her back pressed against it as her knees buckled.

Daniel looked up at her, his voice a whisper: “Mother… will they take it?”

Diana stared at the calabash, glowing gently in the dark like a hidden sun. Her lips trembled as she whispered back:

“I do not know, my son. But if this truly comes from God… then tomorrow, He must speak for us.”

To be continued….
What do think about this story so far?

CALABASH OF MERCY

~Episode 1

Some calamities arrive like storms sudden and loud. Others creep in like shadows, silent, patient, and merciless.

In the village of Kurobo, it was famine that came creeping.

The rains had failed for two seasons. The streams shrank into muddy trickles. Yams rotted in the ground before they could swell. Children’s laughter thinned into coughing. The once-bustling market square became a place of whispers, where the price of maize doubled with each sunrise.

At night, the people of Kurobo did not sleep. They listened. To the wind. To the cries of hungry children. And to the drums that sometimes echoed from Nana Oba’s shrine—a call for sacrifices to the old spirits of the land.

But no sacrifice had brought rain. No goat’s blood had filled the granaries. Still, Nana Oba promised: “The gods will answer… if we give more.”

At the far edge of the village lived Diana, a widow with no wealth but her hands. Her small mud hut leaned against the old shea tree. Her son, Daniel, barely twelve, spent his days searching the bush for firewood to sell, though buyers had grown scarce. They had eaten nothing but boiled leaves for three days.

That evening, as the sun sank red behind the hills, Diana walked to her empty granary. She pushed the wooden lid open, staring at the hollow belly where sacks of grain once sat. Her lips trembled, and tears carved lines down her dusty cheeks.

“Mother,” Daniel whispered, standing at her side, his ribs sharp beneath his thin shirt. “Will we die like this?”

Diana swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “No, my son. God will not abandon us.”

But her heart shook as she spoke.

That night, the drums at Nana Oba’s shrine thundered louder than ever. Villagers gathered by torchlight as the priest raised his staff high, declaring:

“The spirits demand a child! Only then will the skies open! Only then will the famine end!”

Gasps spread through the crowd. Mothers clutched their children. Fathers turned their faces away in dread. Chief Adjei stood silently, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting between the priest and his fearful people.

“Give them what they ask!” Nana Oba shouted, his voice cracking like firewood. “Or watch your children wither one by one!”

The villagers murmured in terror. And in the shadows, Diana held Daniel close, her nails digging into his arm.

That night, she could not sleep. She knelt in the dirt of her hut, whispering prayers through clenched teeth, her tears soaking the earth.

“Lord, if You hear us… if You still walk among men… show mercy. Show me what to do.”

As the wind pressed against the thatched roof, Diana thought she heard a faint sound—like water dripping into a clay pot. She rose, trembling, and stepped outside.

Beneath the shea tree, half-buried in the dust, lay a small calabash. Its surface glimmered faintly, though no moonlight touched it.

Diana bent slowly, her fingers brushing against it. Warm. Alive.

And from within, a whisper seemed to rise not from any human tongue, but heavy, deep, and strange:

“Mercy is given… but mercy must be carried.”

Diana gasped and staggered back, clutching Daniel’s hand as he appeared behind her, his wide eyes fixed on the glowing calabash.

The night was silent. The drums at the shrine had stopped. Even the wind held its breath.

To be continued …..

New Story Alert 🔔 Fans
Title: The Calabash Of Mercy.
Stay tuned cuz episode one will be dropping soon.

THE TEMPTATION

~Episode 10
Final episode

Morning came slowly to Kogni. The air was heavy, as though the sky itself had forgotten how to breathe. No drums thundered. No shadows moved. The compound of Baba Nii lay still, its walls blackened by fire, its soil cracked from the night’s fury.

At the center of it all, his body remained. Kneeling where he had fallen, blade in his chest, face strangely peaceful. None dared to touch him.

Afia sat beside him, her voice hoarse from endless wailing. Afi lay in her arms, sleeping soundly, the strange red markings gone from her skin. Kwaku sat close, silent, watching his father’s still body with wide, unblinking eyes.

The villagers gathered, whispering. Some wept in shame, others crossed themselves in fear. A few spat into the dust, muttering that Baba had deserved his fate. Yet even those who cursed his name could not deny what had happened: the curse had ended.

The soothsayer Atia stood before the crowd, her staff heavy in her hand. “The god has been answered,” she said softly. “His hunger quenched. His chains broken.”

“Is it over?” one villager dared to ask.

Atia’s gaze drifted toward the hills where the Sleeping Twins watched silently. Her voice trembled. “The drums are silent… but silence is not always peace. The earth remembers.”

⸻

That night, the villagers buried Baba Nii outside the compound, beneath the old baobab tree that had once been the shrine of Abonsam Dedeɛ. They carved no name upon his grave, only a circle of ash and stones.

Afia wept until her body shook. She pressed Afi’s small hand against Baba’s grave, whispering, “Your father gave all to keep you.”

Kwaku turned away, his young face already hardening. He did not cry. He only clenched his fists, his jaw set with something deeper than grief.

⸻

In the weeks that followed, life in Kogni began to stitch itself back together. Goats roamed freely without being slaughtered. Children laughed again in the courtyards. The nights were quiet.

Yet not all wounds healed.

Afia’s cough grew worse, as though grief itself had lodged in her lungs. Afi sometimes woke screaming, claiming to hear drums deep in the earth. And Kwaku wandered more often to the baobab, staring at the stones, whispering words no one could hear.

The villagers avoided the tree. They crossed themselves when passing Baba’s grave. Some swore they saw a shadow kneeling there at night, whispering prayers, clutching a blade of fire.

Years later, the elders would retell the story of Baba Nii—the man who traded his blood for wealth, and then gave his blood again to silence the god. Some called him a fool. Others, a martyr. Children whispered his name like a curse when they played near the hills.

But all agreed on one thing:

When the wind rose at night, when the sky turned red at dusk, when the firewood cracked like drums—Kogni remembered.

And beneath the Sleeping Twins, the baobab tree stood tall, its roots blackened, its branches reaching. Silent. Waiting.

For gods never die. They only wait for another door to open.

THE END!
How does the end of this story finds you?

THE TEMPTATION

~EPISODE 9

The sky above Kogni turned the color of bruised flesh. Even before dawn, the air was alive with drums—no hands struck them, yet their rhythm pounded through the hills, shaking the ground, rattling the hearts of every villager.

Children wailed in their mothers’ arms. Warriors gripped their cutlasses, though each man knew steel could not cut what was coming. The village chief stood grim and silent, his staff trembling in his hand.

At the center of it all was Baba Nii’s compound. A circle of fire was lit around it, trapping him inside. Villagers shouted from the edges, their voices rising like a storm:

“Enough! He has brought this curse on us!”
“Let him answer the gods himself!”
“No more blood from our children!”

Inside the hut, Afia clutched little Afi to her chest. The girl’s body glowed with fever, strange red markings crawling across her skin like living fire. Her eyes stared blankly, lips whispering words that did not belong to her. Kwaku crouched in the corner, tears staining his cheeks, fear and anger battling in his young face.

Baba staggered into the compound yard. His eyes were sunken, his clothes torn. He looked less like a man and more like a shadow walking. The soothsayer Atia and the three elders stood before him, their faces grim.

“Baba Nii,” Atia said, striking her staff against the earth, “the god Abonsam Dedeɛ will not wait. Either you give the girl, or he will consume us all—the land, the sky, the children, the rivers.”

The crowd roared, some in anger, some in fear. Stones flew, one cutting Baba’s cheek. Blood trickled down, but he did not flinch.

From the hut, Afia’s scream cut through the night. “You will not take my child! If a soul is wanted, let it be mine!”

The villagers gasped. But the god’s voice boomed inside every skull, chilling marrow and silencing tongues:

“Not yours. Hers.”

The fire bent low. The earth split with a groan, cracks glowing red, heat pouring out like the breath of a furnace. Ghostly cries erupted from the fissures—Kojo’s laughter, Kwabena’s broken voice, the sobs of countless unseen children. Shadows circled the compound, their glowing eyes accusing, their whispers sharp as knives.

Baba clutched his head. “No more! Please, no more!”

The whispers grew louder.
“You opened the door. You begged. Now feed us.”

Panic broke the crowd. Some villagers fled screaming. Others fell to their knees in prayer. The chief himself cried, “Do it, Baba Nii! Before we are all swallowed!”

Afia held Afi tighter, her tears burning her cheeks. “They will not have her. Let them take me!”

But the god’s command came again, heavier than thunder:
“The child. The purest. The key.”

Baba’s vision swam. His wife’s defiance, his daughter’s hollow whispers, his son’s pleading voice—“Father, don’t!”—all crashed against the weight in his chest. His hand found the blade, the same cursed blade he had used before.

The fire roared higher. The drums raced faster. The earth shook.

Baba lifted the blade, tears blinding him. He looked from Afia to Afi, to Kwaku, to the villagers, and then up at the blood-red crescent moon. His lips quivered.

And he whispered:
“If it must end… let it end with me.”

Before anyone could move, Baba drove the blade into his own chest.

The ground erupted. Fire shot into the sky. The baobab at the shrine split at its roots. The ghostly children screamed, their forms unraveling into ash. Kojo and Kwabena’s spirits wailed as they were dragged into the earth.

Then—silence.

The drums stopped. The cracks closed. The fire dimmed.

Baba’s body fell into the dust, his face frozen in a strange, peaceful calm.

Afi’s markings faded. Her fever broke. The whispers stopped.

The villagers stood frozen, unable to breathe. Afia’s wail tore through the night, raw and endless.

And though the god was silent, every heart in Kogni knew the truth:
the curse had ended, but the last drumbeat would echo in their memory forever.

THE TEMPTATION 👿

~Episode 8

The compound had fallen into silence after the god’s demand, but Baba Nii’s heart knew no rest. Every breath was heavy, every step uncertain. He could no longer tell where the whispers ended and where his own thoughts began.

“Another. The purest. The key.”

The gods’ command clung to him like smoke.

Afia refused to leave Afi’s side. The girl’s chest still burned with the strange red markings, glowing faintly in the dark. She no longer laughed, no longer played. She just stared blankly ahead, whispering words no one could understand. Sometimes her lips moved to the rhythm of the drums no one else could hear.

Kwaku, too, had grown distant. He no longer met his father’s eyes. Baba often caught him slipping out of the hut, running to neighbors, perhaps telling them things. The boy knew something was wrong. He feared his father.

The village was unraveling.

Each night, goats were found slaughtered in their pens, drained of blood. Mothers tied charms around their children’s necks, forbidding them from leaving their huts after sunset. The elders warned the chief that the curse was deepening, that the god’s hand was stretching across the land.

The people’s anger grew. They pointed at Baba in the marketplace, muttering:

“He brought this on us.”
“Cast him out before the gods take more.”
“Why should we all suffer for his greed?”

Even the chief’s patience was thinning.

One evening, the soothsayer Atia came again to Baba’s hut, her eyes tired but blazing. She struck her staff against the ground and said, “The gods have bound your line. You must sever the chain. Either you give the girl, or you give yourself. If you delay, the blood will spread beyond your family—into every household in Kogni.”

Baba stared at her in silence, his body trembling. Afia let out a cry of rage, clutching Afi tighter. “You will not take my child! Not while I breathe!”

Atia’s gaze softened, almost pitying. “It is not us who will take her. It is the gods. And when they come, there will be no stopping them.”

That night, Baba wandered into the forest alone.

The baobab loomed in the moonlight, its roots like a thousand arms waiting. There, Awuni appeared again—draped in his fine agbada, gold glittering on his hands, his face strangely hollow.

“You hesitate too long,” Awuni said, voice layered with echoes. “I warned you, Baba. The gods feast endlessly. Either you feed them, or they feed on you.”

Baba’s chest heaved. “Why me? Why not you? You brought me into this!”

Awuni’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “And do you think I am free? Do you think this wealth is mine? Look at me closely.”

Baba peered into his old friend’s face—and saw the truth. His skin was cracking like dry earth, ash falling from his arms. His eyes were empty sockets glowing faintly red. The man before him was no longer alive, but a puppet of the god, bound forever.

“Soon,” Awuni whispered, “this will be you.”

Baba staggered back, choking on fear.

When he returned home, Afia met him at the doorway. She looked at him long and hard, her eyes hollow with both love and terror.

“You must choose,” she whispered. “Your daughter. Or yourself.”

Inside the hut, Afi’s voice rose in a strange chant, low and otherworldly, as if the god itself spoke through her small throat. Kwaku crouched in the corner, tears on his cheeks, whispering, “Baba… please stop.”

Baba fell to his knees, torn apart, his shadow stretching unnaturally long across the hut walls. The gods thundered in his head, louder than drums, heavier than storms.

And for the first time, Baba realized the curse was not just about blood.

It was about who would carry the weight of ashes.

THE TEMPTATION 👿

~Episode 7

The earth was still trembling when Baba Nii raised his head from the cracked soil. The crowd that had gathered at his compound fled in panic, leaving only the elders and the soothsayer, Atia. Afia clutched little Afi to her chest, trembling, her eyes hollow with fear. Kwaku stood behind her, peeking out, confused and frightened.

The voice of the god still echoed in Baba’s skull:

“Another. Before the next moon rises.”

Baba pressed his palms to his ears, but it would not stop. The command had no sound—only weight.

The soothsayer raised his staff. “Baba Nii,” he said, “the gods of the shadow world have chained you. They will not stop until they have devoured all that is yours. If you resist, the entire village will pay.”

The three elders whispered among themselves, their faces pale. One of them spat into the dust and muttered, “He is cursed. A vessel of Abonsam Dedeɛ. He should be cast out.”

But Atia shook his head. “Cast him out and the curse will walk among us freely. We must hold him here, until a cleansing is found.”

Baba felt his knees weaken. His own people—the men he had once laughed with, farmed with, shared food with—were now staring at him as if he was a stranger, a danger.

That night, Baba sat by the fire again, his wife and children huddled inside. The bag of money Awuni had first given him was still hidden beneath the bed. He thought of how it all began—with a choice. He had chosen Kojo. Then Kwabena.

Now the gods had chosen Afi.

He shook his head violently, tears burning his eyes. “No. Not my daughter.”

But the whispers returned, sliding through the wind like snakes:

“The purest… the key…”

The fire crackled, and in the flames, Baba saw faces—Kojo’s grin, Kwabena’s lifeless stare, and behind them, a hundred others, chanting his name. Their voices twisted into the sound of drums.

Suddenly, Afi’s cry pierced the night. Baba rushed inside. Afia held her close, rocking her, but the child’s eyes were rolled back, her body stiff. A strange mark burned across her chest—three red lines that pulsed like veins of fire.

Afia screamed. “What is happening to her?”

The soothsayer arrived at dawn, summoned by the elders. He looked upon the mark and whispered, “The gods are branding her. They have already reached inside her soul. If she is not given, they will take her by force… and with her, they will take the village.”

Baba’s heart tore apart. He stumbled out of the hut, falling to his knees, beating the earth with his fists. “Why me?!” he roared into the sky.

And the voice came again, colder, heavier:

“Because you asked. You begged. You opened the door. Now you must finish what you began.”

The villagers, now gathered outside his compound, muttered and pointed. Some cried, others cursed. Mothers shielded their children. The chief himself stood among them, his voice grave:

“Baba Nii, you must decide. Your daughter… or all of us.”

Baba lifted his head, his face streaked with ash and tears. The gods pressed on his chest like a boulder. His daughter’s cries still rang in his ears. The villagers’ eyes burned into his back.

And for the first time, Baba realized he was no longer fighting to save his family. He was fighting to save what little was left of himself.

The moon was rising again. The clock of the gods was ticking.
….
To be continued stay tuned.
What lessons have you learnt so far from the start up till now???