GOTH AFRIKA

The night Chief Aro died, the moon hung over Orita Village like a cracked skull, white and hollow, watching. Everyone believed the Chief would live forever. He walked like a man held together by iron bones and stubborn pride. But inside his compound, behind thick mud walls and iron gates, his three daughters—Morayo, the eldest; Molayo, the quiet one; and Moriyanu, the impatient lastborn, carried a storm no one could see, and on that night, the storm broke. It began with shouts—small at first, like ordinary quarrels. Villagers around the compound heard Morayo’s sharp voice, Molayo’s trembling protests, and Moriyanu’s angry retorts. Nothing unusual, nothing loud enough for alarm, just the sounds of a family used to fear. But inside, it wasn’t ordinary. Chief Aro stood before them, drunk and raging, accusing them of stealing money from the family safe. His cane rose and fell, his voice growing darker, uglier, sharper. Moriyanu snapped first. She grabbed the pestle from the kitchen corner...

Long ago, in the great kingdom of Ìlàárí, the full moon bathed the land in its soft glow, whispering secrets of love to those who dared to listen. Among those who listened was Adùnní, a humble palace maid, and Ọdẹ́wálé, the crown prince of the kingdom. Adùnní was the daughter of Bàbá Ògúnmọ̀lá, a well-respected herbalist in the village. Though poor, her kindness and beauty shone brighter than the wealthiest of noble daughters. Ọdẹ́wálé, the future king, was drawn to her gentle nature and unwavering spirit. Each night, when the palace fell silent, they met under the great ìrókò tree in the palace courtyard, where the moon bore witness to their forbidden love. “Ọdẹ́wálé, your mother will never accept me,” Adùnní whispered one night, worry clouding her bright eyes. “She will,” Ọdẹ́wálé assured her, holding her hands. “My love for you is stronger than any law or tradition.” But the queen, Olórí Àyìnkẹ́, had different plans. She wanted her son to marry a princess, a woman of noble birth who...

In a town called Aró, where birds spoke like men and animals patronized the women of Aró, there lived a kind-hearted woman known as Ìyá Ìlèkè. She was the most skilled bead maker in the land, crafting beads so fine that even queens adorned themselves with her creations. With her beautiful daughter, Àmòlé, Ìyá Ìlèkè traveled from village to village, selling beads of every color—deep blues like the night sky, fiery reds like the setting sun, and golden yellows like ripened corn. But their wealth was not in money; it was in kindness. No traveler left their stall hungry, and no thirsty man went without water. One day, at a bustling market, Àmòlé’s eyes caught a magnificent fabric—a shimmering cloth of deep purple and gold, fit for a princess. She ran her fingers over its smooth surface, longing to own it. But when she asked for the price, it was far beyond what she and her mother could afford. With a sigh, she walked away. That evening, as they rested beneath a large tree, Àmòlé absentmind...

In the ancient kingdom of Odanre, where the rivers ran deep and the forests whispered secrets, there ruled a king whose heart was darker than the night. King Obanla was his name, a tyrant who found joy only in the sight of blood. His thirst for violence was insatiable—he did not conquer for power or glory but for the sheer pleasure of slaughter. His laughter echoed over crimson-stained fields, and his throne was said to be carved from the bones of his enemies. Obanla was a true psychopath, a king who bathed in the fear of his people and found beauty only in destruction. Even his own subjects were not safe, for he believed their suffering was proof of his strength. Anyone who displeased him met a gruesome end, and the rivers that ran through Odanre were said to carry the blood of innocents. Tired of the oppression, the villagers turned to the ancient ways, summoning the spirit of the forest, Aje, a powerful being of enchantment and vengeance. The elders, with trembling hands, offered sa...